The Billionaire Possession Series: The Complete Boxed Set

by Amelia Wilde

  I take a step forward, close enough that her scent catches the air around me, but not close enough to touch her, even though my hands ache to touch her. “Consider my offer.”

  5

  Juliet

  If nothing else—and Weston Grant is many, many other things, by the sight of him—but if nothing else, he’s bold.

  His green eyes are locked steadfastly on mine, and he’s not displaying an ounce of vulnerability in the way he’s holding himself. His eyes are bright in a way that even a night of drinking and dancing can’t explain. He’s throwing down the gauntlet, but only because I threw one down first.

  I lay the slips down on the granite countertop next to the computer system we use for inputting orders, perched back where nobody in the club proper can see it. A thrum of excitement resonates down through my body, despite the fact that I’m exhausted. I’ve had a full day of classes followed by a full night at the Rose.

  I shouldn’t even be having this kind of conversation with Weston Grant. I should be directing all of my energy toward school and work and making sure my dad still has a place to live at the end of the week.

  But something about him is filling the air around us with an electrical charge I haven’t felt in months. It’s been a heavy summer, a heavy year, and there’s nothing like being pursued like this, by a man with a body that has every nerve of mine straining toward him but who is utterly and completely out of my reach.

  Except for right now.

  “The drink wasn’t enough for you?” It’s not the answer he was hoping to hear, but one side of his mouth quirks upward into a smile that makes the throbbing heat between my legs intensify.

  “If I recall correctly,” he says, lifting his chin, “that was your offer. You haven’t heard mine yet.”

  “What could you possibly have to offer a cocktail waitress you’ve just met?”

  The grin spreads wider across his face, and he takes one more step forward—not enough to breach the boundary of what’s strictly appropriate at a place like the Rose, but close enough that it sucks some of the air out of the tiny alcove. “I think a better question is, what don’t I have to offer?”

  Images flash rapid-fire through my mind: waves lapping at the shores of tropical islands, the smooth leather on the seat of a private plane, and Weston Grant, shirt opened to reveal washboard abs that I can run my hands over, leaving marks with my nails in the dead of the night.

  Right now, standing here under the scrutiny of his sparkling green eyes, I can’t say that I don’t want all of those things. I can’t. My legs are aching from standing in these heels for a shift and a half at the Rose, and my mind is barely grasping the facts about all the cases I worked so hard to memorize this morning. With a man like Weston Grant, I wouldn’t have to worry about any of this. Not in my imagination, anyway.

  But that’s not reality.

  In reality, I’m not the kind of girl who says yes to a man she meets at work, in the middle of the night, because he’s rich and devastatingly handsome and—for reasons I can’t even begin to understand—interested in me.

  For the moment.

  He’s probably had too much to drink. He’s probably talking to me on a dare, or as a challenge, or because the rest of the night was a bust…although I can’t fathom why any of his nights would ever turn out any way other than how he ordered it up with whatever tier is above the Visa Black Card.

  So what if he’s come up and talked to me twice? It’s bold, yes. But it’s not unprecedented.

  Weston keeps his eyes on mine while all of these thoughts are tumbling through my head. “I’m sure you have everything.” I try to keep my tone casual, but I’m not quite sure I’m pulling it off.

  “That’s right,” he says, another slow smile curling his lips. “I have everything you could ever want. And if there’s something I don’t have—which would be highly unlikely—I’d get it for you. Anything you could possibly desire on the face of the planet.”

  I let out a little laugh. “So you do have plenty to offer a cocktail waitress you just met. That doesn’t quite explain why you’d want to offer it to me, though.”

  He shrugs one shoulder. It shouldn’t be sexy, a shrug, but the heat between my legs pulses up another level. “I think of it more as an…equal exchange.”

  I shake my head slowly, lips pursed but still on the edge of a smile. There’s such a fine line here that I’m barely managing to balance. Weston Grand is first and foremost a member, which means I can’t give him the snarky kiss-off I might otherwise. But I do have to shut this conversation down, no matter how enticing it is to picture myself in some thousand-dollar bikini lying on a white-sand beach next to his perfect body. “I’m not that kind of cocktail waitress.”

  Weston laughs like I’ve told him the funniest joke in the world, but there’s still a dark edge to it that makes me want to grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him in close. “It’s not that kind of exchange. What I meant was, you go out with me, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  I cock my head to the side. “That still sounds like you’re trying to buy—”

  “Your time? Yes. I am.” There’s a naked truth to his words that I can’t deny, and a look like pure fire burns in his eyes, at the slightest emphasis on the word time. “I want to know more about you, Juliet James. And I don’t think the White Rose is the ideal place to do that.” He takes in a breath, eyes blazing. “You intrigue me. You captivate me.”

  His words fall on my ears like a drink of cool water in the desert.

  But what’s the point of making it through the desert if a man bails me out halfway through?

  “I am captivating.” I force the words out before he can go any further. I might be a puddle of desire right now, but in the morning, I need to be able to face myself; I can’t be the kind of woman who caves like this. I’m not going to turn into a cocktail waitress who gets her heart broken by a man I met on the job. By a man I’m not supposed to touch. In the end, it wouldn’t make my life easier. It would only make it harder. And if my life gets any more difficult to balance, I might lose my grip on everything. “And so is your offer. Which is why I can’t accept.”

  6

  Weston

  “Any thoughts you’d like to share, sir?”

  I tear my gaze away from the window of the Town Car and meet Dave’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He’s been my driver for over a decade, since the days when he’d have to come into clubs around the city and haul me out with my arm thrown over his shoulder, dragging me through back doors and secret entrances meant for people like me to be able to avoid the paparazzi. A curl of irritation flexes in my chest, but it’s my own fault I’m so transparent. We normally keep up a regular chatter while he drives me to the day’s appointments.

  Not today. I’ve been staring out the window, silent, still trying to figure out why Juliet James wouldn’t even agree to go on a date with me.

  “Trying to work something out.”

  Dave nods and returns his eyes to the road as the light turns green. “I’m always available.” He used to say that to me—I’m always available—when I was pissed off at my parents, or when things at school took an ugly turn. I’ve taken him up on it about half of the time.

  He gives good advice, but I’m not in the mood this morning to hear any of it. There’s no way I can admit out loud that a cocktail waitress gave me the cold shoulder without sounding like a complete idiot.

  But that’s what’s on my mind, as much as I’ve tried to shake it off over the past four days. I’ve spent hours in the gym I had installed on the floor below my penthouse. I’ve made appointments with the most brutal personal trainers in the city to wear down my mind.

  None of it has worked. My muscles are still on fire from four days of unceasing exercise followed by relentless outings with every friend of mine who was free—which is about everyone I texted. Most people are happy to spend time with me, even if it’s not a romantic outing on par with what I was hoping to have with
Juliet.

  I was ready to do anything for Juliet. She could have mentioned some dive bar worse than the one Gideon started us out at the other night, and I’d have been there in a heartbeat.

  But Juliet James didn’t want anything to do with me. My jaw tightens, the city blocks whizzing by outside the window. It’s a city where something is always happening, but today none of it registers. All I see is Juliet James in that tight black dress, the satiny fabric reflecting in the lights of the Rose and spilling down her curves. Her red lips, curving upward into a smile that’s hiding a secret I’d like to know. Her hair, swept back so flawlessly that my hands still ache to set it free and watch it spill down over her bare shoulders.

  Several blocks go by before Dave speaks again. “Do you have everything you need for your lecture?”

  I can’t help but laugh at that. “It’s not much of a lecture. More of a speech. I don’t know what they could possibly get out of it, anyway.”

  “You’re a successful businessman.”

  “That doesn’t have much to do with becoming a successful lawyer.”

  Dave’s eyes sparkle in the rearview mirror. “Being a successful businessman involves working with successful lawyers.”

  I roll my eyes. “Next time this kind of thing comes up, I’ll haul my father out of retirement.”

  Dave’s eyes crinkle at the corners in humor. “Your father will never retire.”

  “He’s more than happy to make all his executive board decisions from Europe. I don’t think one trip to talk to the students at the law college he founded and funded the construction of would be too much to ask.”

  “Best of luck to you, sir.”

  I sigh. “I’ll need it.”

  Five blocks later, Dave steers the car to the curb, stopping in front of an understated three-story building in Midtown. My father might have donated the money, but it was my mother’s idea. Her mother, one Marie Anderson, had dreamed of being a lawyer in a time—and, frankly, with a father—that wanted nothing to do with women having high-powered careers. Thus Anderson Law was born.

  And here I am, walking in to make a speech about the important work that lawyers do to the school’s first-year law students. This kind of shit is not the type of thing I want to spend my time doing, but if it wasn’t for my parents, I wouldn’t be at the head of a pharmaceutical company with incredible worldwide reach and a reputation for turning good health into pure gold. It’s mostly been my doing, but my dad has steered me away from making more than one blunder since I graduated. The least I can do is make this speech.

  As much as it irritates me.

  I step out onto the curb, the humid heat settling over my shoulders and stuffing my throat. The president of the college, Evelyn Wilson, is waiting outside the building’s large glass doors to meet me. She treks quickly over to me, appearing as immaculate as ever in a black dress with a tasteful floral pattern and a short-sleeved blazer. She beams at me as she shakes my hand. “Mr. Grant,” she gushes, her auburn hair glinting in the sun. “We’re so happy to have you here this morning.”

  I smile back at her, watching the blush spread across her cheeks. “I hope I can be of some use.”

  “Oh, of course you will be. Of course you will be,” she says, then straightens the front of her blazer with a quick snap. “Do you need a few minutes to prepare before you go on? We’ve got everyone in the main auditorium, but they’ll be happy to wait if you need time.”

  “I’m ready to go,” I tell her, a trickle of sweat running down my back. I’m ready to get into the air conditioning. And then I’m ready to get back into my car. And then I’m going to figure out a way to stop thinking about Juliet James.

  I follow President Wilson into the building, the blast of cool air a welcome relief on my skin. She asks innocuous question after innocuous question, and it takes no mental energy to answer them. How was the ride? Do you remember it ever being so hot in the city?

  So hot in the city is right. So hot that it’s permanently burned a woman into my mind.

  We enter the auditorium through a side door, and in the darkness of the wings, she turns to me one more time. “Ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Next thing I know, she’s striding out to the podium and introducing me after listing off a string of accomplishments. All meaningless, if the one woman I want to see doesn’t care about any of them. “Please give a warm welcome to our benefactor, Weston Grant.”

  I step out into the applause, meet President Wilson, and shake her hand. She lingers a second too long on the shake, then seats herself elegantly in one of two chairs set off to the side of the podium.

  “Thank you, President Wilson, for the kind introduction,” I say, cutting my gaze over to her, then looking out over the crowd.

  And that’s when the rest of my speech gets caught in my throat.

  7

  Juliet

  He stops talking.

  A titter goes through the rest of the room. It’s more subdued than it might otherwise be—we’re law students, not undergrads—but there’s an undercurrent that stems right from that podium and extends out in a wave, like a pebble dropped into a pond. A boulder, really.

  One heartbeat ticks by, then a second. Heat blooms in my chest, curving around my shoulders and down my back like a winter coat over my sleeveless blouse. It’s hotter than hell out today, but even in the air-conditioned auditorium, I feel like I’m sitting right in the middle of a furnace.

  Because Weston Grant’s eyes are fastened on mine.

  Because I, like a fool, am sitting right in the center of the front row.

  How did I miss this?

  The answer is a simple one: I wasn’t paying attention. I knew we were having a guest speaker today, but the only thing that registered on my radar was the fact that they moved the class schedule back an hour to accommodate whoever it was going to be. That extra hour is cutting into my shift time for tonight at the Rose, which isn’t something that Greg is particularly upset about, but I’m missing out on an extra hour of potential tips.

  Naturally, I didn’t read the announcement carefully enough to realize that the speaker is Weston Grant himself.

  And he’s stopped talking to stare at me.

  “What did you do to this guy?” Kathleen, my best friend in law school, whispers into my ear, her red curls brushing my shoulder. “He’s looking right at you!”

  I don’t dare turn toward her. I don’t dare do anything except look back into the green eyes I never counted on seeing outside of the Rose. If I ever saw him at the Rose again—he’s not the kind of member who makes regular appearances, and after I told him I wasn’t going to take him up on whatever offer he was making, he’d nodded, a cool look coming into those eyes.

  He hadn’t said anything for a long moment as we stood there in the alcove, and I had wondered if he was going to break all the rules and kiss me. “Good night, Juliet James.”

  Then he’d turned and walked away, never looking back.

  As for me, I’d fumbled the slips, dropping them onto the floor in my hurry to act as if nothing had happened.

  “He’s definitely looking at you.” Kathleen’s voice is filled with awe and disbelief, and if I could answer her, mine would be, too. What the hell does Weston Grant have to do with Anderson Law? Not that the answer would have mattered to me before today. But it does now.

  Should I leave the room? Should I stand up and walk out in front of all the other first-year law students, leaving them wondering what kind of sordid past I’ve had with Weston Grant?

  The answer is none. We have no past. But if he doesn’t do something, and fast, I’m going to have a heart attack. It’s already working overtime in my chest, pumping fresh waves of heated blush to my cheeks. I’m not this kind of woman.

  “Oh, my God, Jules, you’re red as a—”

  “It’s an honor to be here,” Weston says abruptly, and just like that, the spotlight of his eyes is off me and back on the notes in f
ront of him on the podium. I sag back into my seat like a puppet released from its strings, barely stifling the urge to cover my face with both my hands. I don’t have anything to be embarrassed about. My body doesn’t seem to know that. “My family’s involvement with Anderson Law began with my grandmother, Marie Anderson.”

  His grandmother. Jesus.

  I want to know more—I really do—but his voice washing over the walls of the auditorium captures me completely even as the words become an indecipherable jumble.

  “She didn’t have the opportunity to become a lawyer, which was her dream as a young woman. She led a very successful life in many other ways, leaving an impact on all who knew her, but she never achieved that dream. Our family, led by my mother, decided to fulfill her wish for new generations of law students.”

  So his mother has her hands on the purse strings, too. I shake my head, trying to clear the thought. I have no business speculating on what Weston Grant’s mother does or doesn’t do with the family money. I have no business speculating on Weston Grant. But it’s all I’ve been doing for the past four days.

  “Do you know him?” Kathleen is whispering in my ear again. Her voice is full of a bright hope that I might have some truly delicious gossip.

  “No,” I murmur back. It’s very nearly true.

  “Not even from work?”

  “You know I can’t tell you about the people I meet at the club.” I wasn’t strictly supposed to tell her the name of the club, either, but I know I can trust her with that.

  “So he is a member at the Rose?”

  “Kathleen—”

  She gives me a grin, her lips pressed together in a smile that makes it look like she’s about to burst into laughter at any moment. “Don’t say another word.”