The Complete Bad Boy Billionaire Boxed Set

by Amelia Wilde

  I’m almost even with him before it all comes together. It’s 8 a.m. The 10th Precinct building is nowhere near Times Square. And he looks way too interested in me. Goose bumps rise along my arms. Shit.

  “I’ve got music,” he calls out, then reaches up and adjusts the baseball cap he’s wearing.

  I cut my eyes toward him and give him a tight-lipped smile. “I’m all set. Thanks.”

  “You’ll like it,” he speaks to me again, his voice a little louder this time.

  I focus my eyes on the doorway of the 10th Precinct. I looked it up on Google Maps last night to be absolutely positive I knew where I was going, so I recognize the arches from the photos. All I need to do is get past this asshole, and—.

  Too late. He’s stepped out onto the sidewalk, blocking my path. “Don’t be so rude,” he says, an edge to his smile and a dark glint in his eyes.

  The pain from my clenched jaw spikes up toward my temples. “I need to be going. I’m not interested in any music this morning.” I want to yell at him, force him to get out of my way, but for all I know he’s some creep wielding a knife, and the police wouldn’t get here in time even if I screamed. At the same time, my heart pounds, and I want to get this errand taken care of so I can move on with my life. So my brother can move on with his.

  “You know,” he says, his eyes gliding up and down the curves of my body, “I think this is a misunderstanding.”

  “There’s no misunderstanding.”

  “What I meant to say....” He pauses, licks his lips. The sooner he spits it out, the sooner I can shove past him and—. “I meant to say that I think Adam will really like this music.” His eyes bore into mine, and as his words sink in, the world narrows to this few feet of sidewalk.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, but my voice comes out as a whisper and I can feel the blood rushing out of my face.

  “Adam,” he says again, giving me an encouraging look. “You know, your brother. Adam. He’ll like this music.” Only then does he hold out the CD case in his hands. Inside is a note. Through the clear plastic I can see that it reads, “One chance.”

  My breath is shallow, fast.

  “I don’t want any music,” I repeat for the last time, then spin on my heel and take off down the street, walking as fast as I can in my low heels.

  Charlie wasn’t fucking around.

  He’s watching.

  I have no choice but to do what he says.

  I’m still rushing down the sidewalk, sneaking glances over my shoulder to see if Charlie’s goon is following me, when my phone vibrates. The text comes from a blocked number, but there’s no doubt: it’s the first of the instructions.

  Chapter Four

  Jett

  My place on the Upper East Side isn’t cutting it—not if I’m going to be at the Midtown headquarters until all hours, whipping Brandon, Inc. back into shape. No more distractions. No more slip-ups. There’s no point in dwelling on what happened with the media merger—Connor is already working on a way to sort it out—but I’m not going to waste any more time sitting in traffic.

  And I’m not going to let that bitch Emerald have a hold over me.

  I’ll never admit it to anyone, but the reason I’ve been staying at my place on the Upper East Side since I returned from London is because Emerald’s prints are all over the Midtown penthouse.

  Things moved fast between us, and at first it didn’t seem much different from any of the other women I’ve taken home with me since I graduated from college. But Emerald got under my skin, got her claws deep into my organs, and I made the mistake of letting my guard down. She moved into the penthouse inside of a month. I was the dumbass who let it happen, because fuck me, the sex was hot.

  I shake my head as I slide into the car on Tuesday morning. I’m done thinking about her. Done.

  The most important item on my agenda is getting all my things moved back into my penthouse. That’s a job for Howie, my personal assistant. At nearly fifty, Howie has been with my family for almost twenty-five years. He handles everything I don’t have time for, and with discretion. Three texts is all it takes, and he’s got people packing and moving things from one place to the other. By the time I get home this evening, the penthouse will be back in order.

  I sit through my breakfast meeting with laser focus, and by the time Stuart pulls the car up next to the curb to pick me up, I can’t fucking wait to get to the office.

  My ass has hardly met the seat when my phone rings.

  “Brandon.”

  “Mr. Brandon, this is Emily,” Emily sounds out of breath, and there’s a weird echo in the background like she’s taking the stairs instead of the elevator.

  “What is it?” I ask tersely.

  “Building security just called to let us know there’s a—a gas leak. They’re evacuating the building.”

  Jesus Christ. “Do they have an estimate for how long it’s going to take to fix the problem?”

  “Not that I’ve heard, Mr. Brandon.” That call is probably going to come through to my cell at any second. My eyes narrow just thinking about it.

  “I’ll be sending out an all-staff bulletin from my email account in a few moments. Coordinate an alternative workspace for the division heads as soon as you get onto the sidewalk. This is not a day off, Emily. Work wherever you need to, but be available.”

  “Of course, Mr. Brandon.” She tries but fails to keep the disappointment out of her voice. I end the call.

  Fine. I don’t need an office to get work done.

  “Stuart, change of plans. I’m working from the penthouse today.”

  By the time I climb out of the car when Stuart pulls up in front of my Midtown building, I have received confirmation from Emily that she’s rented out several offices in a shared space fairly close to the office but far enough away that if, God forbid, the building explodes, none of my employees will be harmed. All the paperwork I was intending to finish up with at the office can be printed off and sent over by courier. I just need to make sure we don’t end up with duplicate copies. I wont’ tolerate any more sloppy mistakes.

  That’s where my mind is—blessedly free of Emerald—when I stride through my building’s lobby, extending a nod and a smile to the doorman as I wrap up a final phone call with Emily. There’s one elevator car about to head up, and I’ll be damned if I have to wait for the next one. Even though the doors are closing and are nearly shut, I stick my hand through the slight opening, putting my muscles to work, forcing the door to start reopening.

  The woman standing inside the elevator lets out a sharp little gasp, before stepping back from the door as I step into the car.

  Holy shit.

  The creature standing in the elevator with me is absolutely gorgeous and I am stunned—stunned—that I haven’t seen her around the building before. She’s petite—she can’t be more than five foot four or so, and at just over six feet tall, I tower over her. But it’s her eyes that get me. An intense blue-gray, they’re sparkling and huge. Her cheeks are a little flushed, set off to perfection by her ash-blonde hair, which is swept back from her face, leaving a chic wave to frame her sharp jawline. She’s wearing a black sheath dress cut just above the knee, and it hugs every curve like it was made just for her. Her grip tightens on the handle of the designer purse she has tucked under her arm.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” I say, my voice dropping a notch.

  “Oh, it’s—it’s no problem,” she stammers, and when she smiles I forget all about the paperwork I have to do. I want to lean down and kiss her full lips right now, but I resist.

  A glance at the elevator panel tells me that the button for the penthouse is already illuminated. I arch an eyebrow at her. “Were you going up to the penthouse?”

  She looks from me to the panel, then laughs. “I must have hit the wrong button. No, I’m going to the eighth floor.” She reaches out with one delicate finger, but I beat her to it, our hands almost colliding in midair.


  “Thank you,” she says, her eyes glued to my face. “Which floor are you going to?”

  I cut my eyes over to the panel, then back to her face, and she turns a deeper shade of red.

  “You live in the penthouse?”

  “I do.” I extend my right hand to her. “Jett Brandon.” She sucks in a breath.

  “Wow,” she says, another megawatt smile illuminating her face, and then her voice lowers. “I’m almost a little disappointed that I didn’t get to go all the way up.”

  A voice is screaming at me in the back of my head not to make any moves. But fuck that—Emerald is in the past, and I want to wipe away every memory of her and replace it with something better. This woman is the perfect palate cleanser: totally fuckable and starry-eyed enough that I’m not going to have a problem getting her to sleep with me—or ending it when I’ve had my fill.

  “Angelica Chandler,” she says, releasing the death grip on her purse to shake my hand. When her smooth skin touches mine, it sends a jolt of heat streaking up my arm, down my spine, and straight to my cock. Angelica bites her lip and looks away for a split second.

  “Thursday night,” I say, as the elevator starts its smooth ascent upward. It’s not a question.

  She does a double-take, then gives me a quizzical smile. “Thursday night?”

  I step just a little bit closer to her, lowering my voice as if we’re in the middle of a crowded room. “I’m telling you we have a date for Thursday night. When I see something I want, I take it.” Then I step back. “You might have a different opinion.”

  Angelica bites her lip again, and her breathing becomes more rapid. She lets her eyes rake over my suit-clad body. “Won’t your wife be upset?”

  I have to laugh at that. “Sweetheart, I’m in control of my life. Not another woman. So we can get to know each other on Thursday night.”

  “Can I get back to you on that?” she says, and her voice is low but sweet. “Jett Brandon,” she says, like she’s tasting the words in her mouth.

  “Take my number,” I say, and am pleased when she shoves her hand into her purse, coming up moments later with her phone. I reel off my personal cell number. She types it in, and I notice that her hands are shaking.

  The elevator car glides to a stop, and the tone sounds. But when the door slides open, Angelica doesn’t move. She just looks up at me, her phone still in her hand.

  Finally, I have to break the moment. “Your floor,” I say with a roguish smile, and she startles, turns, and steps out.

  As the doors slide closed, she raises a hand and gives me a little wave.

  I’ll probably never hear from her—or see her—again.

  Chapter Five

  Angelica

  My instructions from Charlie were clear: go to the penthouse at the address he provided, blend in with the crew moving things in, and install a program on Brandon’s computer. The program is already loaded onto a flash drive.

  It was all going so well until Mr. Sex-on-two-legs stuck his hand between the elevator doors and practically turned me into a puddle.

  “Brandon” was the only thing Charlie had told me about the person he wanted to target. I assumed it would be an old man, someone unobservant, someone frail. Not a muscled god dressed in an impeccable suit with a jawline so chiseled you could cut diamonds with it.

  The moment he steps onto the elevator, the air thins out, and it strikes me how stupid it is—how unbelievably stupid—that I’ve only pressed the button for the penthouse.

  But what am I going to do? Start jamming buttons for different floors like a crazy person? No. I’m going to respond the way anyone else would to this incredible human specimen. This might not even be Brandon.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, his green eyes glinting in the elevator’s low light.

  “Oh, it’s—it’s no problem.” Smile, Angelica. Flirt.

  Mystery Man likes the look of that, but as the doors start to close, he glances over at the elevator panel.

  “Were you going up to the penthouse?” His voice is playful, not the least bit suspicious, but there’s something in the way he speaks that oozes command. This is a man who gets what he wants.

  I look at the panel as if I’m seeing it for the first time. “I must have hit the wrong button. No, I’m going to the eighth floor.” When I reach out to press the round button with an 8 next to it, he intercepts my hand, pressing it first, his eyes on me the entire time. All over me. And I like it.

  But I have to keep the conversation going. “Thank you,” I say, looking back at him like I have nothing to hide. “Which floor are you going to?”

  He gives the panel a pointed look, then grins at me.

  “You live in the penthouse?”

  “I do.” He holds out his hand for me to shake it. “Jett Brandon.”

  Well, fuck.

  My mind spins into overdrive. Change of plans. Big change of plans.

  “Wow,” I answer, playing up my breathlessness...but I don’t want to overdo it. “I’m almost a little disappointed that I didn’t get to go all the way up.” Then I release my death grip on my purse and take his hand, shaking it firmly, just the way I learned how to do it in my interview prep class in college. The instant our hands make contact, I’m overwhelmed by the desire to pull him toward me, pull his face toward mine and kiss him. He’s impeccably clean-shaven, and those green eyes with flecks of gold lock on my gaze. I never want to look away. But I get hold of myself. “Angelica Chandler.”

  “Thursday night,” he says without missing a beat, and the heat in my belly expands, shooting south.

  He’s not asking me a question, or permission. There it is: the kind of arrogance that apparently comes with the territory for sexy-as-fuck billionaires.

  A new plan comes together in my mind even while my body revolts, sending heat to my cheeks. Sneaking up to the penthouse right now is a no-go...but if he’s at all interested in me, even if it’s just for sex, there’s a chance I can salvage this. Charlie is going to be livid when he hears that I didn’t carry out his orders, but Jett Brandon is handing me the solution on a silver platter.

  I’m hoping he’s asking me—no, telling me—that we’re going out on a date on Thursday night, but what kind of man asks a stranger in an elevator out on a date?

  The answer comes immediately. The kind of man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to go after it.

  Well, I know what I want, too, but I have to play it cool

  Keep it flirty, Angelica.

  “Thursday night?” I ask coyly.

  He leans in, like he’s telling me a secret. “I’m telling you we have a date for Thursday night. When I see something I want, I take it.” Then he takes a step back and shrugs, like he doesn’t care what I say next. Like I’m just a nice piece of ass he happened to come across. In the elevator. Which is exactly what I am. And yet—his voice is deep and delicious, and I want to listen to him talk for the rest of the day...and the night. “You might have a different opinion.”

  I inject just a little more hard-to-get into my tone, flirtatiously looking up into his eyes like I can’t believe my luck, but I want to be good. I’m acting. Almost. “Won’t your wife be upset?””

  He laughs, deep and rich. “Sweetheart, I’m in control of my life. Not another woman. So we can get to know each other on Thursday night.”

  “Can I get back to you on that?” I say, like I’m actually going to turn him down. “Jett Brandon.” I turn his name over in my mouth, half to myself, half in wonderment that this is the “Brandon” Charlie wants me to scam in order to save my brother’s life.

  My brother’s life.

  Jett’s reply is instantaneous. “Take my number.” The phrase is full of authority, and I don’t hesitate before reaching into my purse for my phone. He gives me his number, and I almost put it into my contacts incorrectly because my hands, Christ, they’re trembling.

  The elevator slows, stops, dings, but I’ve looked back into Jett’s eyes a
nd I’m frozen in place and can’t look away. I don’t want to look away. In fact, now I want to mash all of the buttons on the panel so that we’re stuck in here for the next twenty minutes waiting for it to get to the penthouse. He might be a cocky asshole, but with a body like that, with that kind of confidence, he’s got to be able to—.

  “Your floor,” he says with a smile that only increases the heated slickness pooling between my legs.

  At the last instant, I step out onto the carpet in the eighth floor hallway, and as the doors close between us, I give him a little wave.

  As soon as I hear the elevator car start moving upward, I collapse against the wall, my chest heaving.

  Holy fuck, that was close.

  He was supposed to be gone this morning—and he could have caught me red-handed.

  My phone vibrates in my hand. It’s Charlie, demanding an update.

  I try to catch my breath as I tap out a reply, the warmth of my desire dissipating into cold fear once again. I don’t want Charlie to think I’m screwing with him.

  Brandon came home early. I couldn’t install the program, but he asked me to meet him on Thursday. I’ll make sure he takes me home and I’ll do it then.

  Charlie’s reply comes a few moments later.

  Fine.

  Then,

  You know what happens if you can’t make this work.

  Chapter Six

  Jett

  Angelica waits until mid-morning on Wednesday to answer me, so long that I’ve half dismissed her. If only I could get that perfect body out of my head, force her smile from my mind. Yes, she’s the perfect remedy for erasing my memories of Emerald, who never looked that gorgeous even on her best day.

  Her text comes in during a meeting with Connor. When my phone vibrates, I force myself not to look at it. I keep my eyes firmly planted on Connor’s face, even when he glances down at the phone.