Unwrapped by The Billionaire

by Joanna Nicholson

  Vanessa nuzzled her face into his chest. Aaron sighed and pulled away, looking her in the eyes.

  “Someone… poisoned me,” he began, and her face contorted into a look of pure concern. “Someone poisoned my father and me, both, to infiltrate our company.”

  “What?” Vanessa demanded, sitting up. “Are you okay? When was this? Who poisoned you?” Her mouth was spouting questions, unspooling like a roll of thread dropped on the ground.

  “Everything’s all right,” Aaron said, calmly. Vanessa lay back down next to him, pulling the covers up over her breasts. “I don’t know for sure who it was,” he continued, “but I think I know who. I’ve placed Mr. Lee in charge of my father’s care while we’re here. He should improve. As for me… though…” Aaron sighed.

  What made the situation so much worse was that it was utterly nonsensical. Aaron had become a walking parody, a mythical being that he thought only existed in fairy tales. How could he tell Vanessa such an absurdity? It sounded asinine even when he thought it. How could he convince her that it was real?

  “I was given a rare, military-grade serum,” Aaron belted out. “This serum causes me to… transform…”

  “Into what?” Vanessa cut him off, intrigued.

  “The military doctor called it a… werebear,” Aaron said, gulping. “As in, a werewolf bear.”

  Silence fell across the room, and only the lapping of the waves could be heard outside as the landscape of the Maldives revved up for another day, totally unaware of the confession made within these walls. Aaron let his head fall into his hands, hopeless, wondering how to salvage the morning. He’d ruined the conversation, unleashing this venom of a secret to someone who—rightfully so—couldn’t take it all in.

  Something stirred inside Vanessa; curling up around her soul. Her mind sizzled with a mix of fear and confusion bubbling up together in tandem with one another. What is a werebear? Her mind spiraled with the question, over and over again, until it no longer sounded ridiculous in her train of thought. It was intriguing somehow; overpowering in its allure. The notion of being craved by this beast of a man with rippling muscles and overflowing appeal. His confession felt more and more normal with each wave of realization across her mind; so much so that Vanessa didn’t even feel the need to sour the moment with her own commentary.

  “Aaron,” Vanessa broke the stillness. “What do you want out of life?”

  Shock drizzled through him. “What?” he asked, lifting his head to face her.

  “What do you want out of life?” she asked again. “Have you already achieved your dreams? Are you still searching for something?”

  He let his eyes wander outside to the cyan sea, and the way the sunlight glimmered across the surface of the waves. All he wanted was normalcy, to be average, to not be considered such a commodity.

  “I want… to be a regular guy,” he confessed. “I want a house, I want a wife, I want to barbecue in the backyard and drink beer with my friends. I want to talk about sports, not stocks. I want to fix things in the garage. I want to read all the newspaper sections, not just the finance and business parts. I want… to be average,” Aaron said, looking into her eyes.

  “Have you ever told anyone before?” she questioned, curiously.

  “No one’s ever asked me,” he replied.

  Chapter 21

  In the months following his trip to the Maldives, Aaron was informed that his assumption about his former secretary’s involvement in the case was false. His father was still deteriorating, even after a quick jump in his health. In what felt like a move of ultimate betrayal, Mr. Lee was taken into federal custody on two charges of attempted murder, having stolen the serum from an unknown merchant on the black market.

  “Why did you do it?” Aaron said into the phone as he stared into Mr. Lee’s eyes, sunken and gray, across the plexiglass barrier. “Why would you do this to us?”

  “You never respected me,” Mr. Lee hissed. “I had worked for your father since before you were born. I should have owned the company by now. I should be in charge. I was loyal for decades, but Charlie never cared about me. I was stuck, unable to move up, wasting my time. I wanted him gone. I wanted you gone. I wanted to win.”

  “How did you inject the poison into me? How did you make me into such a monster?” Aaron was desperate for answers; his brain seemed to turn itself inside-out in longing to understand how all this happened.

  “I spiked your coffee,” snarled Mr. Lee, his eyes somersaulting in their turpitude. “The morning of the meeting with the investors. I placed a tasteless sedative in a single serving of decaf coffee and poured it into a mug as soon as I saw Desiree coming. Once you were knocked out, I injected you with the serum...the same serum I plunged into your father’s bloodstream in sustained, nearly-lethal doses. I kept him alive just long enough to name me as his successor. And yet...he never did...” Mr. Lee’s wicked confession trailed off, leaving Aaron with the constricting depravity of his words.

  “My father could read people,” Aaron said slowly, measuredly. “He could have sensed this behavior in you, Mr. Lee. That’s probably the reason that you never moved up in the company, not me.”

  Hatred emanated from Mr. Lee’s pores as he spit at Aaron’s face across the windowpane. The two guards supervising the visit immediately snapped to action, dragging Mr. Lee back into the dingy recesses of the federal prison where he was held, awaiting the death sentence. Sighing, Aaron held his thumbs tightly within his fingers for a few seconds before getting up to leave. This was his coping mechanism, this helped him calm down. Over time, Aaron learned the value in stress-management strategies, always testing and trying new ways to prevent a transformation. In times of intense anxiety, Aaron could squeeze his thumbs at the pressure points to release dopamine through his body to create waves of contentment.

  Behind the wheel of the Tesla he’d traded for his old bachelor’s Porsche, Aaron took in the fields of unending green across the rural California landscape. Mountains sketched themselves out across the brilliant blue of the southwestern sky and birds flitted through the wind gusts, chirping and singing a soundtrack of inextinguishable joy. He sold Kümertech to a rival company, which absorbed his albatross with open arms. Now, Aaron did what he wanted, when he wanted, and didn’t have to keep up the masquerade of detached indifference.

  Aaron pulled into the driveway of a house he’d bought shortly after his return from the Maldives. Emma ran out to greet him as he closed the car door, bounding across the yard only to be swooped up in his arms and spun around until they both fell in their dizziness on the landing pad of the grass. Vanessa watched from the window, spinning in her own form of dizzy joy at the sight of the two of them together, giving each other companionship they’d never had before.

  For Emma, Aaron was a big brother and a father figure rolled into one. For Aaron, Emma was a window into a life of joy, of compassion, of innocence, of hope. For Vanessa, they were bridges to a family she didn’t think she deserved, the new and improved version of the family that was ripped away from her. She was nearing her twenty-third birthday, and her life had painted itself in ways that she lacked the artistic ability to imagine. Watching Aaron gaze up at clouds with Emma in the grass, pointing out cloud formations and giggling at the possibilities, Vanessa’s heart was bursting. This was her life now.

  5. The Big Billionaire’s Mistress

  By: Natasha Spencer

  The Big Billionaire’s Mistress

  © November 2017 – All rights reserved

  By Natasha Spencer,

  Published by Passionate Publishing Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. All names and characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  This book is for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Warning

  This book is intended for adult readers,
18+ years old. Please close this e-book if you are not comfortable reading adult content.

  Chapter 1

  "llo?"

  Guillaume sighed at the sound of her voice, but there was no time to flirt. He took one last look at the man making his way to the car then delivered the bad news, “L'oiseau vole au sud.”

  ‘Bien,” was all the clipped voice on the other end said before hanging up.

  Guillaume had expected no less and felt sorry for her – but he had a job to do and there was nothing he could do about it, whatsoever. Not for her, not for any of them.

  He gave his boss a perfunctory “good morning,” as the man stepped into the car then slammed the door after him. Guillaume got into the driver’s seat, revved the engine, and drove the limo off. It never once occurred to him to expect a response.

  “Bonjour,” came the distracted reply before the window clicked shut between them. That surprised Guillaume and made him wonder if he’d misunderstood. Too late, now. He couldn’t call back. And what if he was right? Better to give them the benefit of a doubt, poor things.

  Several miles away, a very ugly and modern high-rise building squatted at the corner of Rue Censier and Rue Geoffrey-Saint-Hilaire in the 5th arrondissement. The fact that it was surrounded by a row of trees on two sides did nothing to mitigate its ugliness, whatsoever. If anything, those trees and the more traditional looking buildings that surrounded it, made it look even uglier than it already was.

  Fortunately, it looked a lot better inside – depending on where one’s tastes lay. It was a combination of futurism and Japanese minimalism – all white, straight lines with a minimum of color, interspersed here and there with potted plants to keep it from looking too sterile. Several massive, framed photographs, all in monochromatic black-and-white and sepia tones, graced the walls. These depicted pre-WWII European cityscapes in marked contrast to the ultra-modernist interior they inhabited.

  In it were people: all professionally dressed, complete with bland, distracted, or smug expressions, as well as quite a few sleepy-looking ones who went about their business. All looked supremely confident in a calm and efficient manner. It wouldn’t last.

  “The bird is flying south!” Marie yelled to everyone within earshot, still cradling her cellphone in her ear. “I repeat: the bird is flying south!”

  People froze. Outside, two window washers dangled on their precarious bench and gawked as they beheld the spectacle before them. It was as if they were watching a movie set in some dystopian futuristic office somewhere in Tokyo and someone pressed the pause button. But that, too, wouldn’t last.

  Pandemonium broke out as people passed the information on to the other offices and levels. They yelled into hallways, into stairwells, into offices, into toilets, and toilet stalls. They screeched into their phones or tapped away text messages when all they got was the answering service. Yet others picked up phones on their desks to bark the same warning.

  And it wasn’t just the white collar workers who panicked. Security staff, food trolley pushers, janitors, and cafeteria personnel gasped and passed on the dreaded code. Even the bike couriers sat up straight and looked at each other with wide, fearful eyes.

  “Aller! Aller! Aller!” hissed one at a secretary who was taking too damned long to sign the paperwork. “Go! Go! Go!” he translated in case the woman didn’t understand French for some reason; or perhaps in the desperate hope that she’d somehow respond better to English than to her native French.

  “¡Apúrate!” was the Spanish-language version barked by an Argentinian immigrant to another secretary. In his panic he’d forgotten his French and had reverted back to his native tongue, “¡Apúrate, por favor!”

  On the building’s highest floor and in the biggest office, Marie sat quietly as the storm surge exploded around her and burst forth throughout the building’s many floors. She had given the warning, so her job was done. She knew exactly what her boss wanted, how he wanted it, and when.

  It’s why she and most everyone else came in early – to impress. In her case, she also made sure that everything in her boss’ office, in his reception room, in his personal toilet, and on the roof deck where he liked to unwind was exactly as he required it to be.

  She had also called in the best pastry makers to ensure that their clients had the best of the best – only the finest to delight the eyes, nose, and tongue. Ditto with the meats and breads. As for the coffee, only the best, as well: Blue Mountain flown in from Jamaica. And despite the fact that it was only a little past eight in the morning – the finest wines, just in case.

  So while everyone else was running around like chickens with their heads cut off, Marie calmly saw to it that the conference room was stocked in a way fit for royalty. She let Olivie, her assistant, take care of the front desk. If the bird needed to call, he’d call her cellphone directly like Guillaume did.

  Not for her the crazed and panicked whirlwind that gripped the office every other week or month. All around her, everyone went hysterical as they double checked their work stations, sections, and whatever other sector of the building they worked in or were responsible for. Not for her the last minute checking of suits, ties, belts, shoelaces, and whatever other accoutrements everyone else wore to the office.

  Because Marie had a secret. It kept her safe and ensured that she’d get to retire from this company when she wanted to. Equally important, it ensured that she was safe from the tempests of the man who signed her paychecks.

  And so, of all the hundreds of people who worked in the modern building with an ugly exterior and an Architectural Digest-esque interior, Marie was the only one who didn’t dread that most dreaded of all codes: “L'oiseau vole au sud.” The bird is flying south.

  *****

  Amanda Sorensen couldn’t believe her luck – she was in Paris! Not her first time, since it was just across the Channel from her native London, of course. But this time, she was here to live. And most importantly, to work. Perhaps just as important, she was no longer in London.

  To her surprise, she found herself breathing easier for the first time in months. It had nothing to do with the air, though Paris in August was a lot warmer than London. A lot less muggy, too. It was paradise, actually... well, except for all the tourists. But she was used to that.

  No, she was able to breathe a lot easier because crossing the Channel had lifted the cloud that had hung over her since August of last year. It was a wonder they even hired her, given how unsmiling she’d been in her interview. Fortunately, it had been exactly the right thing to do. The interviewer had been French, after all, which explained everything.

  Amanda had to remind herself of that as she walked across the Pont de Sully Bridge over the Seine River – don’t walk about smiling like an American tourist. It annoys the French and makes them uncomfortable, at best, or makes them tempted to take advantage of you, at worst.

  Her job didn’t actually start for another thirty minutes, but she wanted to take in as much of the city as she could while it still looked fresh for her. It was important to do so before work and the habit of living here made her immune to its charms.

  Nor did she want to rush. Bad form to turn up at the office frazzled, sweaty, and disheveled. Best to give herself a lot of leeway and make an early start. She was lucky to live relatively close to her new job, close enough to walk to, that is, given the cost of real estate in central Paris. And a good thing, too.

  Because it was tourist season. Despite it being so early in the morning, the streets were already crammed with gawkers from all over the world – stopping, staring, pointing, snapping pictures, walking in packs thick enough to clog up the sidewalks, and generally just being a nuisance.

  Stop it! she snapped at the evil twin sister who lived in her head. It’s over, you’re in Paris, and you have a great job, so stop being such a bitch, already!

  But not here – here being the Pont de Sully. She had just left the Île Saint-Louis (an islet between Paris’ Left and Right Banks) on her wa
y to the Left Bank. For some strange reason, there were hardly any tourists here, at all. They were all gawking at the other sites, no doubt, giving the local residents a breath of fresh air and much needed elbow room.

  “Please!” said a high-pitched male voice in thickly accented English. “Can you take picture?”

  Amanda yelped in surprise and nearly fell over backward. Where the devil did he come from!? Her good mood vanished. She was about to tell him to go to hell, to get the heck out of her way, to stop waving the damned camera at her face, and to go back to wherever the bejeezus he came from. Then she kicked herself for that last thought and hated herself instantly.

  If the man picked up on any of these thoughts, he gave no sign of it, whatsoever. He was instead grinning from ear to ear and looked so boyishly out of his mind with joy, that Amanda hated herself even more. Beside him, leaning against the bridge’s iron balustrade, was a gorgeous, petite Asian woman beaming and bowing at her with equal delight.

  Amanda looked at the woman a little wistfully, but the couple’s joy was so pure, it infected her. She vowed to really hate herself again later with a vengeance. In fact, she’d even punish herself by maybe running an extra hour after work. And by not stepping into that pastry shop on her way home. There! That should do it!

  Satisfied by her avowed penance, the mask she’d worn since stepping out of her apartment melted and she grinned. “I’d love to!”

  Amanda had taken up photography back in grade school and had even received a few awards for some of her work. Hoping to make up for her uncharitable thoughts, she decided that the best thing would be to include important landmarks in the background so that the couple could show off to friends and family back home – wherever that was.

  Standing on the Pont de Sully as they were, the location was perfect. The Notre Dame Cathedral loomed in the background further down the Seine. Between the cathedral and where they stood were the old buildings that lined the Right Bank along the Quai de Béthune. It was absolutely perfect!