Billionaire Erotic Romance Boxed Set: 7 Steamy Full-Length Novels

by Priscilla West

  I stood my ground. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Either way I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t date potential clients,” I said, hoping the brush-off would end the personal discussion and we could return to talking about business.

  Those seductive lips so close to mine curved into a smile. “Who says anything about dating? I just want to finish what you started this morning.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We were here.” He gently but firmly took my hand in his and placed it on his chest. The move caught me off guard and all I could do was suck in a deep breath when I felt the sudden warmth of his body and the strong beat of his heart beneath my palms. “Let’s move it further.” He began to move my hand slowly downward. As my fingertips traced the hard contours at the base of his pecs and the firm cut of his stomach through his shirt, goosebumps ran across my skin and the hairs on the back of my neck stiffened. My pulse quickened and my lips parted to accommodate faster breaths. It wasn’t until my fingers reached the base of his stony abs that my mind caught up and I pulled away.

  “This morning was an innocent mistake,” I shot back, aware I was more aroused than offended by the gesture. “I don’t know what kind of girl you think I am exactly, but I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

  “I do.” His sexy voice could tear down any woman’s defenses. I knew I had to get away, afraid I wouldn’t be an exception.

  “Good for you. Thank you for the drink Mr. Sorenson but if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my friend.” I rose from my seat with the intention of leaving but turned back to that gorgeous face one last time. “If you’re still interested in Waterbridge-Howser, you have Richard’s number.”

  His lips curled into that same wicked smile from earlier. “We’ll be in touch.”

  When I returned to Riley’s table, she was by herself.

  “What happened to the British guy?” I asked.

  “I got bored with him. But nevermind that. What happened with you and you know who?”

  “Nothing. It was just a professional discussion. All business.” I was trying to convince myself as much as her.

  “Yeah, right. You’re going to get laid tonight.”

  I shook my head vehemently. “No,” I repeated. “Let’s go. I’ve had enough of this place.”

  Chapter Four

  We had taken off two hours ago from Cape Town International and were heading back to JFK. Riley and I had made the most out of the rest of our stay; we hadn’t had fun like that in a long time and I was already dreading returning to work. While I enjoyed working at Waterbridge-Howser, no job beat out long scenic hikes around Cape Town and watching Riley flirt with the locals.

  I looked over to see Riley still fast asleep next to me, her head lolling on the backrest. If only I could get a few minutes of shuteye. Riley had tried to prod me about what happened between Vincent and me at the bar, but I left it vague, knowing that she would never let it drop if she knew the truth.

  My head still pounded from the celebratory shots she insisted we take for our last “night” in South Africa. She had made some new friends on the beach who took us to the best viewing spot in town, and we’d stayed up all night watching the sun rise over Table Mountain. I had to admit, it was gorgeous, but we regretted it afterwards when we had to pack and head to the airport. Bleary eyed with the beginnings of what I was sure would be an awful hangover, we dragged ourselves to the gate and boarded. Riley had fallen asleep almost as soon as she sat down.

  The ding of the seatbelt sign brought my attention back to the folder open in front of me. Richard had sent me an email late the previous night asking me to look over Vincent’s file again. He was nervous that Vincent hadn’t called us yet, which made me nervous as well.

  We hadn’t seen any sign of Vincent Sorenson after that night at the bar. When we were exploring the wilderness around Cape Town, I was half expecting him to pop out of a forested area nearby locked in a mortal engagement with a panther, or make a dramatic appearance by falling out of the sky with a parachute. Something death defying. But there was nothing.

  That night, Vincent had been so close to me I could smell the masculine scent of whiskey and spice from his clothes. I remembered his mouth lingering close to mine as he trailed my fingers down the chiseled expanse of his torso. I wondered how his lips would feel against my exposed neck. Would his kisses be soft or desperate?

  I shook the thought out of my head as I flipped through Vincent’s file. He had studied mechanical engineering at Berkeley, though his professors would have said he had majored in surfing, and mechanical engineering was just his pastime. He graduated and promptly took up a life of surfing and seasonal jobs. But a few years later, he designed and built the first prototype of his surfboard camera by himself in his apartment—he seemed like he knew how to use his hands and was obviously into mixing business with the rest of his life.

  I recalled the texture of his hands from when he pulled my hand to his chest at the bar. They were neatly maintained but strong and calloused from all his outdoor activities. A slow heat gathered in my core as I imagined him sliding them up my thighs—I had resisted him in Cape Town but I wasn’t sure I could resist his intimate touch again.

  I shook my head. One encounter with Vincent Sorenson and I was already squirming in my panties. Since when did I start fantasizing about near strangers, and potential clients at that? Besides, anything happening between me and Vincent was bound to be a dead end. Those women around him at the bar were a thread away from having their dresses pooled on the floor. How could I compete with that? Did I even want to? I’d made a mistake with a man like that once, but I wasn’t about to do it again.

  Riley let out a soft snore, her head rolled with the tilting of the plane and stopped gently on my shoulder. She always made it seem so easy. If she wanted a guy, nine times out of ten, she got him. What would she have done with Vincent? I shook away the thought.

  Whatever reason Vincent Sorenson had for not contacting us, I just hoped it didn’t have to do with me shooting down his advances. I put the papers carefully back into the folder and tucked them away. Vincent was only a dangerous fantasy that needed to disappear. I leaned my head back and pulled the itchy airline blanket over my head, hoping to get some sleep before we arrived in New York.

  ***

  My legs were rubber and sweat drenched the shirt on my back. I was willing my legs to move but they wouldn’t. The air was the consistency of mud. What was I running from?

  Run. Just run.

  Fear coiled in the pit of my stomach and I wanted to vomit.

  Someone was behind me. Blue eyes burning hot and cold at the same time behind thick spectacles. How can he be so fast? He grabbed my arm, twisting it behind me. Pain flashed through my shoulder, but I couldn’t open my mouth to scream.

  The shrieking of my alarm clock woke me up. I ripped my sheets off, damp with sweat. Damn it, I’d thought I was over that. I shook my numb right arm, aware I must’ve been sleeping on it all night, and clumsily hit my hand against the nightstand in confusion before I realized the alarm clock had fallen on the floor. Reaching down, I picked it up and squinted at the red letters. 7:00 a.m. I got up and snuck into the bathroom, noting Riley’s bedroom door was still closed. She didn’t have to get to work until nine, and she usually slept in until the absolute last minute.

  My heart rate had slowed to normal by the time I finished my morning shower and dressed myself for work. I took the elevator down, sipping on my breakfast smoothie. Broccoli, oatmeal, protein powder, orange juice, a banana and yogurt: it was the breakfast of champions. Riley introduced me to it as a hangover cure, but it quickly became my go to morning snack. Looking at my reflection in the elevator doors, I decided I’d definitely dressed the part of a professional in my white blouse, a-line skirt, and black heels. Heck, if I had a few million dollars I’d trust myself with the money.

  I power walked the streets of the Lower West side until I reached the subway station, onl
y slowing to step over the manhole covers to avoid getting my heels stuck. At the intersection, a herd of commuters merged with me. Men and women in business suits moved in perfect synchronicity, all without any conversation.

  That was the strangest thing about New York City I had never gotten used to. People could be right on top of one another but no one ever said a word. It was similar in Boston where I went to college and worked for a year afterward, but before that I lived in Coppell, Texas, where nearly everyone knew your name. You just felt more like a person when people actually recognized your existence.

  I still thought of Texas as home, even though I hadn’t been back in years. My parents still lived there but we’d been out of touch since I left for college. They were workaholics and expected the same of me—at the expense of my childhood and a real relationship with them. I wasn’t bitter, but I also wasn’t fond of their attempts to steer my life. They had their own lives now and I had mine.

  The waves of commuters swept me along with them into the Bowling Green Station. I supposed ignoring strangers was a coping mechanism when you lived in a city of eight million. You couldn’t learn the names of everyone even if you wanted to.

  Twenty minutes later, I stepped out of the elevator on the forty-eighth floor of the gleaming steel and glass structure that was home to Waterbridge-Howser. A marble accented mahogany reception desk greeted me. Aluminum letters spelling out the company’s name hung tastefully on the wall behind the desk. The conference room to the right was empty, the view of the park filtering through it. Every detail was designed to demonstrate wealth and power. Appearances were important in this business.

  I navigated through the cubicle maze to my desk. We weren’t packed together as tightly as possible, but it wasn’t the open office plan of a design studio either. Tall dividers gave analysts their privacy as they investigated investment opportunities. Some analysts, like myself, were experienced enough to talk to clients directly, answering their questions and handling minor issues so the higher-ups would be free to work on bringing in more business. The managers’ offices formed the perimeter of every floor, each one with a window view. The partners of the firm had their own section of the floor, and they only ever emerged to speak to the managers.

  I dropped my satchel onto my desk and pulled out Vincent’s file before heading through the outer rim of the cubicle corral to Richard’s office. His door was half open and he was typing something on his computer.

  “Richard, you wanted to meet about Mr. Sorenson?”

  “Yes. Come in. Did you look over his file?” he said, not looking away from his screen.

  “I checked everything and even reviewed our proposal. Our suggestions were very reasonable based on what we know about his finances.”

  Richard looked directly at me. “Any idea why he hasn’t called us yet?”

  In a second of irrationality, I thought about blurting out the details of meeting Vincent at the bar but decided it better if Richard didn’t know anything about that. Besides, it was irrelevant. If anything, Vincent would have been more interested in working with us after that meeting.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe another firm got to him before us?” I remembered Richard’s condescending comments about the “Wave Whisperer” and his assumptions about Vincent’s lifestyle that no doubt influenced his approach to the meeting. That might have something to do with the fact that we hadn’t heard from Vincent, but I kept my mouth shut.

  Richard frowned. “Screw it. Nothing to do now but wait. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  I took the cue that the meeting was over when Richard turned back to his computer. When I got back to my own desk, I pulled up my email. The first thing that popped up was a message from my cell phone provider informing me I had reached my data limit for the month. Again? These cell phone services really knew how to fleece you. I deleted the email and moved on, reviewing work memos and deleting spam.

  The rest of the morning bled into the afternoon. After eating lunch and helping another analyst resolve a reporting issue, I came back to my desk to find a note thrown haphazardly over my keyboard.

  Kaufman called, have to meet him. Keep me updated if Sorenson calls the office.

  Jon Kaufman was one of the larger clients Richard handled. He had a large plastics refinery west of the Hudson and was one of the clients who didn’t come to our office. Rather, we went to him. I never met the guy but from the way Richard spoke about him, he was difficult.

  I put the note aside and settled into my routine. I had barely gotten into the zone when my phone rang.

  “Hey Kristen, I have Mr. Sorenson on the line for you.” Our receptionist sounded like she was going to pass out just from the mention of his name.

  So we hadn’t blown our chances completely. For a moment I considered the possibility Richard had been right. These guys are fairly predictable. But there was no way Richard gave Vincent a positive first impression, and if anything saved us, it was probably my stunt with the spider at the bar.

  “Thanks, transfer him over.” I kept my voice level despite being aware that Vincent had asked for me specifically. I’d told him to call Richard as part of my brush-off. I just hoped his intentions were business.

  A beep later and Vincent’s silky voice vibrated through my handset.

  “Hello Kristen.”

  Even over the phone, his velvety rasp made it difficult to maintain my composure. I switched the phone to my left hand and wiped my sweaty palm on my skirt.

  “Hello Vincent, it’s good to hear from you,” I said, feeling like I’d just swallowed a cotton ball.

  “I’ve been thinking about our meeting.”

  Which meeting? The one where I played with his nipple ring or the one where he asked me to mix business with pleasure?

  “I’d like to discuss business,” he continued.

  I exhaled, relieved he wasn’t interested in revisiting our personal discussion. Maybe he took the hint. “I’m happy to hear that. When would you like to schedule a meeting?”

  “Today.”

  I laughed nervously. “We might need a little more time to make it out to South Africa.”

  “I’m at my office in Manhattan. Sixty-five West Fifty-ninth Street. Eighty-second floor.” That was just a few blocks away. Of course. He had a media office in Manhattan that produced a popular extreme sports series that was broadcast on multiple cable networks.

  “Could we do tomorrow? Richard is meeting with another client until late this afternoon.”

  “He’s not needed. I’ll be on a flight to Lucerne tomorrow. It has to be today.” His voice betrayed no sense of urgency or need, just a statement of facts.

  My mind swirled. Could I take the meeting with Vincent? I had all the paperwork ready; it was in the same folder as the proposal. Richard had let me close some smaller clients before so I knew what had to be done. But what would he say if I went to the meeting without him? I had a pretty good guess of what he’d say if I was the reason we lost Vincent’s business. I had to take this meeting, if only to avoid the four letter words Richard would have in store for me if I didn’t.

  “Yes, of course. How is three p.m. for you?” I asked.

  “Perfect. I’m looking forward to it, Kristen.”

  After he hung up, I let out a long breath, blowing my bangs out of my face. I was going to see Vincent Sorenson again. Although I certainly hadn’t forgotten about both our meetings in South Africa, I wasn’t sure if he’d been thinking about them at all.

  At two thirty, I quickly packed my bag and told the receptionist to tell Richard or anyone else who stopped by my desk that I was going to be at a client meeting.

  It was only when I was on the elevator down, the paperwork neatly filed in my briefcase, that I realized what I’d gotten myself into. Vincent Sorenson and I were going to be in the same room together. Alone.

  ***

  Well this is different.

  I stood in front of the sleek black reception desk at Red Fusion,
SandWork’s media arm, trying not to eye the curved adult-sized plastic slide that came from the ceiling and ended just right of where the receptionist was sitting. I smiled at the blonde woman behind the desk. She beamed back at me. Her rows of perfectly white teeth and her sultry figure made her more appropriate for a movie set than an office.

  “Can I help you?” she said.

  “Hi, my name is Kristen Daley. I’m here to see Mr. Sorenson.”

  “Of course, he’s expecting you. Right this way.” I followed her, watching the way her hips swayed in her curve-hugging dress. Though I tried to resist, I couldn’t help inspecting my reflection in the glass door to make a quick comparison. Was she one of the pleasures Vincent mixed with his business? But so what if she was? I had no right to be upset.

  The Red Fusion offices were abuzz with activity. An employee sat cross-legged on the carpet, tossing a stress ball at the wall, stopping only to peck furiously at the laptop in front of him. Others were seated around large tables, having animated discussions. It was nothing like the reverential near silence at Waterbridge-Howser.

  “Here we are, you can go inside. Vincent’s ready for you.” The receptionist stopped in front of a frosted glass door. The same glass formed a wall that stretched to either side of the entry.

  I nodded thanks to her before pushing open the door and walking inside. Silence greeted me. Whatever the glass was made of, it completely blocked the noise from outside. In the corner was a black leather couch with a small coffee table in front of it. A large desk was set squarely in the center of the room, a metal and glass tribute to modernity. It was a stark contrast to his desk in Cape Town.

  Vincent stood by the window, one arm behind his back, looking out. He was wearing a navy suit matched with a grey tie and white shirt. His long locks were slicked neatly back. Unwillingly preoccupied with wild fantasies, I nearly tripped on the rug in front of his desk as I walked closer. My pulse danced in my veins and a flush coursed through my cheeks. If I had fallen on him twice, I would’ve died from embarrassment.