BILLIONAIRE (Part 6) Read online

  BILLIONAIRE

  Part 6

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  by Juliette Jones

  Copyright © 2013 Juliette Jones

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed or scanned in any electronic or printed form without permission.

  BILLIONAIRE is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  Cover art photo used under license from Shutterstock.com

  First Edition: September 2013

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  BILLIONAIRE (Part 6)

  Lila

  We were back in New York.

  After the night flight and the cocooning extravagance, time was loose, almost lyrical, like my life had become a particularly sweet song that I had to stop and just appreciate every now and then. Two weeks in Paris had bonded me to Alexander irrevocably. Our connection was forged, deeply and sublimely, by a mutual need that had taken over every aspect of my days, and my nights. He rarely left my side. His presence had become my compass. His touch drew me like nothing I had ever experienced. And his dedication to my every whim was a luxury I knew was dangerously addictive.

  I had no need for a watch or to even be aware of the day or the hour. The schedule my former life had been ruled by seemed petty and distant. All I could comprehend now was the comfort I was still adjusting to. I opened my eyes to unshadowed late-morning light, stretching like a cat, naked under the plush quilted mounds of the duvet and the Egyptian cotton sheets whose thread count was probably in the six-digit neighborhood. I let my hands search the cool, unoccupied half of his California king-sized bed.

  “Alexander?” I sat up, and the covers fell to my waist.

  He was lounging in a leather chair next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, dressed only in jeans, his feet propped onto a zebra-patterned ottoman. His MacBook was perched on his lap and his black hair fell in half-curled fronds over his forehead. Something about the disheveled state of his too-long hair, the tanned hue of his muscled torso and the safari theme provided by the what-I-could-only-assume-was-authentic animal skin furniture made him look rugged and edgy. Despite his riveted concentration to the screen of his computer, his eyes swiveled to me slowly. To my face, and the mussed mane of my blond hair. To my naked breasts. Back to my face. His expression was laced with that lazy, arrogant manliness I loved about him. A stranger would have construed the look as unapproachable, almost cold. I knew better.

  “You’re working?” I asked.

  I was mildly peeved by this. After the uninterrupted hedonism of Paris, I was used to having him all to myself. To his undivided attention. The minute we’d cleared the Charles de Gaulle runway, he’d started stealing moments to check emails and read stock reports. I’d been happy enough to catch up on some sleep and leave him to it, but now, I was well-rested. And he looked too delicious. All those burnished muscles and shadowed stubble.

  Alexander paused before giving me an oblique reply: “I’ve been away for almost two weeks.”

  “I know,” I said, hearing the churlishness in my voice. He heard it too and his mouth twitched as he stared at me. Then his attention returned to his computer screen.

  It had been a topic we’d avoided almost completely. I’d tried to bring it up once when we’d first arrived in Paris, then again in some romantic little bistro on the Left Bank. Both times, when he’d dismissed my question, abruptly changing the subject, I’d silently agreed: it hadn’t been the time or place to get into the nitty gritty of our work schedule, once we finally returned to reality. In those halcyon days, reality had seemed a million miles away.

  But now, reality was upon us. It was shining its blue light onto the planes of Alexander’s sculpted chest, flickering its insistence across his perfect face. For some reason, this made me feel uneasy.

  I gave him a minute to finish typing his sentence, or whatever it was that he was doing. Then I lay back into the pillowy nest of Alexander’s bed, rolling languidly across the expanse of it and displacing the covers in the process. I stretched again, wholly aware that Alexander was now watching me from under the fall of his thick hair. I was on my stomach and I arched my back and lifted my hips as I rose from the bed. The carpet was soft and cushioned under my feet. I stood in front of the window and its outrageous view, feeling like an Olympian goddess surveying the land of the mortals. It was indescribably empowering, this feeling: of nakedness and wealth and a pronounced degree of removal from all the worry and mundanity of hardship. Nothing felt as good and as safe as this buffer Alexander provided. Anyone who ever said money couldn’t buy happiness was deluded.

  I padded over to him, closely circling his chair as I coiled a finger through the coarsely silken locks of his hair. “What day is it?”

  “Saturday.”

  “Your work can’t wait until Monday?”

  “There are a couple of issues at Jake’s company that need attention. I’ve put it off long enough.” There was a curtness in his tone that was new. He was conflicted. Pressing concerns at his companies had been cast aside for me and me alone, for more than two weeks. I knew this was unprecedented. Alexander had never taken a day off in his life until I’d walked into it. I could have felt flattered, or empowered, and I did. Not only that, but I felt possessive. I was too used to owning his time completely; it was all I’d ever known of him and I was more than a little reluctant to give him up like this, even for a few hours.

  “So we’re working today,” I commented blithely.

  His dark eyes conveyed no emotion aside from a simmering, corralled lust. “We’re not working today, no. I’m catching up on a few emails today, and I might spend a few hours in my office this afternoon. You’re relaxing. And tonight, we can go out somewhere. If you want.”

  “I don’t need to relax. There’s only so much relaxation one person can handle. I’ve relaxed more in the past two weeks than I ever have in my life.” It was true, depending on how you defined ‘relaxation’; a lot of it had been relaxation of the strenuous and somewhat kinky variety. Either way, my frustrations were on a roll. “When do I get to start working?”

  Here I was, naked, mussed-up from sleep and a sexual marathon that was as energetic on the twentieth day as it had been on the first. I was also marginally turned on. Too satiated from sleep and sensual satisfaction to be frenzied about it, my desire for Alexander was so thoroughly ingrained in me by this point that just touching his hair was enough to kick start the gentle pulse, the latent, secret heat. I thought about taking his laptop and setting it aside, unzipping his jeans, climbing onto him and straddling his hips. Working him. Taking his growing, hardening length into my hands. My mouth. Insisting that he give me everything. But I was irked by the way his eyes kept glancing at the screen. And his dismissive tone bothered me. Maybe I’d already started working, several weeks ago. Maybe this was all he intended for me to do: to service his whims when he was in the mood. I knew enough about his body language to read his disengagement. I grabbed one of his shirts that had been flung over a chair. A white button-down made of thick, expensive cotton. I wrapped it around myself and it hung to the tops of my thighs. “Can I take some notes for you, boss? You’ve only put half of my skills to good use so far.”

  He looked up at me, and his annoyance gave way to a light, exhaled chuckle. “Come on, Lila. Don’t get all petulant over a couple of emails.”

  “I’m not petulant,” I said. Petulantly, yes. For good reason. “I’m supposed to be your assistant, remember? Or have you changed your mind about that?” I knew I was overreacting: I was almost hyper-aware of my jealousy, or whatever this was. Maybe because I’d given up almost every facet of my pre-Alexan
der life at the drop of a hat for him, as soon as he’d snapped his fingers. I’d been ridiculously willing to step into his world and leave all my baggage behind.

  Alexander got to keep his baggage. He got to run his company and live in his apartment and have dinner with his brother and his employees. He didn’t have to give anything up because all the good stuff was his. His company, job, apartment, money. His hotels and jets and chefs and doormen.

  All I had was him.

  Nevermind that all I wanted was him, but the scales felt decidedly uneven. Not only that but a creeping suspicion that he no longer wanted me to work for him was becoming more and more obvious with each passing day. And he still hadn’t answered my question. His attention was once again diverted to his damn computer screen.

  “Alexander?”

  “Hmm?” Typing.

  “I’m going to take a shower and get dressed,” I said, in full challenge mode. “Then we’ll go to your office and you can start teaching me how to help you run your empire.”

  He typed a few more words. Then he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together behind his head. It was several seconds before he spoke, but when he did, his dark eyes stared into mine. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh?” I knew exactly what he’d been thinking about. If I hadn’t been so incensed, I might have acknowledged a flicker of pleasure at my ability to read his mind and predict his thoughts. Our searingly intimate time together had given us a familiarity that was unusual. But I was glaring at him when I replied. “About what?”

  He cagily avoided the central topic. “There’s a private gym and a Jacuzzi on the twenty-fifth floor. Great views.”

  “I don’t do gyms. I do yoga.”

  This information seemed to distract him for a few seconds. “Then sit in the hot tub. I’m sure we can locate a personal yogi for you at some point during the week. As long as there’s no tantric activity involved.”

  His light joke was wasted in my current state of mine. “I don’t feel like sitting in a hot tub.”

  “Of course you do. Everybody does. Go and pamper yourself for a few hours. This won’t take too long. Then I’ll take you out to dinner, wherever you want to go.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” I began, pulling on the short skirt I’d worn the day before. I buttoned the middle two buttons of his shirt and tied the front into a knot to create a half-shirt that revealed the pale skin of my stomach. “I might go and get some fresh air. Since you’re working. We can meet back here later on. Or we can meet at the restaurant. Tell me which one and I’ll see you there at … how’s seven? Or would eight be better?” I pulled on my new, killer Balenciaga boots. I still couldn’t believe how beautiful and comfortable they were. Pure wearable art. I wanted another pair. Or two. Not because I was feeling particularly materialistic but because I wanted to spend time with Alexander, as we had the first time he’d taken me shopping, lavishing me with his full-blown, magical attention. “I’ve always wanted to go to Nobu,” I added, gaining momentum, smoothing and fluffing my hair into place. “Do you think you could get us in there on such short notice? With all your mogulish, billionaire connections?”

  I was surprising even myself with my light yet surly bitchiness. This would rile him. He hated the thought of me venturing out into the streets without him. I wasn’t sure why, but in all the time I’d known him, he’d been insistent about being with me whenever we’d left the apartment or hotel. Of course it was a scenario that couldn’t sustain itself. He could hardly follow me around like a jumped-up bodyguard once we returned to our normal lives and work schedules.

  Alexander’s expression darkened. “No,” he said.

  “No? No what? No, you don’t want to go to Nobu? Or no, you can’t get us in with only a few hours’ notice?”

  “I want you to stay here.”

  It was exactly the reaction I’d predicted. I didn’t feel at all proud of the small surge of triumph I experienced at his command, but I knew I’d gotten to him. I kept my tone light. “As long as you’re working, and you don’t need me, I might as well keep myself busy. Maybe I’ll go meet Eva for a coffee. I haven’t seen her in so long and I know she’s dying to hear about Paris –”

  “No, Lila.”

  Let him stop me, I thought. Let him beg me. It would serve him right to stew for a while if he was going to be stubborn and overbearing. This whole topic of was-I-going-to-be-his-assistant-or-wasn’t-I was getting a little tedious. The hard-working academic in me was excited about the challenge of working for one of the most successful magazines in New York, learning the ins and outs of the publishing industry in general, and getting to meet with and learn from top writers and editors in the field. The possessive female in me felt almost panicked by the thought of not spending every waking hour with Alexander, who felt like an extension of my own body and soul after the weeks of connectivity we’d just shared. I was in love with him to such an extent that it scared me. I was already so invested in this whirlwind romance that I knew he had the power to shatter me into a million tiny pieces very easily. Too easily. My comfort at the realization that he felt the same way wasn’t, come to think of it, all that comforting, only because we were so new at this. It was unchartered territory for both of us. I had no idea what the next day would bring, let alone the next hour. The air felt sparked with volatile energy.

  If he was going to string me along, or deny me, or restrict me for whatever reason, then we could both play at that game.

  I let his terse command hang in the air, ignoring it as I put on some pink lipstick. Purposefully, I leaned towards the mirror, letting the tight fabric of my very-short skirt frame my ass and ride up incrementally with my arching movement. Then I put on some mascara – makeup that had been bought for me in Paris by Alexander, at ridiculous expense – and unbuttoned the top button of the shirt I wore to spritz a spray of perfume onto my half-exposed breasts. It was a given at this point that I wore nothing underneath my clothes, even if I now had a closetful of La Perla lingerie that could rival any heiress’s collection. At the time, I’d teased Alexander for buying me such useless extravagances, especially when he always insisted I go without. Now, I grabbed my new Chanel handbag and turned towards him. “Let me know what you decide,” I said, heading towards the door of his bedroom.

  Alexander looked comically appalled. Then his distress turned to fury. He practically dropped his laptop as he stood, striding over to me to block my path. He curled his fist around my arm, not painfully, but with undeniable force. “Lila,” he said softly. “You’re not going out like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like … that,” he said, his grip tightening.

  I pulled my arm from his grasp and turned away from him. “I am going out, Alexander. Let go of me.”

  He let his arms fall to his sides, but his aggressive stance did not ease. “Lila,” he said. “Please.” It was the mixture of protectiveness and vulnerability in his eyes that softened my irritation. He was afraid for me, I could see it written across his expression. He knew only too well, as I did, about the dangers that lurked around dark, hidden corners. “Come on,” he whispered, half threat, half plead. “Stay.”

  I touched his face. “It’s only for a few hours. I’ll be fine. You said it yourself: you want to work and you don’t need my assistance. That’s cool. I get it. I’ll see you when you’re finished answering your emails. We can talk about the rest of it tonight.”

  His grip returned to my arms, tightening. Both his hands were on me now, manacled around my upper arms. He pulled me against him in a hug that was too strong. I could feel his power and his desperation in the flex of his muscles and the beat of his heart. “Don’t go,” he muttered under his breath, almost like it was a thought he hadn’t meant to say out loud. “Stay with me.”

  As much as I loved Alexander, and needed him, this full blown obsession of his was closing in around me. I could feel the heavy longing in him, for assurances I couldn’t give: that nothing would
threaten me outside his reach, that we could and would give each other all that the other required, that everything would be all right. “You won’t even notice I’m gone. You’ll be busy. You’ll talk to Jake and solve whatever problems have come up. You’ll call me in a few hours and tell me where to meet you. Then we’ll be together again.”

  His lips brushed against my hair as he held me close. His hands were moving lower, no less insistent, his grip very nearly painful.

  “It’s okay,” I murmured, to try to ease the fierce tension in him. “Everything’s all right.”

  But Alexander didn’t appear to be convinced. “No,” he said again. “You’re staying here. I can call Jake later. I don’t want you out there, alone. It isn’t safe.”

  “Alexander, I’ll be fine. Let me. I want to. You have to let me go.”

  But he was pulling up the hem of my skirt; admittedly, it was short enough that this was hardly difficult to do. But this overblown control, for the very first time, felt constricting. His palms slid possessively over the rounded globes of my ass, pulling me against his big, hard body. His fingers explored, sliding into the damp hollow between my legs, finding the slippery heat. “You’re wet for me,” he whispered, and his breathing had grown heavier. “You want me.”

  “Alexander,” I protested. I was wet. As always, for him. The minute I’d opened my eyes to the black shine of his hair and the impressive, masculine contours of his shoulders, I’d felt the stirring warmth, which was never hard to summon in Alexander’s presence. But I needed some space from his dictatorial commands. I was still angry with him for his increasing reluctance to let me into his work arena, after all we’d been through, after the interview and the promises and our brief but astoundingly intense history. I knew he was trying to let me down easy, that he was considering reassigning me to mistress or some such. That somewhere along the line his plans for me had changed.