The Undercover Billionaire

by Jackie Ashenden

“Wolf? Where the fuck have you been?” Van sounded pissed. “I’ve been trying to call you for the past two goddamn days.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. I should have gotten in touch sooner.”

  “Damn right you should’ve,” Van growled. “You using a burner?”

  “Yeah. Is your phone secure?”

  “Should be. What’s going on? You still pissed at me about Chloe?”

  Wolf let out a silent breath. His oldest brother had gotten together with their adoptive sister, which had shocked the hell out of everyone, and Wolf still didn’t really know if he was okay with it. Though quite frankly Van’s relationship with Chloe was the least of Wolf’s problems right now. Not that he wanted to get into the rest of it. There was too much to say, too many secrets to reveal, too many lies to unmask, and he couldn’t face it. Not over the phone at least.

  “I want to know whether Lucas and Grace are okay,” he said shortly.

  “They are. And the press have been framing it as a random hit. Drugs. No one has been able to identify you. But shit, Wolf. What the fuck is going on? Lucas told me there’s no way you could have known what was going to go down with Grace, which begs the question as to why you were there in the first place.”

  Wolf scowled at the white marble wall opposite. “I can’t tell you.”

  “What? What do you mean—”

  “I just fucking can’t. End of story.”

  There was a silence down the other end of the phone.

  “Need help?” Van asked at last.

  Wolf’s jaw tightened. Van was a commander through and through—no man left behind and all that crap. And if one of his brothers needed help, then he was the first to offer it. “No,” he said, because getting Van involved was the last thing he needed. “I’m dealing with it.”

  Van snorted. “Yeah, of course you are. Look, whatever’s happening with you right now, you’re still a director at Tate Oil, and since Chloe and I are in Wyoming right now, I need you to handle the shit that’s going down. Lucas is—”

  “I can’t,” he interrupted, knowing this was going to sound like a bunch of pussy bullshit, but dealing with Tate Oil was not high on his list of priorities right now. He’d never wanted to be a director in the first place and pretty much all he cared about was getting rid of de Santis, finding his mother, and claiming Noah as his father.

  That might upset things in terms of Van’s inheritance since his adoptive brother, as the official Tate heir, had inherited the whole of Noah’s fortune. But Wolf wasn’t looking to unseat Van as the true heir. He didn’t give a shit. He only wanted what little of his family remained.

  “What do you mean you can’t?” Van demanded. “You agreed to be a director. That means you signed up to—”

  “Text me the details and I’ll see what I can do,” he interrupted yet again because, short of hanging up, he couldn’t see any other way out of this conversation.

  Another silence.

  “Fine,” Van said, even though Wolf was clear that it wasn’t fine. “But deal with your shit or man up and get some help, because either way, I’m going need you on board with Tate Oil. There are things you need to know about de Santis.”

  Wolf gritted his teeth. He knew already what things Van was talking about. Not that he wanted to reveal what he knew right now, not when he was pretty sure Van’s response would be a military interrogation that would put their SEAL training to shame. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, trying to sound like his old give-no-fucks self. “Whatever you say.”

  His brother exhaled on a long breath. “Wolf, I know it was hard on you when Dad died, but—”

  Oh, hell no. He wasn’t having that conversation. “Sorry bro, shit’s going down. Gotta run.” And before his brother could respond, Wolf disconnected.

  Okay, one shitstorm handled. Now on to the one currently standing outside the bathroom door.

  Right on cue, there came another knock. “Wolf? I really need to get going soon. I don’t want Dad getting worried about where I am.”

  Tossing the phone back on the vanity, Wolf stood up and ditched the towel, pulling on his underwear and jeans. Then he picked up his thermal in one hand while opening the door with the other.

  Olivia was standing right outside and as the door opened she gave him a tentative smile. Then it faded, her eyes widening as they dropped down the length of his body. She blinked and looked away fast, obvious color rising into her cheeks.

  Well, shit. He knew enough about women to know what that meant.

  An odd feeling shifted in his gut, and it wasn’t the annoyance with the situation that he should have been feeling. It was almost as if he liked her reaction, which was weird because Olivia was his friend. He didn’t actually want her.

  You could use that, though.

  The thought streaked brightly through his head before he could stop it, and his immediate instinct was to dismiss it because he’d already spun her way too many lies to count, and pretending he was into her was just wrong. But the thought stuck in his brain like a thorn.

  Olivia was blushing furiously and smoothing her hair, her attention on the wall behind him. In that cotton nightgown, her dark hair down her back, her cheeks red, she looked ridiculously young and fresh-faced. Like a schoolteacher or a governess or something.

  He studied her a moment, the beginnings of a plan forming in his head.

  She had access to information he needed and if he wasn’t going to threaten her, he had to figure out another way to get it. If she wanted him, that would certainly give him a lever he could pull. It would mean lying to her, pretending he was into her, but he was running out of options. He needed that intel.

  Anyway, it’s not like your friendship with her is real anyway. You were doing it for Dad, remember.

  More feelings shifted around in his chest, uncomfortable feelings. Almost like denial. It made him want to growl. Sure, he liked her and didn’t want to hurt her, but he had a mission objective and nothing could get in the way. He had no room for soft emotions like regret and denial.

  Anyway, fuck, he was a double agent and lying was what double agents did. So using her reaction to him in order to get more information out of her wasn’t doing anything worse than he’d done already, right?

  Something whispered in his head that it was worse, but since he couldn’t afford to listen to that voice, he didn’t.

  Being a SEAL meant ignoring a whole lot of uncomfortable shit anyway, both mental and physical. And he hadn’t survived the training because he was a pussy who let things get to him. Hell no, he’d survived because he had what it took. The right stuff, endurance, mental fortitude or whatever crap you wanted to call it. He had a mission, and for him and for his father, the ends justified any means.

  She gave him a quick glance, as if afraid to look at him too long. “Those are some tattoos,” she said, her voice breathless. “When did you get those?”

  So she liked the tattoos. But then women often did and he was shameless enough that he enjoyed the attention. Especially when they offered to lick them.

  He glanced down at the ink on his chest and arms. “Over the years. Got some on deployment, some back at base.” He met her gaze purposefully and held it. “You like ’em?”

  She blushed even harder and looked away, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, not that it was loose, and cleared her throat. “They’re very nice.”

  Hmmm. Interesting. She more than liked them, that was clear. Good. He could use that if he was going to go ahead with the plan that was already pretty much a done deal in his head.

  A honey trap. With him being the honey.

  “Anyway,” she went on, awkwardly clasping her hands across her stomach. “The door to the hallway is locked and I can’t seem to open it. And I really need to get back home. So if we’re done here…?”

  Right, so how to play this. Telling her the truth about his mission was impossible, which left him with having to figure out how to keep her here in a way that wouldn’t scare her off and give h
im some time to get this seduction plan into place.

  Maybe telling her that this wasn’t a date had been a mistake.

  He gave her one of his loose, easy smiles, one that usually had the chicks creaming themselves, and tossed his thermal over the bed beside him. “Must be something wrong with the door. I’ll take a look at it in a second. But hey, where’s the rush?” Her gaze had come back to his and he held it again, making sure that smile was firmly pasted across his face. “Don’t you want to sit down and catch up?”

  * * *

  He was smiling at her. For the first time since he’d picked her up out of bed and carried her out of the window, he was smiling. And God … it was the same glorious, lazy, sexy smile she remembered from years ago. Like a sunrise slowly creeping over the horizon, banishing shadows and promising warmth.

  Dear heaven. You’re a lost cause.

  Oh yes, she was. Totally. Her poor heart was turning over and over inside her chest and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Especially with him standing there wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, all sculpted muscle, tanned skin, and tattoos.

  Dressed, he was a warrior. Undressed, he was a god.

  Heavily muscled shoulders and chest; hard, corrugated abs; powerful biceps. A sprinkling of dark chest hair. Just … a perfect male specimen designed specifically to send female hormones haywire and primitive responses crazy. Strength, virility, a hunter who would keep his mate and their children in food for the cold winter. Who would protect them against anyone who wanted to harm them.

  Pull yourself together, you idiot. It’s like you’ve never seen a naked man before.

  Half naked. And of course she had. On TV and in movies. Which she supposed didn’t count, but still. That had been her choice. Dating had never featured highly in her life and she’d been more than happy with that.

  She blinked, unable to look away from him and those mesmerizing tattoos. On his chest was an eagle with outstretched wings and a trident behind it, along with a curling, black tribal-looking design that circled one pec. There were stars there too and some writing she couldn’t quite make out. But that wasn’t all. On his right bicep was another tribal-looking design with lots of jagged edges that wrapped around his elbow, spearing down along his long, muscular forearm. There was what looked like a skeletal frog incorporated into the design, which was odd. His left arm was a riot of color in what she guessed was an Asian design, with water and a dragon and, oddly enough for such a masculine guy, flowers. The dragon’s tail trailed down and curled around that forearm too, which must have been the hint of color she’d seen earlier.

  He wore a chain around his neck, and hanging off it, right between his pecs, were … dog tags. Those were his dog tags, because he was military. Holy God, why was that so damn sexy?

  You’re staring. Stop it.

  She blinked yet again. He’d said something, hadn’t he? What was it? Oh hell, she was being ridiculous. He was just a man and the tattoos were just ink. Nothing that warranted this response. Sure, she’d been in love with him for years, but this was bordering on stupidity.

  With an effort, Olivia got herself together, though it was difficult with him smiling that beautiful, sexy smile, amusement glittering in his blue and green eyes.

  What if he knew why she was blushing and staring? What if he guessed that she was finding him absolutely to die for?

  You think he hasn’t already?

  Her blush got even hotter. Oh yes, he’d guess all right. It’s not as if a man who looked like that wouldn’t know when a woman was attracted to him. Which was downright embarrassing. Especially when he didn’t feel the same.

  This time she forced herself to hold his gaze and tried to get her heart rate under control. “What did you say? Sorry, I missed it.”

  His smile was devastating, making it abundantly clear to her that he knew exactly why she’d missed it. “I said there’s no rush. Why don’t we sit down and have a catch-up?”

  Olivia ignored the heat in her cheeks and pretended she’d never been caught staring openly at his body. “A catch-up? Oh, but didn’t you want some information?”

  He lifted one of those massive shoulders. “That can wait. I’d like to hear all about what you’ve been up to first.”

  Oh, right. That seemed a bit odd after he’d been so very serious and insistent about the fact that he wanted information from her. Then again, they hadn’t seen each other for ten years and it would be nice to talk to him.

  So he kidnapped you out of your bedroom at four in the morning, drove at breakneck speed to get here, hustled you up to this room, demanded information from you and now is perfectly happy to kick back and “catch up”? You don’t think something’s a little off?

  That was all a bit strange, but then again, that was Wolf. She hadn’t seen him in so long, and if he wanted to talk, then she wanted to talk too. Yes, she did want to get back before people realized she was missing from her bedroom, so they wouldn’t have long to chat, but … Well, when was the last time she’d sat down and had a chat with a friend? She didn’t have many friends to chat with, period.

  She swallowed, trying to get some moisture into her dry mouth. “Okay. But I can’t stay long.”

  “Hey, it’s five thirty in the morning. No one’s gonna know you’re not there.” He nodded toward the door to the living area. “Let’s go sit down. Don’t know about you but I could do with another coffee.” Another flash of that toe-curling smile. “Unless you want to go for the hard stuff and crack open the champagne?”

  She could feel her own mouth starting to turn up at the corners, giving him a smile in return, because she just couldn’t help it. “Nice idea, but no. It’s a little early in the morning for me.”

  “Are you sure?” One straight dark brow lifted. “Looks like expensive French shit. Be a shame to waste it, right?”

  She didn’t normally drink. Sometimes she’d have a glass of wine with a meal, but mostly she stuck to water. Her mother had been the big drinker in the house and, after seeing where that had led, Olivia had steered clear of alcohol. “I’m not much of a drinker,” she said. “What with Mom and everything.” He knew about her mom and her eventual suicide when Olivia was thirteen. She’d talked to him about it on and off over the years.

  A frown creased his forehead. “Yeah, but you’re not your mother, Liv. I’ve told you that before. One little sip isn’t going to turn you into an alcoholic.”

  Of course she wasn’t her mother. She’d spent the last fifteen years of her life making sure she wasn’t her mother. “I know.”

  “Yeah, right.” He moved past her, heading toward the bedroom doorway. “Come on, let’s go sit. You have a sip of mine and see what you think.”

  She followed him, trying not to notice the way his jeans hung low on his lean hips. Or the play of muscles on his beautiful back. Or that he had yet another tattoo inked down his spine and between his shoulder blades. An intricate black design of arrows and spirals, shooting up and outward. It was beautiful, just beautiful.

  What did they mean, all these tattoos?

  She wanted to touch them, trace the outlines with her fingers, learn the history of each one …

  Perhaps you shouldn’t sit down and chat with him. Especially since you can’t seem to function when he’s around.

  Annoyed with herself, Olivia pulled her gaze away from him. She needed to stop acting like she was fifteen again. She was twenty-eight, for God’s sake. Sure, she was as in love with him as she’d ever been, but that was no excuse for acting so starstruck.

  In the living room, she sat down on the couch again while Wolf headed to the ice bucket. He picked up the champagne bottle and ripped off the foil, undoing the bit of wire over the cork, then positioning his fingers under the cork in preparation for easing it out.

  She hunched her shoulders unconsciously, waiting for the pop.

  He noticed and grinned. “Relax. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve popped champagne corks.”

  �
�Oh really? I thought you were more of a beer guy.”

  “I’m a beer guy, too. But champagne goes nicely with … other things.” There was a wicked glint in his eyes, which did nothing to ease her heart rate, making her wonder what “other things” champagne went nicely with. But she felt too self-conscious to ask, so she said nothing, merely watched as he popped the cork then splashed some of the fizzing liquid into one of the flutes.

  “Fucking hell,” he muttered as he dumped the bottle back into the ice bucket. “It’s pink.”

  She couldn’t help grinning. A massive SEAL warrior holding a delicate crystal flute of pink champagne was a sight you didn’t see every day.

  Wolf raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. Frowned. Then he shot her a glance from underneath his ridiculously long, thick lashes. “Want to try some?”

  He meant the champagne, of course he meant the champagne. But that’s not where her brain had gone.

  “No, thank you,” she said, unable to keep the prim note from her voice.

  He gave a soft, rough laugh. “Seriously? Not even a taste?” He took a couple of steps toward the couch, his massive form towering over her, before dropping fluidly into a crouch in front of her holding out the glass. “Come on. Live a little.”

  He was so close, his body only inches away from her knees, and she could see the writing on his tattooed torso. It looked to be some kind of prayer, not that she was going to study it too hard, because having him so close was doing things to her that she didn’t want him to see.

  Her palms were sweaty where they were clasped in her lap and her pulse was going haywire. The movement had set his dog tags swinging, and she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from his chest. He hadn’t dried himself off properly and there were a few drops of water beading his skin, one of them slipping down his left pec …

  Actually, on second thought, maybe she did need a sip of wine. If only to make her mouth less dry.

  “Okay, okay.” She took the glass from his hands, careful not to accidentally brush his fingers with hers, because if that happened she’d probably spill it all over herself—or worse, him.