Taming the Bad Boy Billionaire Bundle

by Sierra Rose

  A hand broke through my brunette curtain and lifted up my chin. The next thing I knew, I was staring right into a pair of luminescent blue eyes.

  He was much closer than I’d thought he was. Perched on the mattress just a few inches away. Dripping caramel sauce and lighter fluid slowly onto my bedspread.

  “You are smiling. I can’t believe it.”

  I thought he was going to yell, or curse, or scream. I thought he was going to storm from the apartment and possibly fire me. I thought there might even be a chance that he’d pick up my pillow and press it slowly, vengefully over my face.

  Instead...he smiled back.

  “Abby Wilder...you are really something, you know that?”

  I stared back into those twinkling eyes, at a complete loss as to what to do. A part of me was still baffled that, after over two years of spending every second together, Nick Hunter was sitting my apartment for the first time. Another part was terrified that if he caught a stray spark on the way home, there was a good chance he could go up in flames.

  And now he was smiling?

  Then, before I could even ask the question, he pushed to his feet and headed for the door.

  “Wait a second!” I threw off the covers and hurried after him, wrapping my arms protectively around my thin top as I scampered down the hall. He paused in front of the front door, waiting. “I’m not...after tonight, I mean...I’m not fired?”

  His eyes lingered a moment on my quivering curls and tiny pajamas, before coming to rest on my face. We stared a moment. Then his lips curved up into a twinkling smile.

  “Why would I fire you?” He stepped into the hall and glanced over his shoulder, tossing me a mischievous wink. “You’re the one who has to make this relationship work.”

  Chapter 21

  FOR THE NEXT MONTH and a half—that’s exactly what I did.

  From parties, to gallery openings, to lunch dates, to photo-ops in the snow—the three of us did it all. I was a puppet-master, and they, my willing (and not-so-willing) subjects.

  In a lot of ways, it was my finest work. From a PR standpoint it was the dream, and I certainly pulled out all the stops to make it happen.

  Strategic leaks to the press, staged strolls through Central Park, carefully coordinated-just-so-they-would-look-not-coordinated outfits. Right down to calling up the paparazzi at the precise moment that Nick showed up at Ella’s apartment with a bouquet of flowers. (Flowers that I had purchased myself at a gas station not two minutes earlier.)

  Yes, professionally speaking, it was my finest hour.

  And yes, Ella was currently living in her own apartment.

  It had been Nick’s one ultimatum. He had been willing to go along with just about everything else. The parties, the forced sobriety, matching her dress to his tie. He gritted his teeth with a smile and powered through it all. But on this, he would not compromise.

  The fake relationship stopped at his door. She was not allowed inside. Nor had she ever been invited. It was his sanctuary. A sanctuary that—after spending every day with the little harpy—he most certainly deserved.

  Over the last few weeks, Ella had not gotten easier to stomach. She had, however, gotten easier to predict.

  For example, I’d learned by the end of the second day working with her to always check her outfits before she was allowed outside. It was extraordinarily inconvenient for myself, of course. Having to get up a full hour earlier every day (making it somewhere around four), just so I could get dressed, check all the major papers for press, and then head over to her apartment to make sure that she wasn’t taking this ‘playboy barbie’ routine of hers too literally.

  I couldn’t even begin to describe half the things she pulled out of her closet. Sequins of every size and color. Enough spandex to paper the Upper East Side. Something I literally thought was a child’s sweater before she tried to stuff it over her breasts and walk outside.

  And wardrobe was not the only struggle with Miss Ella Campbell. Bless her heart, at some point between the farms of Oklahoma and the slick streets of New York, the little Southern bell had decided that she was going to have opinions.

  It didn’t really matter what they were about, or whether or not she even understood what was being said to her. She was going to have an opinion about it. And she was going to say that opinion loud. Really fucking loud.

  I’d learned to keep her in front of the cameras, and away from the microphones.

  She was actually pretty good in print. One I removed some of the layers of makeup and dressed her up in some of New York’s finest, she looked the part. A bit extreme, perhaps. But over the years, Nick had certainly dated worse.

  She never actually stopped talking, of course. I could see from the pained grimace on Nick’s face in some of the photos I edited out, that she was still going full speed. Whispering in his ear as she pressed herself up against him for the cameras.

  But the pictures themselves were good. About a month in, I actually got a text message from Mitchell himself saying, he didn’t know how I was doing it, but to keep up the good work. I printed out a screenshot of it, and framed it up on my wall.

  Nick and I never talked about that night in my apartment. Just like we never talked about our random shopping spree and the Dior bag still tucked safely beneath my bed. We kept going as if it never happened—eyes fixed on our four-month finish line. Both firmly committed to perpetuating our little scheme. Both for our own, personal reasons.

  And so, it was with a decided spring in my step, that I headed to Ella’s apartment early one Tuesday morning. It was going to be a busy day. First a brunch, then a lunch, then a ‘tea’ at the golf club, followed by a late-night dinner with pictures back at the Solay.

  After a few well-placed bribes, followed by a personal call to the manager by Mitchell Hunter himself, Nick and Ella were officially allowed back into the restaurant. The incident with the flaming dessert was graciously forgotten contingent upon the solemn oath that the both of them never order anything flammable again. (It was a promise that Nick had no trouble making.)

  I waved cheerfully at the doorman, and headed up to the third floor. It was a nice flat in a nice building in a nice part of town. Far more than someone like Ella deserved. But for one of Nick’s women, real or not, it looked the part. He was also, of course, paying for the entire thing.

  “Ella?” I called as I rang the bell. “Open up—we’ve got a lot to do today, and we’re already running a little late.” I rang again. “Ella?”

  Still nothing. I switched to knocking.

  “Ella—come on, wake up! We’ve got to get a move on!”

  If it was any other client, I would have assumed they were passed out drunk in the bathroom, but Ella didn’t drink. If it was any other client, I’d also just whip out my key and let myself in. But the first day I’d tried to make a copy—Ella had refused.

  “Ella?” I lowered my voice, and pressed my ear up to the door. “Are you okay in there?”

  No response.

  I tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail. I considered climbing up the fire escape from the outside, but there was a fresh layer of ice on the ground.

  Out of ideas, I decided to head over to Nick’s instead. There was a chance that she had simply gotten up early and gone to meet him by herself. That would mean I’d have to do my daily wardrobe swap at his place—but it wouldn’t be a problem. Not with all Gemma’s clothes.

  I tried calling him on the way as well, but again, there was no answer. I hung up without leaving a message, frowning out the window of my cab.

  That was far more troublesome.

  I couldn’t remember a time in the last few years that Nick had failed to take my call. On one memorable occasion, he had actually been in the middle of a lunch with the Prime Minister of England—who he’d asked to wait a moment so he could answer.

  What the hell is going on?

  As it turned out, I wasn’t going to have to wait long to find out.

  The s
econd I arrived at Nick’s building, I saw the crowd. Gathered around something in a tight circle. Some looking up. Some staring down. As always, the flashing lights of the paparazzi were never far behind, and from the looks of things, a press van was already pulling up outside.

  “Oh shit...”

  My cabbie pulled over and glanced back in the partition.

  “You sure this is the right place, miss?”

  I pressed my face to the window, trying my best to see what was going on. With the number of people already gathered, it was impossible to see what they were all looking at. But one way or another, I had a terrible feeling my twenty seconds had started a long time ago...

  “It’s the right place, I’m afraid.” I passed up some money, but paused on my way out. “In fact, do you think you could actually wait? I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

  And one way or another, it was likely I was going to need a quick escape.

  “It’s your money, lady.”

  With that, he leaned back in his chair to read, while I pushed open the door and darted across the sidewalk towards the mob, ready to silence them all.

  Even once I was on the ground, it was impossible to see what was going on. There were too many people clustered around, and I was by no means the tallest person in the crowd. After my first cries of ‘excuse me!’ went unnoticed, I started elbowing my way to the front, using my oversized Dior bag to knock people out of the way—left and right.

  A few choice profanities and possible lawsuits later, I was at the front. It was then that I saw it. Just in time to hear its dying breath.

  There was a metallic groan, and Nick’s beloved coffee maker finally gave way. Beside it, scattered like dark funeral petals, were the prized African java beans. The airtight jar in which they were always kept lay in pieces not far away. Along with an array of tinted glass.

  My eyes widened in shock. In the whole crowd, I was the only one not moving.

  Nick loved that coffee maker more than most people loved their children. I honestly think that if it came down to it, he would sacrifice the life of a person he didn’t know just to keep the damn thing going. And now this...?

  I lifted my head as my eyes made the slow journey up to the top story of the building. It was impossible to see anything from all the way down here, but I could easily picture exactly how it must have looked. The cord ripped clean from the wall. The stiffly blowing curtains.

  That being said...

  “I wonder whose it is,” a voice called out beside me. “I wonder what happened!”

  My head whipped around as an unexpected silver lining suddenly presented itself.

  “No idea!” someone called back. “It just went flying from one of those top story windows. We were lucky this whole sidewalk was roped off for construction!”

  They didn’t know it was Nick?

  They didn’t know it was Nick!

  My heart leapt in my chest as I extracted myself from the horde, calling out a string of excuses and misdirection as I went.

  “I heard it was that old lady on the fiftieth floor! Some sort of drunken accident!” In a much lower voice. “Maybe it was Rick Treaken—he lives in this building.” Then in the high falsetto of a cartoon mouse. “Maybe it fell off a moving truck that nobody saw...”

  By the time I’d reached the doorway, I already heard the conversation of the crowd begin to change. As newer people came upon the scene, the dialogue had already shifted.

  “This guy name Rick was moving—damn thing fell out of the truck!”

  “Could have killed someone, dude was probably drunk!”

  “He was celebrating his fiftieth birthday, after all,” a woman replied wisely. “Or maybe he lived on the fiftieth floor?”

  My lips twitched up in a little grin as I hurried inside, but now was no time to gloat. As much as I’d love to blame it on a meteor or a narcoleptic weather man, I happened to know exactly who the coffee maker belonged to. I just had no idea how it had found its way outside.

  But I had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with a certain silicone nightmare and why Nick wasn’t answering his phone...

  A quick jaunt in the service elevator, and I was shooting up to the top floor. Right away, I knew it was going to be bad. I heard the screams before the doors even opened.

  “—had nothing to do with you! How could it have had anything to do with you, when you weren’t even here?!”

  The doors whizzed open, and I ducked as a ceramic pot flew past me. It had been a gift from the Chinese ambassador last year. I recognized the markings.

  “Exactly!” Nick yelled back, ducking as the priceless memento shattered on the wall above his head. “I wasn’t even here—so why the FUCK were you in my apartment?!”

  No one had noticed me yet. In fact, they were in such a state, they didn’t even seem to notice the giant hole in the wall where the window was supposed to be—outlined now in a few stray coffee beans and a jagged square of glass.

  “Funny you should bring that up!” Ella spat. “You’d think that after how you and your precious publicist BEGGED me to come date you—”

  “Begged you?!”

  “—this wouldn’t be the first time I was seeing this place! I mean, come on Nick! How the hell could you possible say no to these?!”

  At this point, she lifted up her shirt. I considered retreating back into the elevator.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake!” Nick whirled around, facing the opposite direction as he pressed his fists into his eyes. “For the last time—put your fucking clothes on!”

  “Or what?!” She sashayed forward—a snake, ready to strike. “You’ll fire me the way you fired Bradley? The way you started shouting when you walked in on us, you’d think it hadn’t already been over five years—”

  “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

  It was at this point that I stepped forward, out of the frozen elevator. Both people stopped shouting the second they saw me—staring at me in surprise. Then Ella got right back into it at the top of her lungs, while Nick picked up his coat and headed for the door.

  “That’s it,” he muttered as he stormed past me, into the elevator I’d just left, “I can’t do this anymore.”

  My eyes grew wide, and without thinking, I rushed back in after him—leaving Ella to her destructive rant. “Nick, wait!”

  The sound of my voice steadied him for a second, and he stopped pressing the button for the lobby long enough to look up into my eyes.

  For the second time in less than a minute, I froze dead still.

  I’d never seen him look like that before. Not once. There was not an ounce of that playful humor that always sparkled in his eyes. Not a single inch of leniency.

  This fake relationship was done. There was absolutely no fighting it. And to be honest, no matter how well it had been going (on a professional level), I couldn’t help but be relieved. It had hurt to see him go through it, even if it was an unspoken competition between us. It had hurt to photo-shop out those grimaces and replace them with smiles.

  Nick didn’t deserve that. No matter how much it might help the company. No matter how fiercely it was demanded by his father.

  No—it was finished. Miss Ella Campbell would not be coming back to this place. One way or another, I would see to that.

  The best I could hope to do in the meantime, was minimize the damage along the way.

  “What is it, Abby?”

  The question caught me off guard. I realized I must have been staring for a long time. But his tone caught me off guard as well. It also quite simply broke my heart.

  He sounded sad.

  All at once, two emotions warred up inside me. The desire to hold him and comfort him until I could coax out that sparkling smile. And the desire to grab Ella Campbell by the hair, and throw her out the hole in the window right after the coffee maker.

  “Just...wait,” I breathed, unable to take my eyes off of him. “Can you do that for me? I just need a minute up here. Just one minute
. Can you go down into the lobby and just...wait?”

  He stared at me for a second, shoulders rising and falling as he took deep, steadying breaths. Then he abruptly turned away and hit the button again.

  “Fine.”

  I stepped out of the elevator immediately.

  “Thank you.” I tried to get him to catch my eye. “I’ll see you in just a minute. I’m going to clear all of this up, Nick, I pro—”

  But the doors shut, and he was gone.

  “Well it’s about time!” an impatient voice drawled from behind me. “Abigail Wilder, you are not going to believe what just happened to me.”

  It was like my insides went cold. I turned slowly on a pointed heel, rotating around to see the seething blond standing behind me. The same blond who seemed to wilt before my eyes.

  They have a saying, you know. About us publicists. About what happens to the people who try to hurt our clients. About what happens to the people who stand in our way.

  I’ll let you use your imagination and guess what that saying might be...

  FIVE MINUTES LATER, I was racing back down the service elevator. From what I was able to pull up on my phone, the crowd was already mostly dispersed. In fact, if that taxi I’d requested still happened to be waiting outside, I might be able to sneak Nick out of the...

  The doors opened and I looked around a deserted lobby.

  Oh no! No, no, no, no, no!

  A smiling building attendant caught my eye, and I hurried forward—my high heels clattering over the marble tile as I ran.

  “Excuse me—have you seen Nicholas Hunter? He was supposed to be here—I asked him to wait for me?”

  The man nodded calmly.

  “And he did, miss. He waited for exactly one minute, and then he left.”

  Of course he did.

  “Okay,” I looked around breathlessly, “well, do you have any idea where he went? Is it a favorite bar, or maybe that gym downtown? The one with the boxing ring—”

  “I don’t have to guess.” The man smiled good-naturedly. “When I called for his car, I asked where he was going to go, and he told me.”