by Selena Kitt
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The Billionaire’s Muse by Ava Lore: When struggling artist Sadie MacElroy attempts to pay back eccentric billionaire Malcolm Ward for a broken vase, Malcolm decides he wants her: in front of his camera, under his brush, and in his bed.
The CEO and the Girl from the Coffee Shop by Terry Towers: Coffee shop hostess, Beth Wilmington, is shocked when one of her customers, sexy billionaire Gabriel Reynolds, offers her a job as a live-in housekeeper. She takes the job, but fears only trouble can ensue.
Yes, Mr. Collins by Anna Antonia (writing as Charlotte deCorte): Brilliant, yet demanding, billionaire boss Mr. Collins will stop at nothing to get his assistant Natasha Reynolds under this thumb and in his bed.
My Rockstar Billionaire by Amy Aday: Belle travels to an island resort and meets sexy and mysterious Ricky, who won't take no for an answer. Will she learn to trust again and learn his secrets?
Heidi and the Kaiser by Selena Kitt: When wanna-be designer Heidi accidentally stains fashion mogul Warren Kaiser’s pants, she gets two things she didn’t expect--a spanking and a job.
Gloria’s Secret by Nelle L’Amour: Gloria Long, the world’s largest retailer of lingerie, succumbs to the charms of billionaire advertising guru Jaime Zander, but her own dark secret threatens her empire, their relationship, and her life.
Make You Mine by Tawny Taylor: To keep her job, Daryl Laroche must find the perfect new client for her employer and the sexy, rich and enigmatic Tevin Page fits the bill. But before he signs the contract, he issues one deliciously tempting demand...
Trapped into a Marriage by Dez Burke: Blackmailed into marriage to rich, gorgeous, Nick Vitale, Keyonna Hayes is determined to teach him a thing or two about love. Soon intrigue, heartbreak, and betrayal ensue, and the two fight to regain a love that was always destined to be theirs.
The Art of Catching a Greek Billionaire by Marian Tee: Schoolteacher Mairi Tanner is not a gold digger, she just knows what she wants her Mr. Right to be--handsome, Greek, and oh, a billionaire, too! Is that so bad?
What He Wants by Tawny Taylor- Billionaire Shane Trant always gets what he wants. He wants Bristol Deatrich, but only complete possession of her mind and body will satisfy him.
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Table of Contents
The Billionaire’s Muse by Ava Lore
The CEO and the Girl from the Coffee Shop by Terry Towers
Yes, Mr. Collins by Anna Antonia (writing as Charlotte DeCorte)
My Rockstar Billionaire by Amy Aday
Heidi and the Kaiser by Selena Kitt
Gloria’s Secret by Nelle L’Amour
Make You Mine by Tawny Taylor
Trapped into Marriage by Dez Burke
The Art of Catching a Greek Billionaire by Marian Tee
What He Wants by Tawny Taylor
The Billionaire’s Muse by Ava Lore
Chapter One
I hung back from the press of people, lingering at the edge of the crowd. The women were all dressed in onyx and ruby and sapphire and emerald dresses, brilliant birds of paradise, while the men stood with them, all black and white and staid and stolid as penguins. I scrutinized the assembled throng and pondered a very important question.
Which of these men is Batman?
I hadn't found him yet, because most of the people that attend these terrible 'charity' functions are old and boring because you have to be old and boring to be invited. No one with less than ten million dollars is allowed in, unless you're part of the support staff. Which would be me, I suppose. And usually if you have ten million dollars you are either old and boring or young and that particular sort of country club inbred that just screams I have a trust fund and have never done my own grocery shopping! Except Anton Waters, my employer, who is handsome, rich, sexy, self-made and young. Or I guess his wife and my best friend, Felicia, is my employer, but ever since they were married a second time they've been so joined at the hip they might as well be one person.
I sighed. Thinking about Felicia reminded me of how much I missed her. I knew her before she married Anton, which is how I landed a job as her personal assistant, though recently it had expanded to include other duties as well. To my deep despair, I seemed to have a talent for this type of thing. Otherwise I'd still be drinking watery piss beer and smoking some dank nugs on my Friday nights rather than organizing a dumb charity auction for a bunch of people whose shoes cost more than whatever they'd spend on 'charity' tonight.
God. If only.
I sighed again and grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing alcohol jockey. I downed it in two gulps, feeling the alcohol warm me all the way down to my toes, and resumed looking for Batman, my favorite mental pastime at these events.
I didn't really expect to find him, of course. I know he's got a secret identity.
I scanned the men. Too old. Too short. Too bald, although I guess Batman does wear a hood, so he could be bald under that outfit. But probably not. Too old. Too old. Too old again. Too thin. Too goofy. Wearing glasses. Wait, doesn't Batman wear glasses? No, that's Superman. Clark Kent. Whatever. Too blind, anyway. Batman would have laser surgery. Too old. Too inbred. Too old. Too...hot? Is that a thing? Wait a minute...
I pulled up short, my eyes widening. Not twenty feet away stood a tall, sinfully handsome man, dressed to the nines. His sandy hair swept back from his temples
in slick, perfect waves, highlighting his fine cheekbones and rich brown eyes. His mouth was a perfect, delicious pout, and the hand that held his flute of champagne was elegant and poised. An artist's hand. And I should know. Before I landed this sweet gig I'd spent most of my waking hours buried in my art, and this guy was making me want to pick up a pencil and sketch him. Naked.
His deep brown eyes bored into mine. Despite myself I felt my cheeks stain with color under his scrutiny, and his perfect, pouty mouth slowly broke into a suggestive smile.
Batman is staring at me, I thought. What a creeper.
His eyes flicked up and down my body, as though appraising me. It wasn't a comfortable feeling and pissed me off, so I returned the favor. Narrowing my eyes, I took in his broad shoulders and barrel chest, his trim waist, his narrow hips and the muscled thighs barely poured into his tux pants. I pursed my lips and tried to assess him from a cold, artistic perspective.
It wasn't working.
My god, he was hot.
I flicked my gaze back to his, hoping he couldn't see the hammering pulse in my throat and quirked my mouth at him. A seen better to his casual objectification. And I had seen better. In my dreams.
He held my eyes for a long moment, then lifted his brows and this time his smile was knowing.
Oh, really?
A hand on my arm thankfully tore me away from his arresting gaze, because who knows what kind of subtle semaphore we might have started engaging in across the crowded ballroom? I turned with a flash of gratitude, only to have it die in my chest as I realized it was Arthur, Anton's personal assistant.
Great.
I like Arthur. I really do. I think he's smart and motivated and actually pretty kind to people in general even though he doesn't have to be. But I think he simultaneously wants to fuck me and wants to fuck with me. Seeing as how he had to claw his way up from the rank of lowly intern to be Anton's assistant and all I had to do was be Felicia's best friend to become her assistant, I think he resents the ease with which I landed my job. I can't tell him that I've been putting up with Felicia's willful stupidity in the realm of her own personal affairs for the entirety of our acquaintance and I didn't even get paid for it. Felicia would be lost without me. It's a position with many drawbacks. Such as now. Second-in-command on the personal assistant totem pole is like coming in second place in a shit-eating contest.
And I was about to have to shovel turds.
“What?” I said. It came out a little sharper than I meant it, but I knew that look on Arthur's face. He'd found a shit job for me to do and he couldn't wait to pass it along.
He flashed me a smile, all business and propriety. One of the many things about being a personal assistant that I am total balls at. I can keep Felicia in line and do damage control, and bark orders with the best of them, but everything else? Might as well hire a Golden Retriever to handle the crowds. It'd be better and more coherent.
Arthur's eyes glinted. “Mrs. Glasscock is on the floor of the ladies' room in a pool of her own vomit,” he said. “I'm going to go see if I can't locate Mr. Glasscock, but I need you to see if you can't get her on her feet and cleaned up.”
I groaned. Of course. And to be fair, this wasn't a job he could just do himself. The ladies room is an inviolate sanctuary. Only a lady—and I hardly qualify, but if someone checked I'd have the biological bits, I suppose—may enter. Tossing back my champagne, I looked around for a place to put it, and finally just set it down in a nearby potted plant. Someone would find it. “Fine,” I said. “I'll have her up and running in ten.”
“Great. And then I need you to go make one last check on the auction items, okay? Ta!” And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the melee of well-dressed assholes.
“Wait!” I cried. One last check? Seriously? We'd checked the auction items at least five times already. What the hell was I supposed to be checking for?
But he was already gone. Cursing, I slipped between the milling people, my sandy-haired Batman all but forgotten. I had a drunken society maven to attend to. And what could be more important than that?
* * * *
Mrs. Glasscock took fifteen minutes to get up off the floor. I took great satisfaction in slapping her awake, knowing she wouldn't remember it. They were purely therapeutic slaps anyway. Therapeutic for me, I mean.
By the time I had mostly cleaned the vomit from her hair and made her as presentable as possible, I was a mess. My cocktail dress stank of regurgitated champagne, and I was red-faced and sweaty from the exertion of holding her up and maneuvering her out of the ladies room and into the arms of her grateful husband. Unfortunately I didn't have any time to straighten up—the auction was about to begin, and I still had to do my one last check, whatever the hell that meant. I could only suppose it meant making sure none of the staff had contracted a case of sticky fingers, or that nothing had become broken in transport from Anton and Felicia's house.
I knew Felicia didn't like charity events, but I'd organized this one especially for her. It was an art auction among New York's upper crust, and not a boring silent auction, but one where people actually had to raise their little numbers and everything. The snobs probably thought it was very droll, and it's great fun to watch drunk rich people try to outbid each other, so of all the mandatory functions Felicia was obliged to throw at least twice a year this, I had decided, was the least painful. Plus, Felicia could probably buy some nice pieces she wouldn't otherwise have access to.
Me, I was just hoping for a fist fight to break out.
I checked myself one last time in the mirror, making certain I didn't look too much like a vomit splash-guard, then grabbed my dumb beaded clutch bag—the one with my phone in it, the portal to all my plans and people—and stalked out of the bathroom, hurrying toward the backstage. The Edison Ballroom is an old Depression-era hotel-turned-theater, and it's pretty much perfect for an auction. There's a bar and a lounge and its dim and crowded so everyone can get all intimate with each other, whether they want to or not. The auction was about to begin, and I had to make certain everything was in place.
I arrived, out of breath, to inspect the pieces one last time. Two handsome young men who probably did bouncer work as their day jobs were lingering near the first lot, joking about some girl they both knew. Gross. I stomped up to them and waved their bow-tie-wearing asses out of the way before grabbing my phone from my purse.
The pieces had been donated by the audience, and it was essential that they be in the same condition they arrived in. After all, people were here to be seen, and also so everyone could know just how expensive their tastes in art ran. That the money went to Felicia's favorite charity, an inner-city arts program for disadvantaged kids, was probably irrelevant to these people.
It didn't matter. I just had to make sure it ran smoothly, and to that end I had photographed every piece before it left storage in Anton's basement art gallery. I pulled up the list and began going down the line.
Lot one, an Andy Warhol. Pristine condition, still pristine. Good. You never knew when someone was going to smoke a thousand cigars right under their modern masterpiece. Next!
Lot two, an Andre Masson painting. Lot three, another one. Both fine. Lot four, a piece of facade from some Greek temple. Awesome. Let's just rip it all up. Lot five, a... really cool modern Aboriginal painting from Australia. Shit, I wish I was rich. Lot six, a bronze Chinese mirror. Lot seven, an ugly Edwardian brooch worth, like, nothing, haha, someone was doing spring cleaning. Lot eight, a white porcelain Chinese vase, Qing dynasty... and not here.
Why is it not here?
Out on the stage, the emcee, one of the inbred country-club set who fancied himself a comedian, tapped the mic. “I'd like to welcome you all to the First Annual Waters Charity Art Auction...”
Panic seized me. The auction was starting and we were missing lot eight, one of the more expensive pieces in the auction. Its spot was empty. Empty! It was a beautiful piece, too, exquisite and smooth and fine. For a long moment as
the emcee started babbling, I stared at the picture of it on my phone, then at the spot on the table where it should have stood. Empty.
Phone: vase.
Table: empty.
Phone.
Vase.
Table.
Empty.
Oh, shit.
And that's when I somehow managed to fuck everything up.
Filled with ire, I took a step back, my voice already rising in my throat. “Where the fuck is that white vase?” I hollered at the top of my lungs as I pivoted smartly on the balls of my feet and set off to find out whose ear to chew. Instead of striding purposefully through the backstage area, my laser focus honed in on locating the missing vase, I collided violently with someone rushing in my direction.
I saw it all, in that perfect moment of stillness before disaster strikes. A young man, his eyes wide and horrified, reeling backwards. Our mutual momentum sent us both careening out of control, struggling to regain our balance. We both lost the battle.
And so did the white vase in his hands. Gently, gracefully, it rolled from his fingers and began its fateful descent toward the floor.
Horror speared me straight through the heart as I fought to regain my footing, knowing I had only a split second to launch myself forward and catch the falling vase, but it was a pipe dream from the beginning. Still stumbling backwards, my ass hit the edge of the table holding the to-be-auctioned art, sending a shock of pain up my back, and I tumbled forward to my hands and knees. My phone hit the floor the same time as the vase. My phone, swathed in rubber, survived the fall.
The vase didn't.
With a terrible sound, it shattered into a million pieces on the hard floor. Bits of white porcelain skittered across the wood, some spinning off under the assembled tables, others content to stay where they landed in the initial blast.
Silence descended upon the assembled throng of my fellow peons. The kid who had been carrying the vase stared at its broken corpse, his face going green.
