A billionaire romance unlike any other—
She watches him every day.
For two months she has spent each lunch hour studying the enigmatic man in a restaurant always filled to overflowing; yet, for two months he is there each day in a booth all to himself.
Sara thinks she is safe as she drinks in every gorgeous detail reflected in the bar's back mirror. She asks herself who he could possibly be, convinced he would never notice her…convinced that no one ever does.
She could not have been more wrong.
Chance brings them together and animal lust is unleashed. But what she never could have imagined is far from being the strangest part of this tale. For there are shadowy figures holding the strings offstage and the manipulation of Sara Renardine has only just begun.
This is the entire collection of novellas previously published in the series, Her Billionaire, Her Wolf--A Paranormal Romance
The novel also contains an all new bonus story, Into the Nightlands, featuring several principle characters from Her Billionaire, Her Wolf.
Her Billionaire, Her Wolf--The Novel
(A Paranormal Werewolf Romance)
By Aimélie Aames
Copyright 2013. All Rights Reserved
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
1--His Every Desire
2--Lust and Lies
3--Blood Will Tell
4--These Cunning Bones
Afterword
Into the Nightlands
Other Fiction by Aimélie Aames
1
His Every Desire
She saw him there.
He was in his usual place, an entire booth all to himself while the rest of the restaurant and bar was full to capacity.
Sara wiggled her way between a couple of suits standing at the bar and nodded at the barman.
He winked at her and she knew that what she thought of as her lunch would be placed before her in short order.
Her stomach grumbled but with all the hustle and bustle, the clatter of silverware and conversations fighting amongst themselves to be heard, Sara was not embarrassed over the tiny sounds her famished stomach made.
She was starving and the virgin Bloody Mary...with an extra celery stick, please...would do little to calm her hunger.
That did not matter, though.
All that mattered to her was seated not far away and had his back turned to her.
He reached for a bit of paperwork spread across his table and Sara took in how his white cotton shirt drew tightly across his back and shoulders. The shirt's cotton was pristine in its purity and absolute lack of any other color than white, appearing to be of an extremely tight weave. Probably egyptian, she thought, and probably unboxed from its packaging that very morning.
And, probably tailored to fit, too.
But the way it hugged his body as he moved made that shirt precious in Sara's eyes. It was almost better than being able to see him unclothed, in all his handsome glory. She loved the way it held to his shoulders, hinting at the thick muscles that led down to broad arms that would surely feel like heaven wrapped around her body.
There was a clinking sound just beside her and Sara was forced to turn back to the bar. The ice cubes still swirling in her tomato juice, she saw that the barman was already gliding away as if he were on roller skates, his work never done during the rush of lunch hour. Besides the present press and throng, he had learned long ago that despite his best efforts, no amount of chatting would garner a tip from Sara.
As much as she would have wished otherwise, she simply could not afford a penny more than the price of her drink. What it took for her to have the right to be at that particular bar each weekday and drink in the sight of that particular man seated alone in his booth.
With a true professional's attention to detail, the barman had left a bottle of hot sauce next to Sara's cocktail and with relish, she unscrewed its bright red cap and shook in a few drops. And while she did it, Sara lifted her eyes to the mirror that shone bright and polished behind the endless bottles of liquor and spirits lining the wall across from her.
Her place at the bar was not chosen by hazard and from her position, Sara studied the white shirted man in the mirror's reflection. Her curiosity would not let her do otherwise and it felt safer somehow, watching him in a reflection, as if looking directly at him too long would burn her eyes and leave her in tears.
The mirror was safer, and better still, with the angle of view as it was, she saw only him with no risk of seeing herself.
Her own image held no mystery for her. She knew men's eyes were drawn to her, but as the years passed it was less and less the case. She knew, too, that she was tired and that it showed in a gaze that might not have been exactly haggard, but was certainly one dulled and lacking the spark of effervescent youth.
Worrying from one day to the next about where her next meal would come from or whether she would have a roof over her head had worn her down over the past year. And while that had changed for the better only a couple months ago, a sense of precarity was never far away.
Early on, when she had first started coming in to the bar for her lunchtime Bloody Mary, Sara had quietly asked the barman if he knew who the white shirted man was.
The barman had replied that he had no idea and only knew that the booth was held open for him every day without fail and woe betide he who thought to do otherwise.
When she had asked what he meant, the barman replied that during his own training he had seen a freshly recruited waiter seat a young couple one day in that booth. It had been especially crowded and the waiter was near to his wits end trying to seat people. It was late, the white shirted man had not yet showed up to claim his daily place and the waiter did the unthinkable and put the couple in the reserved seating of the booth.
Not five minutes later, the white shirted man arrived and when he saw that his usual place had been taken, he had stared a long moment at the young couple. The barman said he was suddenly sure the man was going to throw the two out the door on his own just then, the anger burning in his face and coming off him in palpable waves.
Instead, he stood right where he was, in the middle of everything and forced the waitstaff to nearly trip over themselves as they navigated by. He calmly placed his briefcase of paperwork on the floor and pulled out a cellphone into which he held a very quiet and very short conversation.
No less than thirty seconds later, the restaurant's manager came running in and with his round face blazing red, he apologetically led the couple to another table hastily being set at the back of the restaurant.
And no more than thirty minutes later, the waiter who had dared to seat the reserved booth was shown to the door, his work uniform in hand.
The following day, a new manager arrived to take the place of the last, a man who none of them had ever seen set foot in the restaurant again.
The lesson was not lost among the rest of the staff and no one had ever had the least thought of seating anyone other than the white shirted man in that booth, even if it remained empty all day and the restaurant had to turn people away at the door because all seats were taken.
Sara could not say why, but the barman's story made her shiver, as if a goose had walked across her grave.
What kind of man does that? And who could he possibly be to have people fired on the spot just for seating someone at his booth?
She could not say except that it felt li
ke power...raw, unflinching power framed in implacable exigence. Sara felt it again, that fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach she had felt when the barman had finished his story and she knew as she lifted her drink to her mouth that her nipples were pressing tight against her own white shirt.
A large man shouldered by her and then turned suddenly, his thick arm sweeping in a wide arc as he gestured to a companion. Except that he had not seen Sara, nor the virgin cocktail in her hand as it made contact with his broad forearm.
In slow motion, Sara saw tomato juice arc up into the air before tracing a red curl that slumped down to streak her blouse in bright color.
And, with all the grace of a rumbling bull, the man turned on her and said, "Hey! Watch what you're doin', you stupid bitch."
Sara's mouth dropped open as she held her arms raised, stunned at what just happened.
The man's friend laughed and clapped him on the back, acting as though he had just heard the best joke ever invented.
Then, Sara felt cracks fissure across her vision, heat rushing up as her tears fell.
"Oh, looky there, Lou...you gone and made the lady cry," said the smaller of the two.
Lou's face twisted as he searched for his wittiest reply, then said, "Shut yer face, or I'll give you a real reason to cry...bitch."
Sara did not want to break down like this, but in an instant everything fell apart. She could not imagine walking back into her office this way, covered in tomato juice. She could try washing it out in the ladies' room sink, but the shirt was silk. While it would dry fast, the tomato juice would never come out...probably not even with dry cleaning.
The tears rolled thick and heavy as she saw in a rush how the rest of the day would unfurl in one long cascade of events that would lead to losing her job, not to mention being thrown out in the street. Her room had to be paid by the week. She didn't even have a real apartment to call home. Just a room. That she even had a job seemed like a minor miracle after the strangest interview she had ever had. But now that she had it, even if it was a temp position, she could not imagine going back to desperately scanning the want ads for the next thing, for anything.
The cacophony of sounds in the restaurant drifted to silence in the seconds that followed. Sara was frozen as time crystallized around her. The barman's face turned to her, blank and without compassion. In the crowd surrounding her, smiles lifted upon the lips of some, others turned their heads, unwilling to feel any need to help.
The large man his friend had named Lou was already turning away from her when Sara saw him suddenly do an about-face.
He took a single, shaking step forward, then Sara saw that his eyes were bulging in their sockets, his visage turning more and more red. It was if he was having trouble taking a breath and she could see a thick vein standing out upon his forehead.
Over his shoulder, Sara noticed his friend shrinking back, his own eyes wide with what looked like terror and that was when she heard a low voice say, "Tell the lady you're sorry."
The voice that said it had an edge to it. Almost as if the words had been growled out.
Then, Sara looked past the shoulder of the now very red in the face ogre to see a blindingly white shirt and amber eyes looking steadily back at her.
There were strong fingers wrapped around the brute's thick neck from behind and she could see the tips of those fingers had gone pale with the terrific pressure they exerted upon the man's flesh.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...."gulped Lou, his eyes bulging even more in their sockets.
The low voice from behind Lou spoke once again, and asked, "Is his apology acceptable, Miss?"
Sara searched for what to say, but before she could formulate any sort of coherent reply, her hand flew of its own volition to land a slap upon the big man's face. The sound it made cracked like a whip through the room and silenced the last of the voices murmuring in the crowd.
"Okay...I think that's the best you can expect given the circumstances," said the white shirted man behind Lou.
"Now, turn around and leave," he finished as he released his hold upon the man's neck.
Lou sagged slightly and Sara thought he might faint where he stood. Instead, he took a ragged breath and staggered toward the exit as the crowd parted before him, all eyes turned to the spectacle. His companion quickly followed suit as he hurried after the large man disappearing through the door.
Amber eyes held her own in an intense gaze, then the man that now stood before her said, "You surprised me." His tone was quizzical, as if he had not expected to be surprised, as if other people rarely surprised him.
"I'm sorry," Sara replied, her own voice shaking.
"Don't be," he answered, then took her arm and said, "Come on."
Almost stumbling to keep up with his brisk gait, Sara felt a thrill flutter through her. The object of every lunch hour's thoughts was trying to help her.
He nodded to the barman as they went and said, "Send my affairs upstairs."
Without waiting for a reply, or even a second glance behind him at all the paperwork he had strewn across the booth's tabletop, Sara's rescuer led her down a corridor. She recognized it as the one leading to the restaurant's men's and ladies' rooms and her heart sank just a little.
Suddenly she was sure he only wanted to show her the way to the bathroom while he went somewhere more quiet to finish whatever it was he worked on each midday.
Except that they marched right past the bathroom doors to the corridor's end where a single door was marked plainly, No Admittance--Staff Only.
Without missing a beat, the man in white opened the door and gestured that Sara should step within. The doorway gave onto a stairwell leading upward and, together, they went up to the next floor where a second door stood closed, this one marked Manager's Office.
Again, the man did not hesitate as he opened the door and waited for Sara to step inside.
A corpulent man was seated at a desk, his own paperwork before him, and he jumped with surprise that made his jowls wiggle as Sara came to a standstill, unsure what to do after having barged into his office without even knocking first.
"Yes?" he said, then looking past her, just as quickly followed by, "Oh!"
Sara's rescuer walked past her, his stride as confident as ever and said, "Out. Now."
The manager jumped to his feet and said, "Oh yes...of course, sir."
Sara noticed that where before his cheeks merely wiggled, now they positively quivered as he hastily went out the door through which they had just come.
Her jaw dropped down as the white shirted man walked past her and began tugging open cabinet doors, apparently looking for something, and appearing as if he owned the place.
Then it hit her.
"Are you the owner?" she asked.
He stopped what he was doing, then straightened, turning to her.
"Hmmm...that depends on how you look at it," he replied.
Sara hesitated, then said, "I mean, it's not that I'm not grateful. I am. I just can't help wondering who can do that. I mean, just tell people what to do and they do it, no questions."
Amber eyes turned to regard her. In them she thought she saw hints of orange, or maybe very light green. It was hard to say, except that the color was far lighter than brown eyes had any right to be. It was unearthly.
"Does it matter?" he asked, frowning.
His frame was massive. Sara had always been able to make out that he was a muscular, very fit man. But, as she had always seen him seated with his back turned to her, she had not been able to appreciate to what point his chest was broad with a carry to his heavy shoulders that looked worthy of wearing a knight's cloak. No, a king's cloak.
What kind of crazy thinking is this? she asked herself.
"No," she said, "It doesn't matter. I appreciate what you did back there and what you're doing now. I was about to die from embarrassment in front of all those people."
He came closer to her, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, relaxed. B
ut, she was sure she could see living fire smoldering in his gaze as he looked at her.
"Embarrassed or not, that didn't stop you from slapping him," he said, coming even closer to her.
Sara tried looking away, searching for something else to focus on, something less dangerous, but his eyes held her like lodestones. He was close enough that she could see his lashes, so very long and thick framing those exquisitely beautiful eyes.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me," she stammered under his unwavering scrutiny.
"Don't be sorry," he said as his body neared to the point where Sara could feel the heat of him.
It's like standing next to a bonfire, she thought, her senses tightening like clock springs in his proximity. Crazily, all she could think of was that given the chance, she would gladly throw herself onto the blaze.
His voice dropped to nearly a whisper as he said, "I thought it showed your mettle."
The rhythm of her breathing quickened as she considered his words. Something about the way he spoke...somehow slightly old fashioned, archaic even.
His hands lifted and Sara felt strong fingers at her shirt buttons. Her breath stopped as she realized he was undoing them, one by one, while his eyes never left hers.
"Don't move," he said and Sara felt as if his words held the power to hold her fast no matter what his fingers did.
"This simply will not do, will it?" he said as she felt her shirt fall open. Cool air slipped by the inferno of his gaze and slid across her belly. It felt like a lover's caress as it touched where the cocktail had gone through to her skin, moistening her flesh.
And at her apex, despite her, because of him, moisture gathered hot and thick under her skirt and between her thighs.
Her Billionaire, Her Wolf--The Novel (A Paranormal Alpha Werewolf Romance) Page 1