In Bed With the Billionaire

by Jackie Ashenden

  He looked down. Even in her stripper heels, the top of her head only barely reached his chin, but somehow she’d undone another couple of buttons and her lips were against his skin. Then her tongue flicked in a delicate catlike lick.

  His hands tightened on her reflexively, the little ember glowing hot, and when she glanced up at him, he saw the reflections of that heat in the gold of her eyes. A bright molten gleam.

  Another thing he hadn’t seen for years. Fire in someone’s eyes. Desire and challenge and determination all rolled into one. Yeah, years, fucking years. The women he saw were all dull-eyed with fear, with hopelessness and despair, dead inside. They were broken. But this girl wasn’t. She was whole, she was alive, and fuck … she burned.

  “You think a few open buttons, a few kisses, is enough to seduce me?” he murmured. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

  “I was trying for subtlety.” Temple’s husky voice was soft, goading, and the look she gave him from beneath her lashes was a challenge all on its own. “But if you’re not good at that, I can be more direct too.” She moved one of her hands, sliding it down his chest and over the front of his pants, the tips of her fingers tracing the line of his cock through the wool.

  A flash of heat spiked in his blood, jagged and raw and unexpected.

  He didn’t move, a part of him fascinated by his own reaction to her. Because what the fuck? There had been many women who’d tried this, desperate for his mercy, his pity, or because he was powerful, and they wanted a piece of that power. Yet he’d never had any reaction to any of them.

  But he had one now, oh yes, he fucking did. Her fingers traced him lightly, up and down in the same way as he’d touched her nipple, and he felt it. Flickers of heat, flickers of desire. Electricity firing through long-dead circuits.

  And he had no idea why. Because she wasn’t afraid? Because she had some spark of life left in her? Because he hadn’t had sex in a long, long time? Fuck if he knew, but her amber eyes were on his, watching him, gauging his reaction in much the same way as he’d watched her, and he was starting to get hard.

  Jesus. He barely got a morning hard-on these days let alone responded to a woman’s touch. What was she? Magic? She was no stripper, though. He had no idea what she was.

  “Anyone can do direct,” he murmured.

  “Sure, but I think you like direct.” Her hand didn’t stop its lazy, almost hypnotic movement, fingers sliding up and down. One corner of that cupid’s bow of a mouth turned up, the ember in her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “In fact, maybe you don’t need a blue pill after all.”

  Curiosity. It had always been his downfall. From the day he’d first followed his beloved father into one of Manhattan’s seedier neighborhoods to see where he went on his mysterious “trips,” propelled by that same fucking curiosity. The thing that had led to him to this point, where he was head of the largest trafficking operation in Europe, if not the entire world.

  He shouldn’t listen to it. He should have learned his lesson.

  “Are you going to kill me, kitten?” He stared down at her, keeping himself still, watching that fucking light in her eyes, that leaping flame. “Is that what you’re after?”

  She didn’t look away from him, didn’t stop touching him. “Maybe. Maybe I just want you to fuck me.”

  He smiled. “Ah, but you don’t understand. I don’t care what you want. And if I want to fuck you, I will, whether you want me to do it or not.”

  Perhaps the cold note he put in his voice gave her pause, because he recognized the flicker of expression on her face: She was reassessing her strategy.

  He waited, his curiosity deepening even further despite the fact that he had shit to do and no time to be standing around letting a pretty girl get him hard. She really was very determined to be chosen by him tonight, wasn’t she? Was it purely for the rumored special treatment? Or did she want something else? He’d been very careful with the women he helped escape. Very careful to make sure no one knew. The only other person who knew what he really did with those women was Dmitri, his bodyguard.

  Maybe she did want to kill him.

  The thought didn’t bother him in the slightest.

  “Well how about you stop talking about it and just fucking do it,” Temple said softly, and there was no trace of fear in her voice, her gaze very direct and no longer flirtatious. “I’m strong. I can take anything you give me.”

  “That’s not something you want to say to a man like me.” His voice had a slightly rougher edge to it than he’d intended.

  “Oh really? I’ve heard you have … demanding tastes.” She touched her tongue delicately to her upper lip, a deliberately sensual gesture. “Maybe I’d like to try them.”

  No, she really didn’t.

  And you shouldn’t either.

  But his conscience had been getting fainter and fainter over the years, and these days he barely heard it. He didn’t listen to it now.

  Yes, he had shit to do, and it was time to get out of here. Get back to his 7th Arrondissement apartment, go over all the intel he’d managed to collect about his father’s U.S. operations. He needed that alliance to tap into information about the trafficking networks there. It was the last piece of the puzzle, the final hurdle before he could bring the whole fucking thing down.

  He’d been a fool to leave it this long. A sentimental asshole. Negotiating with his father and getting the prick on his side should have been the first thing to do, but he hadn’t done it. He’d concentrated on Europe and Eastern Europe first. A mistake. Because now his father was dead, and chaos had followed in his wake.

  He couldn’t allow that chaos to spread any further.

  Catching her wrist, Jericho held it, pressing her palm against his inexplicably hardening cock. Fuck this curiosity. She was the closest threat to deal with, and perhaps he’d have her, perhaps he wouldn’t, but one thing he was sure of: He was going to find out every fucking thing about her.

  And maybe once he had, she’d wish she’d changed her mind about wanting to be his for the night.

  Her eyes had widened, and he thought he saw triumph in them. Silly kitten. She didn’t know whom she was playing with, not really. Time for her to find out.

  “Is that a yes?” Her voice was slightly breathless.

  He didn’t answer. Instead he released her and stepped back, turning to the chair and bending to pick up the black cashmere overcoat that he’d thrown over the back of it. Straightening, he turned back to her and tossed her the coat.

  She caught it, a crease between her brows. “Do I … put this on?”

  Ah, how sweet. Did she think he was being gentlemanly? That he’d given it to her to keep her warm or so that she could cover up her nakedness? She would learn. “Of course not.” He let a thread of lazy amusement wind through his voice. “I need a slave to carry it.”

  He caught another flicker of expression on her face, but it was gone before he could tell what it was, her features smoothing, lashes fluttering down. “I guess I’ll carry it then.”

  “Like you have a choice.” He lifted his hand in a small gesture that would call Dmitri in. “That’s your first lesson for the night, Temple. You have no choices. Not anymore.”

  “Is that supposed to make me afraid?”

  “I don’t know, does it?”

  That spark glittered beneath her copper lashes. Defiant. “Oh, you’ll have to do better than that if you want to make me afraid.”

  And he felt it again, that raw, jagged flash, that heat deep inside. The predator stirring. The one he’d sealed in a metaphorical concrete box and dumped into the middle of a metaphorical ocean where it could never, ever escape.

  A dark, possessive predator. That wanted to keep. To own.

  He let his smile turn sharp. “Maybe I will, kitten. Maybe I will.”

  The door to the VIP room opened, and he turned as Dmitri came in, a tall, icy Russian wall of belligerence and barely suppressed violence.

  “Boss?” Dmitri a
sked in Russian.

  Temple was silent, her golden eyes watching him.

  “Bring her,” Jericho ordered his bodyguard curtly in the same language. “She’s mine for the night.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was cold as Temple stepped out onto the sidewalk dressed only in her pasties, thong, and heels. So much for spring in Paris. It was April, and yet the bite of winter was still in the air, making goose bumps erupt all over her skin.

  The street was dark, the streetlights dim and so too were the stars. Ironic names the City of Light, the City of Love. Because there was no light and no love here, not where she was. This famous strip club for rich VIPs, Le Papillon Bleu, was a front for so much darkness, so much pain. If only those VIPs knew where the girls had come from …

  But no, they probably wouldn’t care even if they did. Men were like that.

  She gripped Jericho’s overcoat tightly as he spoke to a couple of men just outside the club’s entrance. He’d made her stand behind him, warned her not to speak on pain of death, but that was fine. She didn’t want to say anything anyway, hoping to be able to listen instead to what they were talking about. Sadly they were speaking in French, and she didn’t understand a word.

  Fuck. Perhaps she should have taken up French in addition to all that martial-arts training.

  A cold wind whipped around her bare legs, but she was practiced at ignoring physical discomfort, so she barely felt it. People walked past her on the sidewalk, their gazes lingering on her, noting her mostly nakedness, yet she ignored them as well, too busy watching the interaction going on in front of her. Too busy watching Jericho.

  The neon from the club illuminated the beautiful planes and angles of his face in a wash of silver, turning his hair gilt and bleaching the gold from his eyes, making them seem silver-green, unearthly.

  He was so very beautiful, and that got to her. It didn’t seem fair that he should look like that, not when she knew the rottenness deep at the core of him. A man who bought and traded women. Who sold them into slavery, into death, and made money out of it.

  She shifted on her feet, staring at him, the softness of his cashmere coat against her skin. Luxury and wealth. Did he do it all for that? Or was it the power? Men loved power, loved being in control, so maybe it was that. Not that she was curious about his motives, not in the slightest. He’d taken Thalia, he’d created this evil. And he would pay. Simple as that.

  Jericho said something, and the men around him laughed. Smug, arrogant male laughter.

  Temple schooled her features, keeping the instinctive rush of anger locked away. Rage made a good fuel, but Jackson had taught her well: never let it burn out of control or else it would end up being less of a fuel and more of a liability.

  A flash of silver and emerald as Jericho’s attention shifted to her, his gaze catching hers. He said something else in a low, purring voice, and the men around him suddenly looked at her too. There was more laughter.

  The prick. This was a power play, wasn’t it? Or a test of some sort. Her standing there in the cold, holding his coat while half naked.

  She looked away, directing her gaze to the pavement, giving them back nothing. If she didn’t present them with anything to interest them, they’d soon forget about her. Besides, it wasn’t the rest of these men she wanted. Only him.

  There was more talk, the rise and fall of voices, the beautiful cadence of French conversation washing over her.

  Jesus, she wished she could speak it. She’d be extremely interested to know what they were talking about.

  She shifted again, her heels scraping on the pavement. Her mouth felt tender, reminding her uncomfortably of that kiss, the burn of it lingering on her skin. Which was annoying. And no, for fuck’s sake, she wasn’t going to think about that. Not the feel of his lips on hers or the way she’d opened her mouth to let him in or how her body had relaxed against his.

  That was just simple reaction, nothing more. A kiss was meaningless. Sex was meaningless except for how it could be used as a weapon, and she’d used that particular weapon before.

  Men weren’t difficult to handle—show them a pair of tits and they were anyone’s. Except with her, they were more often dead.

  Yeah, there were bonuses to being female, and in her humble opinion it only made her a better assassin.

  Jericho turned from the men he’d been talking to, the group breaking up, some going back into the club, a few others setting off down the sidewalk and disappearing into the darkness. He didn’t look at her, heading straight toward the long black limo that waited at the curb.

  The big Russian guy who looked like a bodyguard was waiting by the limo door, pulling it open for him.

  Without turning, Jericho lifted a hand and she knew that he was gesturing for her to follow, so she moved over to the limo, waiting until he’d gotten inside before getting in too.

  The interior was warm and smelled of expensive leather, and it made her shiver in spite of herself as the bodyguard shut the door after them, closing out the cold night air.

  Jericho paid no attention to her, taking a call on his cell, settling back in his seat as he did so. He was speaking in German now, switching languages without any apparent effort.

  The car pulled away from the curb, out into the narrow street, and Temple resisted the urge to spread the soft cashmere coat in her hands over her cold legs, keeping hold of it in her lap instead.

  The warmth of the car was insidious, stealing through her and making her want to relax, but she didn’t. There could be no dropping her guard, not now, not here, and definitely not with him.

  Streetlights moved across the black leather of the seats, shining on Jericho’s face. He was sitting back with one ankle up on one knee, his arm lying along the back of the seat. Even speaking the harsh German consonants, his voice sounded like molten caramel. Holy shit, that was a weapon all on its own.

  Temple took a breath, allowing herself a small moment of triumph. Okay, so this was all going according to plan. She’d managed to get him to choose her for the night and regardless of what would happen once they’d gotten there, it was a start. She’d get him to talk, get him to reveal his secrets and then, once she’d found out what happened to Thalia, she’d deliver her punishment.

  Simple.

  She just needed to figure out the best way to get him to talk, although that really wasn’t too difficult to figure out. Especially given his response to the way she’d touched him earlier.

  Her fingers tingled at the remembered heat she’d felt all the way through the wool of his suit pants. At the feel of him slowly hardening, long and thick under her hands.

  “Are you going to kill me, kitten?”

  Her feeling of satisfaction abruptly drained away and she looked down at the expensive coat in her lap, smoothing it in a reflexive gesture. He was too perceptive, that was the problem and her usual defenses weren’t working so great tonight. He’d seen past her scared stripper act almost instantly, which left her with only one option. Being herself. A dangerous prospect.

  Against her better judgment, she glanced at him, expecting him to be deep in conversation and not paying any attention to her whatsoever.

  But he wasn’t. He was still talking to whoever was on the phone, but his green-gold eyes were looking straight at her.

  Something kicked deep in her gut, and she couldn’t tell whether it was that long-forgotten emotion fear, or whether it was something else. Something even more alien. Desire.

  Jesus, that was disturbing. A part of her wanted to look away from him, but she’d be damned if she showed him that kind of vulnerability, so she didn’t, holding his gaze instead.

  Come at me, prick. I’m fucking untouchable. But you’re not.

  His mouth turned up in a faint smile, but he kept looking at her as he spoke, watching her as if she was fascinating to him in some way, as if he was waiting for her to do something and didn’t want to miss it.

  Well, hell. If he was waiting for her to do something
, perhaps she shouldn’t disappoint him. Slowly she lifted the coat across her lap, shook it out a little. Then with a certain amount of deliberation, she slid her arms into it and drew it around herself, keeping her gaze on his as she did so.

  Yeah, asshole. I’m not going to carry your fucking coat anymore. I’m going to wear it like it was mine.

  His expression didn’t change, but his gaze followed her every movement.

  She smiled at him, settling back against the seat and kicking her feet up onto the cushions of the seat opposite her, the shiny silver stilettos gleaming in the light. The expensive fabric felt good against her chilled skin, warming her up nicely, and it smelled good too, of cinnamon and sandalwood …

  Him.

  Jericho murmured an “auf wiedersehen” into his phone then punched one of the buttons. Carelessly he threw the phone onto the seat cushions near where she’d put her feet and turned, angling his body around so he nearly faced her. His wide shoulders pressed up against the window of the limo, his head tilted against the glass, one arm on the back of the seat.

  “I told you to carry my coat, not wear it.” His voice was mild, a certain kind of cold amusement glimmering in his eyes.

  She lifted a shoulder. “I got a little chilly. Standing around in a thong and pasties while a group of assholes talk about nothing can do that to a girl.” She shot him a glance from underneath her lashes. “Anyway, you’re not wearing it.”

  His gaze traveled over her, all the way to where her feet rested on the leather seat opposite then back again. “You’re pushing, kitten. And I can’t figure out whether you think that’s a smart move or whether you’re merely too stupid to understand what you’re doing.” Those cold, sharp green eyes rested on hers. “You’re not a stripper. You’re not a whore. And something tells me you’re not a poor exchange student studying dance either. Because if you were, you’d be sitting there with your mouth closed, not wrapping my coat around yourself and putting your feet on my new leather seats while talking about assholes.”