Hardwired: A Billionaire and Virgin Romance
Tech Titans Series Book 2
Marcella Swann
© Copyright 2018 by Orléans Publishing. All rights reserved.
It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.
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Contents
Reclaimed
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
About the Author
Reclaimed
Reclaimed
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Elliot’s got a billion in the bank,
owns whatever he wants, and lives life on the edge.
But all he wants, all he needs is … her.
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Chapter 1
Hayden
Roberta Flack is on stage, killing it. The crowd is crazy in love with her. They know this is one of her final performances. Ever. And this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. She sips some water on the main stage of the Monterey Jazz Festival as her band starts the first few bars of Killing Me Softly.
A cheer goes up. The crowd starts swaying to the music. The energy in the crowd takes on a vibrant life of its own and I soak it all in. It’s fascinating, really, how music can create an entire mood felt by hundreds all at once.
The crowd sucks in a collective breath as Roberta sings and then holds out the mic asking everyone to sing the chorus. Right on cue, the place is filled with voices.
Over it all, my ears zero in on one voice. A sultry voice that sounds like it belongs to a woman in a long, vintage red dress and matching elbow-length gloves accompanied by a single piano in a smoky room filled with old suits and older money.
That voice rises above the rest. A confident, sure, strong voice of someone who either knows she’s good or doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks. Either way, I need to find her, now.
Scanning the crowd, I search for a face to match the voice. I need to know who is singing. I need to meet her. I need to hear more.
Everyone is on their feet, totally in it now. And some of them have started looking for the voice. They all fade from sight and mind as I single out the singer. Her mouth is open wide, bold, naturally nude lips full and sensual. Her olive skin is beautiful and striking, high cheekbones give her a natural air of beauty. But it’s not just her cheekbones; her pointed chin and perfectly straight nose could be right off a super model. I’m definitely in it now.
The crowd parts and I see she’s wearing an old tee shirt and jeans instead of the dress I’d imagined in my mind’s eye. Not that it matters because her full curves rock the tight jeans.
As if she feels my gaze on her, her attention swings my way. Piercing green eyes meet mine and I feel like I’ve been hit in the solar plexus with a battering ram. Tawny tight curls frame her beautiful face like a halo, and her golden skin shines with a natural brilliance. I doubt she’s wearing a lick of makeup and it works for her. She’s totally hot.
She’s still belting out the lyrics, her eyes locked on mine.
Telling my whole life with his words
I’m staring at her.
The corners of her lips curve a little in a sultry almost smile that wakes something primal inside me. Her hips rock side to side as she slowly rotates toward me, as if we’re sharing this moment as friends rather than strangers.
I felt all flushed with fever.
She lowers her eyes, her naturally thick lashes shadowing her cheeks before her gaze sweeps back up to meet mine. My stomach tightens, and I feel her voice resonating through every inch of my being, the reverb humming in my blood.
Her attention skips back to Roberta, her voice still ringing out like a battle cry promising beautiful death. Roberta seems to have heard her. The singer has tuned in toward her, mic still outstretched, a wide grin on her face. The joy in the woman erupts in the crowd as the very air becomes electric.
Roberta begins to sing with the woman, urging her up toward the stage. But the big-voiced woman gives a soft shake of her head, a real smile on her face now. She stays put, still singing as the rest of the crowd quiets down and just listens in stunned silence. The beautiful harmony of the two reminds me of something hot, something familiar turned inside out like Miles Davis riffing on Time After Time or John Coltrane jamming on My Favorite Things. It hums somewhere deep in my being and I feel it through every nerve ending in my body. A held, collective breath stays locked in lungs as the two continue to sing and I’m fucking loving it—loving her.
Nobody sounds quite like her. Her voice is thick like honey, yet with a gentle rasping quality. She slides through octaves above and below Roberta in an almost playful fashion even as her voice shows her absolute reverence for the singer. I want to hear more. I need to hear more. I need to dissect her sound and figure out how she forces me to feel each emotion on her face.
“Yo, my peeps. Hey, Hayden. Your hotness,” I hear my aide and all-around handler, Judy Mixon, but she may as well be a few miles away because I’m totally somewhere else.
The beautiful woman’s eyes meet mine again. Holy shit. She’s hotter than before. I gotta breathe. The song comes to an end and I hear Roberta telling her, “Get up here now, girl.”
But the woman shakes her head. “You’re my hero,” she calls up to Roberta, who’s still holding a hand out to her. I notice an accent. What is it? French.
“With a voice like that, girl, you’re my hero!” Roberta’s eyes are sparkling.
The whole crowd seems to be holding onto this moment, aware they’re witnessing magic. I feel the staff crowding around me and Judy’s at my elbow. Then the crowd erupts in a standing ovation.
“This has all been a real hootenanny but right here in my handy dandy schedule it says we’re due over at the Louis Armstrong stage, so I say we make like bandits because we’re gonna be late,” Judy says, sifting through a pile of disheveled papers.
“Yes, we are,” I tell her, not taking my eyes off the singer in the crowd. With that, I begin moving toward the voice, the security guys right on my heels.
Judy is protesting as she chases after me, papers flying, but I’m brushing off every word.
I don’t give a shit. I didn’t co-found SXz, the most popular music streaming service on the fucking planet, to follow the rules, to be “handled.” The best part of being a billionaire is that you get to do what the hell you want,
when you want. And right now, I want her.
I’m shoving my way past the cheering crowd, stepping over chairs. I’m on the warpath toward the green-eyed vision when she notices me.
The warmth in her eyes vanishes and fear backlights her features. Her full, pretty lips part like she’s stunned, and she scans the group of us heading her direction. I see the tension in her shoulders; see the worry in her muscles. She’s scared, but why? I just want to talk to her, and I’ll tell her as much when I’m close enough not to shout through a crowd.
As I close in on her, she turns away and bolts.
Chapter 2
Sabine
He’s following me. Va savoir pourquoi!
My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. Glancing over my shoulder, I don’t see him. Ducking into the tent where I’m supposed to change and do my makeup, I breathe. That guy was intense.
I step toward the middle of the white tent, willing myself to breathe normally again. I don’t think I’ve moved that fast in a long time and the excitement still makes my hands shake. Pressing my palms to my thighs, I try to concentrate.
Suddenly, hands grab my shoulders and spin me around.
I shove the guy back, and we stare at each other for a full minute.
His dark, slashing brows are low over his eyes and there’s an almost menacing air about him. He’s a good-looking man with angular features, a powerful jaw, and sharp cheekbones. Shadows in his eyes and slight darkness under them tell me he doesn’t sleep much – or well.
“Out!” I demand, pointing toward the door.
He seems almost stunned. “I just want to talk,” he says in a low, steely voice.
“You needed 10 security guards to talk to me?” I ask, not believing it for a second.
His eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch. “You think you’re in trouble?” he asks.
I cross my arms and shift my weight. “Of course not. I didn’t do anything wrong.” I don’t understand how he’s not following this. “But how would you react to being rushed by a bunch of security guys led by a guy that looks like you, wearing that, t’sais?”
I gesture to his suit. It’s an American cut. American men cannot dress themselves. French. Italian. Even Saville Row. But that?
“She’s got a point, boss,” a young woman with a bunch of papers and clipboard says, stepping past the two security guys. “I think maybe a seersucker, or something with pinstripes. Accentuate your swimmer’s build. You know what I’m sayin’?”
He rolls his eyes. I get a good look at him. He’s cute. Non. He gorgeous.
It’s kind of impressive, I think to myself, that he was able to run in that suit at all.
He turns to the young woman and gestures for her and his entourage to get out.
His eyes narrow dangerously, and he turns to me. “A guy that looks like me?”
I can’t help but smile. He is cute.
“Oui monsieur,” I say, ignoring the danger in his voice and plowing forward. “A guy that looks like you.” I gesture at his suit. He’s so out of place here, it’s almost funny. The whole vibe of this place is more business casual with guys seeming to prefer button-down shirts and women in pretty dresses or blouses and slacks. Not suits.
“Do you know who I am?” He doesn’t sound like he’s being a pompous ass, he sounds like he’s genuinely curious. It puts me on edge anyway.
“Non. Do you know who I am?” I don’t expect him to know who I am. Who I am and what’s happened to me and my singing career over the last couple of years still seem like a dream. They can’t be real. If life has taught me anything it’s that life is one big hustle and good things don’t happen to me.
He’s studying me like he’s trying to figure me out. Good luck with that, as the Americans say. As his eyes sweep down me and climb back up, I feel an odd surge of electricity tickle up my arms. Every inch of my skin breaks out in, how do you say, goosebumps and I run my hands up them without thinking about it.
His eyes follow this motion, and I see a twitch to his lips. He focuses on my face, tracing my features like he’s trying to place me. Not going to happen.
“No, I don’t know who you are,” he answers. I hear the regret in his voice, and everything starts to fall into place.
“You’re a talent agent, right?” I ask, primed and ready to tell him I already have a manager.
There’s a tiny curve at the corners of his lips as if he’s slightly amused by my suggestion. “No,” he says, extending the word slowly out of his mouth. He steps toward me and his scent washes over me. Something clean and sharp; freshly washed laundry, masculine shampoo, and a hint of cologne.
Tingling warmth explodes through my belly as he sidesteps, circling me like a wolf. Whoever he is, he’s having a weird effect on my pulse and breathing. La vache! Maybe I’m getting sick. That’s it. This guy isn’t causing this weird feeling, maybe I’m getting the flu. In the middle of summer.
“Qui êtes-vous? Who are you?” I ask. My voice sounds demanding and I lift my chin into battle position. This guy better have answers, quick. He’s here, in my space, uninvited. I don’t give a shit if he’s the freakin’ pope, he’s got no right to be here.
A little grin tugs the corners of his lips. “You first,” he says, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. There’s something guarded about him that I understand on some primal level.
“I don’t have time for games,” I say, planting my hands on my hips. I’m half a second from telling him to get out.
“Then tell me your name.” He’s firm. There’s a challenge in his eyes.
I’m not about to be cowed by him or anyone else. “I am Sabine. Sabine Baptiste.”
I see a light of recognition in his eyes. He steps closer, offering his hand. “Hayden Stallworth.”
“Ferme ta gueule,” I curse, knowing full well he won’t understand. His scent fills every breath I take and I feel like I’m going to pass out. “Shut up,” I manage to mutter. “I didn’t know I was in the presence of the devil himself.” I feel the grin spreading across my face. His shake is strong and I feel the static jolt of his touch.
He dips his head a quarter inch, never taking his eyes off mine. “At your service … mademoiselle.”
“Imposter. The real Hayden Stallworth would never serve anyone.” My light tone takes all the sting out of the words. His eyes narrow slightly and that odd tingling heat pulses through me with every heartbeat.
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” he growls. There’s velvet steel under the words and a warning I ignore. I know exactly what he’s implying, and it’s disgusting. I love it.
“Oh, I know all about you. You own the evil company that rips me off.” I shift my weight, cross my arms, and hold his gaze with my own.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Rips you off? How so?” he asks, his posture relaxing a little like I didn’t just volley some inflammatory words his way.
He seems so at home, it’s weird. I jerk a shoulder upward and answer. “I’ve got more than 100 million streams on SXz and I’ve made about $12.” I’m exaggerating, but it’s been a sore spot. He’s got billions in the bank and I’m struggling even as I pad his pockets. Screw him and all his thieves.
“One hundred million streams, huh?” he says, his eyes locked on my face. “Last I checked, you had about 103,028,066 streams. SXz has paid you three-hundred ninety-one thousand, two-hundred and forty-six dollars and sixty-two cents. So far.”
I must look as stupid as I feel because he flashes me a tight smile and answers a question I didn’t ask.
“I’m good with numbers … and your welcome.”
Those numbers don’t sound right. I need to double check with Bassirou. My manager doesn’t like it when I ask questions, but this seems like something got messed up somewhere. I thought I’d made so much less. Staring at this man with a new appreciation, I don’t bother trying to contain my excitement.
“I’m not good with numbers,” I say honestly, a nervous laugh eruptin
g out of me.
The girl peeks in the tent. “Boss, hate to break this up and all.”
I turn to Hayden. “I’ve got to get ready.” Regret floods me. I’d been enjoying our back and forth. It’s nice to find someone who doesn’t treat me like I’m some fragile thing that might shatter at the smallest bump.
“We’ve got more to talk about,” he says.
I feel the same way but I give him a fake number anyway.
Chapter 3
Hayden
“You’re distracted.”
I glance up at Judy, noting her glaring yellow dress shirt and matching pants. She looks like a tall glass of lemonade.
“You’re yellow. Of course, I’m distracted, you’re blinding.” I take a sip of my coffee.
“Somebody’s got to be the sunshine around here,” she smiles.
“Why did Damian tell me to hire you?”
“’Cause I’m brilliant … and my best friend happens to be the girlfriend of one of your co-founders. And making a right decent man outta that bad boy, I might add. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say distractedly.
With that, she walks over and sits on my desk. She turns to face me, pulling her legs up and crossing them. I notice she’s barefoot as usual and her toenails are a matching vivid yellow.
“Did you notice the new guy?” she asks, lowering her voice like he can hear her.
Hardwired: A Billionaire and Virgin Romance (Tech Titans Book 2) Page 1