Hacked For Love & The Dom's Songbird: A Billionaire Romance Collection

by Michelle Love

  I snort. “Yes, except for one thing—you’re not any more innocent than I am.”

  “Actually, I’m probably significantly less so,” he admits calmly. “But that is not who I wish to be any more.”

  I gaze into his eyes and feel something in me untether and drift toward him, like a riptide pulling me far out into a warm sea. My heart aches with a longing I don’t fully understand, and I realize too late that he’s more dangerous than I ever anticipated.

  “Me neither,” I whisper breathlessly, looking everywhere but at him.

  “How did you choose the recipients?” he asks calmly, voice gone smooth and businesslike again. It helps. I focus back on the conversation, which he’s approaching in the manner of a man who is about to close a business deal.

  “I crawled social media, local listings of foreclosures in progress, registries with collection agencies. Things like that.” I’m playing it casual. The same data collection AI I coded to gather dirt on Washington’s billionaires also sniffed out the suffering and at-risk among the locals with little effort.

  In fact, narrowing the number of recipients down to twenty thousand had left me with a lingering stomachache for weeks. It was like doing triage in a trauma hospital. “Basically, I picked people who would be completely sunk if I didn’t step in.”

  He tilts his head just slightly. “There’s one thing I don’t understand. Your parents were quite wealthy. Why didn’t you steal your inheritance back from your uncle?”

  The shock of him mentioning my past pulls a bitter laugh from my throat before I can stop it. For one terrible moment, I’m back watching the strange man in the dark suit lock the gate of my home. I ask him where my uncle is as I clutch my one suitcase to me, and he says, “I’m sure I don’t know,” before he walks off, leaving me there.

  “If you’re going to invade my privacy in return, I’ll ask you to at least get the facts straight.” Briefly, my face is down in my hands. But I manage to raise my head with all the strength of will I can spare.

  He’s watching me, his brows drawn together—a look of sympathetic concern on his face that shocks me. “Why don’t you tell me what happened, then?”

  “He has friends and connections at Interpol and the Yard, even the FBI. I have only ever been able to take back little bits of what is mine and make his online life very inconvenient. I’ve never really been able to avenge myself.” I rub my face, not wanting him to see the threatening tears.

  You don’t show weakness. If you do, people pounce. I berate myself internally until I can compose myself.

  “I’m assuming you’ve at least gotten some form of poetic revenge?” he asks a bit urgently, just a little edge of anger to his tone.

  I stare at him. That makes it even worse. The man is empathizing. Or he’s putting on such a good act that I can’t tell the difference. The former is unimaginable. The latter frightens me so much I can only hope it isn’t true.

  “What do you care?” I challenge in a low, pointed voice.

  He seems to snap out of some kind of reverie, and his smile becomes wry. “I guess that was a touch personal. I just don’t like the idea of the bastard getting away with it.”

  “Oh, he isn’t getting away with it. He’s just not aware of that.” I don’t divulge the details, and that only seems to intrigue him further.

  It’s true, though. In the last five years, my uncle’s wife left him over gambling debts that didn’t exist, he lost any chance at a political life after his abandonment of me became very public, and he doesn’t know at all where some of his money is disappearing to. He’s developed a drinking problem, which makes it even harder to keep track of things.

  And yet of course, it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

  “So, this is what you do. You set the rich and wicked against each other or punish them individually, siphoning off their money, and keep those who have no chance otherwise from falling completely into the dark.” His tone is too warm.

  My heart starts pounding. I look out the glass wall at the traffic splashing past and swallow hard. “There’s a certain emptiness that you feel when you realize that no one in the world gives a damn about you or what happens to you, and that most of the people who could do something about it are only out for themselves.”

  He speaks up in a low, solemn tone—and all but finishes my thought as I slowly turn my gaze back to him. “Suddenly you must live or die by your own strength and wits, and maybe any allies you can make along the way. You must learn to be tough, even if you’re terrified. And the whole time, the one scrap of humanity that you manage to hold onto—your conscience, your principles—pains you daily and may one day will get you killed.”

  I swallow, my mouth painfully dry. “How do you know that?”

  “I lived it, too.” Now it’s his turn to look away, and I realize he’s got his own reservations about trusting me, though he’s trying to reach past them.

  Or he could be playing me for a fool. I have no way of knowing. I can only trust him…or not. “Is that why you are more interested in finding out how the money’s being used than…revenge?”

  “That’s part of it. The other part is that since we’re apparently going to be working together for a bit to rectify this situation, I want to see how you handle your ‘rescues.’” He’s turned back into the smooth businessman again, and I’m both relieved and disappointed.

  “What’s your interest?” I’m suddenly uncertain where he’s going with this. He keeps surprising me; I’m not sure whether I like it or not.

  I just wish I didn’t feel warm all over every time his lips curve into a smile.

  “I want you,” he says, and the three words ring right through me, sending a jolt down to the pit of my stomach.

  What?

  He goes on in an amused tone. “I do a lot of my own charity work—quietly, so I’m not constantly being hit up for donations. I wouldn’t condone breaking into people’s bank accounts so that you can settle their financial affairs for them, but I have to admit, I’m impressed with your work thus far.”

  Impressed? I’m still wary. I’m not used to being flattered, and my cheeks are prickling again. “Why?”

  “You’re organized and thorough. Maybe not thorough enough, or else we wouldn’t be here, but I suspect that that’s a direct result of constantly biting off more than you can chew.” He holds up the sheaf of printouts. “Your plan is ambitious, but I doubt you can accomplish it all alone in anything like a timely manner.”

  I hitch in a breath. “I’m prepared to put in as long as it takes.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure you’re quick as well as thorough. However, even if you spend as little as twenty minutes on each family or individual, you can’t clear more than a dozen or so people an hour. That’s a hundred and twenty people in a ten-hour shift. How many people are on your list?”

  Trust him. For now. “Twenty thousand.”

  He lets out a low whistle. “That will take you one hundred and sixty-seven days to complete, if you work every day. You say that these people need help now. I would like to make you a deal.”

  “What deal?” I don’t know if my alarms are ringing more because he’s expecting so much trust from me, or because I suddenly want to give it so very badly.

  I’ve ached for someone out there, a man especially, to understand me—truly understand me, the way Spider and the boys did before the cops scattered my makeshift hacker family to the winds. I’ve dreamed about it for a long time. I’ve just never gone after it, because what do I even know anymore about any kind of real interactions outside of cyberspace?

  But suddenly, here is this stunningly gorgeous man that I shouldn’t trust at all, yet who seems to understand me so much.

  The hostess comes up to check on us, and Drake looks up at her. “Menus in five minutes,” he instructs, and she nods and withdraws.

  He turns back to me. “I enjoy personally intervening in the lives of needy people, in a way similar to your own, which is why I’ve b
een quietly sponsoring people on donation sites for years. But as satisfying as it is, I face a similar dilemma to your own. There isn’t enough time in the day to help all the people that I’d like to.”

  My eyebrows rise. “So…what? We work together to get this done?”

  “Yes.” He leans toward me across the table, his eyes gleaming. “I want in on what you’re doing. I want to participate. A third of this is coming from my money, after all, and if you agree to my deal, it will be my money exclusively that you’ll be distributing from now on.”

  I’m staring at him again. I blink and look away. “I’m not following.”

  “Once things are settled here, and this…incident…is behind us, I want you to work for me on an exclusive contract of at least three years. I’ll give you a budget, a space, and a team to work under you. We’ll get your twenty thousand what they need, and then help an additional ten thousand people a year.”

  He can’t be serious!

  But…what if he is? I take a shivery breath and look down. “Can I think about this?”

  “Of course. However, the offer will be off the table in forty-eight hours.” His voice is warm and firm, and for a moment, caught in my storm of emotions, my eyes fix on the curve of his lips as he speaks.

  I catch myself wondering what they would feel like on my skin, and gasp slightly, looking away. “Of course.”

  We both order steak and dark beer and talk more lightly around bites of our meal. “So, why green?” he asks me. “It’s eye-catching and well-kept, but it’s not exactly inconspicuous.”

  I wince slightly, but he’s smiling kindly at me with no judgment in his eyes. My stomach tightens...and then I relax my guard a bit more. “My natural hair color is too close to my uncle’s,” I say simply. “And I wanted to make a statement.”

  “What sort of statement?” His eyes narrow with amusement, that teasing smile making me squeeze my knees together under the table. “You look like a punk. A sexy, well-dressed punk.”

  “I am a punk,” I reply with a touch of defiance. “I’m a cyberpunk. But it doesn’t mean I can’t have taste.” I toss my head defiantly—and then notice something that makes my heart beat even faster.

  His eyes follow the sweep of my hair as it bounces across my shoulders and then settles down again, and I see a gleam enter them like a tiny ember. “And you do,” he murmurs, voice lowering to a purr. “Beauty, as well.”

  I look away, cheeks burning again, and feel panic well up inside me. He has me wrapped around his finger. Yesterday, he was a target. Now he’s talking like he wants to hire me—or fuck me. Maybe both.

  Having a man call me beautiful and sexy is nothing new. It happens any time I run into guys in bars, clubs, or in the street—guys who are looking for Miss Right Now and don’t feel like paying a price other than a cheap compliment. But this…this is different. I feel it down to my toes.

  Maybe his idea of revenge is to seduce me with promises of money, sex, and affection, only to drop me on my ass like my uncle once did. Drake is observant enough to know how much that would hurt.

  Or maybe he’s one of those guys who can lust after you with everything he has, while planning the whole time to slip a knife in your back.

  Or maybe he’s sincere. Somehow, that possibility frightens me the most out of all of them. Because I have no defense against sincerity. I barely know what it looks like any more. Not since Spider died.

  “Don’t do that. That’s not fair,” I mumble uncomfortably and busy myself with another big bite of steak. I suddenly worry that I may not have much more time left for my meal. Will I have to get out of here? My heart’s pounding again.

  “I’m sorry? What isn’t?” he asks in such an innocent tone that it hurts.

  “Don’t hit on me.” My hands are shaking. I hide them on my knees.

  He scoffs in surprise. “Why not? Are you involved with someone?”

  “I know you’re just trying to put me off my guard, so I’ll do what you want. There’s no need. Just be direct with me, and don’t…do that.” I take a few deep breaths.

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?” He has an incredulous laugh in his voice, but one look in my eyes, and he hesitates. “Oh. I see it is. I’m sorry for any confusion I’ve caused, but…that’s not what I’m about.”

  “What are you about, then?” I’m still not following.

  “It’s simple. If you’re capable of doing as good a job as I think you’ll do, then I want you on my team. That part, however, is separate from noticing just how attractive and charming you are.”

  He winks, and I feel my breath freeze in my chest as my toes curl. “Oh,” I mumble, and go back to eating mechanically.

  Oh God. Oh crap. What do I do?

  He watches me for a while, looking even more intrigued than before. “You don’t really date, do you?” he asks finally, and I shake my head.

  “No time.” No experience. No trust, either.

  “So, you’re not used to men being attracted to you.” He’s gazing at me steadily again.

  “Not unless they want to take advantage. You…you have every reason to want revenge on me. I’m still getting used to the idea that you might actually…support what I’m doing. That you’re not about to f—”

  His grin flashes and I stop short. Because I have a feeling that he’d happily fuck me if I brought it up, but that…wasn’t exactly what I was talking about.

  “I don’t really care what happens to me from all this,” I admit. “But I just don’t want it to happen before I finish my work. So, I have to be careful. In…all ways.”

  “I see.” He still seems amused, and not put off in the least. He simply sits back and says, “All right then. How about you sleep on my offer, and I’ll have a look into your work with these…clients. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  I nod slowly, picking at my meal. “That’s fair.” I wonder, however, if his other…proposal…the implied one that shocked me just as much as the first did, is going to get revisited as well.

  The very thought makes me realize that I’m going to get a lot of work done tonight…because the thought of him wanting me like that is going to keep me awake for a whole new reason.

  Is he toying with me? Can I trust him? His smile is impenetrable, and yet I get the feeling that those eyes can see right through me. Right down to the girl huddled in the cardboard box who is still praying that no man will hurt her again.

  Chapter 8

  Drake

  For once, nightmares don’t greet me when I fall asleep. Instead, I’m tumbling back and forth on my bed in the dark, totally wrapped up in the woman in my arms.

  We’re frenzied with need for each other, gasping for air, our limbs tangling together. She whimpers and strains against me as I part her thighs, her hips lifting in slow circles as she offers herself.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispers in my ear as she clings to me. I thrust into her and sensation travels through my body, hazy pleasure rising past my hips. She moans, nails stinging my shoulders as I ride her closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.

  In the dream, her head falls back as she climaxes, and I see that silky mop of emerald-colored hair for just a moment before my own body takes off.

  I shout myself awake in the dim room, thrashing free of my blankets, my hips pushing upward against nothing. My voice echoes off the walls, and I realize that I am alone. The climax leaves me shuddering with pleasure even as the disappointment hits.

  I collapse back to my mattress, sticky and tingling, yet still unfulfilled. I lie there panting for a moment, knowing I need a damn shower but still longing for the woman in my dream. The one who wronged me, the one I just met...the one I can’t stop thinking about.

  Robin. Holy shit this woman is trouble, I think, a moment before I push past my haze and shove myself out of my bed.

  But I like her kind of trouble.

  I’m in the shower when my phone starts ringing. I finish rinsing off, wrap a robe around myself, and wander out,
yawning, to see who it is. The phone keeps ringing until I pick it up. “It’s four thirty in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir.” It’s one of the desk guards, and he sounds pretty damned nervous. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, sir, but there are two very large Italian men in suits down here.”

  I blink slowly. Shit. Here we go. “All right. Let them up. Do not escort them, and let John know we have a Scenario Six as soon as the elevator doors close behind them.”

  “Yes, sir.” He hangs up. Sighing, I get dressed in a good black suit and make sure I have my Beretta handy.

  Five minutes later, the door slides open, and two of Don Rocco’s enforcers come in. I would know them at once for what they are from both their enormous size and the way their shoulder holsters show against the jackets of their ill-fitting suits. They pause as they come in, and the larger, older one narrows his small eyes as he looks me over, clearly not expecting to find me sitting calmly alone behind my loft desk.

  “Help you gentlemen with something?” I ask quietly as I stand. The pistol gleams next to my keyboard—I’ve made sure they can’t see it from their angle.

  They look at each other and then walk up to my desk and stand over it, arms folded. I sit back down as they approach, sliding the pistol into my lap. Neither seems to notice. The smaller one, who has a scar cutting into his jowl on one side, steps forward and speaks.

  “We’re here as representatives of Mr. Marcone. I’m sure you’re familiar.” They sound overly casual; they seem to have forgotten that they’re in a highly secured building and have only gotten this far because I allowed it.

  “I am. But Mr. Marcone and I don’t have any business dealings, so I’m confused as to why he arranged this sudden early morning visit.” I play innocent, just as calm and casual as they.

  “Oh, I think you know,” comes the almost sarcastic reply, and I do my best not to bristle. So much ego in these men—and so little competence to back it up.

  “Look,” I say, gesturing toward the small wet bar I keep by my desk. “Let’s pretend for a moment that it’s well before dawn, I haven’t had sufficient sleep or coffee, and your boss and I have never had a problem before. Oh wait, that’s the absolute truth. So please, excuse me if I’m hazy about where I stepped on your esteemed boss’s toes.”