Romance: The Billionaire Alpha Collection (40 page)

Chapter 6

In Chanel and Jimmy Choos, I teeter through Zane’s mansion, following the maid to his huge library.

Excitement, nerves, and apprehension all form a soup overflowing the acid in my stomach, and my esophagus begins to burn.

In spite of this, when he greets me with a delicious grin, I’m immediately aroused.

Really aroused…

Reining it in, I remind myself why I’m here: to him, I’m a possession he must own, a doll he wants to dress up and most likely play with.

Regardless of my attempts at reason, my body continues to betray me.

So be it, but I will not betray my conscience.

No matter how beautiful his face is, how sexy his body, or how much I need his money, he will not possess my body.

“Hi,” I say with a cracked voice, misplaced in my surroundings and uncomfortable in his clothes.

“Ah. You’re perfect, Abbey. Just as I imagined.”

“Um, funny that.” What am I? A child to dress up or a businesswoman here to build trust? “Considering I’m wearing your choice of clothes.”

He frowns.

“You bought the outfit, like one might for a child,” I add.

“A child?” He scoffs. “No, my shopper chose all your outfits based on my description of you and of my plans for us.”

All my outfits? Plans for us?

“It would be rude of me to leave you unprepared for events I planned for us, in your absence. Wouldn’t it?”

I imagine with horror myself standing on a ski slope, wearing my business dress and best black shoes.

“Besides, I enjoy buying things for my friends.”

“Friends?” We’re not friends and I’m no idiot. “And what are these...events?” Now I’m imaging I’m naked in a dungeon, surrounded by women with whips. Others are bound and gagged at their doms’ feet, all wearing shiny black cat-suits with indiscreet though convenient holes. I’ve read books like that. “What...err, what kind of outfits did your stylist woman need to provide, exactly?”

He smiles. “Are you scared of me, Abby?”

“No.” I squirm at his boldness and at the way he cocks his eyebrow.

Of course, I’m anxious in the company of a billionaire playboy.

And because this truth stirs me as much as he does, so sexy in a navy dinner suit without a tie.

“Come here, then.” Zane hooks his finger to beckon me. “Sit with me?”

He backs up a few steps to slump into a large, brown Chesterfield sofa. He pats the seat next to him and I remember the closeness in his office.

The sunlight shines in from the window behind his head, highlighting his sharp cheekbones, the muscle in his biceps, the mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Sure,” I say as casual as possible, being anything but.

Trying to balance while tottering across the room on long, slender heels and attempting perfect posture isn’t easy, especially while being stared at by a man my body needs more than my bank account needs his investment.

I also try not to sway my hips or lick my lips, but fail on both counts.

He moves to the edge of his seat, attention paid to my every move, and his chest inflates a little more the nearer I get. “You were born to wear Chanel, you know. I saw it straight away.”

His scrutiny is penetrating, causing my body to pulse with arousal--which irritates the hell outta me. When I reach him, I slump next to him and sigh with the relief of taking the weight off my feet. “I’m more of a average shop girl, and these shoes are ridiculous.”

“You surprise me. Isn’t every woman secretly in love with Jimmy Choo and Chanel?”

“I dunno, are they? I’m sure you’ve met more women than me.” I take off one of the shoes and rub the ball of my foot, compelled to make light of his attempt to impress me with gifts. “I’m more interested in making money than spending it on clothes with other people’s names on them. If there should be a label in them, and I bought them, shouldn’t the name in them be mine?” I glance up at him and see this concept is new to him. “If you knew me, you’d understand.”

“If you don’t like what the stylist got you, I can call her and get her to deliver alternatives.”

“What?” I sit up straight. “She’s on call twenty-four-seven for you?”

Zane’s brow hoods his eyes and his head tilts.

“Look, I’m grateful for everything, but I don’t need this kind of outfit. I don’t go to high-class places to wear it. My life isn’t high-class and neither am I.”

With a proud, deep voice, he says, “With me, you’re high-class.”

I bite back. “With anyone, I’m whoever the hell I wish to be, Zane.”

“Wait...” His frown disappears as his brows shoot up, opening up his golden stare.

I see that he meant no harm, that he’s shocked I took offence. Unwilling to argue further, I force a smile. “Forget it. This is all a bit odd for me, that’s all.”

“I apologize if my gifts caused you any discomfort. They were meant to make you smile.”

Make me smile?

Sweet... I give him that smile. “So, where did you intend to take me? I agreed to come here only, remember?”

“You’ll see. Nowhere you’ll hate, though. Promise.”

“Oh, well I’m promising nothing more than dinner. Understand?”

“Okay, Abbey.” He beams, perhaps relieved I climbed down my soapbox. “For now, dinner.”

Returning his grin, elevated after asserting my independence, I lean back and enjoy the comfort of his couch, though the leather is cool on the back of my bare legs.

The room is floor to ceiling books, and a majority of them are leather-bound classics.

“Do you actually enjoy reading the classics?” I ask.

“Not all of them, but I’m duty bound to give up my time for them all the same. I read some several times, others only once. You?”

“I tried to read Poe’s short story collection once because I love his poetry, but I’m more into the scarcity of contemporary fiction than the flowery excesses of the classics. Call me a philistine if you like.” I shrug. “Give me anything by Stephen King, and I’m pretty much in heaven.”

“Or some version of fictional hell?” he replies.

“Oh yeah,” I snigger.

“You continue to surprise me. I had you pegged as a Brontë lover for some reason. A hopeless romantic.”

I remember Kylie’s description of me as a chronic romantic and cringe. “Please.”

Dammit, how did he know?

Well, it’s not like I’m a super fan of period dramas or anything.

I just like the movies.

“If you’re into Poe and King, you love horror. Have you read Dracula yet?”

“No. I tried once, but the writing is too old-school descriptive for my liking. Love the movie, though. Kylie bought me the DVD.”

“Of course. So do I, but the book is much better. You must try again once you get used to the language; it’s a wonderful read. I’ll lend you my copy.” He struts over to the far wall, wide shoulders towering over narrow hips, to where most of the oldest books are shelved. I follow, my eyes firmly placed on his tight butt cheeks, until he spins around to face me, holding Dracula, “Here.”

He hands me the early edition, which I refuse to touch by snatching my hands behind my back. “It’s all right. The free e-version is still on my Kindle. I’ll give it another try one day.”

Laughing softly, he shrugs and slips the book back among the rest. “Well, if you change your mind. There’s something quite splendid about reading a story as a first edition. You’re missing out.”

“Thanks, but aren’t you ‘duty bound’ to protect old books?” On the new heels, I’m not as short as usual, and my face is much closer to his when I peer up at him. “Not hand them out to strangers willy-nilly.”

He snickers now. “Did you just say willy-nilly?”

I squirm before sniggering at my own turn of phrase. “Sorry,” I say, covering my mouth. “I never normally say anything like willy-nilly. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone else say it either. Maybe Mom says it?” I let out a groan.

“It’s cute,” he says, tapping my nose.

He tapped my nose?

From dressed-up child to a cute pet.

I am a woman. A strong woman.

Respect me, dammit.

“Besides, you’re not the type to sell it or damage it, are you? I trust you.”

“Ah.” Got you now. “If that’s true, why am I even here? You said we should spend time getting to know one another in order for you to trust me.”

“Trusting you with a first edition isn’t the same as with a million dollars, Abbey. Besides, you’re here because I want you here.” One step closer, he adds, “Problem?”

My body responds to his firm tone, and my defenses shoot up again. “I have a life too, you know. This is a business relationship as far as I’m concerned. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” he says, eyes blatantly travelling over the curve of my breasts. “Purely business.”

“I don’t mean that kind of business either...”

“FloristApp.com business...yeah, I get it.” He glides one fingertip leisurely over my cheek, causing electricity to burn through my spine.

Control yourself, Abbey.

“Doesn’t mean we can’t get along, get to know each other better, and enjoy one another’s company, does it?”

“No, up to a point.” After a deep breath, I move back a step and try not to wobble. “But I think we should stick to dinner. Any other arrangements you’ve made on my behalf are to be considered cancelled. Yes?”

“For now.” He sighs, strokes my hair, and lets it fall through his fingers. “Your hair is so refreshingly natural, Abbey. Some women use way too much product.”

His face is so close and I want so much to put my tongue in his mouth, but the maid enters the library and saves us both from my building desires.

“Sir, miss, dinner is served.”

Zane grabs my hand. “Perfect timing, Lizbeth.”

The maid bobs a kind of curtsy and blushes. “Thank you, sir.”

My hand is snugly encased in his but it only makes me want more fleshy contact, so I remove it and follow Lizbeth out of the room.

But this time I don’t care if my hips sway.

Chapter 7

Throughout dinner--which is incredible--Zane leers across the table and makes eyes at me, offering innuendo where appropriate, and sometimes inappropriate, spattered with compliments.

When I tell him I’ve never tasted oysters, he sends for some immediately.

When I spit one out in disgust, he simply laughs and says, “Well, at least now we know you hate oysters.”

The champagne and strawberries are to die for, but the melt-in-your-mouth steak is the best I’ve ever eaten.

We discuss the app some more, mostly because I steer the conversation away from me.

He claims to want to know more about me, but I deserve some privacy.

As good company as he is, I still feel like an object to add a little interest to his boring leisure time, or to ogle at like a specimen in a lab.

Besides, I don’t like talking about my horrendous track record with men, which is where the conversation always returns to.

“Oh come on,” he pleads, “Tell me something.”

“You tell me something.” I throw my napkin on my empty dessert bowl. “You asked questions all night, and being grilled isn’t conducive to good appetite.”

He allows his gaze to slowly cover my empty bowl and plate, making me shrink a little. “But your appetite is strong, and I love a woman who actually eats.”

Uh...he’s saying I’m fat now? “Try asking the same questions of yourself.”

“Okay, I will,” Zane rubs his palms together. “Right, where would you like me to begin?”

“You asked my favorite song, food, and country. About my first kiss, and my first love.”

“I’m nosy, huh?” He blushes. “You answered only the first two, though...”

“I’ve never left the United States, so I’m ill-informed to answer the third question.”

“What about the fourth and fifth?”

“You answer them first, then I’ll think about doing the same.”

“Okay, favorite song is Nina Simone’s ‘I’m Feeling Good.’ It’s the first thing I play in a morning to get me going, the first after a crappy day, and the first when I’m celebrating. Favorite food is Japanese; I adore sushi. Favorite country is difficult. I mean, I love the culture and tradition of Europe, and the adventure of the Orient is insurmountable, but ah... in the end, I’m a patriot at heart. So, I choose the good ole US of A. First kiss was with a girl named Kelly at our friend’s birthday party. We were both ten years old and there were no tongues involved. First time I slipped that in was the year later, girl named Julia. She was five years older than me and she gave me my first wet dream.” He laughs at the memory while I’m secretly disgusted with Julia. “Next question was first love... I’ll let you know when it happens. Your turn.”

Wow, he’s had so much more experience than me, yet he’s never loved another? “You’ve never fallen in love? In over thirty-four years?” Is he a cold fish or a guarded commitment-phobe?

“I don’t know why exactly. I’m not easily impressed but I’m easily bored. And super picky.” He folds his napkin and places it neatly next to his plate after dabbing the corners of his mouth. “Don’t change the subject. It’s still your turn.”

Dammit, it is my turn and he answered everything.

Oh flip, here it goes.

“My first kiss and first love are the same person. We started going steady when we were eleven and we kissed soon after. I was so excited down by the lake, enjoying a picnic and holding hands. Our first kiss lit fireworks in me,” I snipe. “Don’t laugh.” But his expression is one of sadness, not mockery. “Martin was my childhood sweetheart, whom I loved more than myself, until he turned into a cheating control freak eight months ago. The last time I saw him, he held my arm so tight it bruised, blaming me for his cheating ways.”

I wince at the memory, hiding my face behind my hands.

Zane whispers, “Sorry, Abbey,” so quietly I barely hear him.

The squealing sound of the wooden chair’s legs scraping against the wooden floor soon yanks me from my darkest memories, though.

Sitting next to me, he says nothing.

He holds my hand in his lap, stroking his thumb over the back of it.

Silence is welcomed for a moment, but I’m aware one of us must speak.

“Sorry I...I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”

“Of course, and I won’t ask you to. Sorry, I never expected...”

“Bet you wish you hadn’t asked now.”

The outer corners of his eyes droop. “I regret opening wounds, but not learning more about you. How can I regret seeing into your heart?” He frowns, as if the idea were preposterous. He squeezes my hand and places it back in my lap. “Right, shall we have coffee?”

I’m grateful he changes subject. “If there’s decaf, then yes please.”

“Always,” He winks, grabs a tiny silver bell next to the salt and pepper shakers, and rings it. “Well, except for first thing in the morning, when I need starter fuel.”

Soon enough the maid enters with a silver coffee pot, a milk jug, teaspoons, and two china cups. She pours the coffee, which makes my mouth water and my mind settle.

He handled me well, without testosterone and with compassion.

Saying that, the conversation is somewhat stilted while we sip the hot, dark liquid, but the silence is filled with physical--and perhaps now, even an emotional--closeness.

Martin broke my heart in the end, yes, and Zane is sorry for me.

But I also pity Zane, him having never experienced the joy of falling in love--something I’ll never regret.

Although, whether I’ll ever be brave enough to run headfirst into another love again is another matter.

His gaze lingers on my face, and as we’re seated thigh to thigh the intensity of him becomes overwhelming.

I stand, somewhat quickly, to escape the intimate position.

He stares up at me, confused, and all I can think to say is, “Too much coffee. Sorry, I need the bathroom.”

“Ah.” He smiles. “Lizbeth is beyond the door. She’ll show you to the nearest facilities.”

“Thanks.” I toddle off on the ridiculous heels and out of the dining room, straight into Lizbeth, who’s reading a historical romance novel and waiting to serve. “Bathroom?” I ask.

“Follow me, miss.”

She escorts me to a small powder room, and I close the door.

Glaring into the mirror, I whisper to myself, “You need to go to bed. Alone. Or to be taken home to your own bed.” Then I remember how long it’s been since I’ve spent time with a man, sexually.

And as I had sex only with Martin, I admit curiosity is threatening to kill this trembling pussycat.

As I wash my hands after a quick bathroom trip, the images of his soft, kissable mouth, his firm biceps, and his endless legs leading all the way to a firm bottom play behind my eyes.

“Oh stop this,” I say, growing hornier by the second. “Yes, he’s... intoxicating, sweet even, but he’s my business partner. I will not be reduced to one of a long line of conquests. What if he loses interest in me after sex and I lose everything? What if after we’ve done it, I want more?”

When I leave the powder room, Lizbeth is there, ready to escort me back to her master. “It’s okay, I remember where to go. You enjoy your book.”

She smiles, but says, “Mr. Richmond retired to the lounge and he’s asked you to join him for a nightcap by the fire.”

She shepherds me to the lounge with a firm hand on the arch of my back.

I should, but do not, resist.

I should, but do not, run away. “Guess I’m going to the lounge then.”

On the way, I accept that Zane wants what I yearn for: hot, unadulterated sex.

He means to get it and the more time we spend together, the more I must accept I won’t resist.

When I enter the surprisingly medium-sized room full of huge, comfy sofas all mismatched and old, furry rugs thrown around the floors casually, the open fire roars and Zane’s lying on one of them, looking edible. “Hope you don’t mind, but I thought this would be more comfortable for the two of us, if you’re not too tired?” He beckons me to lie down with one sexy, long digit.

I refuse to ask myself why I’m being so forward with a practical stranger.

Part of the reason is loneliness, for sure.

Since my breakup with Martin, I often wonder if I’d be able to make love to another man.

But another reason is to see if Mr. Big Shot here will be put off by a bold woman.

Martin hated anything other than demure behavior and an undemanding disposition.

The older we got, the more castrated he felt by my ambitions and interests outside of our relationship. I couldn’t deal with another man like that, especially being in business with him, too.

After a huge gulp of air, I smile and make my way to him one shaky step at a time, all the while realizing he’d given me an out by suggesting I might be too tired. Course, fatigue would be as useless as I am at stopping this from happening now.

“Mind if I get comfortable?” I waggle a sore foot when I reach him. “These things are killing me.”

His eyes widen, darkening. “Great minds.” He removes his jacket, shoes, and socks, and unbuckles his belt. “Too much food.” He smiles, breathing out as I take in a sharp breath at the ease with which I could obtain a handful of his jewels. “I love this time of night, when the house is quiet and the fire crackles and roars. Don’t you?”

I kick off my shoes, get down on the rug, and lie back next to him, trying not to think about his jewels. “Ahem… If I had an open fire, I’d agree wholeheartedly.”

He sniggers and moves closer, until our fingertips touch at our sides, and as our fingers entwine almost passively, I want to reach over and straddle him.

I hold back, but then he completely surprises me.

“You’re damaged, I think,” he whispers, staring at the ceiling. “Like a broken bird.”

Tears burn the back of my eyes and I gulp down the emotion threatening to choke me.

I can’t respond--what does he mean?