The Billionaire Beast

by Jackie Ashenden

  She turned around to look at him.

  He was sitting in the armchair, ostensibly relaxed, his gaze on the laptop screen.

  Surely, he must know why she’d hit him? Wasn’t it obvious?

  “Because you were pulling me toward you and you didn’t let me go, even when I asked you to,” she said, dumbfounded she had to explain herself.

  He glanced up from the laptop and even despite the glasses, his gaze was dark, piercing. “I wouldn’t have hurt you. I don’t hurt women.”

  Was he serious? Did he really not understand why she’d slapped him? “That’s not quite the point.”

  “Then what is?” There was the faintest crease between his brows, as if he was trying to read something that wasn’t clear to him, and it came to her suddenly that maybe what he was trying to read was her.

  He doesn’t know. He really doesn’t know.

  Dear God.

  Phoebe smoothed the jacket over her arm, the movement giving her a moment to think.

  Except clearly she was taking too long, because he said in that sudden, abrupt way he had, “You wanted me. I know you did.”

  She should have denied it instantly. Except, for some reason she hesitated.

  He picked up on it immediately. “I knew it.” That black gaze of his burned through the lenses of his glasses. “You did want me.”

  Flustered, Phoebe moved to put the jacket carefully over the arm of the couch, conscious that he was following her every move. Then she turned to face him, trying to do so calmly. “Whether I did or not isn’t the point either. When I told you to let me go, I wanted you to let me go. And you didn’t. I couldn’t think of any other way to stop you.”

  “Did I frighten you?”

  “No,” she answered honestly. Because he hadn’t. At least, not in the way he was thinking. “Why didn’t you let me go when I asked?”

  “I wanted you. And I always get what I want.”

  His bluntness momentarily left her breathless. No man, not even Charles, had ever just said straight out, ‘I want you.’ She didn’t know whether to be flattered or appalled.

  Is that even a question? You’re flattered, you know you are.

  Phoebe ignored the thought. “And if I didn’t want you to take me?”

  His expression intensified. “Then I’ll make you change your mind.”

  The sheer arrogance of the statement shocked her. Good God, was he really that self-centered?

  “So my thoughts and feelings don’t matter?” she asked carefully, trying not to lose her grip on her temper, because she had a feeling that getting angry with him right now would not be helpful.

  He didn’t answer, only studied her intently from over the top of his glasses. “You were worried about the hospital fees, weren’t you?”

  She blinked. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You don’t have to worry anymore. I paid the fees for your fiancé’s care for the next year.”

  Phoebe stared at him, dumbfounded. “You what?”

  He let out an impatient breath. “You know I don’t like having to repeat myself.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said sharply, her heart beating way too fast all of a sudden. “I thought I heard you say you paid Charles’s hospital bills.”

  “I did.”

  Shock pulsed through her. The bills for Charles’s care were astronomical and how to pay them had been all she’d thought about for the past two years. And now Nero had just . . . what? Written a check?

  “Why?” The question came out far too abrupt but for once she didn’t care. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because you were worried about it.” His dark gaze held hers. “And because I want you to change your mind about sleeping with me.”

  All the breath went out of her. Was he insane? Maybe he was. Maybe he’d been alone so long he no longer knew what acceptable human behavior was.

  “I am not one of your escorts,” She tried to hide the shaky note in her voice. “You can’t pay me to sleep with you.”

  He frowned, as if her response puzzled him. “I’m not paying you. I’m paying the hospital.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what? You want me, Phoebe. And you want your fiancé taken care of. So now you can have both. What’s the big deal?”

  The gall of him astonished her, and for a moment, she just didn’t know what to say.

  He studied her, his frown deepening, as if her astonishment had annoyed him. “The money hasn’t gone through yet. I can stop it if I want.”

  “So what you’re saying,” she said carefully, still struggling to process it, “is that I have to sleep with you or else you’ll stop the payment.”

  His gaze searched her face, his expression darkening. “I won’t hurt you, Phoebe. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

  She almost laughed. “That’s not what I’m worried about. What I’m worried about is that you’re blackmailing me into having sex with you.”

  “So?” It was clear he didn’t think that was a problem. “You get something out of it and so do I.”

  He was serious. He was honest to God, completely and utterly serious. He genuinely did not see that what he was asking was wrong.

  Phoebe had always been sensitive to people who needed help, to people who needed fixing. And she knew in that moment, without a shadow of a doubt, that some part of Nero de Santis was broken. She didn’t know how and she didn’t know why, but he was.

  Maybe that’s why you’re here. To fix him.

  No, of course that wasn’t why she was here. She was here because she needed the money for Charles.

  But you can’t fix Charles.

  A small, electric thrill jolted through her. It was true that she’d put a lot of effort into taking care of Charles. Going to the hospital, sitting by his bed, talking to him and playing him music, doing all the things that were supposed to make a difference. Yet nothing had. His condition remained unchanged.

  You could make a difference to Nero.

  Well, she could. But why would she want to? Nero de Santis was arrogant and selfish, and clearly he had a few issues with the difference between right and wrong. Why would she want to take that on?

  Nero’s dark, piercing gaze was on her, staring so intently at her it was as if he was trying to read her mind. As if he was genuinely trying to understand. It came to her then, quite suddenly, that at least Charles had her to take care of him. Nero had no one. He was massively strong, powerful, exceedingly rich, and extremely charismatic. And apart from his butler, he was quite alone.

  “It’s not about getting something out of it,” she said, meeting his eyes, the decision made before she was even aware of having made it. “It’s about respecting other people. It’s about respecting their choices. Even when you don’t like it. Even when it’s not what you want.”

  The harsh lines of his face hardened. “What if the other person’s choices aren’t worthy of respect?”

  “So what you want is the most important thing in the world?” She kept her voice calm, patient. “That it’s more important than anyone or anything else?”

  He scowled at her. “Careful, Phoebe. Be very fucking careful with that judgment of yours.”

  Phoebe took a little breath. This was clearly going to be a challenge. Then again, the challenge was exactly what she’d been enjoying so much about the past couple of days, wasn’t it?

  “It’s not a judgment, Nero.” She held his gaze, unflinching. “Here’s an example for you. Do you respect me?”

  His eyes were full of glittering black sparks. “Yes.” The word could not have been more grudging.

  “Then if you respect me, you need to respect my choice,” she went on, determined now. “Blackmailing me into changing my mind isn’t showing me any respect.” She took a breath. “It’s wrong.”

  Another silence fell, loud as a thunderclap.

  He said nothing for one long, endless moment.

  Then, without taking his obsidian gaze
from hers, he spun the laptop around with a sharp movement, so the screen was facing toward her.

  “I’ve chosen,” he said flatly.

  * * *

  Phoebe’s steady amber gaze dropped from his to the screen, where the two redheads he’d chosen were prominently displayed. The likeness was pretty clear—they looked like Phoebe. Of course, he never had any intention of getting her to hire them, he’d just wanted to make a point. Yet the only sign she gave that she’d noticed was a tightening of that delectable mouth.

  Well, if that was all he was going to get, he’d take it.

  Anger glowed like a hot coal in his gut. She’d been so fucking patronizing, explaining how wrong paying her fiancé’s hospital bills was. How it was blackmail to get her into bed. He hadn’t seen it as such, more as a . . . business proposition. She got something out of it and so did he, and yet . . .

  She’s right and you know it.

  Nero shoved the thought away, battling with the urge to throw the laptop against the wall and grab her anyway. Jesus, he didn’t need money to get her to change her mind. He could use his cock. That tended to work just as well, if not better.

  Besides, he wouldn’t hurt her. He may not be very good with people, but he wasn’t a fucking savage. He knew hurting women was wrong.

  Except if you take her when she doesn’t want it, you will hurt her.

  Something unfamiliar turned over in his gut, a feeling of wrongness.

  Jesus fucking Christ. What the hell was the matter with him? What he wanted was always of paramount importance, and he didn’t much care about other people. He never had. After all, no one had given a shit about him when he’d been locked in that room. No one had tried to look for him. No one had even known of his existence or even bothered to find out.

  No one had cared, so why the fuck should he care about them?

  Except, no matter how loath he was to admit it, he did respect Phoebe. She was extremely capable and good at her job, and he respected that if nothing else. It made the thought of riding roughshod over her choices feel . . . wrong. Made him feel . . . uncomfortable.

  He had no idea why. She was only some woman he’d known all of three days. She wasn’t anyone special. Sure, in the gym this morning, he’d wanted her quite badly, but now? After her little lecture about respect and choice and all sorts of other bullshit words that didn’t mean anything to him? Yeah, maybe not so much. Maybe he would have those other women after all.

  “Very well,” she said in her infuriatingly cool voice. “I’ll contact the agency.” And she held out her hands for the laptop, as if she was expecting him to bring it to her.

  She could fucking wait all day.

  After a moment, when it was clear he wasn’t going to move, she came toward him, her chin lifted, a slightly wary look in her eyes. As if he was a dangerous animal she wasn’t sure of.

  Which made him even angrier.

  Stopping in front of his chair, Phoebe held out her hand for the laptop.

  He did nothing, staring at her instead, though he had no idea what he was looking for. Some clue, maybe. A clue as to what she was thinking, though, again, he didn’t know why that mattered.

  Wasn’t she pleased that she didn’t have to worry about the hospital anymore? Didn’t that matter to her? Was sleeping with him really not what she wanted?

  Phoebe let out a soft, impatient breath and leaned forward, bending to take the laptop off his lap. And abruptly her jasmine scent was all around him, sweet and sensual and heady. Like the sun was shining on his skin.

  He didn’t stop himself, reaching up on instinct to slide his fingers around the back of her neck, holding her there so he could have that scent around him for a moment longer. He heard her breath catch.

  She’d gone quite still, half bent over him, her fingers gripping the computer, her face close to his. She wasn’t looking at him, her attention on the flimsy bit of technology she held in her hands.

  He was conscious of the warmth of her silky skin beneath his fingertips. Of the red-gold gleam of her eyelashes and the dusting of freckles on her nose. Of the curves of her upper lip.

  She was very small. Very fragile.

  “I wouldn’t have hurt you.” He pitched his voice low. “I’d make you feel good.”

  Phoebe lifted her head slowly, and her pretty eyes were right there, so close he could see the glitter of gold in the depths. Or maybe that was anger, he didn’t know.

  “You don’t understand, do you?” she said huskily. “You don’t understand why what you did was wrong.”

  His fingers tightened on her neck just a little, her skin pressing against his, the scent of her surrounding him with a garden of flowers. “Don’t treat me like a fucking child,” he growled, the smell of her making him hard. Making him want to pull her close so her mouth met his. “Of course, I understand.”

  Except her gaze had sharpened on his, searching his face as if she could see his frustration, his confusion. His blindness. “No,” she murmured, a hint of . . . fuck, pity, in her voice. “You really don’t, do you?”

  He hated that note of pity. Because whatever had happened to him, it was far, far behind him now. He wasn’t that small, emaciated teenager anymore. The boy who’d cried and tried to hide under the bed when the police had smashed down the door. Who’d screamed as they’d carried him from the room into a world that was too big, too bright. Too much for him to even comprehend.

  It had been like being born again, and like a newborn, he’d been helpless. Unable to make sense of anything, still less the frightening strangers who’d tried to talk to him. Later, he’d realize that they’d only been wanting to help, but at the time they were just frightening and all he’d wanted was the reassurance of four walls and silence.

  A pitiful creature.

  He wasn’t pitiful. Not anymore.

  Nero tightened his grip on the back of her neck and exerted some pressure, bringing her closer. Her eyes widened as she realized what he was about to do, a bright, blinding flare of gold.

  “Nero,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t—”

  But he didn’t let her finish, bringing her mouth to his.

  Taking what he wanted.

  She made a little sound, but he ignored it, firming his grip. The cushiony softness of her lips felt even better than he thought it would, though her lips firmed as she closed her mouth against him. But he was having none of that, lifting his other hand and using his thumb to push down her lower lip, granting him access to the heat of her mouth.

  Another sound escaped her, soft and desperate, yet he ignored that, too, deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue inside and tasting her. Sweet, again, just as he’d thought. Christ, so fucking sweet. And hot. Who’d have thought that prim Phoebe Taylor would taste like this? Like candy, like ice cream licked up on a hot summer day.

  He spread his fingers out on the back of her neck, his fingertips grazing the silkiness of her hair, at the same time as his other hand slid to her chin and gripped it tight, keeping her exactly where she was.

  She’d stiffened, and he could feel her resistance, the muscles beneath his hand on the back of her neck tensing. Yes, she definitely wanted to pull away, but he wasn’t going to let her. He didn’t want her pity, he didn’t want her to look at him as though he was a child. As if he was a fucking idiot.

  He’d rather have her anger. He’d rather have her hitting him again.

  She’d let go of the laptop, her hands landing on his chest and trying to push him away, but he only slid his tongue deeper into her mouth, exploring her, relishing the taste of her anger. And something else, something even more intoxicating . . .

  A shudder went through her, her muscles relaxing minutely, the feeling of resistance growing fainter and fainter. Then he felt it, the spread of her fingers on his chest, no longer pushing him away but pressing down as if she was relishing the feel of him.

  Desire flared like a torch inside him, bright and hot. Because yes, he fucking knew it. She wanted him. />
  He took his hand from her chin, sliding it along the satiny skin of her jaw, his fingers pushing deep into her hair, trying to loosen her little bun. She was leaning into him now, her mouth opening to him, her tongue tentatively touching his. Responding to the kiss.

  It made him growl, made him pull at the pins holding her hair in place until he felt the soft weight of it uncurl against his fingers and fall over the backs of his hands. Like a silk scarf unfurling over his skin.

  It was even better touching it now than it had been when he’d taken it down that day in his office. Because now he had her mouth under his, the taste of her desire on his tongue, and he could wind his fingers in silk and hold on.

  Her body was leaning heavily into him, and all it would take would be a small tug to bring her down into his lap. He sat up in preparation for getting rid of the irritating computer sitting between them, adjusting his grip so he could pull her down onto him. It would be easy enough to push her skirt up and get her to sit astride him, to ease aside her panties and slide his hand between her legs, stroke her, feel how soft and hot and wet she was for him.

  Christ, he’d bet she’d be soaking. Enough for him to slide right in and, she’d feel so tight and perfect . . .

  Quite suddenly Phoebe ripped herself away from him and before he could react, she was already halfway across the room, backing toward the door, her hair cascading down around her shoulders. Her cheeks were bright pink, her mouth full and red and swollen from the kiss. Gold blazed in her eyes and he thought it was fury, and he was half out of his chair after her before he realized it wasn’t fury at all.

  It was fear.

  It shouldn’t have stopped him, because he took what he wanted, and he didn’t give a shit about anything else. But he found himself stopped in his tracks now, his cock hard, his heartbeat banging like a drum in his ears, his fingers closing around empty air.

  Phoebe didn’t say anything as she reached the door, but her chest was heaving as if she’d run a long, hard race, and something glinted in the corner of one eye. Small and bright as a diamond.

  “Phoebe,” he said thickly. “Stay.”

  But she didn’t.