The 100 Series: A Billionaire Romance Trilogy

by Adrian, Lara

  “See?” Tasha says while I wheeze and cough. “She hates it, Tony.”

  He looks crushed. “You don’t like it?”

  My eyes are watering. My esophagus feels like scorched pavement. “It’s um . . . a bit strong.”

  “Look at the poor girl. She’s about to keel over.” Tasha grabs the bottle out of my slack grasp and pushes it back into her husband’s hand. “Avery and I were talking about very important things before you rudely attempted to poison her. Go on, let us chat. And take this swill with you.”

  Antonio lifts his bulky shoulders. “Okay, more beer for me.” He takes a big swig of the bottle. Evidently, he’s built up a tolerance because he doesn’t even wince as he swallows the awful stuff, then heads back over to his friends across the room.

  Tasha shakes her head at me apologetically as another cough seizes my throat. “I tried to warn you. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I croak. “Fine.”

  Now that we’re alone in our little corner of the gathering—and now that I can breathe somewhat normally again—Tasha crosses her arms over her breasts and gives me a sly look. “So, I believe you were about to tell me how a certain flower-gifting, truth-omitting, probably no-good-player managed to convince you to see him again. Aside from obvious reasons, that is—and I will concede there are many.”

  “Yes, there are.” I bite my lip, but it doesn’t suppress my smile as I start listing Nick’s numerous attributes. “Gorgeous. Smart. Intriguing. Powerful. Absolutely amazing in bed.”

  “You forgot rich as a Rockefeller,” Tasha adds drolly. “I mean, even I have to admit a guy like Dominic Baine is attractive enough without all of his money. What does someone do with a net worth of two-point-four billion, anyway?”

  Two-point-four? I feel my throat close up again, but it has nothing to do with Antonio’s terrible beer. Could Nick actually be so wealthy? And the fact that Tasha names such a specific figure makes me tilt my head in question. “How do you know what he’s worth?”

  “It was in a Forbes article I found on him.”

  “You looked Nick up on the Internet?” I’m mortified. “Tasha! You didn’t.”

  “Of course, I did. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t give this guy a thorough Googling?”

  I gape at her. “That’s just . . . wrong. It’s invasive.”

  She pushes out a dramatic sigh. “Well, it’s not like I found much, anyway.”

  Although I don’t want to condone her snooping, it’s nearly impossible to keep my curiosity in line with my principles now. “What do you mean, you didn’t find much?”

  “I mean, aside from estimates of his net worth over the past ten years and a handful of high profile acquisitions that Baine International has on public record, Dominic Xavier Baine appears to be a closed book.”

  His full name is a prize on its own—a morsel of information I’m only learning for the first time now. Nick’s full name is elegant and dark and mysterious, like the man himself. The syllables slide through my senses and I savor them as I would any stolen sweet.

  “They say he hates publicity of any kind,” Tasha continues. “One magazine interviewer even called him the ‘shadow mogul’ because of how elusive he is with the media. He keeps his business dealings far under the radar and no one seems to know much about him personally either, aside from the official bio stuff on record with his firm’s website. That’s practically a miracle by itself in this day and age. While the majority of his fellow bazillionaires never met a camera or headline they didn’t love, the most anyone can say about your Mr. Baine is that the man is an enigma.”

  I absorb this new insight in silence. I sensed from the beginning that Nick was intensely private, even secretive. Now that feeling settles over me with more weight than I care to examine. I didn’t want to get nosy about him or his personal life. The fact that he’s taken steps to keep himself out of the spotlight—despite his significant success and wealth—shouldn’t bother me.

  It shouldn’t matter that he is damaged and solitary, as Margot has warned me. Or that he is elusive and protective of his secrets—whatever they may be—as Tasha’s revelations seem to imply. But yet, it does.

  All of these things trouble me deeply.

  Because I have enough secrets for both of us.

  Chapter 18

  I step back from my easel, frowning as I tilt my head to assess my work in the soft peach light of sunrise. I’m set up in the living room of Claire’s apartment, a rumpled sea of paint-stained, thrift-store sheets spread out over the floor beneath my bare feet and the unfinished cityscape I just can’t seem to get right no matter how hard I try.

  Clipped to the top of my easel is the photograph I’ve been struggling to bring to life on the canvas. My scowl deepens as I stare at the sallow light and lifeless lines of my painting. Maybe Nick is right. My art isn’t good enough. Not for his gallery, or anyone else’s.

  As if in evidence of that fact, I spot an errant shadow on one of the brownstones I’ve meticulously painted today. I move back to the painting to correct it, but my fiddling only makes the problem worse.

  “Dammit.”

  I’ve spent weeks trying to perfect this piece. Now I’m tempted to trash the whole thing. Before I let myself give in to that urge, I toss my brush down in frustration and head into the kitchen to forage for breakfast.

  It’s barely eight in the morning, although I’ve been awake for hours. After spending yesterday at Tasha’s house, last night I went to bed restless, my mind crowded with a thousand distracting thoughts. Many of them having to do with Nick.

  I can’t pretend that Tasha’s Internet digging into his life doesn’t bother me. Not only because she did it without asking, but also because the information she uncovered—sparse as it was—has spawned an unwanted, but nagging curiosity in me.

  Curiosity and caution, both in equal measure.

  I want to know more about him. If I’m being honest with myself, I want to know everything about Dominic Xavier Baine.

  The fact that he shared what he went through in Dubai carries new weight today, now that I’m aware of his reputation for privacy in both his business and personal lives. I feel special that he confided in me, that he trusted me. He didn’t have to do it. He didn’t have to explain himself to me at all, and yet he did.

  I don’t do anything because I think I have to, he’d said.

  And no, I don’t suppose he does.

  But there is more to Nick than simple elusiveness or strict discretion. I sense it the same way all wounded things are able to recognize the scars carried by others. He’s enigmatic for a reason. He’s forbidding because there is safety in isolation. It doesn’t take billions of dollars or a penthouse mansion to learn those lessons in life.

  Whatever is in Nick’s past—whatever walls he’s built around himself now to protect him in the present—it is his own to contend with. I don’t belong there. No more than he belongs in mine.

  I drop a slice of multigrain bread in the toaster, then pour myself the last of the tepid coffee I brewed several hours ago. After stirring in some cream and sugar, I lean my elbows on the white marble countertop and flip open my tablet to check the weather for my commute to Vendange later today. I groan. Cloudy with heavy rain in the evening. Wonderful. Bad weather usually means a slower night for tips.

  My toast pops and I pivot to retrieve it. Munching on a corner of the dry bread, I return to my tablet and start to close down the browser.

  I mean to close it. But all of my thinking about Nick and the scars we both carry rakes open an old wound inside me too. My finger hovers over the search bar.

  Don’t do it.

  My hand trembles, and, for an instant, I almost lose my nerve.

  Don’t do it. Don’t open that door again. After all, there’s no need to look. I already know what I’ll find at the end of that long, dark hallway.

  “Don’t . . .”

  The sound of my own voice startles me. But not even the warnin
g spoken out loud dissuades me now. With the toast caught between my teeth, I use both hands to slowly type a name into the search engine.

  Martin Edward Coyle.

  The page fills with search results—most of them dated after my mother’s arrest. I see her name listed in nearly every record. And in all of those mentions of my beautiful, kind, and loving mother, she is described primarily by her crime. As if her conviction has become an appendage of her entire identity.

  Brenda Leigh Coyle, charged with the shooting death of her husband in their home on the afternoon of August 21 . . .

  Brenda Leigh Coyle, who confessed to the brutal killing of her husband, Martin . . .

  Brenda Leigh Coyle, now serving a life sentence after pleading guilty to premeditated murder . . .

  More than a few of the articles depict my stepfather as an innocent victim. Online obituaries written by his relatives and well-meaning church members praise him for his strong work ethic and his commitment to the community. Those are the ones that nauseate me the most. None of them tell the real story of who he was. None of them shine a light on the kind of monster he was behind closed doors.

  The fact that I didn’t turn a spotlight on his true nature myself when I had the chance is a regret I’ll carry with me forever.

  It might have saved my mother, if she had only let me testify.

  If she had only let the case go before a jury instead of pleading guilty to avoid a trial, I might have been able to spare both of us the pain of these past nine years.

  A knock on the apartment door jolts me from my drift down the darkest corridors of my past. I jump, dropping my half-eaten toast onto the counter.

  “Just a second,” I call out as I shut down the tablet and stow it in a kitchen drawer.

  I’m not excited about seeing anyone dressed as I am, but I assume it’s only Manny or one of the maintenance men since no one gets in or out of the building besides them, unless they live here. Making a hasty attempt to straighten my extra-large T-shirt over my baggy sweats, I pad my way into the foyer to answer the door.

  I put my eye to the peephole and suck in a sharp breath.

  Oh, God.

  My stomach starts fluttering—half in surprise, half in mortification. Reluctantly, I pull open the door.

  “Nick.”

  “Good morning.” His sexy smile scatters every unpleasant thought to the furthest corners of my mind. He’s standing there in dark jeans and a black blazer. His starched white button-down is unfastened at his throat, but even dressed in business-casual, he looks like a cool million bucks.

  More precisely, two-point-four billion, my subconscious corrects.

  “Um, hi. When did you . . . what are you doing here?” I try to sound unaffected, but my stammered greeting betrays me. I’m dying a little inside and trying not to gape at him, well aware that I must look like a sleep-deprived bag lady in my paint-speckled, baggy clothes and messy ponytail. “I thought you weren’t due back for a couple more days.”

  “I told my London team to handle things for me and I flew home early. I just got in from JFK a few minutes ago.” Despite my bedraggled disarray, his eyes drink me in slowly, appreciatively. “I’m hungry. Thought you might be too.”

  “Hungry,” I murmur. He watches my mouth as I say it, and I don’t think I’m imagining the flicker of interest that seems to light in his gaze. My pulse responds to him instantly, kicking into a faster tempo even while reason cautions me to keep my head. “You mean, go out for breakfast? I’m not exactly dressed for that.”

  “Then we’ll stay in.” His sensual lips curve in a wicked smile. “Actually, I prefer that idea even more. And we can decide about breakfast afterward.”

  I laugh, but I’m still not ready to let him in. “It’s Monday, Nick. Some of us have to work for a living.”

  “Call in sick.”

  I hold his stare, wondering if he has any idea how tempted I am. “I can’t do that.”

  “Okay.” He inclines his head in acknowledgment, but clearly not in surrender. Reaching into the pocket of his blazer, he pulls out his cell phone. “Tell me where you work. I’ll make the call for you.”

  “You will not!”

  He doesn’t know that my self-described “public relations” job is performed behind a bar six nights a week, but that doesn’t stop me from gasping when he acts as if he really means to make the call. I lunge for him, repeatedly grabbing for his hand, which he holds just high enough to be comfortably out of my reach. I’m tall at five-foot-six, but he’s easily six inches taller, and my effort to stop him only draws our bodies flush against each other.

  “Are you going to call in, or am I?”

  He’s playing with me, and there’s a part of me that’s all too eager to go along with him. It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s somehow managed to move inside the foyer with me, when I had good intentions of keeping him on the other side of the threshold. Now, we’re standing together on the marble tiles, less than a hand’s breadth between us.

  The air feels electrified, crackling with energy. With mutual awareness.

  With his eyes locked on mine, Nick reaches out and quietly closes the door behind us.

  I groan, sensing my imminent defeat. “I can’t miss a day of work just because you want me to, Nick. My boss would probably fire me for it.”

  “Then quit.” The quirk of his mouth suggests he’s joking, but the dark glint in his gaze tells me that he’s absolutely serious. His fingers cup the side of my face, the pad of his thumb gently stroking my lower lip. “I want to spend the day with you. And the night.”

  I stare at him, unspeaking, captivated by the pleasure of his touch and the power of those compelling blue eyes. My breath leaks out of me on a sigh. “Is this what life is like all the time for you? Issuing commands and expecting the whole world to follow them simply because it’s what you want?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  I smirk in spite of myself. “I guess if you’re Dominic Baine it probably isn’t.”

  “Is that a yes, Avery?”

  I tilt my head at him. “To breakfast, or something else?”

  “To everything I want to do with you right now.” He smiles as he says it, but it’s not humor I see blazing in his eyes. His large hand is still curved against my cheek, his fingers still coaxing me into submission.

  It doesn’t take much for all of my arguments to wither under his touch. Then he bends his head and kisses me, and every last bit of my control abandons me.

  I want him, and all of my reasons for why it’s a mistake to let him in—to crave this man the way I do—scatter away as his tongue sweeps past my lips to tangle with mine.

  Chapter 19

  In the two weeks since he’s been away in London, I’ve almost managed to convince myself that my memory of sex with Nick has somehow expanded and evolved into a bigger than life fantasy—one that can’t possibly resemble reality. As Nick kisses me, I realize just how wrong I’ve been to think that. If what we’ve already had together was intense, the spark has only grown hotter in the time we’ve been apart.

  My body ignites on contact, as if my nerve endings are already trained to recognize their master and awaken in eager response. His mouth dominates mine in a deep, possessive kiss that leaves my heart racing, my limbs boneless. I’m already melting into a desperate state of arousal, but each stroke of his tongue past my parted lips makes my sex pulse in answer, already wet and yearning with the need to be filled.

  I recall how he was the one who set our pace that first time. I remember how he controlled our progress—how he almost demanded I give him the reins to my pleasure. But he’s stirred something greedy in me and I have no patience to wait for his cues right now. I reach down and press my palm against the massive ridge of his erection. He groans coarsely, almost a growl. But he doesn’t stop me. Not even when I grab for the buckle of his belt and tug it loose.

  He’s as consumed as I am.

  I see it in his heavy-l
idded eyes, in the sharp flare of his nostrils as he draws back from our fevered kiss to hold my gaze while I unzip his pants just enough to take his hard flesh in my hand. I wrap my fingers around his thick shaft and stroke the length of him, watching the azure blue of his irises turn stormy and dark, filled with so much desire it staggers me.

  When he comes back at me for another kiss, this time his mouth is savage. The sheer force of his sensual assault knocks me back on my heels. Only the wall of the foyer behind me holds me steady as Nick’s body crashes up against mine.

  His tongue invades my mouth as his hands slide under my T-shirt and close around my naked breasts in a firm, almost bruising grasp. I moan, trapped between pleasure and pain as he kneads the mounds and rolls the aching peaks of my nipples between his fingers. I feel his cock wedged at my hip, the rigid line of it grinding against my pelvis as he rolls his spine in a hard thrust while he kisses me breathless.

  I’m beyond wet for him already, and the rhythmic friction of our bodies is nearly enough to make me come despite the fact that we’re both fully clothed. Shameless, I straddle his strong thigh, clamping around him as he moves against me and continues to kiss and caress me into a state of frenzied need.

  He pulls away from me on a harsh curse, his gaze locked on mine. “Fuck, Avery. What have you done to me? I’ve been wanting you like this since the day I left New York.”

  “I know.” My words are little more than a gasp. “Me too.”

  The instant I confirm it, he reaches down and tugs my sweatpants off my hips. The loose fabric sags around my ankles, leaving me bare from the waist down. Nick’s fingers slip between my thighs, into the warm slickness that’s gathered there. I drop my head back on a moan as he strokes my swollen clit with his thumb. His fingers delve deeper into the wet heat of my cleft, making me cry out as his touch penetrates and teases.

  “This pussy is going to be my obsession,” he utters thickly, groaning as my sheath constricts around his pistoning fingers. “Christ, it already is.”