Billionaire Romance Box Set: The Billionaire's Legacy: An Alpha Billionaire Romance Box Set Page 5

  So, why wasn’t I calling her? I shook my head as I poured a scotch and moved to the deck. The sun was shining and the Santa Ana winds were moving heated air all around. I knew the answer; I couldn’t call her. I couldn’t drag her into my life, for both her protection and for mine. If she found out about Antoine, about Lorinda, she would blame me. Worst case, she would call the police. I didn’t have a leg to stand on with the cops. To say nothing of me, I knew that involving myself with a woman was nothing less than irresponsible and could even be deadly. I couldn’t imagine anything happening to Cassie.

  I walked back inside, vowing to dive into my work. I had nearly a dozen new properties opening, and I was keeping a close eye on the arms delivery to Belize; I didn’t have time to be thinking about Cassie, Lorinda, or any other woman.

  I fired up my email and sorted through the spam looking for messages from clients and my managers. I blinked when I saw Cassie’s name come up, sure that I was seeing things. My heart started to beat faster, and I clicked on the message.

  Hi Brad,

  Just got an assignment in London at a Legacy property. Thought I’d let you know, though I’m sure you’re not going to be in the area. I hope you’re well.

  Cassie

  I stared at the message. Thought I’d let you know, though I’m sure you’re not going to be in the area. Was that an invitation? A challenge?

  Cassie

  My plane touched down in London early in the morning, and I checked into my room at Legacy Suites by ten o’clock. I flopped down on the bed and sighed, grateful to finally be on solid ground after two plane delays and a long layover in Amsterdam. My luggage was supposed to be on its way up, so, when there was a knock at the door, I didn’t think anything of it.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “It’s your luggage, ma’am,” said a young voice from the other side. I opened the door and saw a bellhop in full uniform standing outside my door. There was no sign of my luggage. However, in his hands, he held a large basket wrapped in plastic.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Compliments of the owner, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve also been instructed to escort you to your new room. Your luggage is there.” He smiled apologetically as I sighed, louder than I’d intended.

  “What’s the issue with this room?” I asked. “It’s perfectly fine, and, even better, I’m already in it.”

  “I have orders, ma’am, to bring you to the VIP suite on the twentieth floor.” His expression and his voice were kind, but they contained an edge of nervousness. A tone that begged me, wordlessly, to just go along with the plan. I imagined him going back to his manager and saying I’d refused… the manager having to call Brad and tell him… the thought made me smile.

  “I won’t hassle you,” I said, “don’t worry. Let me get my purse.” I closed the door and snapped a few quick pictures of the room before I grabbed my bag. The VIP suite would be great, but I was a journalist first and I needed to make sure my articles were accurate for the average person, not just someone banging the owner… though the memory of Brad moving through my mind made me smile more broadly than I had so far that day.

  I walked with the bellhop to the elevator and he pushed the 20 on the door. When the doors opened, we walked out into a hallway with only two doors, labeled A and B.

  “What’s the difference?” I asked.

  “Ah, A is the Presidential Suite, ma’am,” the bellhop said. “And B is your suite, the VIP.” He opened the door with a flourish and gestured for me to enter. He followed with the basket and looked the place over, undoubtedly running through a checklist in his mind he’d gone through hundreds of times.

  “Thank you, uh,” I began.

  “Simon, ma’am,” he said, a slight blush rising in his cheeks. He held out his hand and I shook it, adding a tip to his palm. “Thank you, ma’am.” He began to walk toward the door. “One of the features of the suite is an in-room massage, which you can schedule at your convenience. Just call the front desk.”

  He tipped his hat at me and I closed my door, then looked around. There was no chance anyone other than Brad was responsible for my upgrade. A free in-room massage? I shrugged. May as well enjoy the amenities. I grabbed a bottle of champagne from the bar and sat on the bed, flipping on the tv. While I caught up on the news of London and drank a flute of champagne, I checked out the features of the hotel.

  An hour later, I stood up and stretched. There was no question, Bradley White knew his stuff when it came to hospitality. The London property was completely different from the Belize property—intentionally so, and, undoubtedly, by necessity. Still, it was hard to believe the two were owned by the same person… and that there was only one owner instead of a conglomerate.

  I realized I was starving, and, at the same time, felt a sudden emptiness. While the hotel was completely different from what I’d experienced in Belize, it wasn’t hard to see Brad in the details of this hotel, and it made me miss him.

  I checked my watch. It was too late in New York to call Emma or my editor. I didn’t want to go out. If I’d been in a better mood, I would have ventured out to at least the hotel main floor to check out the restaurants and the casino, one of the features of the London Legacy property. But, I felt jetlagged and, honestly, a little crabby.

  My eyes kept drawing back to the massage menu, and I decided that was at least one thing I could do that would both help me relax and center and would benefit my job. A hotel that offered complimentary, in-room massages to its VIP guests was definitely going to interest my readers.

  I called the front desk.

  “Hi, this is Cassie Young in 20B. I was told I could schedule an in-room massage?”

  “Yes, Ms. Young, of course. When would you like the massage?”

  I hesitated. “Um… do you happen to have anyone available now?” I asked.

  There was a pause at the other end. “Um, one moment, Ms. Young, let me check. I think we can accommodate that request fairly easily, just hold on a moment.”

  I waited, feeling embarrassed that I had even asked. Nothing like being an overly demanding American right off the bat.

  A moment later, the receptionist came back onto the line. “Of course, Ms. Young; is an hour enough time for you to get ready? We can send the masseuse up at four o’clock.”

  I smiled, realizing I’d been holding my breath. I released it and closed my eyes. “That’s perfect,” I said. “Do I need to do anything to the room to prepare?”

  “Of course not,” the receptionist said genuinely. “You’ve just had a long trip; you relax and let us do the work.”

  I hung up, unlocked my door, and took a quick shower. I had another glass of champagne, then flipped through the channels mindlessly until there was a courtesy knock at the door.

  “Come in!” I called.

  “Ms. Young?” A man’s voice called out, and I walked from the bedroom into the living room and entry to see a man in a masseuse uniform standing with a massage table in one hand and a duffel bag in the other.

  “Yes, what’s your name?”

  “My name is Antoine,” the man said. He flashed a smile and I felt warmth spread through me. He was an older man, in his forties at least, and he gave off a very calming, relaxed energy. “I’ll set up in here. Why don’t you go into your room and get changed into a robe, then come out when you’re ready.”

  When I came out dressed in my robe, the living room had been transformed. Antoine had lit candles and had dimmed the lights. A set of speakers were set up on the table, and relaxing, instrumental music had replaced the voices of the talking heads on the tv.

  “Ms. Young,” Antoine greeted me.

  “Please, call me Cassie,” I said. I walked over to the massage table. It was covered with blankets, and I felt the manufactured warmth of an electric blanket beneath the covering.

  “Yes, Cassie, of course. I have a selection of oils here; would you like to choose one?” He waved to the table where several dark bottles
of oil sat. I smelled each, selecting a combination of lavender and sandalwood. “That’s one of my favorites,” Antoine said as I held it out to him questioningly. “I’ll leave you to disrobe. Please, lie on your stomach; I’ll begin my work on your back.”

  I always found this few minutes to be the most nerve wracking of a massage; standing naked in the moments before submerging my body beneath the covers of the massage table, waiting for the masseuse to walk in accidentally and catch me in the act. Because of this fear, I always tore my robe off and dove under the blanket, my heart racing. I laid down, my face resting comfortably in the doughnut shaped rest. I heard Antoine enter the room.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Please,” he said, as he began to rub my back over the blankets, “let me know if the pressure is adequate, or if you’d like more or less.”

  I doubted it would be anything less than perfect, and, as Antoine began to rub my body down, pulling the blankets down to expose my back and rubbing his hands with oil, I found the pressure he used to be absolutely perfect.

  I probably fell asleep. It was easy to do, with the scent of lavender, the soft lights and music, and Antoine’s hands rhythmically stretching and pressing my muscles. I drifted in and out.

  “How does that feel?” Antoine asked.

  “It feels amazing,” I said. “What happened to your voice?” I was still riding the fuzzy line of consciousness, so I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly, but something had changed. Antoine’s touch had hardened, though it was still comforting. His hands moved with confidence over my body, as if they had been there before.

  And then I realized.

  “You,” I said, my muscles freezing.

  “Hi Cass,” Brad said softly. “Don’t move. Just lay as you are and enjoy.”

  I shook my head. “As if that’s possible,” I said, and twisted my torso up, lifting my head from the headrest. There he stood, more real than life, sexier than my imagination had given him credit for.

  “You need to mind me better,” he whispered.

  “You need to stop sneaking up on me,” I retorted. “When did you slip in? What did you do to Antoine?” I looked around, then glanced back at Brad with teasing suspicion. “You didn’t kill him, did you? He was a good masseuse.”

  Brad laughed. “No, I didn’t kill him. Antoine has been a masseuse at this hotel since before the Legacy was even a thought in my mind. He’s the only male masseuse we have on staff, and I owe him big time for this.”

  He leaned down and kissed my ear, slowly pulling the blanket off of me, exposing my bare ass to the cool air.

  “Mmmm,” he said. “Come here.” He lifted me up, my body smooth and slick with oil, and he kissed me.

  “Fuck you feel good,” I moaned. He wore jeans and a white button down shirt, which I dispensed with immediately. His broad chest felt like coming home under my fingers, my palms pressing against his rock hard muscles.

  “You’re good enough to eat,” he whispered, moving his kiss from my mouth down the length of my body, stopping at my hips.

  I laid back as he began to explore my body. Questions flooded through my mind: how had he gotten here so quickly? Why was he here? Were we dating? Were we about to have another fling? The more questions that pushed into my mind, the more I wanted to lose myself in Brad’s touch.

  “I don’t understand you,” I said as a summary of all of the activity in my brain.

  “I’m simple,” he said.

  “You’re a billionaire,” I said. “You’re a billionaire with a dark secret.” My words all ran together, thoughts pouring out of my head stream-of-consciousness style, my mouth barely aware of what I was saying.

  Brad pulled away and looked at me sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “Hmmm?” I asked dreamily.

  “Dark secret. What do you mean?”

  I laughed. “Don’t get so cranky,” I said. “Every billionaire has a deep, dark secret. It’s common knowledge. I just have to figure out what yours is.” I cracked one eye open and looked at him. “And, I will… I’m a smarty pants journalist.”

  “Shhh,” Brad said. “You won’t figure out my secret. I’m going to keep you far too busy to even figure out your own name.” And he plunged his fingers into me, two and then a third, and circled my clit with his lips as he flicked his tongue back and forth.

  “Cassie who?” I asked. And I laid back, trying to ignore the small warning flaring in my brain. You won’t figure out my secret.

  The Billionaire’s LEGACY

  Unexpected Incidents

  An Alpha Billionaire Romance

  Sarah J. Brooks

  Cassie

  I’d said it in jest: Every billionaire has a deep, dark secret. Brad had just surprised me by stepping in as my masseuse, which had led to an incredible, marathon sex session. This morning, he woke me up to an absolutely amazing brunch that he’d had room service deliver to my suite. It was a huge spread, and it mostly satisfied the incredible appetite I’d built up from getting my brains fucked out all night long. Brad had some work he needed to get done, and he kissed me goodbye, promising to text me later.

  I closed the door, leaned against it, and sighed. My comment about him being a billionaire and having some deep, dark secret had been a joke, or, if not a joke, then just some random comment that had come out of my mouth without me really thinking. I’d expected him to laugh. But, not only had he not laughed, he had looked at me with an expression I’d never seen on his face before. His voice had a suspicious edge to it, a guarded tone, strong enough to suggest that, if I hadn’t suspected him of having a deep, dark secret, I ought to start.

  My journalistic spidey-sense was tingling, and I bit the corner of my lower lip, a habit I’d always had when I was thinking of something important. I dressed quickly and grabbed my computer, once again researching Bradley White. I’d researched him before, of course, as much as I ever researched a subject, and probably even more given our… situation. I’d never seen anything that hinted at a dark past, or a current secret. Of course, I hadn’t really been looking for that sort of thing.

  There wasn’t anything this time around, either. Everything I could find made Brad seem like he was completely on the level; he was a philanthropist, had dabbled in politics, and volunteered at soup kitchens on the major holidays. In every picture, he was smiling, his easy, open grin not betraying even so much as a hidden bank account.

  Still, my instincts were almost always spot on, and his response when I’d mentioned it was off. Not to mention, in every movie I’d ever seen, every book I’d ever read, the billionaire did have a deep, dark secret. And, I realized with a heaviness in my stomach, the secret was usually something illegal, deadly, or both.

  I closed my laptop and sighed, looking out my window at the city of London. It was gray and overcast, typical London fog, but I was still itching to get out of the house and enjoy the day. Maybe with my mind occupied by playing the role of tourist, I’d be able to make more sense of what it was about Brad’s response that was sticking with me.

  I dressed in skinny jeans and a light red sweater, finishing the look with a pair of brown boots with a low heel. I pulled my hair back into a loose, messy bun, and slid on my mid-length camel trench coat. I walked through the lobby, waving to the concierge on my way out the door.

  I did some shopping, mostly of the window- variety, though I did buy a cute necklace, another pair of boots, and a sweater. I had vowed to not buy anything else and was on my way back to the hotel when I walked past a boutique and saw the most gorgeous dress in the window. It drew me into the store, and, when I tried it on, I couldn’t stop staring at myself in the full length mirror.

  The dress was skin tight, and it showed off all of my curves. It was black, strapless, and short. The rusching on the sides drew attention to my hourglass figure. I turned in the three-way mirror, and the salesperson walked up behind me.

  “That dress was made for you
,” he said, smiling. “Do you feel fabulous in it?”

  I smiled, feeling a light blush move up my cheeks. “I kind of do,” I admitted. It was, by far, the most beautiful dress I’d ever worn, and I’d never even seen anything like it.

  “It’s exquisite. You must buy it. Almost every woman that comes in here tries it on, and it looks like trash on them. You… it’s your dress.”

  I looked at the price tag and groaned. “I’d have to take out a second mortgage on a house I don’t even own to afford it,” I said.

  “That’s what credit cards are for,” he said with a mischievous, conspiratorial grin.

  “You’re terrible!” I said, shaking my head. But, as terrible as he may be, he was also right. I really needed to own that dress. I did some quick math in my head, and the results weren’t great. I’d used the “that’s what credit cards are for” excuse too much lately, including that day with the too-expensive boots sitting with my purse on the floor of the dressing room.

  I looked at myself once more, mentally saying goodbye to the dress, turning to check myself out at every angle. I thought about how Brad would react seeing me in the dress, and I felt myself getting wet just thinking about it. It was a killer dress, and I imagined slipping into it for dinner without telling him I’d bought it. Walking out to greet him, seeing his jaw drop…

  “Ugh!” I exclaimed. “Okay! I’ll buy it! Stop pressuring me!” I grinned at the salesperson and he grinned back at me, nodding his head.

  “Shall I wrap it for you, or are you going to wear it like the second skin it is?” he asked.

  “You can wrap it,” I said. “I’ll save it for a special occasion… like dinner later tonight.”

  I slipped back into my regular clothes, which now made me feel completely frumpy, and walked to the counter with my purse. For one panicked moment, I couldn’t find my credit card. I dumped the contents of my purse onto the counter and found it, finally, loose in the bottom.