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

by Sarah J. Brooks

  ***

  I ordered my coffee and sat down at an empty table by the window, waiting for my name to be called, considering my options. After a very frustrating trip to the Embassy, I was at a loss as to what to do about my passport.

  I texted Brad, letting him know I’d had no luck.

  Let me try, he’d responded. I have some connections there.

  Well, shit, why didn’t you just do that in the first place? I wondered, but I didn’t text him that. I knew I was just frustrated and in need of caffeine. I looked out the window and watched the city street. It was quiet, I thought, for a Saturday. A man stood at a newspaper stand, and he caught my attention. He was standing not like someone who was casually perusing the newspaper; he was standing like someone who wanted to look like he was casually perusing the newspaper. I narrowed my eyes; he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

  The barista called my name and I went to fetch my coffee. When I sat back down and looked outside, the man was gone. I shrugged and took a deep breath. I wondered if my instincts were off; first, with Brad, and now with this strange man. I sipped the coffee, relishing the heat as it moved down my esophagus. Stop looking for things that aren’t there, I cautioned myself. It happens to journalists sometimes, and it’s the kiss of death. Get too busy looking for things that aren’t there and you’re likely to miss the real things right in front of you.

  Like strange men, who first appear at a fundraiser and then appear at a newspaper stand right in front of you. I remembered where I’d seen the man before… he’d been just a few seats down from me last night at the dinner. I stood up and walked out of the coffee shop, scanning the sidewalk and street up one side and down the other, looking for the man. The more I looked, the more certain I was. Not seeing him, I began to walk back to the hotel.

  As I walked, I continued to scan the street. I felt eyes on me as I walked, and my anxiety began to push its way into my mouth, making the coffee taste extra bitter. I slowed my pace and looked around. When I felt the presence of someone behind me, I stopped short and turned; the stranger stopped just shy of running into me.

  “Why are you following me?” I demanded. My hands curled around my cell phone in my pocket; whether I should use it to call the London equivalent of 911 or use it as a weapon I wasn’t sure… yet.

  “Cassandra Young?” the man asked. He was young, my age or maybe a little older, definitely not past thirty. He was handsome, his jaw well defined just above an overcoat that protected him from the wind. His hair was thick, and the wind had pulled across his forehead in a way that made him look more charming than tousled.

  “Who wants to know?” I asked. He wasn’t giving off a threatening vibe, plus I was standing on a public street in broad daylight. Still, I scanned possible ways for to escape quickly, which direction I could run and get away the fastest.

  To my surprise, he held out a badge. “Patrick Shim,” he said. “NCA. I need to speak to you.”

  “NCA?” I asked. “What’s that?”

  “National Crime Agency,” he said. “It’s England’s equivalent to the FBI. Can we go somewhere more private to chat?”

  “I think we’re fine right here,” I said. “The National Crime Agency sounds like a completely made up name. Can I look at that badge again?” It looked official enough. “I thought Scotland Yard was how you all rolled over here.”

  “Yeah, we get that a lot,” Patrick said dryly. “I assure you, it’s a legitimate agency. You’re in danger, Cassandra, and I need to get some information from you.”

  “In danger from what?” I asked.

  “Do you have your passport?” he asked in response.

  “No,” I said. “Is that what this is about? Did you find it?”

  “Your passport was taken,” Patrick said. “With the intention of keeping you in London.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “And why would someone want to do that?” I asked.

  Brad

  “And you don’t see any sort of a problem dating her?” Simon demanded. We were at lunch the day after the fundraiser, and Simon was giving me all manner of hell about Cassie.

  “Obviously not,” I said coldly, “or I wouldn’t be seeing her.”

  “And she does what for a living again?”

  “She writes for a magazine.” I stabbed a piece of steak with my fork and chewed it, feeling tension in my jaw.

  “She’s a journalist,” Simon seethed. “A fucking reporter. You’re fucking a fucking reporter!”

  “Watch yourself, Simon,” I said, putting down my fork. We were in a busy restaurant at the busiest time of day and it was plenty loud, but there were certain words that carried, and the last thing I needed was more attention drawn to myself.

  “Do you not see how bad this could be for you?” His tone had softened.

  “Look, it’s not like she’s a bloodhound for the Times or something. She writes fluff pieces for some travel magazine. If you want to call that a reporter, that’s fine by me, but I’m not worried. Her only concern is informing the traveling community about how many pools are in each Legacy property.” I resumed eating, stabbing a bite of lettuce with my fork.

  “For now that’s her concern,” Simon said. “What if she stumbles upon something in her research? Or, God forbid, what if she literally stumbles onto something bigger, like, oh, I don’t know, a storage facility? What if she starts poking around and lands herself in a room with inventory?”

  I shook my head. “She doesn’t suspect anything,” I said. “This isn’t exactly my first time with this, you know. I know how to be careful. I haven’t left a single gun laying around the hotel.”

  “This isn’t funny,” Simon said. His jaw was clenched and I watched him gripping his knife so tightly his knuckles were white. I grew serious.

  “Don’t ever suggest that I think any of this situation is funny,” I snarled. “You know exactly how much I’ve lost already, and how much I have hanging in the balance. You’re a good friend and a trusted partner, Simon, but don’t think for a second that I won’t cut you loose if you start to disrespect me.”

  We looked at each other, and I watched Simon struggling with what to say next. Finally, he broke.

  “If you ever get the idea that she does think something is up, just let me know what I can do to help. I don’t want anything to happen to you, to her, or to the project.”

  I nodded. “Good answer. I’ve already introduced her to Antoine as a measure of protection.” Antoine wasn’t a masseuse at all, though that’s how Cassie knew him. I smiled just thinking about him. He was my mentor, a second father, and, though I would never say as much to Simon, he was my most trusted confidant. A family friend since the day I was born, Antoine had watched me grow up and had been there for me when my own parents had been working, traveling, or simply just absent. Lorinda agreeing to name our son after him had been one of the highest points of my life… and it would be second only to the day I got to introduce the two of them to one another.

  Simon nodded. “That’s good,” he said. “Antoine has a very calming, rational demeanor.”

  “Unlike some people, right, Chicken Little?” I said, smiling just a bit.

  “Hey, I’m just trying to look out for you,” Simon said, holding up his hands in defense.

  “I know, I know,” I said. “And I appreciate it. But, rest assured that I would never let a casual sexual relationship interfere with getting my son back, or with our business. Not for even a second.”

  I could tell Simon was about to speak, and I could hear his thoughts loud as can be. She’s a fucking reporter! But he thought the better of it and simply shoved a forkful of steak into his mouth instead. I didn’t tell him I’d taken her passport and hidden it. I didn’t tell him that, if I had my way, Cassie’s journalist skills would be put to good use.

  Cassie

  I took Patrick’s card reluctantly and shoved it in my pocket. I walked quickly down the street, this time not feeling the weight of someone’s eyes on my
back, and headed into the hotel lobby. I went straight to my suite and deadbolted the door; I didn’t know where Brad was, but I didn’t need him keying into my room while I was doing my research. My head was reeling from Patrick’s line of questioning; I didn’t know why the FBI, or NCA, whatever, would be so interested in the Legacy Suites, but now I was more convinced than ever that there was something secretive in Brad’s life.

  I thought back to how I’d answered Patrick’s questions—giving the briefest answers I could while, at the same time, asking a return question. He was onto my game and didn’t give me much to go on… but I at least had more to work with than I’d had earlier.

  I started my search with looking up his partner, Simon Pyle. Like with Brad, there wasn’t anything obvious, nothing like a record, jail time, or any news article suggesting anything other than that Simon was, while not a billionaire, certainly wealthy enough to do his share of charity work, which he did. Lots of images of him and his life partner, Clive, at all sorts of charity fundraisers. I tried to get a feel for his areas of interest, but his charities were broad and varied. I moved on to Patrick Shim.

  Patrick was a highly decorated investigator with the NCA, formally the SOCA, the Serious Organised Crime Agency. He was single, thirty-one years old, and, according to an article written about him after he’d won some sort of cop award, exceptional in his athleticism, his loyalty, and his intuition. I clicked on a thumbnail picture and, when it came up in full, I let out a low whistle. The article was about him rescuing a child from a potential drowning in a community pool. He was in a bathing suit, as European as they get, and I could see almost everything. His body was lean and tight, muscular, with the curve of the “V” moving from his hips to below the fabric of his bathing suit.

  “Damn,” I said. Then I shook my head and clicked the X, closing out the picture. “Stop acting like a teenager,” I warned myself out loud. I refocused with a breath and turned my research back to the written facts about Investigator Patrick Shim.

  There was a knock at my door. I jumped, quickly Xing out of Chrome and shutting the top of my laptop against the bottom.

  “Coming!” I called. I walked to the door and unlocked it, then opened it to Brad.

  “Why did you bolt the door?” he asked, looking at me with a combination of worry and suspicion.

  “Um, just force of habit,” I said. “Whenever I’m alone. Safety, you know?”

  He leaned in and kissed me. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Safety first.”

  “How was your meeting with Simon?” I asked. I thought about Patrick’s card in my pocket, realized I would need to program the number into my phone and then get rid of the card before Brad found it. Or, I thought, I could just get rid of the card and forget the conversation I’d had with Patrick had ever taken place. It was all crap anyway. The questions he’d asked were fishing questions; he had no evidence of anything, just suspicions that Legacy Suites was somehow involved in “potentially illegal activity.”

  “It was business as usual,” he said easily. “How was your morning?”

  “Boring,” I said. “I went for coffee, then came back here and did some writing.” And got accosted by an FBI agent who implied that my passport was stolen, not lost, as an attempt by some blackmailing agency to keep me in the country and possibly kidnap me and ransom me to get you to pay up. “The article about Legacy Suites, London is really shaping up.”

  “That’s great,” Brad said, pulling me in for a kiss. The warmth of his lips, the pressure of them against mine, pushed the entire morning out of my mind. I put my arms around his waist and pressed my head against his chest. His heartbeat was slow and regular… hardly the heartbeat of a criminal. I vowed to toss Patrick’s card the first chance I got. If he wanted to spend his time on a wild goose chase, that was his business, but I wasn’t going to help him.

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  “Oh?” Brad pulled back and looked at me.

  “Let’s order room service, get naked, and lock the doors for the rest of the day and night.” I trailed my fingers down his chest toward his belt, which I tugged lightly.

  He grinned and mussed my hair. “Someone feeling a little frisky, huh?”

  I returned his grin with my best innocent, sex-kitten smile. “Rawr,” I said, letting my voice drop into a growl.

  “Let me make a quick phone call. While I’m doing that, call downstairs and order two of whatever you want. Tell them to add a bottle of Dom Perignon and a bowl of strawberries.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I said, winking. I went to the living room phone while he disappeared into the bedroom. I made the call to room service quickly, then I walked toward the bedroom. Brad had closed the door, but I could tell he was still on the phone. I could hear his voice muffled through the door, and he didn’t sound happy.

  “Fix it!” he said. “The shipment arrived on time and intact. What more does he want?” There was a pause. My heart was in my throat; I knew I shouldn’t be so close to the door, but I couldn’t step away. “He can’t keep doing this,” he said, his voice softer but with the same anger. “We’re following his orders to the letter; he needs to hold up his end of the deal.” Another pause, then Brad’s voice became quieter, more muffled, as he walked into either the bathroom or the closet. I stepped away from the door and walked to the tv, turning it on with the remote and sitting on the couch.

  Twenty minutes later, the food arrived. Brad hadn’t yet emerged from the bedroom. I debated whether or not to knock on the door, and decided against it. I ate some of the pizza while it was still hot, and took a few forkfuls of pasta. I flipped channels, then turned the tv off. As I did, Brad emerged.

  “Sorry about that,” he apologized, his voice contrite. “I didn’t expect that call to take that long. Did you eat?”

  “I started,” I said. “Who did you call? Is everything okay?” I asked the questions gently, trying to keep my tone neutral.

  “Oh,” Brad sounded distracted as he grabbed two slices of pizza and dumped them onto a plate. “It was just Simon. Some unfinished business from this afternoon.” He popped the cork on the Dom and filled two champagne flutes, then handed one to me. “Nothing to worry about.” He smiled easily. “Cheers.”

  He clinked my glass, then he grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the couch.

  “Tonight I’m the hungry one,” I said, turning to him and advancing on him.

  “I thought you just ate,” he grinned.

  “Not the right thing to satisfy my appetite,” I said. “I’m more in the mood for sausage.” I undid his jeans and he tugged them down. His cock was hard and stood out from his body. He slid down until he was horizontal on the leather couch, and I dropped down onto him, my mouth taking his cock fully. I began to slid my lips up and down his shaft as he groaned, grabbing my hair with his fingers and guiding my head in a smooth, rhythmic motion.

  “Oh, Cassie,” he moaned. “Your mouth feels like melted wax pouring all over me.” He moved his hips and I began to flick the head of his cock with my tongue while I stroked his shaft with one hand and cupped his balls with the other. I gave his balls a gentle squeeze and swirled my tongue around his head, feeling the skin of his cock tighten and stretch.

  With each motion, I grew wetter, the sensation in my pussy spreading throughout my body. I wanted him inside me. I sat up and stripped off my clothes slowly; he watched my every move. Fully naked, I laid back on top of him and slid myself onto his awaiting cock. He filled me, and I began to ride him, moving forward and back, arching my spine and grinding down hard against him. He grunted, a sigh of intensity escaping his lips, and I pressed harder.

  “God, Cassie, you’re gonna break it in two,” he moaned, his hands on my hips, loving every second of it.

  “That’ll mean twice the pleasure,” I said.

  “Twice the pleasure would kill me,” he panted. “Oh fuck!” I shifted my knees and pushed him deeper into me, clenching my muscles to massage his cock from top to bottom.


  I dropped forward onto his chest and continued thrusting against him, though, from this angle, my clit was getting a good amount of attention. Instantly, I felt my orgasm rising.

  “I’m gonna cum,” I whispered. “I’m gonna cum hard tonight, oh my God, so fucking hard.” Each word was punctuated with a breath and with a dramatic increase in my arousal until I came, feeling hot liquid rushing through me, his and my own, in our mutual climax.

  Afterward, we laid on the couch sipping champagne.

  “Want to go to the bedroom and do it again?” he asked, his fingertips lightly trailing down my back to my ass. He gave it a squeeze and a light slap.

  “Um, yes, yes I do,” I said dreamily, my eyes closed.

  “Let me jump in the shower,” he whispered into my ear. “Then we can see if you can break the world record for multiple orgasms in one night.”

  “Challenge accepted.” I smiled and slid off of him, sitting on the floor next to the coffee table. He stood up, looking down at me, and extended his hand.

  “Come on, sexy,” he said. I grabbed his hand and we moved into the bedroom. We showered, fucked some more, then showered again.

  When I woke up a few hours later, the first strains of light pushing through the curtains, Brad was sound asleep. I put on the white, fluffy robe provided by the hotel and stepped out into the living room. The strawberries were in the bowl, untouched, and I began to eat them as I watched the sun rise.

  I stood staring out the window for the better part of a half hour. I glanced back into the bedroom and made sure Brad was still sleeping; he was. I got my coat from the back of the chair, where I had tossed it the day before when I’d come home to do my research. I found Patrick Shim’s card in the pocket.

  My original intention had been to toss it. But, something was keeping me from throwing it away, from pretending the conversation with Patrick had never taken place. I thought about Patrick, about standing across from him on the sidewalk as he asked me questions and provided me with more questions than answers.