by L. Steele
The Billionaire’s Secret
L. Steele
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
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Prologue
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* * *
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* * *
I have a heart that never beats, I have a home but I never sleep. I can take a man's house and build another's, I love to play games with my many brothers. I am a king among fools. Who am I?
* * *
Answer: The King of Hearts in a deck of cards
* * *
Victoria
* * *
"Will he or won't he?"
I turn to the man playing the role of my husband, "Who are you talking about?" I ask.
"Saint," He replies.
"Who?"
"The man glowering at you from across the garden." Adam swipes a finger under his collar, "I wonder if he'll approach you before the night is over?"
I angle my body, but he shakes his head, "Don't look there."
Right. I swallow. "Is that good?"
"It's perfect." he reassures me. "Things are on plan."
This is what I want, don't I? This is why I am here. So why is my heart pounding? Why is my stomach tying itself in knots? A trickle of sweat runs down my spine.
"Act natural." He half smiles.
I swallow, tip up my chin. I can do this.
"Come, dear, meet your stepdaughter," he beckons.
I step forward, and my heels sink into the lawns attached to the beautiful town house located in prime real estate in the heart of London. I smooth my palm down the golden brown dress that comes to below my knees. Good thing I'd packed this dress near the top of my luggage; that had made it much easier to change before leaving the airport. Finding the shoes had been a different story. Our flight from LAX to London had been delayed, leaving no time to spare for a stop at our hotel.
The hair on the nape of my neck prickles. An electric shiver runs up my spine. I jerk my chin up.
Blue eyes blaze at me—cerulean, cold, never-ending whorls of cornflowers in summer time, the dark depths of a lake before the water freezes over. How could so many facets be intertwined with his gaze? I swallow, sweat beads my palm.
The words from Happiness is a Warm Gun, by the Beatles scroll across my mind. Heat flushes my cheeks. I have a penchant for the Beatles, but why the hell did I have to think of that particular song?
Saint glances from me to my 'husband.' His jaw tics. Anger rolls off of him, a thick black cloud that slams into my chest, sinks into my blood, hooks into me and seems to yank me toward him. Closer, get closer. I gasp and my fingers tremble.
Saint's gaze intensifies and a shiver crawls up my spine. My toes curl. Why am I so affected by his presence?
Adam nudges me.
I blink; tear my gaze away from the stranger. "Summer." I hold my hand out to my stepdaughter. "It's lovely to meet you."
She's beautiful in her wedding dress. At twenty-one, she is a year younger than me. And she has already found the man of her dreams. Me? I am taking it one day at a time. I am trying to survive. I clutch my handbag to my side.
Summer swallows. "I didn’t realize…"
"That you had a stepmother?" I ask.
“...that I had a father.” She glances at the man she is meeting after fifteen years.
Adam shuffles his feet, "I was hoping you two could get acquainted," he mumbles.
Across from me, Saint widens his stance; his hands are clenched at his sides. Huh? Is he upset about something?
"I didn’t mean for this to come as such a surprise." I force myself to focus on Summer, " I wish there had been a way I could have warned you of our coming…but..."
Summer nods, "You don’t need to apologize." Her eyes narrow, "I understand how it could have been."
I glance from Summer to her new husband, Sinclair Sterling who hovers protectively over her.
He and his six friends—often referred to as the Seven by the media—co-own 7A Investments. They are among the richest, most powerful men in the country... Saint is one of them. Why the hell can't I stop thinking of him?
I clear my throat, "Perhaps, we can catch up once you are recovered from your wedding and the honeymoon—"
"There is no honeymoon," Sinclair interjects.
Summer’s body tenses again.
Strange. His words are brusque. Yet he hasn't been able to look away from her, his body leaning into hers. Funny how body language conveys so much more than words.
Like the man who hasn't glanced away from me since our eyes first met. Goosebumps pop on my skin.
"Not until we’ve sorted out the little business between us." Sinclair nods toward Adam, "Tomorrow." He steps around us and walks off, guiding Summer along.
"I won't be more than a minute." Adam strides toward a group of men in a corner of the garden. I glance after him, wanting to ask him not to leave me alone with Saint.
Too late. He prowls closer, "Victoria, is it?"
Black coffee, crushed ice, hot chocolate sauce—the timbre of his voice coils about my waist, slithers down to the hollow between my legs. My toes curl.
I clench my thighs together.
That voice? What I wouldn't give to have him read aloud from a Harry Potter novel. Oh, my god, did I think that? Why is he insinuating himself into my every obsession? I shuffle my feet.
He tilts his head, looks me up and down. Those blue eyes pale until they resemble chips of ice. My heart begins to race.
This man? He'd not take ‘no’ for an answer. Never turn down a challenge.
His lips curl and he widens his stance.
The movement draws my attention to the fabric tented at his crotch. What the—? Is he turned on? And he's making no move to hide it either? The arrogance of the man. A warmth pools deep inside of me. A melting sensation thrums out from my core. And why am I not able to stop my response? No way, am I going to indulge his interest... Or his ego for that matter.
"Mr
s. Rhodes to you." I tip up my chin, up, all the way up to peer into his beautiful face. "Are you the hired help?"
His expression falters, then a chuckle rumbles from him.
The harsh sound grates across my skin. All of my nerve endings pop in response. Why am I so tuned into him?
He abruptly stops laughing, pretends to flick something off of his suit.
Bastard. So he thinks he can disguise his surprise by feigning boredom? Typical.
His resting dick face is all hard angles, cut lines, a mean upper lip, patrician nose and prominent chin...spoilt by that full pouty lower lip which hints at something more—sensuous, luxurious, a personality that indulges in hedonistic pleasures, that controls and does not hesitate to take. My core clenches. I raise my hand, ready to chew on my fingernail. Ha! And wouldn't that be a dead giveaway of how much I am affected by his presence?
I tuck my elbows into my sides. I will not give into the temptation. But would I give in to him?
No. No way, would I indulge this melting sensation that seems to have gripped my center. I square my shoulders, twist my fingers together in front of me.
He drops his gaze to my hands, then up to my face, "You're not wearing a wedding band." He frowns.
I cover my left hand. "Not everyone who's married wears one."
He thrusts out his chin, peruses my features. His blue gaze deepens. Don’t' blink. Don't look away. When you meet a predator, it's best to not show any fear. My heart beat ratchets up.
His nostrils flare.
Bloody hell, can he sense my uncertainty?
He tilts his head, “Your husband left you on your own?" His voice ripples up my spine. My scalp tingles.
What in the ever lovin' hell is happening to me? I brace myself, tip my chin up. "He knows he can trust me," I reply.
His lips curl, "But can you trust me?"
I blink. The hell does he mean? My fingers tingle and my palms itch. I'd tried every bloody remedy to cure myself of this horrible nail-biting habit. But the events of the last few months have wiped out any progress I had made.
He holds out his hand. "Saint Jordan Killian Caldwell," he drawls.
"Did you miss a name?"
His features go blank, then his lips curl, "Very good."
"Not looking for your approval," I scowl.
"You sure?" His lips kick up in a smile that isn't one at all.
I shiver.
"I'm Saint to my friends."
I glance down at his proffered hand, then thrust mine behind my back.
"Good thing I am not one of them," I mutter.
He lowers his arm. "No, you're not." His eyes gleam. "You and I, we could never have such a bland relationship."
"No?" My belly flutters.
He shakes his head, then looks me up and down. "In fact, you don't feature on my radar at all."
Jerk. Pretentious, spoilt, rich prick who wears his privilege as if the world owes him. I firm my lips.
He flicks another invisible piece of dust from his tailored jacket. The breadth of his shoulders stretches the fabric. His biceps strain against the cloth. He widens his stance, and I can't stop myself from taking in the sculpted abs outlined through the white dress shirt that sheaths his muscles. Power surrounds him. The force of his magnetism is a tangible sensation that pours off of him, hits me in the chest. I gasp. My throat closes.
"Good bye, Victoria." He turns to leave, takes a step away, then another. His jacket stretches across his tight butt—clearly he forgot to take the stick out of it when he left home. My lips quirk. He prowls forward and his slacks mold to powerful thighs. I swallow. This man wears that suit like it was stitched onto him. The muscles of those powerful thighs coil and coil, barely contained in those pants that narrow over boots. Huh? He wears faded cowboy boots that've seen far better days.
What the hell?
Is that a quirk, or another affectation? Why would he wear boots that simply don't match the rest of his £7000 suits? Only when my heel sinks into the ground do I realize that I've placed my stilettos squarely in his footstep. I bite the inside of my cheek.
Let him go; don't say it. Don't let curiosity get the better of you.
"The more you think, the more you find; what am I?" I call out.
He tenses, then swivels to face me.
"What did you say?"
Those cold blue eyes bore into me, the force of his personality pinning me in place. My heart begins to race. I've done it; I've revealed my hand. Ugh. Why couldn't I have kept quiet?
"N...nothing." I wave a hand in the air, "Forget it." I turn away.
Hard fingers clutch at my wrist. I am spun around, with such force that I stumble. The grasp on my arm increases in pressure, and I find my balance. He keeps my hand imprisoned behind me, his arm lined up against mine, my back curved, my breasts thrust up. The heat from his body crowds me, envelops me. Less than an inch separates us. How would it be if he had plastered my chest to his? I flick out my tongue to wet my lips. His gaze drops to my mouth. His nostrils flare.
"Repeat what you said," he rasps.
"No."
He lowers his voice to a hush, "Do it." All other noises fade away. My mind focuses on him. I take in the creases that fan out from the edges of his eyes, the furrows on his forehead, the tendons that pop at his throat.
"A puzzle," I whisper. "The answer is a puzzle."
"Why did you ask me that question?"
"I wanted to take you by surprise." I firm my lips. "That's all."
"You expect me to believe that?" He searches my features. "That you'd ask me a riddle for the hell of it?"
"Why? Does it scare you?"
The wind blows, and a tuft of his hair falls over his forehead. I raise my hand toward it. He grabs my wrist, wrenches tit behind my back, then lowers his head until his nose bumps mine. "Be afraid, Victoria. Be very afraid."
"Of you?"
"Of this game you are playing." He releases me and I slump back on my heels. My chest heaves. My heart pounds so hard I am sure it's going to tear out of my rib cage.
"Or what?" I purse my lips.
"Or get ready to get hurt." He straightens the cuff of his shirt. "For I never lose, and when you do—" He straightens, fixes me with that penetrating gaze, "No one can save you."
1
Saint
* * *
"And what if I don't?" Her low voice slices through my guts. "What if I don’t want to be saved?" she whispers. Her lips tremble and her chin wobbles. Her beautiful green eyes grow impossibly large in her face. An act, all an act. She's married, for fuck's sake.
"Is that how you trapped your husband?"
She pales. Her breath catches.
A sharp pain stabs at my chest. Shit, now I am upset because I hurt her feelings. Bloody fuck, do I have my balls or what?
She turns to leave, my rib cage tightens. My lungs burn. I swoop down, grab her wrist, and pinpricks of heat crawl up my arm from the touch. What the fuck?
She shivers, did she feel that too? Nah. Surely, it's a figment of my imagination.
I tug at her; she angles her body half toward me, half away, her handbag a red slash of color against the brown of her dress. "People are watching." she hisses.
"The fuck I care?"
She glances at me, "What if I do?"
"Do you?" So I'm attracted to her. Shit happens. She's another man's wife, the kind of complication I've preferred to steer clear of. What is it about her that insists I stay, tug at her wrist until she turns to face me?
She shakes her head. One side of her beautiful mouth twists. "But I'm afraid my husband does."
"And you care about his feelings?" I glower.
"I care about mine." She tips up her chin. Her eyes blaze with an inner fire. "If I were looking for an affair, it wouldn't be with the likes of you."
"Oh?" I peruse her features, "And are you looking for one?"
"What?"
"A lover. Someone who could arouse you with a glance, who would kiss yo
u until you moan, someone who would pull you aside and take you while your husband mingles with the guests." I lean in close enough for her sweet sugary scent to lace my nostrils. Damn, but she's aroused. "Is that what you want?"
"No." Her eyebrows twist.
"Good." I release her so suddenly that she stumbles. "For when I take you, there will be no space for sweettalk, no emotions involved, no reason for hesitation. I'll treat your body like it were mine."
She draws in a sharp breath.
"You scared, yet?" I drawl.
"No," she mumbles.
"You should be."
A gust of wind blows her hair across her face. I reach up to tuck it behind her ear.
She shivers.
I unbutton my jacket, shrug it off.
She frowns. "What are you doing?"
I place it about her shoulders, position my mouth next to her ear, "When I finally drive into you, you'll weep not because I'm hurting you, but because you are empty without me."
Her breath hitches.
"Because you ache for me and will do anything for my fingers in you, my tongue on yours, the squeeze of my hand on your hips, the burn between your thighs as I drink from your wetness." I lower my voice.
Her breasts heave.
