Billionaire Benefactor Daddy: A Single Dad & Virgin Romance Boxset

by Natalia Banks

  Kerri clung to him, stepping over the dead bodies as police sirens got louder in the distance. Kerri wasn’t sure what would happen next, but she knew that everything would be all right as long as Harden was in control.

  And as far as Kerri was concerned, he always would be.

  “How terrible.”

  “He got what he deserved,” Harden said. “It’s still terrible though, yes. This is what happens when little minds are turned to bent purposes, chasing around a helpless widow.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly helpless,” Kerri said, but he knew that despite her best efforts, she’d been in dire need of rescue. And she was lucky, and blessed, that Harden was there for her at precisely the right moment. Thought that did raise some questions in the back of Kerri’s grateful, if slightly skeptical, mind.

  “How did you know they’d be here?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Kerri considered in silent confusion before asking. “Then why are you here, Harden? And with a gun?”

  “I have friends in law enforcement; I’ve got a permit to carry.”

  “And you just happened to have a gun, with a silencer, in your car?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Why?”

  Harden smiled. “I think considering the circumstances, the better question is, why don’t you?”

  Kerri gave it some thought and she couldn’t disagree. So she finally had to ask, “What about Sandra?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I had to explain it to you the way I was explaining it to her.”

  “What, your swinging multi-lover lifestyle?”

  “Just the opposite, Kerri. I was breaking up with Sandra when you showed up. I was telling her about you, about the connection between us. I was telling her what I told the others, that nobody could take your place, that you deserved all of my heart, my soul, my life. Then you just turned up, and obviously what you saw didn’t tell you the entire story.”

  Guilt welled up in Kerri’s gut like a hot well. “Oh, Harden, I’m so sorry I doubted you. I shouldn’t have stormed off like that.”

  “I don’t blame you. But I couldn’t let you walk out of my life without explaining, so I followed you here.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “I was about five minutes behind you. I just assumed this was where you were going.”

  Kerri let a nervous moment pass before asking, “You were breaking up with her …and the others?”

  “With all of them.”

  “All of them,” Kerri repeated. “How many of them were there?”

  “Not that many, but it doesn’t matter. You're the woman I want, you’re the only woman I want! I love you, Kerri Abernathy, and I can’t imagine my life without you.”

  “Oh, Harden.—” They exchanged a deep, tender kiss, an unspoken promise of a love that would last, of a future they would spend together, if destiny would allow it. But whatever their futures, Kerri knew their present would be spent together, and that they would live for those moments for as long as they could. Their lips parted as the police and an ambulance rolled up the driveway. Kerri and Harden parted to show their empty hands as the officers and paramedics spilled out of their vehicles, police with their guns drawn.

  “Take it easy, officers,” Harden said with a calm, authoritative voice. “We’re glad you’re here, we’re unarmed, this woman is the home owner. Those two men are dead and there’s nobody else in the house.”

  Once officer asked, “You sure about that.”

  Harden turned to Kerri, their eyes locking. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.—”

  Chapter 13

  The week following the shootings was chaotic. News crews arrived, Kerri was interviewed by every major cable channel. Kerri was able to shrug it off as the business of her late husband, and that was all she really knew about it. According to her report, as Harden instructed, she claimed that it was a murder/suicide, a fight between the two men as they were trying to carry out her assassination.

  Harden’s participation was overlooked, by Kerri and by the police. That was the extent of his reach, his power, not only with the mafia but with the legal community as well. Once the police corroborated her story, the investigation was closed and everything returned to normal.

  Almost.

  Kerri began rehearsals on the new Bertram Quinn movie, and she was finding dramatic skills she’d only suspected she had. Every day brought new confidence, deeper renderings, more emotion, and her performances were creating a new buzz in Hollywood.

  Kerri Abernathy was back.

  She kept seeing Harden, going back and forth between her own house and his Malibu mansion. They enjoyed the finest foods at the fanciest restaurants and days off on his sailboat or his yacht, the sun kissing their skin, orca ever ready to leap out for a friendly greeting. They had cocktail parties with Yvonne and her husband Harvey, hosting Benjamin Stallmaster, George Hume, and a growing list of Hollywood elite.

  Kerri had never felt better in her life, and everything was lining up for a perfect future. It had only been a few months since surviving that last fateful visit from Don Paulie’s mafia foot soldiers. They had been a truly miraculous few months, promising years of security and bliss.

  One morning Kerri stepped out to take in the crisp autumn breeze. Leaves had fallen; the summertime smog receded to reveal a crisp blue to the air, clouds fluffy and white. A Lincoln’s sparrow fluttered by overhead with a little coo.

  Lovely, Kerri thought as she walked out to the mailbox at the gate. She collected the few envelopes and turned back toward the house. But something caught her eye and Kerri turned back toward the street. A familiar silver Audi was parked across the street, and it tore off as soon as Kerri took notice of it, and of the brassy red hair of the woman behind the wheel. But the car sped away before Kerri could make a positive identification, and she was left to wonder. Kerri’s worst suspicions crept into the back of her mind as she made the obvious assumption.

  Sandra Blake ? What does she want?

  Kerri thought about mentioning it to Harden, but changed her mind. No, I don’t have to run to Harden with every little thing. Did Sandra even drive an Audi, or was it a Tesla? That could just as easily have been some local realtor. Anyway, I’m not some helpless damsel in distress. If there’s something going on, I can handle it on my own.

  I’m in control now.

  Turning, Kerri brought her mail back into her house. She’d pay the bills herself, balance her checkbook, and then meet Yvonne to run lines. The spa would have to wait; Kerri Abernathy had a life to live.

  * * *

  THE END

  UNREELED

  Steele Series Book 2

  Chapter 1

  Britany Stevens ran though the old mansion, decorated with stately mahogany and walnut banisters and bookcases. Her feet slipped on the polished cherry floors, and pain shot up through her palms as she pushed herself back up and kept running for the door. Her mouth was dry, her heart pounding. She kept running, but those huge double doors didn’t seem to get any closer.

  Three red-robed men stepped in front of the doors and turned to glare at Britany from under their red hoods, their faces obscured.

  “Sacrifice,” they muttered with a halting pace, three syllables in monotone, low and soft, barely in unison. “Sacrifice.”

  A frightened gasp pushed out of Britany’s throat as she skidded to a halt, feet nearly slipping again as she cut a hard right turn and kept running. Her white dress was flimsy and free-flowing, but it bound up around her pale legs, making her escape even more difficult. Britany ran across the massive front chamber toward the music room. Two more robed thugs stepped out of the music room and slowly walked toward her, faces hidden by hands grasping and reaching out from those big red sleeves.

  “Sacrifice,” they chanted louder, voices stronger and more numerous. “Sacrifice.”

  Britany turned and ran, groups of red-robed villains gravitating toward her from different co
rners of the mansion. She ran past a full set of armor, standing against the wall and holding a massive sword. She grabbed the sword, unable to wrestle it from the armored fist. She could feel the approach of her adversaries, each bigger and stronger than she was—a five-foot-three-inch blonde from the depths of the San Fernando Valley. And they outnumbered her by about fifty to one.

  Their chant came louder and stronger, a terrifying word that struck fear into Britany’s heart and soul. “Sacrifice. Sacrifice.”

  Britany released a frightened shriek as she yanked hard at the sword. The whole suit of armor fell forward, nearly crushing her before she stepped back. It crashed to the floor, helmet rolling and steel bending and clanging. The sword came loose, the metal glove still affixed to the handle.

  Britany turned and swung the sword without even knowing how close any of those red-robed goons were. Several groups were within arm’s reach, and they pulled back when Britany swung blindly. Now that she could see how many there were, and how close, she could try to hold them back with a few swipes of that long, silver sword.

  “Sacrifice! Sacrifice!”

  She swung again, the goons backing up, and a third swipe increased the buffer zone in front of her. But two of her adversaries had sneaked up on Britany from behind, and they rushed her after her third stroke.

  “No!” she screamed as they grabbed her. Each one of them grabbed an arm, Britany looking from one to the other with desperate shock as a third ran up and grabbed the sword. She managed to plant a good hard kick into his gut and he tumbled back, but he took the sword with him.

  She was unarmed, outnumbered, and unable to free herself from their grip. She screamed, “No!” again, but it was no use. Two other monks walked up, each grabbing one of ’her calves. He kicked at them, pulling and wrenching and struggling. The four picked her up and carried her slowly across the mansion, the others following behind.

  “Sacrifice! Sacrifice!”

  “No! Lemme go!” Britany flailed with all her might, kicking her feet, yanking her arms, thoroughly in their wicked grip. She looked at one holding her arms, then the other. She strained to see their faces, buried deep in the shadows of those big, red hoods. She was searching for some humanity, some sympathy, some help.

  She would find none of those things.

  “Stop it,” she shouted, knowing it was futile but unable to withhold her increasing terror. “Please, why are you doing this?” No response came from beneath those hoods, just the repeated chant that would be her only answer.

  “Sacrifice! Sacrifice!”

  They dragged her to a long, wooden table with no chairs around it. They laid her on the table on her back, hands pinning her down. They leaned down on her arms and legs, ’her increased struggling having no affect. Her dress crept up—her legs twitching, muscles flexing—those murderous monks pressing down on her thighs to keep her pinned, one man’s hand just above the knee, another much farther up, his fingers digging into her flesh as she tried to kick him away.

  “Let go of me!”

  “Sacrifice! Sacrifice!”

  The red-robed crowd parted, one of them walking slowly toward the table. Britany looked over, thrashing against the immobile monks around her as her assassin approached and brandished a long dagger from his robe’s deadly folds.

  “No, please,” Britany said, “please, don’t!”

  ’Her gaze locked on that blade as it rose and hovered above her, its lethal point staring down at her breasts, at her heart beneath those heaving, glistening mounds. Britany tried one last time, with every ounce of strength, to free herself. But their hands were strong and they kept her pinned; despite her struggling and kicking and writhing, she wasn’t going anywhere and they knew it.

  “Sacrifice! Sacrifice!”

  “No,” Britany shouted with her last breath, “please, no!”

  The blade rose up a bit, paused for a horrible second.

  Carl Harrington pulled his hood off his head, revealing his handsome face and dusty blond hair. He pulled a gun out of his robe and shouted, “Get away from her!”

  Then he started shooting. Several robes snapped back, collapsing into lifeless heaps, the dagger falling to the hardwood floor with a clack.

  The monks rushed Carl, grabbing his arms, the gun falling out of his hands. Carl threw a viscous kick into one man’s gut and sent him toppling back. Carl yanked his arms free and started throwing punches, several of his enemies succumbing but even more closing in from every angle.

  “Aaaaaaaaand …. cut!”

  The actors stepped back and Britany sat up, turning toward the director and her crew. “How was that?”

  Kerri Abernathy got up out of the director’s chair, her own blond hair tucked under a black baseball cap with Billionaire Auction Block written in bright letters. “That was great, Britany, just great.”

  Carl Harrington asked, “How ‘bout me? How was I?”

  Kerri smiled. “You were terrific, Carl, but we’re gonna have to run it again. Lights, sound, everybody back to their marks!”

  Chapter 2

  The shoot broke for the day, and Kerri went straight back to the Malibu mansion she shared with Harden Steele. The wedding was still a few months off, but both were so busy that neither paid it much attention.

  Harden’s black hair dangled a bit over his piercing green eyes as he handed her a glass of chardonnay, crisp and cool. “Glad it’s going well, baby. I knew you could do it.”

  “Well, the movie’s not in the can yet. But I do think it’s gonna be pretty great. I can’t believe how hard it is to direct a movie. I never realized.”

  “Maybe you have a new appreciation for the people in front of the camera too.”

  Kerri couldn’t help but chuckle at herself. “It’s funny. When I was an actress, I felt kind of silly, running around screaming, getting kidnapped and decapitated and stuff. It wasn’t easy to take it seriously. But watching those actors going through their paces, I gotta say, they earn their money, no doubt.”

  Harden raised his glass. “I’m glad to hear it…since it’s our money.”

  “Our money,” Kerri said, “not yours?”

  “No, Kerri, ours.” She smiled and they each enjoyed a sip of wine. “And what’s all this when I was an actress stuff?”

  “I don't know, I just don’t think I have much of a chance. And really, that’s more a reflection on Bertram, not me.”

  “Oh please! Bertram Quinn is a hack compared to you, Kerri.”

  “He really rubbed you the wrong way, didn’t he?”

  Harden gave it a bit of thought. “I wouldn’t wanna sit down to a beer with him, no. I’m glad he helped with your career though.”

  “Helped? It was dead and gone. He didn’t help with my career, he reinvented it!”

  Harden shrugged, enjoying another sip of wine. “Maybe someday you’ll do the same for him.”

  George Hume’s graying eyebrows cramped low over his eyes, his jet-black hair almost shiny with dye. “Kerri, it’s not just about being rich.”

  “Obviously, George. I’d never have to work another day in my life, you know that. But this is my career, it’s… Well, ’it’s art. And it’s funding the campaign.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I want to talk to you about…the campaign.”

  “Those pills killed Mark. I owe it to him, and to as many others as I can reach.”

  George shook his head. “Kerri, I knew Mark McCall as well as anyone, except perhaps you.”

  “I should hope so… I was married to him.”

  “But I did know him even longer than you. I was his business manager, and yours too! And a close friend… At least I thought I was.”

  “Well, sure, George, of course.”

  “Then why don’t you ever listen to me? Nobody knows you better than I do, and nobody knew Mark better than I did. I get that I’m not some sexy billionaire, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

  “I’m not saying that, George.”

  “Then liste
n to what I’m saying. You have to look out for yourself now, Kerri. Mark is gone; there’s nothing we can do to change that. And there was nothing we could have done to save him. Mark was self-destructive, Kerri. With the booze and the drugs, the bad career choices and the gambling, nothing was going to stop him from driving over that cliff, one way or another.”

  “That may be, George. But those depression medications had him sleepwalking and driving around without even knowing it. I don’t care what the disease is, that’s no kind of cure.”

  George could only shrug, standing up to pace around his Century City office. “Kerri, I know how you feel, and I think helping people to find other, more effective treatments is a great idea. But billboards and TV commercials railing against Big Pharma just isn’t smart. They’re powerful, Kerri, powerful beyond imagination. And you’re pissing them off.”

  “Good,” Kerri said. “And if I win that Oscar—”

  “No, Kerri, please don’t.”

  “Sorry, George, it’s a done deal. Big Pharma murdered my husband and it goes on to kill people everyday. Don’t think so? Ask Brittany Murphy, ask Heath Ledger. Oh wait, you can’t…because they’re dead! Young people, strong and physically healthy, dropping dead from a heart attack? No, George, no.”

  “But what do you think you can accomplish with these billboards? I mean, Mark’s body lying on the mortician’s table?”

  “I didn’t take that picture, but since it exists I’m going to use it to show people the results of this national plague. It’s shocking, it’s ugly, yes; that’s what it’s supposed to be.”

  “But…what about your career? You don’t want people to think of you as some big-mouth crusader.”

  “In this case, that’s exactly what I want people to think of me.”

  “What does your agent think?”

  “Benjamin Stallmaster has got Oscar gold in his eyes. Nobody in Hollywood’s taking offense the way you are, George. Even Britany doesn’t care, and she’s like your niece or whatever.”