Billionaire's Killer

by Brooke Shelby

  Billionaire’s Killer

  Brooke Shelby

  Hudson Digital Press, LLC

  Copyright © 2019 by Brooke Shelby

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

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  Books by Brooke Shelby

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Mailing List

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  Books by Brooke Shelby

  The Billionaires Series

  The Baker’s Billionaire

  Billionaire’s Karma

  Billionaire’s Accident

  Billionaire’s Bet

  Billionaire Unmasked

  Billionaire’s Trust

  The Billionaires Series

  The Tech Titans Series

  Weapon of Love

  The Billionaire’s Killer

  Chasing the Cure

  Fixing the Cure

  The Character Assassins

  The Character Assassins: Part II

  1

  Delilah Blake looked at herself in the mirror in the hotel bathroom. Long dark brown hair, almost the color of molten chocolate, fell over her shoulders in a wet curtain. She had a heart-shaped face, full lips with a perfect cupid’s bow, and a sharp nose and chin. Her green eyes were her best feature, not only aesthetically, as they didn’t miss a thing.

  She looked like an ordinary woman in her late twenties; most people wouldn’t even look at her twice, but Delilah was anything but ordinary.

  She was a highly skilled assassin.

  Taking a deep breath, she started applying her makeup with more care than ever before. Tonight was the night she had waited for for fifteen years. Tonight was the night she had trained for, dreamed about, lived for. Tonight she was going to meet Carson Royal, seduce him, and then she was going to kill him.

  A wicked smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she applied an ample amount of eye shadow to give her eyes a smoky look. Appearance was just as important in her line of work as her weapon.

  Outside, the party was in full swing; after all, Mardi Gras in New Orleans only came once a year.

  As she dabbed the powders and paints onto her face, she thought of the journey that had led her to this moment. She could still remember the rain that had pattered against the window when the sirens had sounded outside their home. The way her mother had rushed to the door to let them in. Her mother’s frame buckling beneath the news; her father grabbing her just in time before she fell to the floor.

  Delilah, at fourteen years old, had taken Cody’s hand—he was only nine years old at the time—as they listened the news that would change their lives forever. The news that contorted their happy family into a dysfunctional one with nothing but blame and hatred between them.

  Molly, only sixteen, had gone to visit a friend on her bicycle just a few hours before, but Molly wasn’t ever coming home again. On her way back from her friend, with the rain pelting down against the asphalt, Molly’s bike had skidded into a fall.

  Right in front of Carson Royal’s prototype of a self-driving car. Needless to say, the self-driving car didn’t stop.

  But Molly’s heart did.

  Delilah took a deep breath, finding the anger and the hate she always used to banish the grief. When she opened her eyes, they were a piercing green, so translucently green that they seemed ice-cold. She opened the contact lens container and slipped one into each eye. This time when she met her reflection in the mirror, her eyes were a hazel brown. She loved this color; it was enticing, mysterious, and always caught a man’s attention when she aimed those doe-brown eyes in his direction.

  After applying three coats of mascara to achieve just the right look, she picked up the lipstick. Its color, aptly named Bloody Murder, suited her olive-toned skin perfectly. Her transformation was almost complete, she thought, as her hands deftly braided her waist-length hair. It wasn’t that length because she had planned it, simply because she couldn’t care less about going to the hairdresser. She bundled the braid, clasping it against her scalp before she put on the wig. It was a dark burgundy, but when the light fell on it, it became a daring red. It fell in thick, luxurious waves over her back.

  Delilah stepped back, assessing her image. She looked nothing like the ordinary brunette that had looked back at her only a few minutes ago. She looked exotic, sexy, and mysterious; exactly the type of woman Carson Royal wouldn’t be able to resist.

  Moving towards the bed, she flicked open the large armor case. Inside were her high-tech polymer gun and her daggers. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she slipped the gun into the strap on the inside of her thigh. The daggers followed.

  Who would ever have thought little Delilah Blake would become an assassin?

  After Molly’s death, the Royal Corporation had offered her family a pittance in compensation for the accident. Delilah had seen her parents and her family fall apart and had vowed to avenge her sister’s death. For five years, she had planned how she would take revenge on Carson Royal. By the time she finished high school, she had a plan; she only needed a mentor.

  And she had found one.

  At the age of nineteen, she had met Spike in a bar on the wrong side of town. She had asked around enough to know he was the person she needed to mentor her. Hesitant at first, Spike had given her a gun and a challenge before he had agreed to mentor her. She had passed with flying colors. That son of a bitch of a pimp had had no idea she was coming for him until she took his last breath.

  For five years, she had spent every waking moment training with Spike. Every hit was a bigger challenge, the reward of knowing she was getting better each time driving her. Spike had declared Delilah ready five years ago, but Delilah didn’t feel ready yet. She would only have one chance at Carson, and she needed to make sure it counted. For the last five years, she had continued to train and take hits on rapists, drug lords, and pimps. She had fine-tuned the art of assassinating someone when they least expected it. She didn’t see herself as a murderer; instead, she saw it as ridding the world of the scum that preyed on the weak and the poor.

  For years she had avoided any form of commitment in her life; she wanted nothing to distract her from her goal. Sure, she had had lovers, but she never spent more than one night with the same one. She had dedicated all her commitment to becoming the best assassin she could possibly be.<
br />
  She was ready now.

  Delilah slipped into the shimmering gold dress she had bought just for the occasion. She was built athletically, with small, luscious breasts and narrow hips. The gold dress fell over her body like it was painted on before slightly giving way just beneath her knees. The deep V between her breasts was guaranteed to draw the eye. Tonight, it would draw Carson’s eye.

  She slipped into the black fuck-me heels and moved back to the mirror.

  Perfect.

  Reaching for her phone, she dialed the only person that knew about her plan.

  Her brother, Cody.

  “Delilah?” Cody answered briskly. “Where are you? There’s still time to let this go,” he pleaded. Cody was the only person that knew of Delilah’s occupation as an assassin. According to everyone else, Delilah worked night shifts in a call center and was drunk or high the rest of the time. That didn’t bother her in the least; at least they left her alone. Besides, her parents had stopped caring a long time ago.

  “Cody, I’m not letting this go.” Her voice was husky, reminding one of smooth, aged whisky.

  “But what if they catch you? Are you really willing to spend the rest of your life behind bars for this?”

  Delilah smiled calmly. “They won’t catch me. I’ve been planning this for a year. He won’t have the usual amount of security detail tonight. It’s not his territory, it’s mine. I’ve studied the blueprints of the hotel for months. All I have to do is get him away from his security detail and out of the armored vest he wears beneath his shirt. I’ve got this.”

  “Dellie, please,” Cody pleaded, using the nickname he had called her as a child.

  “I’ll call you when it’s done. Then we can finally let Molly rest in peace.” Delilah hung up before Cody could make her reconsider her plan. Ever since her parents had taken up drinking as an Olympic sport, she and Cody had learned to stick together. Currently working on his teaching license, Cody was the only person Delilah knew who could make her change her mind.

  Her plan was simple, well-thought-out, and she knew it would work. Her physical appearance was sure to draw the attention of Carson; he was known for his playboy ways. All she needed was to seduce him enough to have him follow her to her room. Once she had him alone, she would decide if it would be quick or painful. She would prefer painful, but quick would be better to avoid being caught.

  She picked up her evening bag, slipped her room key into it, and headed downstairs. When she returned to this room, it would be done.

  Across the road, at the Pearl Plaza, they were hosting the annual charity ball for the Royal Corporation; this year it was a Mardi Gras charity ball. That was where she was headed; that was where her revenge would taste sweet later tonight.

  Taking a deep breath, Delilah felt the calm seep into her veins. Determination made her smile as she headed towards the elevator.

  Tonight, she was out for blood.

  Tonight was going to be a Mardi Gras that New Orleans would never forget.

  2

  Across the street, in the hotel lobby of the Pearl Plaza, Carson Royal had just arrived. With his security detail in tow and the head of security, Torvald Lister, beside him, Carson waited for the hotel manager to meet him as was arranged.

  His suit was tailored just for him; the shoes Italian. The Swatch watch on his arm, if sold, could feed a small country for a month. He didn’t flaunt his wealth, but he didn’t hide it either. The silk shirt whispered against his skin as he moved, his wavy blond hair brushing against the collar. When Carson was in his twenties, his father had begged him to cut it into a proper style, but after realizing he wasn’t going to get his way, he’d finally stopped asking.

  At thirty-nine, Carson was used to the envious gazes from men; the appealing looks from women. He didn’t care about either. He’d enjoyed numerous affairs during his younger, alcohol-dazed years and had become tired of women who only saw him for his financial worth. The only person whose eyes weren’t on him was a woman Carson judged to be in her late fifties, standing with her back towards him as she spoke on her phone.

  Impatient, he gave the receptionist a hard glare, indicating he was tired of waiting for the hotel manager. He needed to check on a few things before the gala began, and Carson Royal never ran late.

  As Torvald, an elegant European security consultant who had been head of his father’s security before Carson, briefed the security detail, Carson scanned the lobby. Torvald was a tall, elegant man. His brown hair seemed perpetually the same short length; his piercing blue eyes were cold.

  The hotel manager approached with a broad smile. Tom Blackhead was thick around the middle, bald on top. “Mr. Royal. A pleasure as always. I would just like to express our gratitude to you for holding the charity ball at the Pearl Plaza this year. We’ve prepared everything exactly as you asked,” he babbled nervously. Carson couldn’t help but be amused by people who felt intimidated by him.

  “The vault?” Carson asked with a cocked brow.

  “Available for you as requested. You can just follow me,” Tom said, leading the way. As soon as Carson took a step forward, Torvald fell into step beside him. The three men Torvald had chosen for the night brought up the rear. As they moved through the guest areas into a narrow staff passage, Tom kept talking. “There is a safe in your room, and the VIP areas are all secured for the evening. Our security will make certain that no guests enter the VIP areas without an invitation.”

  “Good,” Carson said, scanning the long corridor. A man backed out of one of the rooms with a service cart, and Tom called out, “Mac, come meet our guest of honor.”

  The short man had a thick waist with ink-black hair. His eyes were beady but somehow made Carson relax slightly as he moved towards them. “Mac Andrews, meet Mr. Carson Royal of the Royal Corporation. Mr. Andrews is the maintenance manager on duty tonight. He knows this hotel better than the back of his hand.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Andrews,” Carson said, holding out his hand towards the older man.

  “P-p-p-leased to meet you t-t-t-oo, Mr. Royal,” Mac stuttered. “Please, call m-mm-m-e Mac.”

  Carson nodded at the stuttering man. “Mac. I’ll let you know if I need an escape route.” Carson laughed as he winked at the older man before moving away.

  “Your exits are secured for any vagrant entries tonight?” Carson asked as they kept moving.

  “Yes. All exits are armed with sensor-detection alarms that alert the control room to any breaches which we can then follow on camera. If I may ask, Mr. Royal, what is it you’d like to keep in the hotel’s vault?”

  Carson’s mouth lifted at the one corner. “A small black box.”

  “Very well then,” Tom said, knowing he wasn’t going to find out any more than that. “It’s right through here. The vault can only be opened by my pin code and a scan of my fingerprints, so I assure you, your belongings are safe.”

  Carson nodded as Tom opened the vault. It was cold and stacked with metal shelves that held the cash. He walked inside and placed the small black box on a top shelf, near the back, before turning to Torvald. “I’m satisfied with this.”

  Torvald nodded, satisfied, and led the way out of the vault. After bidding the manager farewell, Carson followed Torvald towards an elevator that took them to the penthouse suite on the fifteenth floor. Carson had made certain his assistant had reserved it for the night. Torvald and the three men with him waited outside when Carson went in.

  He took the brief reprieve to grab a bottle of water and stood at the wall of windows, looking out over New Orleans as he drank it. Tonight, he was turning over a new leaf, a new leaf that would hopefully assuage his guilt for all the mistakes he had made in his younger alcoholic years. Being an abuse survivor, well into recovery of his alcoholism, Carson had made sure all alcohol had been removed from the penthouse prior to his check-in.

  He knew he would never reach for the bottle again; he had too much to regret because of it, but he also know that alcoholis
m was a disease and when the right moment struck, with thirst overpowering his will, he could fall back into his old habits.

  As he looked down into the busy street, he watched couples arriving hand in hand. Limousines pulled up and they stepped out, looking as polished as he had hoped they would. If there was one thing Carson knew how to do, it was how to make a rich man part with his money for a good cause.

  As he watched them, he couldn’t help but feel envy. For so long, he had avoided commitment; for so long, he hadn’t even considered entertaining the idea of having a family. And recently, he was starting to wonder if that was another mistake.

  Ever since he could remember, his father, Orville Royal, who had started the Royal Corporation, had encouraged him to marry young. His father had been obsessed with Carson producing heirs. His father’s constant obsession with the idea of Carson having children had all but turned Carson against the idea completely.

  Until recently.

  Over the last few months since his father died, Carson couldn’t help but wonder if shying away from commitment had actually been spiting his father or himself. Every now and then, like now, he would watch other couples and feel an emptiness in his heart. A longing for something he didn’t even want. A need to belong with someone. Ever since the first time the loneliness had haunted him, Carson had considered dating again. But every woman he met, every woman he dated, didn’t care about him. They only cared about his bank balance.