Quadruplets for the Billionaire (Babies for the Billionaire Book 2)

by Ana Sparks

  Once she’s in my grip, I want to tease her a bit. I’m not one to jump straight from the appetizer to dessert. There’s an entire four-course meal at my disposal, and I plan to enjoy every bite, both literal and metaphorical.

  “Fine,” she says tersely, her lips drawn into a taut line. “I’ll accept the role as your assistant. It would be an honor, Mr. Sharpe,” she hisses. She looks furious, and while I might have expected her to feel defeated, she doesn’t appear as such. The fire that burns within her will be much harder to extinguish than that. Good.

  “Very well, Miss Rhodes. I’m glad we could come to such an amicable conclusion. You must understand, I hate stirring up bad feelings amongst my staff,” I smirk. She narrows her eyes, scrutinizing me to an almost uncomfortable point. “As I explained, this is a privileged position, and if you play your cards right, you’ll be well prepared for placement in higher-tiered jobs down the line,” I say, circling around to the other side of my desk. I sit in my plush office chair, clasping my hands on the surface of the desk in front of me.

  “I expect nothing less,” she retorts, considering me carefully. “So, I’m assuming you have a crucial task of some sort to assign me,” she continues drolly.

  I take a slow breath, weighing my options. I can immediately reveal the farcical nature of her employment terms, but there’s no fun in that. I’d rather let her stew for a bit and allow her to struggle with the concept of working with me for the sake of personal gain.

  From my treatment of the young intern, it likely seems that I’m a cruel man. I assure you, it’s only because I’m wise to the game. I know every trick to play this woman like a fiddle, and in spite of the disdain in her gaze, I also see a dark desire in her eyes.

  “For now, I’ll see that an office adjacent to mine is cleared out for you. Feel free to explore the lower floors, and—” I pause, reaching into my desk drawer. “Add your number into my phone. When I need you for something particularly important, it will be easier if I’m able to text you,” I tell her.

  While my reasoning for the time being is innocent enough, I can see how her phone number could be an asset in my plans. She seems to realize this as well, drawing her lip between her teeth and taking the phone from my hands.

  “In spite of my attitude, I really appreciate you offering me a position in your prestigious company. I do hope that I can learn a lot from my time at your side,” she says shakily, handing the phone back over to me and offering me a hesitant smile.

  The unprofessionalism of the game I’m playing hits me like a ton of bricks, and I grip my phone tightly in my hand before ushering for her to leave. She is immediately overcome with relief, a sigh spilling past her lips as she turns her back to me and rushes towards the door.

  I almost reconsider my plot to take her as my own. However, she pauses at the door and turns to face me with a final look of consternation. Her anxiety seems to shift to a rather unexpected excitement, and she smiles at me. A warm, genuine smile.

  “Oh, and of course, don’t worry about any hard feelings, Carson. Perish the thought,” she says slyly. Then, of all things, she winks at me before slipping out the door. The little minx!

  I can only wonder who is playing whom in this game we’re indulging in. I find myself growing more intrigued by the minute with this enigma of a young woman.

  Does she want me? Is she only playing into my hands to keep her job? I suppose only time will tell. Until she gives express indication that she’s grown weary of my antics, I plan to continue my pursuit. Professionalism be damned.

  I bring up the word processing document on my computer, smirking to myself as I compile a list of ever-so-important tasks for my pretty new aide to accomplish. She can enjoy her victory for now, but the ball is in my court, and I don’t plan on letting that opportunity go to waste. Game on, Aimee.

  Chapter Four

  Aimee

  I step out of my new boss’s office breathing a sigh of simultaneous relief and disappointment. I’m not entirely sure what to think of the situation—when I think he wants to grab me and kiss me more passionately that I’ve ever been kissed, he swiftly shifts gears to indicate that thought couldn’t be further from the truth.

  I can’t say I would mind if he swept me up in his strong arms. I can only blush at the thought, resisting the desire to scold myself for how unprofessional I’m being. I’ve never been so immediately enamored with someone before, and I realize it can’t be anything more than primal lust.

  All the same, with the way those beguiling blue eyes bore into my own, I don’t imagine he’d mind having some…fun, for a while. More specifically, I think he’d like to have a toy of his own. I’m under his spell, hypnotized by the thought of being with the handsome older man.

  Ever still, I can’t allow myself to be entirely swept away. I’ve worked hard for this job, and I don’t intend to let a surge of fleeting arousal steal it away. If he wants to have me, he’s absolutely welcome; I’m just not going to be the one to initiate any sort of intimate encounter.

  For now, I’ll focus on the job at hand. It’s not the marketing internship I worked so hard towards, but it’s something. Perhaps he wasn’t being completely deceitful in the assurance that I would learn much from this position.

  Granted, I can think of positions I would rather be in. Take that as you will.

  Swept up in my thoughts, I scarcely notice when my phone begins to vibrate in my pocket. Drawing it out and swiping the lock screen, I see a message from a number I don’t recognize. I realize who sent it as soon as I read the message.

  According to Mr. Sharpe, running across the building accomplishing menial tasks will completely prepare me for a better job in his real estate empire. Of course, he didn’t say as much, but the implication is clear enough.

  I message him a short response, irritation creeping up my spine as I scan over the list he sent. First and foremost, apparently, the break room needs to be replenished with coffee filters.

  I try to keep contempt out of my expression as I make the trek to said break room. I recheck the text, making sure that I’m heading to the correct floor, only to realize that he’s sent a second text to amend the first. I’m to replace the coffee filters for every break room, and see that the recyclables are sorted through.

  Fighting the desire to roll my eyes and only partially succeeding, I storm towards the first of many stops for the day. The employee lounge on the top floor is relatively clean, but I can’t begin to guess how unorganized things may get as I journey down through the building. I check the coffee pot, opening the cabinet above it and noting with some disdain that there seem to be plenty of filters. I withdraw the large box, weighing whether it’s worth risking my job to skip this room.

  This is likely the first place he’ll check, however, and I’m reluctant to make such a rookie mistake so early on. I snap a picture of the box of coffee filters with my cellphone, intent upon getting the right brand. Then, I step towards the recycling bin in the corner. From what I’m able to gather, Carson is rather strict with his policies regarding keeping the company as green as possible. At least, I would gather that from the task I’ve been assigned.

  The inside of the recycling bin is another story entirely. It looks as if half-empty paper cups have just been thrown in willy-nilly, and old coffee coats the entire bottom of the bin. I try not to gag, unable to keep a vaguely-disgusted expression off my face. I look around for some sort of cleaning supplies, growling under my breath as my phone vibrates again.

  “What the hell,” I swear, yanking my phone out of my pocket and reading the message. Apparently, the cleaning supplies need to be restocked, as well. Great, amazing, fantastic.

  Before I’m able to stop myself, I type out a snide reply. I ask the man—with good reason, in my opinion—what on earth cleaning break rooms has to do with learning about real estate, let alone marketing. I move to slam my phone onto the counter, but it vibrates in my hand before I can do so. I fumble to keep my grip on it as it co
ntinues to buzz.

  It would seem I’m receiving a call, this time.

  “Miss Rhodes, are you having trouble with your assignments already?” Carson says by way of greeting.

  I grit my teeth, smothering the angry retort I’d like to make.

  “Of course not, Mr. Sharpe. I simply fail to see the relevance of these tasks—” I begin, only for him to cut me short mid-sentence.

  “I have about a dozen stops to make around town today, and as such, won’t be in the office. Our day-shift janitor is out sick, so I thought instead of dragging you around the city, I should allow you to acclimate to your new surroundings,” he says coolly.

  My initial reaction is to call him on his bullshit, but I manage to stifle my retort.

  “Would my assistance not be better served…actually working with you?” I manage, somehow keeping my tone somewhat measured.

  “You have to learn to walk before you can run, my dear,” he answers condescendingly. Balling my free hand into a fist, I feel my face twisting into a sneer and thank the stars that he can’t see it.

  “Of course, Mr. Sharpe. I’ll see to my assigned tasks immediately,” I say with a level of grace I could only hope to truly achieve at this rate. If I was expecting some sort of positive response, I’m sorely disappointed when he hangs up.

  Resisting the near-overwhelming desire to throw my phone across the room, I stride towards the elevator with purpose. If he wants my first day to be spent as a janitor, I’ll make the filth in this building my bitch. Nothing is going to come between me and success. Not even my billionaire boss and his scheming ways.

  I don’t see Carson for the rest of the day, and I’m not sure if I should feel relieved or incensed. By 7 p.m., the time he sends a text to inform me that my workday is over, I’m exhausted, covered in grime, and all-too-eager to go home. As much as I would like to give him a piece of my mind, I’m simply too tired to reply beyond a simple ‘okay’.

  Stepping out of the building and into the cool evening air, a sense of joy washes over me as I realize that I’ve somehow made it through my hellish first day. I’m not sure if he’s testing my limits, but as angry as I’ve found myself getting with him, it only serves to make my passion for him burn hotter. I’m not sure if that’s his intent, but I know it’s only a matter of time before one of us breaks. I’m determined that I won’t be the one to give first.

  The interior of my car is hot to the touch after sitting in the blazing sun all day, and I curse under my breath as I grab the seatbelt to buckle myself in. The skirt I wore today seems painfully short as I realize the scorching leather material is burning up the backs of my thighs. I smother a discontented grumble, starting the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot.

  Driving home isn’t an awfully long process, though I’m nearly ready to fall asleep behind the steering wheel. I pull into the parking garage of my apartment complex, allowing myself to sag against my seat. It’s all I can do to keep from falling asleep right then and there. Somehow, I manage to unfasten myself, lurching out of the car and fumbling for my keys as I make my way to my apartment.

  My feet are killing me after wearing high heels all day, and the first thing I do as I step into my apartment is kick the shoes off. I’ve done a lot more walking than I expected today.

  Walking to the bathroom, I strip off my clothes before stepping into the shower. My thoughts have been consumed with all the lewd things I’d like to do with the man who has been driving me insane all day, but now that I have a moment to myself, I want nothing more than to get clean and sink into my plush mattress.

  I keep my shower short, and as I dry off, consider blow-drying my hair, but realize I’d rather deal with the wet pillow in the morning than waste any more time. I shimmy into my pajamas, glancing into the mirror in hopes of seeing a vaguely more refreshed expression. I’m nothing if not disappointed. Oh well. Maybe tomorrow will be an easier day, though I have my doubts.

  Slinking to my bedroom, the aching in my feet seems to return tenfold. I groan, flopping face-first into my bed. Intent upon getting a good night’s sleep in spite of my hard day, I play some soothing music on my phone as I drift into what I hope is a pleasant slumber.

  A few hours later, however, I jolt upright in bed, covered in sweat. I’d kicked the blankets off, and it takes me a moment to realize what had made it so difficult to sleep.

  Pressing my thighs together, I throw my head back against my pillow and grumble under my breath. Slowly, the dream that woke me up pieces itself together, and one image sticks out particularly in my mind: Carson’s ice blue eyes peering up at me from his place between my thighs.

  The dream itself isn’t what alarms me, not really. My raging desire for the older man has been clear since I laid eyes on him. The one thing that truly bothers me is how badly I wish he would discard the pretenses of professionalism and make my dream a reality. I can only wonder if he’s having similar dreams about me…

  Turning over in bed, I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to ignore the almost painful throbbing between my thighs. If I don’t get a few more hours of sleep, I’ll be entirely useless in the morning. In spite of what I can hope is a mutual desire, I don’t want to mess up my chances of landing a job with more prestige. When sleep claims me once more, my dreams take me to a familiar office, to the polished wood surface of a familiar desk.

  Boy, am I in deep.

  Chapter Five

  Aimee

  A week passes and I can’t help wondering if I’ve misread Carson’s intent. As much as I wait for him to make a move, he’s nothing but professional. The work I’m doing now is much less intensive than that first day, and I don’t know if I should be grateful or not. At least I’m not wearing my feet down to the bone every day, but I feel almost…neglected. It’s not like I can run up to the handsome billionaire and demand that he continue his strange torture, just because I’m in need of attention.

  Don’t get me wrong—he isn’t ignoring my existence entirely. He is assigning me the sorts of tasks you would expect for a personal assistant: fetching files, sending emails, the whole shebang.

  I suppose what bothers me most of all is the lack of playful, high-stakes banter we had shared on my first day. It’s not that I’m not putting myself out there; I feel like I’ve made it almost painfully obvious what I’d like from him. He simply watches me through those all-seeing eyes, lips curved in a benign smile as he sends me to my next task.

  Expecting to miss my internship in the marketing department, I’m relatively surprised at the ease in which I fall into assisting the handsome CEO. Admittedly, I feel like my talents are a bit wasted with the work I’m currently doing, but who’s to say I won’t actually learn something useful?

  One troublesome issue is the constant whispering of my coworkers when I’m at Carson’s side. It seems as if everyone in the office knows something that I don’t, and I can only wonder if my desire for the CEO is more obvious than I’m aware of. Granted, I’m not totally stricken by the idea that it may be obvious. Apparently, it’s not clear enough for the man himself to notice.

  Which finds me here, in my large corner office, sitting at my desk facing a window that allows the warm sunlight to filter in. The view is astounding when I find time to stare out the window, but I’m more concerned with the view inside the building. I breathe a sigh that is filled with more longing than I care to admit, forcing my eyes back onto the computer screen before me.

  Idly tapping my nails on the top of the desk, I bite my lip as I try to wrangle the wild machine. My computer and I have been having our share of issues, but it’s likely because of the unfamiliar software installed on every computer in the building.

  An unexpected perk of my new job is that I’m one of the few employees with permissions to add and delete files in Carson’s private network. Currently, I’m trying to find a specific file that my boss had instructed me to copy into his personal account, but he hadn’t been clear about which sub-section the file would be
in. It seems like I’m going to have to scour the entire server to find this one tidbit of information.

  I’ve only been through about twelve out of approximately one thousand sections, one for each employee. I’m frantically trying to locate the search feature on this particular server, but it’s like reading another language.

  I’m not even entirely sure what I’m looking for. Apparently, it’s vaguely related to a Russian property deal that Carson is supposed to be finalizing in the coming days. I have no doubt that Carson can pull off the deal; he has a way with people that I could only hope to someday achieve.

  Getting caught up in my infatuation with the CEO, however, won’t serve to locate this file I’m agonizingly searching for. I exhale an entirely unladylike snort through my nose, glancing towards the window for a moment. I idly click the button that will take me to the next directory, taking a moment to rest my chin in my hand.

  As I move to draw my hand away from the mouse, I accidentally bump my keyboard. I jolt in surprise at the loud clacking sound, staring plaintively at the peripheral device for a moment before groaning and returning my attention to the monitor.

  Wait…

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I find myself screeching, bordering on hysteria. As I watch helplessly, the computer chugs along, deleting over ten thousand files in the directory I’ve clicked over to.

  I fumble with the keyboard, trying to find a way to reverse the action. It seems I’m helpless, however, as more and more files are wiped from the system. In a panic, I grab the phone on my desk, dialing for tech support.

  “Tech support, how can I help you?” a bored voice mumbles, and I can hear the clack of a keyboard in the background. As calmly as I’m able, I try to think of an un-incriminating way of finding out if there’s a way to restore the files that still in the process of being deleted.