by Paige North
Epilogue
In the sunroom of our New York mansion, tea is being served. Across from me in the opposite seat, Candy Badham admires the antique porcelain set I’m using and breathes in the flowery aroma of the cornflower and marigold-infused Earl Grey. I’ve also prepared and presented scones, clotted cream, jam, and tiny sandwiches and petit fours I put together in my wonderful, food-porn kitchen.
“How divine this is!” she says. “If you continue feeding me this way, I might become a permanent fixture here and never go on tour again!”
To the right of me, my mom pipes up from her seat. “I know our informal tea club has a certain level of decorum,” she says, “but next time you’re in the states, can you bring Jason Savage along? I love his films.”
Candy laughs. “If I can drag him off his latest movie set. He’s on a career-high roll, that one.”
She smiles at my mom, who’s never seemed happier. Just before my wedding to Travis last year, Mom got a new, sleek, short hairstyle with blond highlights, and her smile makes her look a decade younger. She’s more than content in her new job as an accountant at Travis’s main office here in the city, and the perks of living nearby are only bonuses. This is the second tea she’s taken with Candy, who seems to have adopted her as her own “mum” in place of her dearly departed one.
My brother Tate, who’s sitting to the left of me with a star-struck grin on his face, has also shined himself up for this second tea. He got rid of his eyeglasses in favor of contacts, and believe me, he’s using that new, improved teenaged gaze on Candy as she sits there in her usual tight top and skirt. Although his attentions are lost on Candy, who treats him like her own little brother, I hear he’s got quite the Romeo charm where he goes to private high school just outside the city.
Tate drags his worshipful gaze away from Candy and grabs a few cucumber sandwiches for his plate. “Forget Jason. Just let me know if you need a date to the MTV Music Awards. I can arrange my schedule.”
“Cheeky,” she says.
Tate actually blushes, but Candy looks amused.
I take it all in from my chair as I sip my tea. Things couldn’t be better. Even my father Gary found his true place in my life—or should I say out of my life? A week after Travis beat the crap out of him, Gary got arrested for stealing credit cards and is currently serving time.
Yes, sometimes justice finds its way, even if it takes a while.
When I feel a sensual tickle on the back of my neck, I know Travis has found his way to me, too, just as he always does. He comes to the back of my chair, resting his hands on my shoulders. My nerve endings come alive, responding to him, wanting him just as much as I did on that day when we first met.
“Sorry to crash the tea party,” he says.
Candy’s toasts him. “Join us?”
“I’m afraid not.”
I know he’s not refusing because he thinks Candy is still one of those people who “never does anything out of the goodness of their hearts.” He’s been taking down those walls that his family forced him to put up around himself and has come around to opening up instead of closing up, acknowledging that people can be more than they at first seem.
“Oh, well,” Candy says. “We’ll merely have to train your little princess to enjoy tea without your guidance, Travis.”
He smiles. So do Mom and Tate as my husband gets to a knee beside my chair and slips his hand to my swollen belly. He rubs me and our future daughter, and I place my hand over his. Our gazes connect, a live wire of electricity that runs hot with the love we share. It isn’t until Candy clears her throat across the table that I realize there’re other people in the room.
Tate’s phone dings with a text, and he stuffs a sandwich into his mouth. “Gotta go in a half hour,” he mumbles around his food. “I’m headed to the Park with the hottest girl in school.”
“Adorable,” Candy says. “I miss that flush of first love.”
My mom sighs wistfully and casts an adoring glance at Travis before drinking more tea. She and Tate have no idea where my first flush with Travis came from—they think we met while I was working in the city. That’s how it’ll stay.
The true story is wonderful in its own way, but we want to keep it for us and us only.
Travis stands, taking me by the hand to help me out of my seat. “Not to be rude, but can I steal my wife for a bit?”
Everyone’s agreeable, and Travis leads me out of the sunroom. We hold hands as we walk through the mansion into the main gallery.
“Are you packed?” he asks me.
“Yes. After tea, I’ll be set to head out.”
We’re sneaking off on one of our trips later today. He always surprises me by spiriting me away every month, no matter what kind of pressing business he might have. This time we’re road tripping to Philadelphia, but my favorite places so far have been New Orleans and San Francisco—cities where I can see awe-inspiring buildings up close, where I can live through experience rather than studying architecture in a classroom. I’ve started classes at NYU, and even though I’m on break now, I still want to keep learning as much as I can.
Life couldn’t be more beautiful.
Travis kisses me softly, holds me close, whispering in my ear. “I didn’t just bring you out here to check if you’re packed, you know.”
“I figured that.”
He caresses my baby belly again, then slips his hand lower, under my filmy sundress. I gasp, almost as if the naughty thrill is a new sensation. Our passion never gets old, and as he strokes me and guides me into the nearest room, he kicks shut the door behind us.
It’s a lower-floor guestroom, and when he kisses me, he utterly consumes me. But I pull slightly away from him, leaning back in his strong arms.
“I’ve got company,” I say in a weak protest.
“They’ll never know.”
“I think everyone knows what happens whenever you get me alone.”
He looks at me. I look at him. A world of possibility explodes between us as he brings me back to him, loving me with his kisses, enchanting me with everything about him.
Taking me to a place I’d never believed was real until my soul mate brought me there.
THE END
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And now, continue reading this ebook to find the excerpt from Mason (Billionaire Bastards, Book one) by Ivy Carter!
EXCERPT: MASON (Billionaire Bastards, Book One) by Ivy Carter
Chapter 1
I’ve memorized every detail of Mason Wood’s face even though I’ve never met him in person.
But I’ve studied photographs in magazines, looked at YouTube videos, and I feel like I must know every inch of him by now.
The dimple in his left cheek when he smiles. That dirty blond lock of hair that curls over his forehead when it’s wet. His high cheekbones and rugged jaw peppered with close-cropped scruff. The cool depths of his ice blue eyes.
And into those famously sexy blue eyes, that’s where I plan to stare when I boldly tell him why I deserve a spot as a junior trader for his Fortune 500 company, Daylight Holdings.
I clutch the folder of my careful research about the firm to my chest, watching the floor numbers drop as the elevator makes its slow descent from the penthouse suite at the top of the office tower to the luxurious lobby where I stand, heart lodged in my throat. My palms go clammy. This is the most important interview of my life—I have to nail it.
The elevator opens with a soft ping. Inside, I’m surrounded by mirrors, which makes me second guess everything—the way my hair falls over my shoulder on the left side, whether my lip gloss is too shiny, too pink, or if I’ve paired the right heels with the tight pencil skirt that lands mid-calve and splits half-way up my thigh.
I tuck a strand of
hair behind my ear and swallow. Blow out a slow breath.
Pull it together, Olivia.
Business tycoon and hedge renowned fund manager, Mason Wood values organization and meticulous attention to detail. Someone who can think fast on their feet and not crack under pressure. Yeah, I’ve researched all his employee preferences, too.
In fact, I’ve studied every public detail of Mason Wood’s life, which is why I know the exact second he enters the elevator. The air shifts, electric with tension. There’s a pause, then a measured, near-silent tread on the checkered tile floor. A potent presence fills every corner of the cramped space. The door swooshes closed.
I glance up and my breath hitches.
Fuck me. No amount of research could have prepared me for this.
For him. Being here, in the elevator before my interview.
I never prepared for this.
He acknowledges me with a polite nod, and then turns to face the door.
Mason Wood is tall, lean, with broad shoulders that taper into a muscular back and a round, tight ass. Heat crawls up the side of my neck. Sweet Jesus. A girl could bounce quarters off those butt cheeks. Not that it would be appropriate.
In fact, none of my thoughts are.
Cool it, Liv.
Our eyes catch in the mirror and a shock reverberates up my spine. It’s like I’m diving into a cool blue ocean, and I drink it up. My lips part. A soft purr hums from the back of my throat. Holy fuck.
Humiliated, I drop my gaze and stare at the floor. My distorted silhouette reflects off the polished tile—I’m an anxious hot mess. I can almost feel my nerves crackling, and a cold sweat breaks out between my shoulder blades. I reach back and rub the base of my neck, loosening the collar on a crisp blouse that I’m sure must be responsible for the tightening in my chest.
“What floor?” he says in that low, almost melodic tone I’ve heard only through the computer screen.
I jerk my head up at the low vibration of his voice and lick my lips. “Thirteen, please.”
He presses the button and then leans up against the side wall of the elevator, hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks. A black cotton shirt stretches across his broad chest, three buttons undone to reveal a soft thatch of hair the color of burnt wheat. His sleeves are short, capping mid-way across thick biceps, thinly corded with veins. I imagine his strong arms wrapped around me and my cheeks grow warm.
He clears his throat. “Are you interviewing for a position today?”
My mouth goes dry. “Yes, as a junior trader,” I somehow manage to say without stammering. A much savvier business woman might launch into a discussion of her qualifications here but the truth is, a nervous flutter has begun to creep along my throat, and it’s all I can do not to throw up. My reflection is so pale, I’m basically a ghost, and if I don’t switch gears and say something intelligent, I may as well be invisible.
“Mason Wood,” he says, offering his hand. I stare at his outstretched hand a beat before realizing it’s my turn to make a move. I’m too slow.
I swallow anxiously.
The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. “And you are?”
I wipe my sweaty palm on the side of my skirt and attempt a smile. “Olivia Landers,” I smile, and just as I reach out to shake his hand, my wrist jostles the folder and its contents spill onto the floor.
My cheeks flush. “Fuck.” I crouch and begin gathering the items fanned out at his feet—copies of my resume, pictures of Mason from magazines and trade journals, articles about the company’s humble beginnings through to its current stature as one of the most reputable hedge funds not only in The Big Apple, but around the world.
The weight of his stare burns through my shirt and into my skin. Jesus. It’s as if my entire body has burst into flames, and no matter how fast I grab at my paperwork, an oppressive heat continues to penetrate the air. It’s stifling. Claustrophobic.
I stretch across the floor to retrieve the last newspaper clipping, but Mason’s foot shifts and pins it in place. The energy shifts. My pulse quickens. He bends to pick the clipping off the ground. I hold my breath while he stares at it, his pale eyes turning to ice.
“I can explain,” I say, voice trembling.
He doesn’t give me the chance. The elevator pings, the door opens. Mason stiffly hands me the article and exits, without so much as a backward glance.
Damn it. Thirty seconds in an elevator and I’ve already blown it.
Fuck my life.
Chapter 2
I settle into a plush white chair appointed to me by the blonde receptionist who sits straight and perfect behind her desk, doing some elaborate task I couldn’t begin to guess. Still rattled by my brief encounter with Mason, I study her profile, looking for some flaw that will make me stop judging myself. There’s nothing, which makes me feel even more like a catty little bitch.
But come on! Has she plucked that look right from the pages of ForbesWoman?
The girl is so immaculate, she might as well be air brushed. I’m practically a slob next to her, which is probably the reason she regarded me with such cool disdain before pointing me to a small seating area with about as much personality as a gnat. Behind a glass wall to my left, a dozen or more cubicles bustle with silent commotion. I imagine phones ringing, competing with the white noise of animated chatter about stock markets, mergers, and trade opportunities. My pulse thrums with anticipation. I need this job. Any job. Two months out of college and I’m still on the hunt.
Unacceptable. I graduated top of my class.
And after that pathetic stunt in the elevator, this looks like the beginning of another underwhelming result in my increasingly frantic job search.
Why, why, why did I bring along that article about his personal fucking tragedy?
Sure, I didn’t think he’d be reading my stash of research and articles, but still…it was a needless oversight and I am paying dearly for it.
I smooth out a wrinkle from my skirt and begin to worry about the freshness of my blouse. I flare my nostrils, trying to detect the musky odor of sweat, but instead I smell only the sweet mix of lavender and vanilla bean. Not quite fresh as a daisy, but it will have to do.
My gaze flits back to the receptionist. Her ear is pressed to her shoulder, telephone tucked under her chin, while she taps at the keyboard of her tablet. Her eyes are almost as big as her breasts—and that’s saying a lot. I glance down at my own chest, which although voluptuous, does not have the teeny tiny waist too go along with it that the gorgeous receptionist possesses. Quickly dismissing thoughts of inadequacy with a subtle headshake. Christ. This isn’t a casting call for a porn flick.
I set the folder of research on my lap and grab one of the investment magazines from the side table. Mason Wood stares at me from the cover, flanked by his childhood friends and business partners, Lucas Hammer and Holden Quinn. No question all three could pose for GQ, but there’s something primal about Mason that makes my stomach twist into knots.
“Mr. Wood will see you now,” the receptionist says, pulling my attention. Her gaze lands on the magazine and a knowing smirk crosses her ruby-glossed lips. “You’re smart to be nervous.”
I set the magazine on the table. “Oh, I’m not.” But my lie is betrayed by the sweat stain on the glossy paper, transferred from my clammy palms. Truthfully, I’m scared shitless.
That anxiety intensifies as I stand at the threshold of Mason Wood’s office—a stark cool expanse of white, silver, and shades of gray. No color, no character. Correction. Upon further inspection, I spot the items that have been placed on several shelves with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things. A polished silver bust from the Terminator movies, the infamous mask from V is for Vendetta, gold shillings that appear plucked from the set of Pirates of the Caribbean.
“It’s all real,” Mason says, without bothering to look up. He takes a sip of coffee and gestures at a gray high-back chair in front of his glass desk. Behind him, skyscrapers rise up in the floor
-to-ceiling windows, and stretch into a cloud-covered sky. “Everyone asks.”
Restless, I take a seat at the appointed chair and cross my legs, cringing at the unnaturally loud rasp of one stocking against another. Nervousness shakes through me. The last time I felt such trepidation was almost eighteen years ago, standing in the lobby of my childhood home, watching as my father lugged the last of his belongings into the moving van idling out front. A sense of numbness had washed over me as my mother explained that Dad was leaving us—had left us—for another woman, a whole other family.
My skin prickles with a similar kind of unease now.
Mason lifts his gaze and fuck if I don’t lose myself in those baby blues.
“I collect rare and expensive movie props,” he says. A small smirk forms in the corner of his heart-shaped mouth. “Though, I suppose you already know that.”
Damn the elephant in the room. I clear my throat. “About that—”
“I’m not interested in explanations,” he says, effectively cutting off my sentence with the sharpness of an axe.
I recoil at his tone, momentarily unable to respond. True, I didn’t necessarily make a solid first impression, but surely a smart businessman like Mason Wood wouldn’t make a rash assessment based on an unexpected two-minute interaction in the elevator? I exhale a deep breath. “Then what are you interested in, Mr. Wood?”
His eyebrow lifts. “Seems to me that’s also something you’d already know.”
My spine stiffens. “As my resume indicates—”
“I don’t need your resume,” Mason interrupts. “I already know you’re not a fit for Daylight Holdings. You lack…” His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, serpent-like. “Killer instinct.”
Heat flushes to my cheeks. What a crock of shit. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this, but at least the other companies had the decency to review my resume before sucker punching me with cold rejection. “You haven’t even heard my qualifications or asked me about previous experience.”