Bad Billionaires Box Set

by Elise Faber

  Including the love.

  Eventually, they had to break apart and gasp for air. Abby dropped her head against his chest, breaths coming rapidly.

  “You may . . . not . . . be able”—she sucked in a deep breath, steadying her words—“You may not be able to use that hammer, but your tongue is damn good.”

  He cupped her chin, pressed one more kiss to her mouth. “If I never hear another hammer innuendo, it will be too soon.”

  Another laugh, another shot of joy directly to his soul.

  Damn, he loved this woman.

  And somehow, that love grew even more when she paused in the doorway and said, “I think you should name the robot, Hunter.”

  A moment later, she was gone.

  But she was the first one to give voice to the truth. He was pushing this project because of Hunter. Because his tech-savvy nephew not only wanted a robot he could play with from a hospital bed, but one that could also be taken apart and put back together again and again and again.

  It was a simple request, but not an easy one. There wasn’t anything on the market like that, so Jordan had decided to delay his beach plans to create one. Hunter had needed him.

  But Hunter also needed it soon.

  Because without the transplant, the doctors gave him six months.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I should have been content, all curled up on the couch in a pair of cozy pajamas, a book in my lap, a cup of tea steaming on the coffee table.

  My boxes were unpacked. My belly was full. My house wasn’t half bad.

  Okay, my house was awesome. I hadn’t realized how much space I’d been lacking in my apartment until I’d upgraded and gotten over my guilt of using some of the trust fund money as a down payment.

  My new, slightly better salary meant I could actually afford the mortgage, so I was considering the down payment my father’s first gift to the baby.

  Which he didn’t know about yet.

  I made a face and tried to focus on reading, a prospect that would typically suck me right in, especially since it was a good book from one of my favorite authors.

  But I was restless for some reason.

  Okay, not some reason. I was restless because I missed Jordan.

  I peered out my front windows, saw that Seraphina’s house was still dark. She’d invited me to a late dinner with her and Bec—who’d finally managed a few hours out of the office—but I hadn’t felt like going.

  Now I wished I had.

  Because I was lonely.

  How gross was that?

  “Super gross,” I muttered.

  I placed my book across my knees and took a sip of tea, feeling it warm my body as I drank. After setting it down, I tried to pick up where I’d left off but only managed to reread the same paragraph three times.

  My mind was wired, too pumped to focus, and I decided to save the book for a time when I could actually enjoy it.

  “No sense in wasting a perfectly good alpha.” I stuck in the old receipt I was using as a bookmark and set it on the arm of the couch before standing and walking into the kitchen.

  I pulled my laptop from my case, settled into one of the barstools at the kitchen counter, and logged into the secure work server, deciding to get a bit ahead for Monday. I was just pulling up the folder I’d labeled Project Hunter when the doorbell rang.

  “Hmm,” I said, wondering who might be coming to the door at—I squinted at the clock—nine o’clock at night.

  The bell rang again and I sighed, closing the laptop screen before sliding off the stool.

  “Coming,” I called in the middle of the third chime of the doorbell. It cut off mid-ring.

  I could feel the other person’s impatience through the wooden panel as I approached and I knew that should have made me hurry. But I had this sinking sensation of who it might be.

  He might be.

  I’d been studiously avoiding his phone calls for the last couple of weeks and should have known better.

  My father tilted his head to the side, face coming into view in one of the glass panels that bookended my front door. His hazel eyes were familiar—they matched my own—as was the fire shooting out of him.

  I sighed. He must really be angry if he’d come himself.

  “Here we go again,” I said, glancing down at my stomach. I was in what I’d like to term the fat stage of the pregnancy. My butt and boobs seemed to have grown disproportionally, but my belly was still relatively flat, the little curve well-hidden beneath my loose pajama pants.

  I unlocked the door and reached to open it, but my father beat me to it, pushing it open so quickly that I had to jump back to avoid being smacked in the face.

  His bodyguard, Mac, trailed him closely, gaze searching my house for would-be assailants. Not finding any in the immediate vicinity, he smiled and winked at me.

  I finger-waved. I’d always liked Mac.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said.

  “Abigail.” He strode right past me with barely a glance.

  And the flash of eye contact I received was wholly dismissive.

  I wished that dismissal still didn’t cause a pang of hurt. I bit my lip. Unfortunately, it still did.

  Ten seconds in my father’s presence and I was a hurt little girl again.

  I reached for the door to close it, but Mac beat me there. “Go ahead,” he said, softly. “I’ll lock up.”

  “Abigail,” my father said, impatience lacing each letter of my name.

  And, shame on me, I hurried to him anyway.

  I told myself it was because the sooner this was over with then the sooner he’d leave. I’d get back to my book or the project and—

  But it wasn’t about getting him to leave.

  I wanted his approval. His pride.

  My feet carried me to the kitchen, where my father stood stiffly, arms crossed fiercely over his chest, and I knew I wouldn’t be getting either of those.

  Nope. Fatherly appreciation wasn’t in my future. Instead, a fight was heading my way.

  I filled the kettle with water to stall the inevitable, setting it on the stove and turning on the gas.

  “Tea?” I asked. “Or maybe coffee?” I opened a cupboard. “I think I have some somewhere.”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” I reached for a fresh glass, not bothering with the one on the coffee table. I’d deal with that after The Reckoning. One tea bag in, then the hot water once it began steaming. While it steeped, I snagged the carton of milk from the fridge.

  I didn’t bother speaking to my father. His silence was typical. He used it with business associates—waiting them out, pushing them to crack.

  I was used to the tactic, so I kept myself busy making the perfect cup of tea.

  It was either that or start blurting out all the reasons he might be mad at me.

  And—peeking up at him as I poured milk into my tea—given the expression on his face, he didn’t need any more ammunition for his fury.

  He didn’t speak as I put the cup on the island near my laptop. Nor as I returned the milk to the fridge. He didn’t say a word as I walked by him and climbed back up into my stool.

  Fine.

  I opened my laptop, typed the information to log into the secure server again, and pulled up the design for the back of the packaging. It wasn’t quite right yet.

  I’d just started to adjust the shading when my father finally deemed it time to talk.

  “Nice house.”

  Now that was a loaded two words, considering the last time I’d spoken to my father I had expressly told him to take his trust fund and shove it up his—

  “Hmm,” I replied, taking a page out of Heather’s game plan.

  I tried one filter before discarding it, not accomplishing much except to partially ignore my father.

  Bernie Roberts wasn’t a man easily ignored, and I was no different than the rest of America. Except that when it came to my father, I always had this pulsing hurt. Like a scraped knee exposed to the air. Sting
ing. Throbbing. Aching . . . for something different.

  My eyes burned and I blinked rapidly to diffuse the waterworks. I was lucky. I was healthy, had a home and food. Mine was a life of privilege, and I wouldn’t complain.

  But sometimes a girl just wanted a hug from her dad.

  The laptop screen closed, and I jerked my hands back to avoid my fingers being smashed.

  I forced my eyes to my father’s.

  “What did you need, Dad?” I asked. “As you can see, I’m trying to get caught up on some work.”

  Fury darkened his gaze. “You’re working for O’Keith.”

  My phone buzzed. I examined the screen, saw it was Jordan. Impeccable timing, that one. If my father saw his name—

  Fireworks.

  “I’m working for Heather O’Keith,” I said, picking up my cell and placing it in my lap. “Her tech company needed someone to oversee design and marketing.”

  “Why would they want you?”

  Ouch. That one struck home and hard.

  I forced my voice to remain calm. “Because, Dad, that’s what my degree is in. That’s what I spent the last six years doing with Robert and Susan before you bought up their business.”

  He leaned against the counter, position stiff and arrogant. His hair was still brown, not a hint of gray despite the fact that he was in his sixties. Wrinkles radiated out from the corners of his eyes and around his mouth.

  Some might call them laugh lines.

  I called them something different.

  Asshole etching.

  “I bought them out so you’d come to work for me.”

  Snorting, I took a sip of my tea and felt my phone buzz again. “Tell me, Dad,” I said, placing the cup back down, “would the position at Roberts Enterprises involve real work?”

  He scoffed. “Of course it would. Your brother needs help, someone to run his calendar. Make sure he doesn’t miss lunch—”

  “Doesn’t he have an assistant for that?”

  “I would have paid you better than an assistant,” he said.

  I allowed my eyes to travel around my kitchen, taking in the gray cabinets, marble countertops, top-of-the-line appliances. The rest of the house was the same. Wide moldings. Tall ceilings. Expensive flooring.

  Yes, I was paying for it.

  But only because my trust fund had given me enough of a head start to do so. And the fact that what I’d borrowed from it hadn’t even made a dent should tell the world something. Should tell my father something.

  Why would I need more money?

  When had money ever given me something that wasn’t strictly material?

  I got it. I had privilege, had been born into it, never had to struggle, always had something to fall back on if I’d needed it.

  But I also preferred to make my own way, on my own dime. And since I’d graduated from college, I had lived by that motto.

  That I’d finally decided to cave and take a shortcut should have told my father something had changed.

  He was just too wrapped up in himself to notice.

  I sighed, slid from the stool, and gave my father a hug that he didn’t return. “I love you,” I said, pulling back. “But you would have never given me the opportunities I’ve found at RoboTech. I’m good at what I do. And, I’m sorry, but you missed out on that when you tried to shelf my abilities.”

  “Abigail, how dare—”

  I closed my eyes. Breathed out deeply. Then I opened them and strode to the front door. “I’ll see you in a few weeks at Christmas.”

  He sputtered as he followed me. “That’s not the end of this conversation. You can’t work for an O’Keith.”

  My brows came up. “I think I already am.” I put one hand up, seeing the storm raging on his face. “And before you get into the trust fund talk—which by the way, you’ve pressured me to spend on a house for years now—I have something I need to tell you.”

  His jaw fell open, probably because I’d never taken that tone with him before. I’d never had a backbone when it came to my father.

  Today, that changed.

  “I’m pregnant.” A pause as I sucked in a breath and decided to just say it and worry about the fireworks later.

  His teeth clicked closed.

  I lifted my chin. “By an O’Keith.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Any response my father might have made was cut off by the sound of the doorbell ringing.

  Good lord, my house was the revolving door tonight.

  Mac slipped past us into the hall and started for it, only to step back and place his hand inside his jacket when the lock turned.

  Oh shit.

  Jordan.

  My newfound courage slipped as he pushed open the door.

  The only sign of his surprise at finding my father, me, and a bodyguard in the hall was a brief halt in motion. It was a millisecond, really, one I might have missed had I not been watching him so closely.

  But I was watching, so I saw him take in the situation in an instant.

  My father red-faced, skin mottled, smoke all but pouring out of his ears. Me, chewing on my lip, nerves starting to swell.

  Mac, ready to reach for a gun.

  I frowned at that. My father had kept a bodyguard with him for as long as I could remember, but I’d never really processed the fact that he might actually be in danger. Further that, I knew Mac had been with him for the last four or five years and I’d never seen him reach for a gun.

  Well, I hadn’t been around all that much, had I?

  And now guilt was trickling in. Because how well did I really know my father? Was he really in danger? Was I viewing him, perhaps unfairly, through the lens of my childhood?

  Could he have changed?

  Then I remembered our interaction in the kitchen and put the thought out of my head.

  My father might have changed, but it wasn’t a drastic difference, and it certainly hadn’t changed the way he viewed me.

  Bodyguard or not.

  Jordan closed and locked the door behind him before striding casually toward us, stopping to shake Mac’s hand as he walked by. “Haley,” he said. “Good to see you.”

  Mac nodded then moved to stand in the corner, trying to give privacy to a situation that was impossible to ignore. Kind of hard when his charge was in the middle of it.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” Jordan said, stepping between my father and me, snaking a hand around my waist, and bending down to kiss me.

  My father made a choking sound.

  “Did you get my text?” he asked.

  I shook my head, hands gripping his button-down tightly. He was still in his clothes from work, and I guessed he hadn’t had the time to go home yet.

  “No.” I took in a breath, let his warmth and scent wash over me, steady me. I stepped back, tilted my head toward my father. “Jordan, this is my dad, Bernie.”

  “Good to see you again.” Jordan put out his hand.

  My father’s remained at his side. “O’Keith.”

  Jordan raised his brows, turned toward me. “I finished early. Thought we might have our date after all.”

  “She’s not dressed for it,” my father burst out. “Obviously. So go.”

  Jordan’s jaw tightened. “I’ll have you know—”

  “Jordan,” I interrupted softly.

  He looked down at me. I mouthed, “I got this.”

  His eyes searched mine for a long moment before he nodded. “Want a cup of tea?”

  I smiled, not having realized that he’d noticed my addiction. I should have because he was thoughtful and considerate and always seemed to notice all the little details.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  He bent to kiss my cheek. “Holler if you need me,” he whispered and headed into the kitchen.

  “Him?” my father snapped. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Good to see you, Dad,” I said, and walked to the front door. “I’ll be over for Christmas as usual. Otherwise, if you want to discuss anything furth
er, have your assistant call me and we’ll coordinate calendars.”

  “That’s it? You tell me you spread your legs for an O’Keith and you want me to coordinate calendars?”

  “I’m twenty-nine years old,” I said. “I don’t need your permission for who I’m friends with, let alone who I sleep with.”

  “This is some convoluted revenge, isn’t it? You think your childhood was so tough and now you’re trying to deliberately—” Spittle flew as he ranted and I found the angrier he got, the calmer I felt.

  “I didn’t deliberately do anything. I’m just trying to live my life the only way I know how.”

  “This—” He shook his head. “I can’t believe you—”

  I let my head fall back to rest against the wall. I had two framed pictures in the hall, both centered above a console table that held a bowl for keys—my attempt at mending my losing ways.

  “This is why I can’t be around you,” I said softly. “Everything is about you.” I tipped my chin back down, met his eyes square on. “But this isn’t and I suggest that if you want anything to do with your future grandbaby, then you stop judging me and let me live my own life.”

  “As if I’d want anything to do with a child that has O’Keith blood in it.” He laughed, harsh and cold. “God knows if you are associating with that family, then you’re as much of a whore as the rest of them.”

  The verbal blow took my breath away.

  “Nice, Dad.”

  “You need to go.” Jordan had come back into the hall and was standing very close to my father. Mac straightened from his position in the corner, but Jordan didn’t do anything except say, “It’s time for you to leave.”

  “Fuck you, asshole.” Then my father punched him square in the jaw.

  Jordan’s head snapped back, his hands clenched into fists at his side. But he didn’t even bother to address my father. Instead, he looked at Mac. “You need to get him out of here otherwise—”

  “Coward.”

  The word drew Jordan’s eyes down.

  “I’ll give you one freebie because she’s your daughter and you’re an old man.” His voice went deadly. “But talk to her like that again and we’re going to have a serious problem.”