Bad Billionaires Box Set

by Elise Faber

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat, trying to erase the fact that she’d slept the evening away. “Have you managed to locate my package?”

  “Ah, yes. It’s actually at our other hotel.”

  She frowned. Weird. “Oh, okay. So, someone will drive it over?”

  “Uh—”

  “What is it?” Heather asked, knowing by the other woman’s hesitation that she definitely wasn’t going to like where this conversation was going.

  “Well, the package is in the other hotel.”

  And no more words.

  “You said that,” she prompted.

  “The other hotel isn’t in Germany.”

  Heather rubbed her temples. “Where is it then?” If it was in Italy, she could survive one more day without it.

  Thank God, she’d packed her paperbacks.

  “It’s in Moscow.”

  Now it was her turn for no more words.

  “Ms. O’Keith?” the woman asked after a long moment of silence.

  “Yes, I’m still here. Please just have them mail it to this address”—she rattled off the information for her office north of San Francisco, thinking at this point, she would probably beat it there.

  And at any rate, with the way this trip was going, it would be easier for her to buy a cheap disposable phone and just use it until her trip ended.

  “I will do that, Ms. O’Keith,” the woman said. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Heather thanked her, knowing it wasn’t the woman on the phone’s fault—but still argh!—then hung up.

  Two more days and she’d be home.

  A quick shower to wash her face, a few minutes to brush and floss, and a pair of cozy pajamas later, and Heather was more relaxed.

  It would all be fine.

  The shops were already closed, but that wasn’t a big deal, she would pick up a phone in the morning. Maybe she’d even send Clay a naughty text or two from the unknown number, just to see what he’d do.

  Smirking and settling back onto her bed with her newest book in hand, she let the plot of the contemporary romance lull her into sleepiness. She probably should have been working, going over her notes for tomorrow’s meeting, but dammit, she was lonely and without technology—and Clay and Netflix.

  So, she figured she’d earned a little hooky time.

  And bonus, she figured out how to set the alarm clock so that she could make her scheduled flight time to Milan in the morning. She’d even built in time for the phone pit stop.

  Go her.

  It was just after midnight when she put the book down and flicked off the light.

  Probably the earliest she’d gone to bed in ages, especially considering her multi-hour nap that afternoon.

  But fuck it all, she was tired and at loose ends, so she’d let sleep take her under.

  The hotel phone rang just over five hours later. Scrabbling with a sleep-muddled brain, Heather managed to grab the receiver and bring it up to her ear. “Yeah?”

  Maybe they’d found out that her package wasn’t in Moscow after all?

  But it wasn’t the woman from the night before on the phone.

  Instead, the voice belonged to pretty much the last person she expected to call her at zero-dark-thirty, in the middle of a business trip.

  “Heather Isabelle O’Keith!”

  “Bec?” she asked, still groggy.

  “Yes, of course, it’s me,” her friend snapped.

  Aware that she wasn’t at her peak level of mindfulness, Heather asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Which was the absolute wrong thing to ask when Bec was in this kind of mood.

  “Wrong?” her friend shrieked. “What’s. Wrong?”

  Heather sat up, rubbed a hand across her eyes. “Bec, I love you, but it’s barely five and I’m still half asleep, what’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is that I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for hours.” Bec’s voice was at an ear-piercing level of shrill now.

  “Why? Is there something wrong with the Helix deal?”

  Maybe there had been some huge issue and they’d needed both hers and Clay’s opinion on it, and since she’d been unreachable—

  A sharp, irritated sound punctuated the phone’s speaker. “This doesn’t have to do with business.”

  Since she was feeling tired and confused and, yes, by now more than a little frustrated, Heather snapped out, “Then what, Bec? What in the fuck is so important that you’re calling me now, in full-on New Jersey housewife mode?”

  “First, I resent that comment,” her friend announced. “Second, I resent that comment.”

  “Bec,” she warned.

  “No,” Bec said. “You don’t get to use that tone, not when you’ve been keeping secrets.”

  Her gut twisted, and she clenched the receiver tightly. “About what?”

  “I think you know.”

  She did know of one thing that would get Bec all riled up like this, but she hadn’t expected, hadn’t thought . . .

  Things had been going so well.

  And yet, it made perfect sense.

  Of course, it couldn’t last.

  Of course, it wouldn’t work.

  “About what?” she asked again, needing Bec to say the words.

  “Why in the fuck do I have a marriage license with yours and Clay Steele’s names on it?”

  Heather’s eyes slid closed, and she collapsed back against the headboard, clenching the receiver tightly, waiting for the bomb to drop.

  “Why is it sitting on my desk?” Bec went on. “With a note requesting an annulment as quickly as possible?”

  That tiny tendril of hope that she’d been holding on to so carefully, protecting so tightly under the armor of her heart shriveled up and died. It turned to ash, right along with Clay’s declaration of love, right along with her own tender feelings.

  She’d known it was all too good to be true. She’d known.

  Relationships weren’t in her DNA.

  But apparently, broken hearts were.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Clay

  He still hadn’t heard from Heather.

  Clay had thought she would have something to say about the annulment, but apparently, It’s over was enough of an ending. “Fuck,” he muttered, glancing at the clock on his laptop screen and knowing that she’d officially been back for more than twenty-four hours.

  And he was sitting in his office well after midnight, trying to figure out how to move on with his life.

  The Helix deal was on permanent hold.

  His other business dealings were well in hand.

  He wasn’t needed here, or frankly anywhere at the moment, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to go back to his empty apartment.

  Home had become that house north of the city owned by a beautiful blonde.

  But Heather didn’t want him.

  That much had become clear.

  He’d called forty-eight times. He’d sent a message to her hotel. He’d emailed. He’d texted copious amounts of gifs.

  All with no response.

  And so, as much as he wanted to demand answers from Heather, to demand a fucking explanation for torpedoing the deal, for ghosting him, for cutting him more deeply than any other person on the planet ever had, Clay knew he had to set her free.

  He loved her, so damned much. He wouldn’t force her to stay.

  Not when she didn’t feel as strongly.

  “Fuck,” he said again, pushing up from his desk, his hand on the top of his laptop, readying to close the screen.

  Ping.

  An email.

  His heart beat a little faster before he caught himself. Heather wouldn’t email at this point. That ship had more than sailed, and it was important he remember that. Still, remembering didn’t stop him from clicking over to his inbox, and it certainly didn’t stop his pulse from speeding up until it was a rapid tattoo in his chest when he saw that the sender was, in fact, Heather.

  Fingers trembling, h
e opened the message.

  Hey Handsome,

  Sorry my last message cut off. My laptop has decided to go to that sunny, rainbow-filled place beyond the clouds. Worse than that, and my point of the previous message (which I’m not sure actually went through since the computer went completely black the moment I hit send), is that my life is over! Okay, maybe not, but my phone took a dive in the toilet—insert puking sound here—and so I’m woefully disconnected from the world. Hopefully the replacement will get here soon and the IT department can fix my computer, but if not, know that I love you so much and that I’m missing you.

  Love,

  H

  P.S. I feel as though I should insert more puking sounds here because of the sheer sap level of that last sentence, but because it’s true, I’m leaving it.

  P.P.S. Can’t wait to see you. Only three days and six hours left to go.

  Clay reread the message three times before he finally understood . . . and realized exactly how much of a fucking idiot he’d been.

  Those weren’t the words of a woman who’d just double-crossed him. They were the warm, teasing words of the woman he loved, who loved him right back.

  Why hadn’t he waited for Heather to come back and talked to her?

  Why had he jumped to conclusions?

  Why hadn’t he trusted in what they were building?

  Because he was a fucking moron.

  “Goddammit,” he said, resisting the urge—barely—to launch his laptop across the room.

  Funny that he worked in technology and it had screwed him over with the woman he loved. Toilet-dunked phones. Mysteriously dying laptops. Emails arriving way too many days late.

  And because of that, he’d had the marriage license delivered to Bec, along with a request for the annulment. He’d taken their very private matter and turned it very public.

  Heather would never forgive him.

  He sank into his chair, head in his hands, fingers threatening to tear all the hair from his scalp. So, it was just as well that his cell rang right at that moment.

  Sure, fate, throw another thing on his plate.

  A swipe across the screen, a jab to turn it on speaker. “What?”

  “Uhh . . . Mr. Steele?”

  Steven. Bec’s junior associate.

  Clay sighed. “What is it, Steven?”

  “Um, well, I just wanted to get back to you as quickly as possible. I’ve been doing some research on the contracts from the Helix deal—”

  “The deal’s dead.”

  Steven coughed. “Well, I figured as much.” A pause. “But I also knew that something wasn’t quite right with the counteroffer they’d sent back. So I, um, went through all of the contracts and—” He broke off, papers rustling in the background.

  Clay strived for patience. “Get to the bottom line, please.”

  “The RoboTech offer didn’t originate from our office, and it hadn’t been approved by anyone in their acquisitions department, either.” The more Steven talked, the calmer he got, his words finally flowing in a way that didn’t make Clay want to reach through the phone and strangle him.

  Finally, some progress.

  “But,” Steven continued. “I didn’t quite understand what was happening until I got a call from one of my former associates. He was wondering why Steele Technologies had put in two offers on Helix.”

  Clay frowned. “What—?”

  “It wasn’t a mistake on our end. I checked. We sent the one offer, but when my friend sent me a copy of the second contract, it appeared almost identical.”

  “Almost?”

  “The numbers were different, obviously. But that wasn’t all. The logo had been altered slightly and while the signature on the final page matched yours, we didn’t have any digital confirmation that you’d actually signed the contract. Because all our contracts are handled electronically, there is always a signature confirmation. So, I went back and looked at the one from RoboTech.”

  Clay leaned back in his chair, already knowing the answer to his next statement. “They didn’t have any confirmation of Heather signing either.”

  “No.” Two letters that drove the knife of regret lodged in Clay’s heart even deeper. “Apparently, Helix has been trying to play both sides.”

  “And fucking up while doing it,” Clay said, furious.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Steven said. “But I thought you would need to know as soon as possible.”

  “You did the right thing,” Clay told him. “Both times.” He sighed, thinking of the mess he needed to untangle because he’d been hurt and impulsive. “Thank you for following this through until the end.”

  “Who needs sleep?” Steven joked, and Clay thought there might be for hope for him yet.

  After saying goodbye, they hung up and Clay stood, shoving his arms into his suit jacket. He knew he should probably wait until morning, but he went straight down to the garage and got into his car anyway.

  As he sped through the dark night, he called Heather, but it rang once before sending him straight to voice mail. He was sure she had a functioning cell phone by now, so he was probably blocked. Great.

  He hung up and though he knew it was wrong, especially considering the late hour and the fact that she wasn’t his assistant, he also called Rachel.

  It also rang once and went to voice mail.

  Shit.

  He drove the rest of the way in tense silence, fingers clenched on the steering wheel, his mind running a thousand miles per hour, even as he got no closer to figuring out a way to fix things.

  When he turned onto her street, he could see that the gate to Heather’s house was wide open. His heart clenched.

  It was fine. She had probably ordered a pizza or something.

  Except there weren’t any lights on in the front of the house and no cars in the driveway.

  Throat tight, he screeched through the gate, threw his car in park, and jumped out. A sprint to the front door, his fist rising to knock . . . only to find the door slightly ajar. At that point, Clay’s vision went black on the edges, his breaths short and shallow, and sweat broke out on the back of his neck. He frantically searched the dimly-lit hallway for signs of blood or broken glass.

  Heather walked out of the kitchen at that moment, a large black bag in one hand, two empty wine bottles in the other.

  Seeing him standing there, she screamed and dropped both the bottles and bag.

  Glass shattered, garbage exploded all over the floor, but all Clay felt was relief that Heather was alive.

  His legs buckled and he landed hard on his knees. She was okay.

  She was okay.

  “Clay,” she said tentatively. “I’m fine.”

  “Careful of the glass,” he rasped out when she made as though to come toward him. “Your feet are bare.”

  She glanced down, as if surprised to see the shattered bottles mere inches from her unprotected skin. “Let me get the broom.”

  A shake of his head as he pushed to his feet.

  His shoes crunched over the glass as he crossed to her and swept her up into his arms. Then held her for several long minutes.

  Until she stiffened and seemed to remember all that had happened over the last few days.

  “Please,” he said, carrying her over to the counter. “Just let me explain.”

  There were tears in Heather’s eyes, moisture that threatened to break him.

  She pointed. “The broom is in that cupboard.”

  Nodding, though he’d already known that, Clay took the hint and extracted the broom and dustpan. It only took a few minutes for him to sweep up the glass and dump it into the trash bag. Then several moments more to pack up the garbage and take everything out to the cans on the side of Heather’s house.

  That done, he locked up and returned the broom to the cabinet.

  Silence until—

  “What are you doing here?”

  A soft question, but one that was laced with so much hurt that it sliced Clay right to t
he quick.

  “I made a mistake. It—”

  She snorted. “Do you know what I was doing before you showed up? Why the gate was open and the lights were off?” He shook his head. “My friends came over to commiserate, to cheer me up because you’d broken me so thoroughly. In fact, your timing was about perfect because they’d just left, and I was finally feeling like myself again. I was finally f-feeling strong, and then you had to show up—” Tears streamed down her face. “I was just trying to take the fucking trash out, and you had to make a mess of things. And somehow, I’m the one who’s feeling bad? Terrible that I’d scared you because I knew, because I understood just how much the unlocked door and dark house must have frightened you—”

  He closed the distance between them as her sobs cut off her words, wrapping his arms tightly around her. She pushed him away, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t let go.

  “And . . . you . . . hurt me.” A sniff. “How could you send Bec the license without talking to me?”

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he said. “I’m so fucking sorry. I—” He began explaining about the contract and the forged offer from RoboTech, his unreturned phone calls, her partial email, the words pouring out of him. “I thought that it was your way of telling me that you didn’t want me.” He cupped her face, meeting her tear-filled eyes with his own. “And I couldn’t be the thing to force you to stay in a relationship that wasn’t making you happy, baby. Not when you’re so important to me. I couldn’t do that to you.”

  “So, you broke my heart instead.”

  Words spoken so flatly that ice spread through his gut. “I thought it was what you wanted.”

  Her cheeks went bright red, and she shoved at his chest. Hard.

  Hard enough that he staggered back a step as she slid from the counter and began pacing around the kitchen.

  “Dammit, Clay. You knew how hard it was for me to try and give us a real shot! You knew how hard it was for me to tell you that I loved you! And I did it!” She turned and ripped open the refrigerator door, grabbing a half-opened roll of cookie dough. She slammed it onto the counter, tore off a chunk, and shoved it into her mouth.

  He started to speak, but she pointed the roll at him, its yellow and black wrapper flapping with the motion. “Not a word about salmonella or so help me God, I will launch this right at your head.”