Bared to the Billionaire
The Complete Series
Sylvia Pierce
Contents
Copyright
Also by Sylvia Pierce
About Bared to the Billionaire: The Complete Series
Dedication
Bared to the Billionaire: Book 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Bared to the Billionaire: Book 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Bared to the Billionaire: Book 3
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Bared to the Billionaire: Book 4
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Get In Touch!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
BARED TO THE BILLIONAIRE: THE COMPLETE SERIES
Copyright © 2015, 2016 Sylvia Pierce
SylviaPierceBooks.com
All rights reserved. With the exception of brief quotations used for promotional or review purposes, no part of this book may be recorded, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express permission of the author. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, organizations, brands, media, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Also by Sylvia Pierce
BARED TO THE BILLIONAIRE
Bared to the Billionaire 1
Bared to the Billionaire 2
Bared to the Billionaire 3
Bared to the Billionaire 4
BAD BOYS ON HOLIDAY
Snowed In with the Bad Boy
Bad Boy Valentine
Beached with the Bad Boy
Rescued by the Bad Boy
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About Bared to the Billionaire: The Complete Series
“You’re fucking dangerous, Arianne. And so fucking beautiful.”
For Arianne Holbrook, discretion isn’t just a job requirement—it’s what keeps her alive. So when a hot, mysterious Brit starts asking too many questions at an exclusive art auction in New York, Ari’s got one shot at saving herself: seduction.
Too bad his masterful touch leaves her aching to be tamed, again and again…
In the boardroom or the bedroom, billionaire social media tycoon Jared Blackwell is always in control, and commanding the devious woman’s pleasure is no exception. But Jared is certain there’s more to this beauty than meets the eye. Behind her sinfully dirty mouth, the intriguing art collector hides dangerous secrets.
Secrets another man would kill to protect.
As their sizzling infatuation deepens, Jared’s on a collision course for heartache and financial ruin, and Ari’s playing with the kind of fire that just might get her killed. Despite the risks, walking away is not an option—for either of them. But when the sins of Ari’s past threaten to destroy everyone they both love, how far will Jared go to protect what’s his?
** This box set contains the complete BARED TO THE BILLIONAIRE erotic romance series.**
This series is dedicated to Stacey,
who told me so.
Bared to the Billionaire: Book 1
Chapter One
This job was killing her sex life.
It had been so long since Arianne Holbrook’s body was commanded by the kind of strong, rough hands she craved that her mind was now serving up fantasies over every cute guy in sight.
At the moment the cute guy in sight was a slightly-too-young-but-hot-enough-to-ignore-it bartender at a private art auction on Manhattan’s Central Park West.
“Sapphire and tonic?” The bartender set the drink before her, smiling politely as their fingertips brushed. “Will that be all?”
“For now.” Unless you’ve got a pair of cuffs and a blindfold back there. Ari slid a twenty across the bar and returned his smile, but he was already tending to the next guest, oblivious to both her flirtatious gaze and her generous tip.
No matter. It was Davidson’s money. She could afford to be loose with the boss’s cash as long as she did the job required.
Get in. Get the intel. Get out.
And above all, don’t get noticed.
It was the “don’t get noticed” part that was doing a number on her sex life. Even if the bartender had responded to her innuendos, it didn’t matter. Ari wasn’t allowed to let it go beyond her imagination. A momentary distraction was one thing, but she definitely couldn’t risk making an impression.
A decade with her father’s crew—hundreds of scenes just like this one—and Ari had never screwed up, never once lingered too long or left behind any damning evidence.
You’re a phantom, Ari, her father had said on the night of her nineteenth birthday, just after her first real score. They didn’t even know you were there.
It was just a few grand in jewelry from a political fundraiser in Sleepy Hollow, nothing like the art scenes she worked today. But it meant something: after years of being treated like the cute team mascot by her father’s people, she’d finally passed the test.
&nb
sp; At nineteen it made her feel like a superhero, like she’d grow up to be this unstoppable badass in black leather and red lipstick, a woman who could crack a safe, defuse an alarm, and seduce a man into revealing his deepest secrets, all without breaking a sweat.
Now, her father dead five years and counting, it just made her feel like a ghost.
As the guest chatter and piped-in classical music blended into a din, Ari sipped the cocktail, her features projecting the cool detachment of the one-percenters that frequented these private auctions. It wasn’t hard to look the part, especially with her off-the-books expense account keeping her salon-polished and stylish. Tonight she wore her chestnut hair in a loose twist at the base of her neck, light on the makeup, and a strapless navy blue cocktail dress.
If anyone were questioned about her later, they’d recall only a classy woman in a dark dress, a splash of tasteful yet unremarkable jewelry. Calm and unconcerned, totally in control.
The exact opposite of her reality.
She took another sip, savoring the sweet bite of gin on her tongue, and catalogued her surroundings. The twentieth floor penthouse was enormous by New York standards—a prewar stunner even larger than her father’s place, with breathtaking views of Central Park and the glittering buildings that surrounded it—but its grand scale was nothing she couldn’t handle.
Word on the street was that this family was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, liquidating their valuables at auction before expatriating to Greece. Given the sparse decor in the main rooms, Ari didn’t expect to find much in the private rooms, either.
But Davidson had given her the assignment. She had no choice.
Ari had already memorized the floor plan from Davidson’s files, and now she closed her eyes, imprinting new details in her mind:
About sixty guests, plus the host and hostess. Four people working the bar and serving hors d'oeuvres. Doorman in the foyer by the elevator, and another downstairs. One security guard making the rounds, beefy but unarmed. Private hallway roped off with theater stanchions. No visible security cameras or alarm system.
Ari had just visualized entering the first of the penthouse’s four bedrooms when a deep, silky voice shattered her thoughts.
“Pardon the interruption, but may I join you?”
Ari opened her eyes. It was a rare man that rattled her, but the impeccably dressed Englishman nodding toward the adjacent barstool caught her by surprise. She covered by taking another sip of her drink, shrugging coolly to let him know he could join her if he liked; made no difference to her.
No difference. Nope, not at all. Ari sucked an ice cube between her lips, trying not to smile. Rich, sinfully hot Brit? This fantasy is even better than the bartender version.
“Thank you,” the man said, taking a seat. Tall and broad-shouldered, he took up all the space between them, his arm brushing against hers as he settled in. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. You seem to be having quite a good think.”
She swallowed the ice cube, imagining what it would feel like to let him run it over her lips, between her breasts, down to her—
“I was,” she said hoarsely. “Thinking about things, I mean.”
He leaned close, his warm breath stirring the fine hairs on her neck. “Wicked things, I hope.”
Damn him. She held back a shiver. That deep voice and sexy British accent were enough to drive any woman wild, but his gorgeous honey-brown eyes, tousled black hair, and the confident, masculine way he carried himself sealed the deal. Even joking with her at the bar, he projected the kind of energy that could command a room.
Or a bedroom…
Ari’s thighs clenched in a weak attempt to staunch her throbbing desire while her brain—the only body part still focused on the job—shouted firm warnings.
Stop it, Arianne! Dragging this man into the powder room for a quickie might seem like a lovely idea, but it would definitely get you noticed.
Without asking her opinion, the man ordered another drink for Ari and a scotch for himself. She considered refusing—one drink was usually her on-the-clock max; anything more could lead to carelessness—but she sensed he wasn’t the kind of guy who took no for an answer.
Besides, she was feeling a little rebellious tonight. Davidson had her working auctions and charity events nearly every night this month, each one demanding a new identity—private collector, curator, estate lawyer, art student. The whole arrangement was giving her whiplash. She needed to loosen up, even if it was just for a few minutes.
“Wicked thoughts,” she whispered, returning her attention to her new companion, “are the only thoughts that make these events bearable.”
The Brit laughed, loosening his tie and releasing a button at the top of his white dress shirt. His smile was dazzling—equally rakish and warm, the kind of smile that warned of dangerous, delicious things to come.
“Answer this for me,” he said, his face still glowing from that killer smile, “if it’s not terribly intrusive. Do you have children?”
Ari shook her head.
“Thank God.” He ran a hand through his thick hair, leaving it in disarray, just begging for her to run her hands through it. “If I never hear another word about the cutthroat admissions process for Manhattan preschools, it will be too soon.”
“Ah. First time at one of these events?” Ari asked.
“First time on my own, anyway. Present company excluded, I feel like a magnet for self-involved dullards.”
“Give it time.” She placed her hand on his forearm, surprised at how firm the muscle was, how thick and taut. “It gets… well, I won’t say better. But you learn to sense when the conversation is turning toward competitive preschools, the dearth of trilingual nannies, and spa vacations for pets. Then you make your graceful exit.”
“I just bloody well told them I needed a drink,” he said. “I’m not even sure they noticed.”
“You?” Ari raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure they noticed.”
He didn’t respond, just pinned her with his mischievous gaze until the arrival of their drinks finally broke the heated connection.
He passed Ari her glass, and then raised his own. “To bearable company.”
“Mine or yours?” she teased.
His smile was warm and genuine as he leaned in close, his breath once again tickling her flesh. “That, love, remains to be seen.”
They clinked glasses and drank, their eyes locked in an unspoken dare.
Now here’s a man who can dish it out and take it, too. Yum.
Another dim warning rang in Ari’s head, but she shut it down fast. It was just drinks, a few laughs. He’d probably used the same lines on women all the time; there was no reason Ari would stand out in his memory later.
Besides, she deserved to indulge in a bit of harmless fun with a smart, sexy guy once in a while. It’s not like Davidson and the other guys were here watching. They’d never even know about it.
The man held out his hand for a proper introduction. “I’m—”
“Don’t tell me,” she said, gently pushing his hand away. “You’ll ruin my fantasy about a torrid affair with a mysterious stranger.”
“Torrid affair?” He cleared his throat, further loosening his tie. “Our relationship is progressing rather urgently, don’t you think?”
Ari tapped her temple. “Wicked thoughts, remember?”
“Just how many of these auctions have you been to?”
“Enough to know how to thoroughly entertain myself.” And enough to know not to give out her name, fake or otherwise. Her carefully chosen identity served two purposes—getting in the door, and making fake bids on the art. Nowhere on the list was making new friends.
Even extremely sexy British friends with the kind of body built for pinning her down on the bed.
“So you’re a regular,” he said, eyeing her up. “Let’s see. A curator, collector, or just another member of the idle rich?”
Ari laughed. “Depends on your definition of collector.”
“How do you mean?” he asked.
Ari gestured behind them, where the beautiful elite sipped Champagne and laughed agreeably at one another’s polite conversation. Serious collectors occasionally attended, but private auctions were more often populated by eccentric billionaires who treated rare art acquisition like an African hunting safari, and pill-popping socialites looking to one-up the neighbors. She figured her mystery man fell into the former camp. As a little girl on her father’s arm, Ari had attended these same events, watching in awe as he worked the room. Not much had changed since.
“Out of the dozens of people here,” she said, “how many know a damn thing about the pieces they’re bidding on?”
“Perhaps they just know what they want when they see it.” He held her gaze, those eyes entrancing her as he inched closer. Heat radiated between them where their thighs touched. “Some things are quite pleasurable in their own right, aren’t they.”
He wasn’t asking her. He was telling her.
A thrill raced down her spine.
Ari looked away, unable to take the intensity building between them. She didn’t know if she was imagining it, or if the alcohol had lowered her guard, or if her fantasies were finally overtaking the last bit of logical resistance in her head, but everything about this man—his words, his sultry voice, his commanding presence—was making her wet.
She shifted on the barstool, still not meeting his eyes. “Just because something looks pretty doesn’t mean it’s art.”
“What is art, if not beauty?” he asked. “Art stirs our deepest passions, regardless of its origins. Is knowledge of its history a prerequisite to our pleasure?”
“Of course not,” she said, “but that definition is too broad. Bordain’s Garden of the Divine is art, but then, so are the flowers that inspired it. Is a building art? A sunset? A child’s painting?”
“The curve of a lover’s mouth?” he asked.
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