Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance Boxed Set (10 Book Bundle) (3 page)

Bought by Malcolm Ward. The guy who wouldn't stop staring at me like a creeper and told me that because I owed him, I had to go up on stage and be sold. And who then bought me. What a shithead.

Why, then, did my heart pick up its pace at the idea of going out on a date with him?

Maybe I just hoped he'd give me an opportunity to throw a glass of wine in his face.

Yeah. That was it.

Chapter Two

Felicia found me before the auction even ended.

“What happened?” she cried, running into the Edison lounge where I was gulping down my well-deserved vodka and vodka with a vodka chaser.

“Only the most terrible thing that possibly
could
happen,” I told her, slamming back my chaser. I smacked the shot glass onto the bar and shuddered. The liquor sent warm fingers through my stomach, making the muscles of my body unclench at last, though given what I'd been through tonight I wasn't so sure that was a good thing. I rarely indulged on the job because I'm a pretty dramatic drunk. And I was feeling pretty damn dramatic right then.

“I'm being serious.” She stomped her foot. Her long, pale golden evening gown, overlaid with black lace, shimmered with the movement. “Why didn't you tell me something had happened to one of the pieces? Why didn't you tell me you were going to end up on the auction block? I wouldn't have blown my money on that Warhol if I'd known!”

“Well, I didn't even know until about three seconds before I ended up on stage,” I told her. “Someone was carrying the vase barehanded, I bumped into them and... I took the fall for it. And the guy who owned it told me to auction
myself
off since I owed him!”

“Yeah,” she said, giving me a funny look. “Malcolm Ward.”

“That's the one.”

Her mouth twisted. “You don't know who he is?”

I don't know who any of these people are and up until I have to remember someone's name I don't care. I shook my head.

“The guy who just bought out NovaTech,” Felicia said.

I stared at her blankly. I don't follow the world of business and I try to forget anything I do learn as soon as possible. I'm just here for the free food and the job.

“Billionaire
Malcolm Ward. Warden Industries. Don't you remember the guy who forcibly French-kissed the Italian Prime Minister last summer after the PM made those remarks about rape?”

Holy shit,
I thought.
“That's
the guy?”

“The one who did donuts in his limo in Central Park? The one who performed an impromptu and totally filthy rendition of
Drop It Like It's Hot
on Letterman? The one who conducted a hostile takeover of his former best friend's company and then fired everyone and put a clown college in their old building? Yeah.
That's
the guy.”

Okay, I
had
heard of Malcolm Ward, although, to be honest, I thought he was just a movie star who'd recently taken up a coke hobby and was just flaunting it around. This guy actually owned a company? Or compan
ies?
And made money off of them despite the fact that he was patently nuts? Perhaps my initial assessment pegging him as Batman wasn't too far off. I wondered if he liked to dress up in rubber.

An eccentric billionaire. Well. At least our date wouldn't be boring?

“So you said you'd auction yourself off and he bought you?” Felicia said, breaking into my thoughts. “I don't like that.”

I shoot her a glare. “So?” I said. “It's better than having to pay him ten thousand dollars that I don't have. Unlike
some
people, I had to take out loans to go to art school. I'm just now getting back on top of them and I really can't afford to pay ten grand to some guy who wouldn't have even noticed it was gone.”

“I know, I know,” Felicia said. She held up her hands, clearly trying to placate me. “It's just that it's a little weird and manipulative.”

“You started out with Anton as an arranged marriage,” I said. “What if lightning strikes twice? We both get bought by secretly wonderful guys and have true love and happily ever after and all that shit.”

“Anton didn't really
buy
me...”

“Yes, he did,” I told her.

She looked chagrined for a moment, and then sighed. “Okay, fine, he
did,
but it was different. There was a contract. And it was for marriage. And he didn't have a reputation for being bugfuck crazy.”

“No, he just had a reputation for being a sociopath. That's
way
better than bugfuck.”

Felicia sighed. “Look, I'm just worried about you. Anton and me... that was really hard on me. I don't want you to go through the same crap. Rich guys are assholes and I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you while you were on your date or whatever...”

I blinked at her. “Are you... are you afraid he's going to rape me?” I said.

She threw her hands in the air and sat down next to me at the bar. “I don't know what I'm afraid of,” she said. “Just be careful, okay?”

“Where were you to tell me that
before
I broke a ten thousand dollar vase?” I asked her. “Some friend you are.”

Felicia gave me a little knowing smile. “I was getting head in the coat closet,” she replied serenely.

I turned away and stuck my fingers in my ears. “
La la la la la la!”
I sang. Anton had a real
thing
for public sex, and Felicia seemed to have caught the fever from him. It was gross. Although I couldn't help but be curious about it. Would I ever have sex in public for a guy? Would I like it?

Maybe if that guy has billions of dollars,
I thought to myself.
And
isn't
named Malcolm Ward.
I had enough crazy in my life without dealing with rich crazy, which is a whole other kind of crazy than poor crazy. I just had to get through my date with him so I could relegate this whole debacle of a night to the past and move the hell on.

I lifted a hand and was about to signal to the bartender that I needed another vodka injection, but just then Felicia elbowed me in the side, hard. I swayed and nearly fell off my bar stool. Perhaps I
didn't
need another vodka injection. “What?” I snapped at her, irritated.

She gave me a disgusted look. “Fine then,” she hissed. “I won't tell you that Bugfuck Billionaire is at nine o'clock and heading this way.”

Peeking from the corner of my eye, I spotted him striding toward us, looking handsome and formidable. I winced. Time to get the arrangements over with.

I hate first dates.

* * * *

Malcolm Ward arrived at the bar just as Felicia's phone buzzed at her, and she gave me an apologetic look before sliding off the stool. No doubt Anton required her presence for some reason or another, and I just rolled my eyes as she bolted from the lounge, not looking Ward in the eye.

Coward.

I met his gaze head on. The smile on his face was dazzling, his teeth a brilliant white in the gloom of the lounge. The sound of people milling in the next room told me that the auction had ended and now there would be dancing for anyone who felt like it. Pulling up alongside my chair, he gazed down at me, tilting his head as though he were assessing me... again. He just didn't give up.

“Like what you see?” I asked him, feeling snide.

“I do,” he said. “I'm very pleased with my purchase. I have received something far more valuable than a vase, which, just between you and me, was destined to collect dust until the end of its days anyway.”

I arched an eyebrow at him. “You didn't like it?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “I liked it well enough. It made me very happy when I first purchased it, but the pleasure of it has waned over the years.” His eyes swept over me once more. “Perhaps more impermanent pleasures will prove more lasting.”

I couldn't take it. “Ew,” I said. “Stop looking at me like I'm a piece of meat. It's seriously grossing me out.”

His eyes widened and he took a step back. “I'm sorry,” he said, “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.” He frowned. “Though I can certainly see where I've put my foot in it. I merely meant that while a vase is fragile, it also lasts hundreds of years, if not thousands with proper preservation. A woman—” he gestured to me, sweeping one of his lovely, slender hands up and down in the air in front of me, and I felt a strange thrill as his fingers passed close to my body, “—is more ephemeral. A beauty that does not last.”

It took me a moment to comprehend what he was saying, and when I did realize what he'd said it sure as fuck didn't make me feel any better. I'd once semi-jokingly told Felicia I'd thought Anton might be a wife serial-killer because of his distance and his locked basement. This guy, though, was seriously weirding me out. Carefully I hopped off my bar stool, making certain to place it between us when I found the ground with my feet. “I'm sorry,” I said, holding the stool in front of me like a shield, “but you sound like you're going to kill me and wear my skin when you talk like that.”

To my utter shock, he threw back his head and laughed so long and hard that tears came to his eyes. After almost a full minute I started to seriously think about stomping my foot, one of Felicia's favorite gestures. “I'm not sure what's so funny,” I told him. “You're creeping me out and that's not cool. Especially since you bought a 'date' with me.” To emphasize my point I crossed my arms, the thumb of my left hand finding the tattoo on my inner right bicep and rubbing it, something I often did when I was discomfited.

He visibly calmed himself and wiped his eyes. “Oh!” he said. “Oh, wow. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, er, give you that impression. What I meant was that I am an amateur artist, and I find you quite lovely as a potential subject for a piece.”

...Okay,
that
threw me off balance. There's probably something wrong with me in that I seem to jump to the
serial killer
explanation for people's weird behavior instead of considering other viable explanations, but really. An amateur artist? This guy? From what I'd heard of him, his greatest talent was getting the media spotlight on him.

My incredulity must have shown in my face, because his smile grew. “You don't believe me?” he said. “It's true. I dabble in the arts.”

“Oh,” I said finally. “That's... great.”

“In fact, it's the main reason I bought you.”

Does... does this guy want art lessons?
I wonder. “It is?”

“Oh yes. I knew from the moment I saw you from across the ballroom that I wanted to paint you. Or take your picture. Or perhaps sculpt you...” He took a step closer, and my hands tightened on the bar stool. He was so
tall,
and I caught a whiff of a very masculine scent underneath his aftershave. The hard muscles of his body filled out his tux, and I found myself praying that he was telling the truth, because if he tried to kill me I'd be no match for a barrel chest and biceps like the ones he was sporting.

“Wow,” I said. “You, uh, work in a lot of mediums.”

“I'm quite versatile,” he assured me. “And that is what I have planned for our date. Or rather, for our several dates.”

I scowled. “Excuse me? I never said anything about several dates.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Well, I paid nine thousand dollars for you. I feel that I have procured your services as a model, or perhaps I should say as an
inspiration,
for as long as it takes to complete one masterpiece featuring you.”

For an artist, this guy sure talked oddly about it. “I... I suppose we should see how it goes,” I said cautiously. Nine thousand dollars weighed pretty heavily on my conscience, but I wasn't about to let him see that. “Let's stick with
one
and if I'm comfortable with you, then we can maybe negotiate more.”

“A woman who drives a bargain,” Ward said. “I like that. I knew you were different just looking at you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I bet you did.” He gave me a strange look and I shook my head. “Okay, fine. But here's the deal. No nudity unless we discuss things first. I won't have you doing that shitty creepy thing some male photographers do when they say, 'oh, just take a little more off, show me some nipple,' because that shit is gross and we are both professionals.” I caught myself. “Well, I am, at least.”

“I'm professional in many things,” Ward interjected, sounding almost hurt.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, since you yourself said you're an amateur, you'd better read up on the rules of engagement first.”

In the dim light, I saw his eyes gleam and harden. He seemed to think I was presenting a challenge to him rather than giving him the benefit of the doubt and kindly instructing him on how civilized people behaved toward each other in situations such as these. “Hey,” I snapped. “I'm not joking around here. This is how professionals behave.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “And I vow I shall behave quite professionally.” From the depths of his jacket he produced a white card and held it out to me, pinched between two elegant fingers. Gingerly I reached out and took it, trying to ignore the sudden dark hum of my blood in my veins when our fingertips brushed together. I ripped the card from his grip as I snatched my hand away. His eyes glittered down at me, but he said nothing about my reaction.

“My home address and phone number,” he said instead. “Are you available tomorrow afternoon?”

I swayed on my feet. I doubted I'd be available for anything tomorrow other than to try out any and all hangover cures, for science. However, a modeling gig wasn't so bad, and the sooner it was done the sooner I could cut ties with this guy. “Yeah,” I said, tearing my eyes away from his and pretending to study his card under the dim blue light. “Yeah, I think I'm free.”