BIG SHOT LOVE: 5 Billionaire Romance Books Bundle

by Kristina Weaver

  “The message is from Peter Bly, isn’t it?” I asked, my rage continuing to build. “You like working for him?”

  “Ma’am, I don’t even know the guy,” he said, shrugging. “That’s just what it says here on my screen.”

  “Can you just enter a different name?”

  “It says that if I don’t do it, I’ll get fired.” He eyed me. “Sorry. I need this job. What’s so bad with a free night or two in the penthouse, anyway? I’d take it.”

  “That’s the problem,” I told him. “You don’t know Peter Bly.”

  At the next hotel, I gave a fake name. Everything was going fine until they took my credit card and ran it.

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, smiling nervously. “Can I see some ID? Your name and the name on this card don’t match up.”

  I gulped and handed over my driver’s license. “The name I gave you earlier is one I use for traveling. You know. Like when famous people check into hotels and don’t give their real names so people don’t know they’re staying there.”

  “Oh, are you famous?”

  “No,” I said, laughing. “No, I just… I like my privacy when I’m traveling. That’s all.”

  “Well, your privacy is closely guarded here, Ms. Ryan,” she said, typing some more. “Oh. Oh, my. It says here that you… I just don’t understand this. Let me call my manager.”

  I sighed. “It’s all right. I won’t waste your time. It says that if you don’t put me in the penthouse for free, you’ll be fired. It’s a message from Peter Bly, right?”

  “Yes, but how do you know?”

  All I could do was throw my hands up in the air and leave. I walked along the street, wracking my brain to try and remember the hotels that Peter’s company didn’t own. There weren’t many. It was a successful company that took care of its employees and its properties. Lots of other hotels with current corporate owners wanted to be owned by the Bly Group. That’s how popular it was. Would there be a single hotel I could stay in under my own will that Peter couldn’t control?

  I settled on another hotel, one or two stars, that I hadn’t tried. I couldn’t remember seeing it on any files I’d come across during my stint working for Peter, and I doubted that it even had a penthouse. It really wasn’t a place I’d come to celebrate, but being on Peter’s radar meant that I had to revise my grand plans.

  “Hello,” I chirped brightly, trying to think positively. Maybe a little optimism would ensure the success of this transaction without Peter’s interference. “I’d like a room for tonight, if you have any available.”

  “We do have vacancies,” the receptionist said, not quite as cheerful. I didn’t blame him. It had probably been as long a day for him as it had been for me, and I’d only just gotten into the city. “Your name, please.”

  “Gemma Ryan,” I said, with confidence, sure that the Bly Group had never even so much as eyed this dingy establishment.

  But my heart sank as soon as the receptionist’s eyes lit up. “Ms. Ryan,” he said, instantly more agreeable. “I have the honeymoon suite available for you. It’s a complementary night’s stay. Courtesy of a Mr. Bly.”

  “I would rather not have the honeymoon suite,” I informed him, trying to keep my voice as sweet as possible. “And I do not need Mr. Bly’s charity. Would you please book me for another room? I have a credit card. I’m certain you have rooms to fill.”

  “The honeymoon suite’s all right,” the receptionist said, a little defensively. “You want to see it? It gets cleaned really well after each stay. Just like all of our rooms.”

  I cringed. “Look, I believe you. I’m not questioning the quality of the honeymoon suite. I just don’t want to be beholden to Mr. Bly, you know what I'm saying?”

  “Is he not someone you want to be indebted to?” the receptionist asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “Not really,” I said. “I know for a fact that this hotel isn’t owned by the Bly Group. What note popped up on your screen when you typed in my name? Peter Bly couldn’t hold much sway in getting you fired if you didn’t follow his instructions.”

  “That the person who gave Gemma Ryan the nicest room in the hotel would get a $500 bonus.”

  It was so pathetic that my shoulders sagged. The guy looked so excited — though it was now tinged with doubt — that I knew what I had to do so at least one of us could come out of this on top.

  “You know what? Book it. Fine. Get your $500.”

  “You said it wasn’t good to be beholden to Mr. Bly,” the receptionist said doubtfully.

  “You won’t be beholden, I’ll be beholden. You’ll be 500 bucks richer.”

  The receptionist leaned closer. “Ex-boyfriend?”

  “Yep.” I smiled. “Enjoy the money. He has enough of it to spare.”

  Because it sounded a lot like Peter had called every hotel in the city and reserved its nicest room for me.

  I had no intention of staying in that hotel, or anywhere. I flirted briefly with the idea of a hostel, or a stab at a service I’d heard a little about that connected weary travelers to residents willing to host them on their couches. But I knew what I really needed to do was confront my problem head on.

  I needed to see Peter.

  Chapter 17

  I approached the manager on the ground floor of the Bly Group building, still angry. What was supposed to be a trip to the city to celebrate my renewed passion and drive and hopefully career was quickly spiraling into comic disaster

  “I need to see Peter Bly,” I said, slightly out of breath from flitting from hotel to hotel, being told the same thing at all of them, and marching down here to confront the problem at its root.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked. “Mr. Bly is a very busy man.”

  “Yes, he has been very busy,” I spat. “I don’t have an appointment, but try putting my name in your computer. Gemma Ryan. See if anything special pops up.”

  The manager looked at me as if I were a lunatic, but did what I asked, her eyes widening with surprise. “Looks like you have a pass to be admitted upstairs to see Mr. Bly whenever you want.”

  “Wonder what that would be worth if I sold it,” I muttered, stalking away toward the elevators.

  I had to admit that it was strange to be back in the building. I’d left it in such anger, and I’d returned in equal rage. That spoke, on many levels, to the effect Peter had on me.

  In spite of my fury, it was oddly nostalgic to march across the floor of the office when I got up there, wondering if the ground floor manager had at least called up to Peter to alert him I was on my way up. I nodded grimly as former coworkers looked up at me, many of them surprised to see me again after the way I’d departed. I hadn’t given notice, hadn’t said a thing to anyone, had simply grabbed my purse from my desk and never come back. I glanced over there now, puzzled that Peter hadn’t filled the position or at least taken the empty piece of furniture away. It fueled my suspicions once again that he’d created a fake position and paid me for superfluous work just to keep me near him. To have sex with me whenever he pleased.

  I entered his office without doing him the courtesy of even knocking. He deserved to be as uncomfortable as I’d been all day, caught off guard at every turn.

  But Peter, leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk, his hands behind his head, smirking, didn’t look caught off guard at all. I guess I’d been so angry downstairs that the floor manager had called him, after all. He’d had time to prepare himself. I imagined him hurrying to assume this position of relaxation and leisure just to prove that he was as cool as a cucumber about me charging up here. That he didn’t care it was the first time we’d seen each other in weeks. That he was nowhere near as affected by me as I was by him.

  Asshole.

  We stared each other down for what seemed like whole minutes of agonizing silence, the door easing shut behind me, pulled by my own hand, out of helpless habit. I’d come into this same office so many times — albeit for very di
fferent reasons — and closed that door to give us privacy, to keep our trysts away from prying eyes. Part of me wanted to fling it open again, to let my former coworkers know just how big of a jerk their employer was, but it was respect for those same people that made me leave it shut. They had actual work to do. I didn’t need to distract them from it.

  Peter looked well. Well, he looked handsome. That was the truth of it. We’d been broken up for several weeks, and he looked tanned, well fed and well groomed, and happy. That vexing five o’clock shadow was still there, dusting his otherwise smooth cheeks. It was that stubble that had unmade me the first time we’d crossed paths. I’d wanted to rub my face against it then, and I wanted to rub my face against it now.

  I hated to admit it, but I was still attracted to him. I’d been able to block him on my phone and ignore him for a few hours, but the old feelings had reared their ugly heads immediately upon seeing him.

  I couldn’t imagine that I looked anywhere near as good as he did. That was probably the reason he was smirking. I was sure I was red-faced with rage at the turn today had taken, not to mention all the running around I’d done. My hair was piled on top of my hair in a messy bun — an effort to cool down. It might’ve been autumn already, but physical toil took its toll. I’d gotten more exercise today than I had in the weeks I’d been living with my mother.

  I had dressed up for my trip into the city — well, as much as I could’ve — in black ballet flats and dark skinny jeans and a pretty tunic sweater, but it was all disheveled now. And I was sure I was simultaneously puffy and gaunt from my period of mourning, away from the city. If this was going to be a war of looks, I’d already lost.

  Peter broke the silence first, though, so at least there was that. “I’m surprised,” he said. “The Stay Inn? Really, Gemma? I thought you would’ve taken a little more care with your accommodations.” The words were angry, but the tone wasn’t. The tone was amused. I’d missed his voice, I realized, but not his attitude.

  “It was the first place I found that didn’t threaten to fire its employees for helping me avoid you,” I said. “It was a matter of principle.”

  “I only wanted to make sure you were comfortable when you came into the city,” he said in a weak attempt to quell my anger. “My father mentioned in passing that you were looking for a job and were going to stay here until the wedding. Why don’t you move back into the penthouse?”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  “It’s not like anyone’s using it right now,” Peter reasoned. “It’s still there, waiting for you. All of your clothes and things.”

  I peered at him and cocked my head. “Why haven’t you gotten rid of that?”

  “I guess I always sort of hoped you’d come back to it,” he said, and smiled broadly. “And here you are.”

  “I’m not coming back to it,” I informed him. “I'm starting fresh. And you need to step aside.”

  “What do you mean, step aside?”

  “I mean that you can’t continue to interfere in my life. I don’t want your help. I want to do this on my own.”

  He laughed derisively. “Gemma, the last time you tried to do something on your own, you were scooping dog poo and slinging drinks. Let’s be honest. What do you think you are going to achieve?”

  “You are such a jerk,” I raged. “I would much rather clean up after animals than accept a single favor from you.”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “You’re not. You’re being offensive. I can do this. And I’m going to do this. You can’t stop me.”

  “Fine.” Peter leaned forward, out of his pose of relaxation, and rested his chin on his fists. “How about one more fuck for the road?”

  “Excuse me?” I was sure I hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “Oh, don’t be a prude,” he laughed. “People do it all the time. Breakup sex. One last romp in the hay, so to speak, before parting ways for good.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I sneered. “You’d like to use me one more time before you throw me away.”

  He shrugged. “You’re the one who’s leaving me. Not the other way around.”

  “You made it awfully easy.”

  “I don’t know why you resented the penthouse and the money and the job and the sex,” he said. “I honestly don’t. Most people would be grateful.”

  “You’re rubbing it in my face, even now,” I said. “That’s why. That’s why it’s easy to leave you. Because you give something and there are strings attached. I can’t enjoy anything without knowing that you’re going to use it against me in the future, manipulate me somehow with it. When you were angry with my mother, when you thought she was using your father for money, you were taking it out on me. With sex. You were using sex to punish me.”

  “Oh, that’s rich,” he said. “Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t have a good time? I know I wasn’t taking you against your will. You were all too willing. Always were.”

  I blushed in spite of my anger, felt the old pull toward him, like a magnet. I couldn’t stand it. If we kept on like this, we’d end up having angry, hateful breakup sex over every surface in this office. As physically tempting as that was, it would shatter my confidence, and my spirit. It wasn’t the right way to do things.

  I took a deep breath and switched tacks.

  “Let’s just be honest with each other,” I tried. “It’s time to end this, to cut ties. We’re from two different worlds, Peter.”

  “Britain and the States?” he asked, clearly being obtuse on purpose.

  “Different upbringings. Different approaches. Different people.”

  “I hope we’re different. Makes things a little more interesting when it comes to sex.”

  “I’m sure you think you’re being very funny, but I’m being serious. We’re not getting back together, Peter. The things we said to each other… We were being honest.”

  “We were being angry,” he said, exasperated. “We were trying to hurt each other. People can move past that, Gemma. You don’t have to be so ruddy dramatic. People fight and break up and get back together all the time.”

  I lifted my chin. “I don’t want to get back together, Peter. Not with you.”

  He laughed. “You’re not being honest at all. You’re lying, now.”

  “It’s not funny, and I’m not lying.” I trembled as he approached me, stopping just inside of my personal bubble, too close for a platonic conversation. I didn’t want him this close, and yet I did. I hated the paradoxical nature of my attraction to him. I’d come into his office to tell him that he needed to leave me alone, to tell him that it was really over, and I was here, trying to fend off my own desire for him.

  Life wasn’t fair, and it was confusing as hell. I didn’t know what I was doing.

  Even worse, Peter smiled as he saw my obvious distress — my cheeks flushing, my teeth biting down on my lower lip, my breath quickening — and took yet another step closer. We were nearly nose to nose, and I could smell his cologne even stronger now.

  “Tell me you don’t want me,” he said. “I’ll know whether you’re being truthful or not.”

  I would’ve done anything in my power to lie in that moment, but I couldn’t. I never could lie to Peter.

  “Of course I want you, idiot,” I said roughly, and he kissed me, pressing our bodies together, his erection pressing into my side. It would’ve been so easy to give myself over to lust, but it would’ve been too difficult to put myself back together again afterward. I pulled away from him, both of us panting and staring at each other.

  “Mixed messages, Gemma,” Peter warned me.

  “I want you, but it comes at too high a price,” I told him, my eyes filling with tears. “I can’t afford it, Peter. I can’t afford what loving you does to me. It tears me apart.”

  The day shot, my optimism about looking for a job over, I fled from his office, grateful that he didn’t chase after me. The only thing I had in mind was the bed in
the seedy hotel I’d chosen for myself.

  Chapter 18

  The scene in the basement at the church was frantic, but it was a good distraction for me. I had to stop thinking about Peter…at least in that way. The way where all I could picture was his arms around me, his mouth on mine, the press of his erection against my hip. That was the way I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t keep thinking about that because I would lose myself. I couldn’t be with Peter on principle. He wasn’t to be trusted. He only cared about himself. I was better than that.

  “Gemma! My veil!” My mother fluttered around even though there wasn’t anything for her to do.

  “You didn’t get a veil,” I reminded her, eyeing one of the employees from the dress shop balefully. While we had been there, settling on the dress my mother would wear, a veil had been suggested but refused. This employee had mentioned it, putting the idea in my frazzled mother’s mind.

  “I didn’t?” My mother looked puzzled. She had too much on her plate. I was with Frank on this one. My mother should’ve gone with a wedding planner. It would’ve saved her a ton of stress. At least she’d agreed to the army of workers from all the various businesses that were coming together to put on this wedding. Florist’s assistants buzzed in the chapel space, securing bouquets of flowers to pews. The employee from the dress shop was steaming my mother’s skirt even though it wasn’t marred by any wrinkles I could see. And I knew, across town, that the caterers and bakers were busy in the reception hall, setting up everything there to ensure it would be perfect.

  “We agreed that the veil would look silly with your thoroughly modern take on bridal wear,” I told her, shooting another glare at the employee, who jumped in to try to smooth things over, her steamer emitting hot clouds of water vapor.

  “Mrs. Ryan, I just wanted to make sure we had all the pieces that needed to be steamed taken care of,” she said. “I didn’t mean to suggest at all that you needed a veil. I agree with your daughter. It would’ve distracted from your look.”

  The look was a white tuxedo jacket atop a simple long white gown. I was wearing the same thing, but in black. I’d already put it on because it was comfortable and because I thought it was weird to undress and dress in front of this small army of workers.