The Complete Bad Boy Billionaire Boxed Set

by Amelia Wilde

“No.”

  “I’m handling it, Adam. Go home for a little while.”

  “But what if—?”

  “I’m handling it.” I lower my voice. “It’s not dangerous, okay? I’m fine. Just go away. Clear your head.”

  “Okay.”

  “I have to go. Love you, brother.”

  “Love you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jett

  At the office, I try to deny that having Angelica in the penthouse every night is having any effect on me. The illusion is ruined when, on Wednesday morning, I mistakenly call Emily ‘Angelica’ as she’s on the way back to her desk.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Brandon?”

  I wave her away, keeping my face expressionless. “I’ll have a new set of appointments to arrange after lunch, Emily.”

  Connor breezes in, saving me from another embarrassing round with Emily. “I think we’ve got everything straightened out.”

  He launches straight into a detailed description of the outcome of the negotiations, and then outlines several solutions for bringing this godforsaken media company under our umbrella. I wanted to acquire it in the first place because they have a distribution platform that I think could reach Facebook proportions with the right amount of investment and development, but it’s been such a pain in my ass that I can’t wait to be done with this phase and move on to integration.

  Who am I fooling? What I can’t wait to be done with is this work day so I can go home to Angelica.

  She surprised me on Monday. Emerald would always dwell on a stressful situation or any perceived slight. The woman could devote an entire afternoon to being pissed off about a wait staff member who hadn’t thought she was as radiant as the sun or some other shit.

  Not Angelica.

  She wouldn’t allow her bad day to stick with her, and her tense mood seemed to be as easy to cast off as the blouse I’d ripped off her in my hurry to see more of her flawless skin.

  Jesus, and the taste of her....

  Connor finally finishes talking. “…put together a group that can weigh in on the transition period. Do you have the final documents for me to sign?”

  “Yes, right here.” He flips through a leather portfolio that he’s brought with him and rifles through the papers. “Damn. They must be sitting on my desk. I’ll be back in five.”

  Three minutes later, I give in to the compulsion to text Angelica.

  Out or in?

  Get your mind out of the gutter!!

  I laugh out loud.

  Dinner, sweet thing. Out or in?

  Up to you. I’m just the houseguest.

  How’s the repairs coming?

  :/ They found mold and have to tear out the drywall. It’ll probably be another couple weeks.

  I have room.

  :) No need, Jett Brandon. I can find a hotel near the office.

  I wasn’t giving you a choice

  I wait a moment, then send ;).

  So demanding...

  You like it.

  I love it.

  My heart beats hard in my chest.

  “There.” Connor slaps the portfolio back down on my desk, and it’s open to the page with the dotted line just waiting for my signature. “Neat and tidy.”

  “No surprises this time around?”

  He gives me a cheeky grin. “Not as long as you’ve got your head in the game.”

  I glare at him, then laugh. “I’m in the damn game, Connor.” The pen I pull from the narrow drawer under the surface of my desk feels weighty in my hand, final.

  “One of those big name pop singers is going to be at the Swan tonight,” Connor says while he waits.

  “I’ll be there,” I say absently, scanning the document one final time to make sure there’s nothing out of place. “Wait—no, I won’t.”

  “Why, do you have a date?”

  “Not at the Swan.”

  “Where at?” Connor can’t help but pry. He loves gossip as much as anyone in our circle of friends, even if he’s smart enough to keep it to himself.

  “It’s not really a date.”

  “Make up your mind, Brandon.”

  “I have a guest at home.”

  “A guest?”

  “Are you going to repeat everything I say, or go back to work so you can keep earning your very generous salary?”

  “Who’s the lucky girl?” Connor’s eyes are sparkling. He knows about the shit that happened with Emerald—the failed business deal in London, the bitchy double personality, and the older man the cheating slut was screwing around with behind my back. He was the very first one to suggest that I come back to New York and get back into the scene.

  Because Connor is a fucking black hole in the gossip world, I can be positive that Angelica won’t end up in the tabloids on his account. “A woman named Angelica.”

  “Did you meet her at the Swan?”

  “In the elevator.”

  “Let me guess—you pulled a Jett Brandon and had her panties off before you even got to your floor.”

  I sign my name across the line in big, bold strokes.

  “You think I’m going to kiss and tell?”

  Connor laughs, and I close the portfolio and slide it back across the desk to him. “You don’t have to tell. I can tell by the look on your face that you’re doing more than kissing.” He leans forward, resting his knuckles on the surface of the desk. “So she’s hotter than the surface of the sun, then.”

  I grin up at him.

  He nods, shaking his head. “You never take long, do you?”

  “I’ve never had a problem with timing.”

  “You seemed pretty dead set on swearing off women when you left London.”

  “Not women—on time-sucks disguised as relationships.”

  “You’ve got someone waiting for you at home! What do you call that?”

  I shrug. “It’s a story, man. Her apartment got flooded. I own an entire floor of my building. Best of all, I can do whatever the hell I please with my personal life.”

  Connor bursts out laughing at my menacing tone. “You think I’m telling you to kick her out? No way. If you’re letting her stay, she has to be a ten. I wouldn’t mind coming home to that every night. How long is she staying?”

  “Couple weeks, maybe three at the most.”

  My friend whistles through his teeth. “That’s a deal at twice the price.”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  Connor tucks the portfolio under his arm and turns to go. “What a letdown, though, when she’s gone,” he says over his shoulder, before disappearing into the outer office.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Angelica

  Hadley’s micromanaging is going to drive me insane.

  She spends most of Thursday morning “checking in” with me every six minutes to make sure I’m “managing my time effectively,” which is honestly a new low for her. Something must be going on in her life to make her this neurotic, because as long as I’ve worked at Sisterspark, she’s always been the type to bark out instructions and then correct your work after the fact.

  It gets so bad that just before lunch, she stands behind my chair and actually dictates an email that I’m sending to one of my sources. It’s for a post on organic smoothie recipes. It’s not like we’re handling state secrets. I have no idea why this kind of attention to detail is necessary. Yet, because I have to keep paying the rent, I type out the stilted email and let Hadley proofread it for any errant typos.

  “Good,” she says with a firm nod. “Send it. Get back to me when there’s a mockup with images, all right?”

  “No problem.” She turns to go. “Hadley?”

  “Yes?” Her gaze is immediately locked on my face, her mouth framed in a thin line.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean by that?”

  I give a little shrug, being sure to keep my face open and innocent. “You just seem like you’re spread a little thin this week. Is there anything I
can do to help?”

  Hadley’s jaw works, but then her face softens. “I shouldn’t get into it.”

  I nod my understanding. I start to turn back to my computer, but Hadley stops me.

  “Advertising revenue has taken a hit over the last couple of weeks.”

  Oh, shit.

  We spend a minute in thoughtful silence. I’ve been with Sisterspark for almost three years, which in New York City might as well be fifteen. I know what happens when ad revenue drops. We might have a floor in a fancy building in the Garment District this week and be out of business by next Tuesday. Bigger websites than Hadley’s have been toppled overnight by inexplicable shifts in ad revenue.

  “Have that mockup on my desk as soon as it comes in,” Hadley says abruptly, putting a swift end to our moment of camaraderie. Then she’s gone, breezing back to her office.

  The rest of the afternoon she doubles her efforts at being a pain in the ass. It’s extremely helpful that now, in addition to worrying about what Charlie might do if I can’t pull off this undercover spy routine and hoping to hell that Adam has gotten himself out of Manhattan, I’m also wondering if I might be out of a job before October rolls around.

  In three weeks.

  Needless to say, it’s impossible to hide the tension that’s forming knots in my shoulders from Jett when we’re both back at his penthouse for the evening. I do my utmost best to hide it from him—I’m sure the last thing he wants to deal with is some needy, anxiety-ridden content producer living in his apartment—but he notices anyway.

  “Do I need to buy out that company and fire your boss for you?”

  I laugh like he’s telling a joke, and judging by the half grin on his face, he is...but the tone of his voice tells me there’s a nugget of truth behind his absurd statement. He could buy out Sisterspark, probably tonight if he wanted to.

  The fact that he’d even think about offering it—even as a joke—is what makes my heart speed up. I’m supposed to be focused entirely on double-crossing him, helping Charlie and his thugs steal information—and I’m assuming money—from him, but with every kind gesture, Jett works his way deeper into my heart.

  “Nah,” I tell him with a broad smile. “Although she would probably like it if you bought out the website right about now.”

  Jett cocks his head and unbuttons his jacket, then shrugs it off. “What is her company again?”

  “Sisterspark.”

  To his credit, he doesn’t laugh. “And it’s in dire straits?”

  “I don’t know all the details. She dropped a hint that the ad revenue was down earlier today, but it’s a website, so....”

  He shakes his head, and it occurs to me that Jett Brandon probably never has to think about things like ad revenue. He probably lives off the interest from his billions.

  “So it could go under if the revenue keeps dropping. And then I would be out of a job.”

  “And you’re not worried about it?”

  “Oh, I’m plenty worried about it,” I say, kicking off my shoes and sinking back into the sofa. Jett joins me a second later, leaning against the arm of the sofa and looking across at me like he’s discovering an alien society for the first time. “...what?” My grin is only slightly self-conscious.

  “What makes you so...resilient?”

  I swallow in the hushed silence. This is by far the deepest thing Jett has ever asked me, and it sends a thrill of pleasure down my spine that he’s interested in me on this level. It also makes my stomach turn over, because....

  I keep my tone light. “It’s going to make me sound like a total gold-digger.”

  “I doubt it.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me.

  “I grew up in a small town in Michigan. My mom worked in a factory there.”

  Jett’s eyes widen for a split second at the mention of a factory. I’m sure that for him, a job like that would be unthinkable. “When I was nine, the factory went out of business. She didn’t have a degree, so—”

  “Your mother didn’t go to high school?”

  “College,” I say quickly, my cheeks heating up. “She only had a high school diploma and factory jobs used to be a lifetime gig. You went to work right after high school and stayed until it was time to retire. Anyway, she was by herself. My dad walked out on her not long after Adam was born, and then when she lost her job, things got hard.”

  “Jesus,” he says softly.

  “There wasn’t a lot of work to go around when it wasn’t tourist season, so she cobbled together multiple jobs to make ends meet. Adam and I had to fend for ourselves.” This is bordering on a sob story. Gotta wrap it up. “So, yeah, I’m worried that Sisterspark will go under. But I’ll be able to handle it. I always keep my resume updated.”

  Jett is looking at me like I’m a different person. Someone impressive. Someone worthwhile.

  Thank Christ.

  I wait another moment for him to change his mind—to tell me that he’s not interested in having some piece of trailer trash living in his penthouse, or to look at me like I’m just a money-grubbing bitch—but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in and kisses my cheek tenderly.

  “Angelica Chandler, you’re something else.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Jett

  The more I learn about Angelica, the more I wonder why I’ve ever wasted my time with trust fund bitches like Emerald.

  Not that I’m against trust funds, per se. I certainly have one. I just didn’t decide to squander it and then seduce wealthy women to try and finance my business ventures.

  I can’t get Angelica out of my head at work on Friday, which is the exact thing I was trying to avoid by having her stay at the penthouse. I thought that if I could fuck her enough during the off-hours, she’d be out of my system during the workday.

  That couldn’t be farther from the truth.

  I keep replaying our conversation from the night before. Her face was a little guarded, like she wasn’t sure what I would think of her, that I would judge her.

  It’s hard to imagine what that life would be like, but it explains why she’s so cool under pressure.

  She balances out my quick temper.

  Emily interrupts my train of thought. “Mr. Brandon?”

  “Yes?”

  “Your ten o’clock just canceled—Mr. Pierce from Pierce Industries.”

  For the first time, I notice how carefully Emily is controlling her expression.

  She’s waiting for me to get angry, to snap at her. It’s true. I fucking hate it when people cancel meetings at the last minute, but this isn’t Emily’s fault. I’ve met Pierce more than once at the Swan. We had a very similar strategy when it came to women—use them, lose them, rinse, repeat—right up until he met his now-wife, Quinn. She’s hot enough to be a mainstay on the gossip websites, but she doesn’t hold a candle to Angelica.

  Angelica, who might frown at this news, then move on with a smile.

  “Did he want to reschedule?”

  Emily’s shoulders relax. “His secretary wanted to check on your schedule.”

  “Any time next week.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brandon.” She doesn’t have to say “for not acting like a total asshole.” It’s evident what she’s thinking on her face.

  I didn’t want Angelica to have any influence over me. That may have been misguided.

  Now that I have more of an idea how precarious her life must seem to her, I’m overcome by the urge to do something special for her. When she’s with me, she shouldn’t have any worries.

  What about afterward?

  I dismiss the thought entirely. Having her gone used to be the light at the end of the tunnel—the reward for not succumbing to the influence of another cheating whore—and now it looks more like an oncoming freight train with every day that passes.

  I spend fifteen minutes during what was supposed to be my ten o’clock meeting planning a special night out. I call in a favor and get seats at Eleven Madison Park, front row tickets to a Broadway show that
’s been sold out for months, and have a selection of couture gowns sent to the penthouse. I’d fly us both out of Manhattan tonight, maybe to Aspen or Saint Tropez, but I want to be here to oversee Brandon, Inc., and it’s a good guess that Angelica wants to keep her job. Instead we’ll do something touristy, but with the added novelty that it will be something that only a large amount of money can buy.

  Plans tonight? I text Angelica.

  No. Unless I have some with you :)

  You do now. Be at the penthouse by 5:30

  With all the plans for the evening in motion, my mind is freed up to conduct the day’s business. I review the paperwork for three additional mergers I have planned for the coming year. I make several video calls to some of Brandon, Inc.’s international partners. I meet with the department heads for status updates.

  That’s when things start to go off the rails.

  The meetings run over, and then Connor appears, his jaw set, just when I’m about to switch off my computer and get the hell away from here and back to Angelica.

  “What is it?”

  “Something has come up at the last minute with the merger.”

  I force myself to take a deep breath before I answer.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Pretty bad.”

  “Then fuck it. Have the lawyers walk back the agreement. This is not worth it.”

  Connor shakes his head. “They had a whistleblower come forward.”

  “About what?”

  “Financial fraud. The news is going to break any minute.”

  My jaw clenches. “What the fuck?”

  “I don’t have all the details yet, but they’re not small fish. I think the investigation might extend to our dealings with them, as well.”

  Jesus Christ. This is the last thing I need.

  “Excellent,” I say bitterly, then turn back to my desk.

  “Sorry, Jett.”

  “Don’t be. We’re withdrawing. I’ll have legal on it as soon as they can put their asses in seats.”

  Connor must sense the conversation is over, because the next time I look up at the doorway, he’s gone.