Bad Divorce (Billionaire's Club Book 5)

by Elise Faber

  Sera’s breath caught. “What are you—?”

  He seemed to be arguing with himself then finally, those piercing blue eyes locked onto hers. “I need you to marry me.”

  —Bad Fiancé coming October 6th, 2019. Preorder now at www.books2read.com/BadFiance

  Billionaire’s Club

  Did you miss any of the other Billionaire’s Club books? Check out excerpts from the series on the following pages or find the full series at www.elisefaber.com/billionairesclub

  Bad Night Stand

  Bad Breakup

  Bad Husband

  Bad Hookup

  Bad Divorce

  Bad Fiancé

  Bad Night Stand

  Book One

  (www.books2read.com/BadNightStand)

  CHAPTER ONE

  “If you were a chicken, you’d be impeccable.”

  I swirled the sip of rum and Coke in my mouth in an effort to not spit it all over the bar.

  Then I swallowed carefully and rotated my head so I could see my friend Seraphina on the next stool over. She was currently holding court over a group of men.

  Beautiful, tall, thin, and with a pair of boobs that could knock a man out—quite literally, they had once knocked a man unconscious. Okay, well, the sight of her impressive cleavage had caused the man to do a double take and promptly run into a large and extremely hard brick pillar in this very bar, but the point was still there. Seraphina was goddess gorgeous, and she was my very best friend.

  “Get it?” the man who’d elbowed his way to the front of the crowd surrounding Seraphina asked. “Im-peck-able.”

  “She gets it,” I muttered. “It’s just so horribly im-peck-able that only an idiot like you would dare use it.”

  Seraphina’s lips turned up at my caustic complaint.

  “Hush, you,” she murmured before raising her voice to address the man. “Puns. I do have a certain . . . fondness for them.” Her reply started him talking, drowning on about different languages and double meanings. It might have almost been admirable, the sheer quantity of words orally puking all over our ears, if it wasn’t so sad and pathetic.

  Whew.

  I took another sip of my drink. A bigger one because . . . bitter much?

  “I’m sorry,” Seraphina whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “I don’t know why this always happens.”

  “You’re Barbie,” I said, bumping her arm with my shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

  My friend had that elusive je ne sais quoi. Unspoken charisma that drew men to her like flies to honey.

  And if I was being honest, sometimes that made it hard to be her friend.

  I didn’t mind being in the background; I preferred it, actually. Given too much attention, I froze and inevitably made a fool out of myself.

  But drawing a crowd of slavering men every time we went out made it difficult just to have a drink with my best friend, never mind a full meal.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again when Bad-Pun was displaced and another man slid forward to attempt to claim Seraphina’s attention. “I honestly thought the jacket would help.”

  I grimaced. “The jacket is what’s doing it, I think.”

  A bomber made of black leather, it hit just beneath her breasts and managed to emphasize both the bounciness of that particular portion of her anatomy and the slimness of her waist.

  “Next time, drinks at my place and takeout.”

  I saluted her with my glass. “Agree completely.”

  “Should we go?” she asked, tilting her head to the door.

  “No.” I nodded at the Y-chromosomes dotting the space around her like flowers in a planter bed. “Prince Charming may be here.”

  One blond brow rose. “I doubt it.”

  “You’re the one looking for a happily ever after.” I nudged her shoulder with my own, knowing my friend was a romantic and, despite her beauty, also very lonely. It was hard for her to find someone who saw her as more than the sum of her parts.

  And Seraphina was desperate to be more for someone.

  “I’m not so sure happily ever after exists,” she said.

  “Oh, it definitely exists,” I held her stare, willing her to believe.

  Because happily ever after had to exist.

  For some people.

  Of the goddess variety.

  Because if Seraphina couldn’t find it, then what chance in hell did I have?

  Not that I was looking, thank you very much.

  I was just fine with my laptop and my cozy socks and my books.

  “Now get on finding that HEA,” I said, using the code word from our favorite genre of books—romance, of course. Because what the heck was life without fictional eight-packs and alpha males who actually cared about the women they slept with.

  Seraphina bit her lip and I narrowed my eyes at her. “I’ll be here to quip nastily about all the bad pickup lines your prince tosses your way.”

  She laughed, leaned her head against mine. “You’re the best.”

  I smiled, leaned back. “I know.”

  Seraphina turned back to her admirers and I pulled out my phone, half reading the latest release from one of our favorite authors, and half listening to my friend charm the socks off everyone around her.

  “You’re a good friend.”

  The male voice sent a shiver from my head to my toes. It was honey, warm and languid as it slid down my spine and sent my blood pumping.

  Which was very, very dangerous.

  I sighed. This was always the worst tactic, the most underhanded masculine effort to get my friend’s attention.

  Going through the slightly-rumpled, cute-but-definitely-not-gorgeous, exceptionally-clumsy best friend.

  It sent my inner sidekick radar on full alert.

  Mostly because I’d been hurt this way before.

  So “mmm-hmm” was the only thing I said in response.

  “Jordan.” A hand appeared directly in front of my face, unfairly positioned between my booze, my book, and my eyes and mouth.

  I huffed and finally looked up.

  Then promptly felt my lips fall open. Because—holy fucking shit—this guy was gorgeous. Way out of my league, of course. But blond and blue-eyed and hard and tall and ripped. He brought every single Thor fantasy to life—the short-haired, shorn, lightning-bolts-on-the-side-of-his-head version.

  Which, face it, was obviously the better variety.

  He wore a pair of slacks and a gray button-down that was so sinfully tight around his biceps I half expected it to burst open. I studied those seams for signs of wear. I mean, a girl had to watch out for the rest of humanity, right?

  Unfortunately for me, the shirt stayed in place and the signature lightning bolts weren’t present in Jordan’s hair, but his pants were so tight that his hammer—

  I shifted on my stool, thighs unconsciously pressing together as blood pooled there.

  Which was the exact moment that I remembered he wasn’t there for me.

  Damn.

  He radiated that same allure as my best friend. Wasn’t life just perfect sometimes? A gorgeous redhead was perched on the stool behind him, leaning forward in an almost obscene pose in order to compete with Seraphina’s cleavage.

  She couldn’t, of course.

  But it wasn’t just one woman vying for his attention. No, they were dotted around the room, coquettishly blinking at him, crossing and uncrossing legs, adjusting outfits. Even the bartender—female, brunette, beautiful—had chosen to polish glasses two inches from his right elbow.

  He was movie star handsome and he . . . was perfect for Seraphina.

  “Abigail,” I eventually made myself reply, putting my hand out to shake his.

  It wasn’t disappointment curling around my stomach. It couldn’t be, not when Jordan was so stratospherically far out of my league.

  He grinned—nice smile, of course—and shook my hand. I suppressed the zing of pleasure that coursed through me at the contact. Instead, I pulled back and hitch
ed a thumb over my shoulder. “Her name is Seraphina. She likes cosmos and hates cheesy pickup lines, despite her kindness in accepting them.” I decided to throw him a solid because, really, they were absolutely perfect for each other. “Talk to her about how much you love CSI.”

  I tucked my phone into my purse, grabbed my drink, and drained it.

  “I hate CSI,” he said, brows pulling down.

  “If you want a chance with her, you might want to discover a newfound love for it.”

  My legs took a long time to reach the ground—short people problems—but luckily they’d made contact with the wooden surface before Jordan spoke again; otherwise, they might have kept on slithering until I was ass down on the sticky floor.

  “I don’t want a chance with her,” he said. “I want a chance with you.”

  My eyes flew up, and I couldn’t help my breath from catching. I wanted that, too. A horizontal, writhing chance. Or hell, vertical. Semi-reclined. I’d take any of it.

  My body was very aware of exactly how hot he was.

  But then I remembered reality.

  “I’m the best friend,” I said and lifted my chin, forcing my words to be matter-of-fact. I’d been through this before. “You might be fuckable to the nth degree and perfect for Seraphina, but I refuse to set her up with a liar.”

  In a movement too quick for my brain to process, my stool was shoved to the side and I was pinned against the bar, heavy hips pressing into me, a hard chest two inches from my mouth.

  Seraphina whipped around at the movement and I could just see her over Jordan’s shoulder, her blue eyes concerned.

  “Hi, Seraphina, I’m Jordan,” he said, calm as can be, gaze locked onto my face then my eyes when mine invariably couldn’t stay away. “I’m going to borrow your friend for a minute.”

  “Abs?” she asked, and I knew she’d go to bat for me right then and there if I needed her to.

  “Weasel or no?” I managed to gasp out. For some reason, I couldn’t catch my breath.

  Not that it had anything to do with Jordan.

  No, it had everything to do with him.

  “Weasel?” he asked.

  I shook my head, focused on my best friend. Weasel was our code name for the men trying to weasel, quite literally, their way into my pants and then into hers.

  I was just about ready to say fuck it—or me, rather—even if Jordan was a Weasel. He smelled amazing. His body was hard and hot against mine.

  And it had been way too long since I’d had sex.

  “No chemistry on my part—” Seraphina began.

  “Your friend isn’t who I’m attracted to,” Jordan growled out. “You are, and it’s fucking pissing me off that you don’t believe that.”

  —Get your copy at www.books2read.com/BadNightStand.

  Bad Breakup

  Book Two

  (www.books2read.com/BadBreakup)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cecilia

  Cecilia sat on the plane, her first-class seat luxurious and insanely comfortable. It might have been the first time in her limited travel experience that she didn’t feel like cattle shoved into the back of a truck, and instead, like an actual person with wants and needs.

  “Your champagne, Ms. Thiele.”

  “Thank you,” she said and took a sip, leaning back into the butter-soft leather with a sigh.

  She’d just closed her eyes when someone sat down in the empty seat next to her.

  Rustling accompanied the movement as the person got settled.

  “Can I get you anything?” the flight attendant asked.

  “A whiskey.”

  Every hair stood up on Cecilia’s neck. Oh, God no. It couldn’t possibly be—

  She clenched her lids tightly, refusing, absolutely refusing to open them. No. She was imaging things. It had been years since she’d heard that voice.

  Too many years.

  “Here you go, Mr. McGregor.”

  Oh, fuck.

  Her eyes flew open, but she didn’t move her head. She couldn’t chance it. But she did risk a peek out of the corner of her eye and that was enough to have dread twisting her stomach into knots.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  She’d booked this flight last minute, deciding to use the voucher gifted to her by Abby after she and Jordan had returned from their honeymoon.

  Cecilia’s life had felt stagnant.

  She’d needed to get away, and she’d had the free flight and hotel.

  It made sense to use it, however last minute.

  Plus, everything had worked out. There had been one first-class seat open. Only one cabin at her dream resort.

  And now she was sitting next to Colin McGregor.

  “Flight attendants, arm the doors,” the pilot’s voice chimed through the plane’s speakers.

  A thud signaled her last avenue of escape disappearing.

  She was trapped on a nonstop flight for twelve hours.

  With the man who’d left her at the altar.

  How was this possibly her life?

  “Cecilia?” that masculine voice asked. “Is it really you?”

  And just like all the times before, her eyes were drawn to him. She’d never been able to ignore him. Not Colin. Not even when he’d—

  But this time was different.

  She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t a vulnerable girl in a rough place.

  She’d been through hell and back.

  Colin had no power over her.

  Not anymore.

  Cecilia put in her earbuds and turned her back on the man who’d devastated her world six years before.

  —Get your copy at www.books2read.com/BadBreakup.

  Bad Husband

  Book Three

  (www.books2read.com/BadHusband)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Heather

  Heather sniffed and swiped a finger under each eye as Colin and CeCe drove off in their car.

  “So the master businesswoman known as Heather O’Keith has real human emotions?”

  She stiffened, whipping around to glare at Clay Steele, successful businessman, rival entrepreneur, and sexy as fuck male . . . despite the awful porn star name.

  “I have plenty of feelings,” she snapped. “Just because I don’t make a practice of showing them in my fucking boardroom doesn’t make me less of a woman.”

  Clay’s stare drifted down and then back up. “Anyone who says you’re not a woman has lost their fucking mind.”

  Heather froze.

  Had he—?

  Had the man who’d done nothing but dog her steps in the business world, who made it a point of tormenting her by stealing clients and undercutting bids, had he just complimented her?

  How in the . . .

  Then she saw the glassy look in his eyes.

  Ah. Drunk.

  “You’ve had a few too many,” she said, waving a hand to signal the town car parked at the corner. Of all the things that came along with busting her ass to have a flush bank account, having enough money to afford a personal driver was a perk that she really enjoyed.

  “So?” he asked, not quite belligerent but close.

  Idiot man. But she’d seen way too many of them in this situation to be the least bit cowed. “I hope you’re not an angry drunk.”

  “No.” Both brows came up, waggled. “I’m a horny one.”

  Despite herself, she chuckled. “With a porn star name like yours, I’m not surprised.”

  “Hey!” he said and followed her when she strode toward her car, the back door now conveniently open. “I’ll have you know, my name is a family one, passed down generation by glorious generation.”

  A roll of her eyes as she pushed through the open door, plunking down on the plush leather seat. “Maybe so. But you’re still drunk.”

  His expression sobered enough that she stopped short of slamming the metal panel on his head.

  Didn’t stop her from wanting to do it, though.

  His next words made her regret the thought. “R
ough day for me today.”

  Dammit. Why did he have to go and show that he had a human side? Heather wanted to loathe him, not have sympathy for the man.

  Clay seemed to realize he’d said too much and so he stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets. He tilted his chin in the direction Colin and CeCe’s car had disappeared. “Who were they?”

  “Friends.” No. At this point they were family.

  “Ah.” One of his hands exited his pockets and shoved through his hair, leaving the thick brown locks mussed. Not that it detracted from the image. Rather, it made Clay Steele appear slightly more human instead of his typical.

  Which was god-like.

  Tall, broad in the shoulders, lean in the hips, with chocolate-colored hair and unusually vibrant mocha irises.

  He’d been in her mental spank bank for months.

  “I’d give a lot to have one of those again.”

  His words made her frown in confusion before she realized she’d spoken aloud. Though thankfully about CeCe and Colin being more than friends and not about her tendency to masturbate to the image of Clay bending her over the bed, pinning her against a wall, grabbing her by the ankles and—

  “A family?” she asked, blinking the images away.

  “Yeah.” A sigh as he turned away. “See you at the next convention, O’Keith.”

  “Wait!” Acting on an instinct she didn’t want to examine too closely, Heather put one foot out of the car, reached to snag his wrist, and hauled him to a stop. “Let me at least take you back to your hotel.”

  “I’m getting drunk,” he said, but allowed her to pull him inside the car so that her driver could shut the door behind them.

  “You’re already drunk,” she said.

  He stiffened. “More drunk.”

  “Fine,” she said, half-worried he was going to launch himself from the sedan. She’d never seen Clay like this. Usually he was so cold and uncompromising, impenetrable even under the toughest of negotiations. He was . . . well, he was typically as Steele-like as his last name decreed.