Bound to Her: Three Dates With a Billionaire

Bound To Her

Three dates with a Hollywood Billionaire, Book Two

By

Emma Lyn Wild

Title Page

Copyright Page

Bound To Her (Three Dates With a Hollywood Billionaire, #2)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Further Reading: Bound To Him

Also By Emma Lyn Wild

About the Author

Bad boy Hollywood star Troy Cooper can’t forget museum intern Cassie, or what he did to her when he blew her off after their date. She deserves an apology, and he wants more of her.

When Troy reveals to Cassie the reason for the headlines about him, she isn’t sure she can cope. What started as kinky bed play turns out to be so much more. She has never come across anything like it, but despite her best intentions, she can’t get used to doing what he wants.

Troy Cooper a phobia. If it comes out in the media his career is over. She won’t tell; but somebody else will.

When his secret comes out and a lurid video of Troy circulates online, he’s not only devastated, but broken-hearted. He has to get over his not-so-secret phobia but he doesn’t know how. Going to a shrink is impossible—everybody talks, for a price.

What’s worse, Troy can’t get into the play that’s supposed to kick-start his career. Something is blocking him. Perhaps his obsession with Cassie is the problem. His guilt at subjecting her to his kinky bedtime practices forces him to reassess his lifestyle. Perhaps he should just let her go, or force her away for her own good.

T
roy

I got a table at the back of the restaurant for my date with Cassie. Normally I’d have asked for a seat by the window, to see and be seen. Part of my job, but I didn’t want the humiliation if she walked out on me. If she didn’t turn up, okay, I could say I was dining for one, but if she turned up and then left, that would be more fodder for the media. While most people who visited Ravel’s were celebrities and society types, there was always someone willing to earn an extra few bucks by selling pictures to the press. Fucking camera phones. I’d have them confiscated at the door.

I went with the classic rich boy look—crisp, white tailored shirt, gold cufflinks, a navy Armani two piece suit with black Italian brogues. No tie. With my gold Rolex and custom iphone, I fit the place. I wondered if she did, but the only reason I’d care was if she felt uncomfortable.

I ordered a drink and said I’d wait for my guest, although I wasn’t sure if she’d make it—covering my ass, is the technical term. Then I saw her.

Cassie stood at the entrance to the restaurant talking to the maître d’. She was a bit overdressed, but I didn’t care about that. So were other women here tonight. She’d fit. The brassiness of her bottle redhead shade had faded somewhat, but she’d still drawn it back into a knot, as if she was ashamed to display it. The style only emphasized the sharp, fine shape of her face. I appreciated clear features, especially when perched atop a mouthwatering body. I wondered if the black dress was her own, and decided not from the way she wriggled inside it, as if trying to make it comfortable. It was too short, so she’d better have matching panties, or somebody would comment. She was over-made up, too. Still gorgeous, though. She didn’t know it was me she was meeting, because if she had, I was pretty sure she wouldn’t have turned up.

She didn’t see me at first, but gazed around the place anxiously, as if afraid old man Wiley was sitting at one of the flashy tables, the ones occupied by people who wanted somebody else to know they were here to eat. Her attention went there at first, as it was meant to. This place was artfully designed. Seemingly simple, it nevertheless held the attention. Perfectly polished crystal, beautifully chosen nosegays on the tables, and crisp white linen.

Cassie looked around more, then her gaze stilled and froze—on me.

I had no idea what she’d do, but already I could read her like a book. She looked around some more. That meant was I here by coincidence? Maybe she was supposed to meet somebody else. That was if Madame did as I’d asked and didn’t give her my name.

The maître d’ nodded to a waiter, who gave her a slight bow and turned. She hesitated. Was I about to get stood up? 

When I saw the telltale jerk of her chin I knew she was coming to face me. Well, it wasn’t over yet. She could still yell at me and walk out. She might even slap my face. I wouldn’t blame her if she did, after what I’d done to her. It had taken me days to calm down, and come to my senses. Thank God for straight talking British actresses. My costar had talked some sense into me.

Cassie followed the waiter across the restaurant. A few people glanced up, but nobody commented. She was nervous, or angry, but her movements were stiff. As she neared the table her chin jerked up more and she glared at me. The waiter bowed, and pulled back the chair for her. She sat, still glaring, and clasped her hands on the table in front of her. I got to my feet when she reached me, and sat when she did. I tilted my head to one side.

“Well?” she said.

Time to man up, just as Sonia, my costar, had told me. “I owe you a huge apology. Massive. Cassie, I was scared.”

Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.

“You know my history, that I was caught with a call girl in my car years ago. While I know Madame X doesn’t run a brothel, the implication is enough. Some of the press can’t tell the difference between a classy escort agency and a cheap house of sin. That would be enough. It’s not your fault, Cassie, it’s mine. All I can say is that I’m sorry.”

She sat back and folded her arms under her breasts. “Go on.”

She wasn’t making this easy, but I didn’t deserve that. Finding out she was a paid escort had thrown me for a loop, and I panicked. I had to admit that the thought of her with anyone else also made me jealous as hell. “I wanted to make amends.” I kept my voice soft, and injected a touch of velvet. I’d always had a good voice, and teachers had helped me learn the various parts. In short, how to simulate emotion when I wasn’t feeling it. That didn’t apply now, because I was doing the opposite. If she’d only known it, I wanted to drag her across the table and kiss her stupid. That would take a while, considering her qualifications and intelligence, but I was prepared to sacrifice myself for a good cause.

“Okay. Since I’m here, I guess I’ll eat.”

Progress.

The waiter returned with the menus. I barely glanced at mine.

“Would you order?” she said, tight-lipped.

Oh, I’d enjoy this. Every course held something often considered an aphrodisiac. Not that I believed in that shit, but she’d get the message. She did. After I ordered the oysters, she flinched. Then with the beef, I asked for asparagus. If she lasted that long I’d order chocolate and raspberries for dessert. All the food had fancy names, but she understood enough to widen her eyes and glare at me. Then I ordered the wine, a rich French burgundy to go with the beef.

After the waiter had left, she hissed, “You did that on purpose!”

“What?” I treated her to a bland smile.

“All those foods. They’re—well, you know.”

I shrugged. “Tasty,” I said.

“Why are you doing this?” She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath.

“At first I was angry, I’ll give you that.” I was still angry with her, but I didn’t know why. Perhaps because she didn’t trust me enough to tell me what lay behind her working for the agency. Tonight I would find out, one way or another. “But then I admired your enterprise. You could have lain back, or given up, but when the going got tough, you did what you needed to do.” Anger surged in me again, shocking me stupid but this time I recognized it. I wanted her to myself. I didn’t want to share her with anybody.

The waiter brought the oysters. She took one look at them and shuddered. “I don’t know what to do with these.”

“I’ll show you.” I shucked the oyster with the knife on the plate and tipped it down my throat. Closing my eyes, I made a sound of appreciation. “Mmm.”

In a sudden movement she picked up the knife and slid it under the shell, barely missing her thumb. Before she could lose her nerve, she copied my action, tipped back her head and dropped the oyster in. Her breasts moved as she took in a deep breath. She kept her head tipped back before she lowered it and swallowed. “I hate it,” she said.

“Most people do, their first time.” I shrugged. “Don’t worry. I love them. I can eat yours and mine.” I proceeded to do so, before she could object, and I made fast work of it. The first course hadn’t gone so well, then. But I’d offer her oysters again sometime, in more friendly circumstances. I motioned to the waiter and he took away the plates before she could gag. When she’d first eaten the oyster, I clutched my napkin, ready to help her if she needed it, but she’d been game.

The beef with asparagus seemed more to her taste. The sommelier poured the red wine, thankfully not expecting me to do the little taste thing beforehand. Perhaps he remembered what had happened in my glory days when I was drinking for ten. That phase of my life hadn’t lasted long, but while it did, my reputation soared in some circles. The wrong circles.

At least the first course had eased the mood between us. I lifted my glass. “To us,” I said, “And to better understanding.”

She swallowed a small sip of the wine, looking as if it would choke her. “To better understanding,” she said, her tone monotonous.

She’d decided to stick it out. Besides, Madame X signed her girls to three dates minimum. If Cassie bailed, I could give her employer a bad report. My admiration for her crept up a notch.

I couldn’t remember having a more fraught meal. I didn’t let up. For one last time I put on the persona of Foxman, or rather, the alter ego, Evan Fox, the superior, snobbish billionaire who fought for the underprivileged in his spare time. Why make it up when I’d spent the last five years working as him? Some fans even sent letters to “Evan.”

We ate the beef, and I made polite conversation, taking care to leave nothing for her to take offense at. We talked about the play, about other Shakespeare plays, and then I led the conversation to the Romans and left her safely there until I’d ordered dessert. As a museum worker with a specialism in Roman art, she was in her element, and since I was opening in Antony and Cleopatra soon, it suited me, too.

She ate a few mouthfuls without comment on the food, but told me all about what the Romans ate and how they ate. I thanked her, even though I knew a lot of what she said from my own research. I needed to get into that character so bad. She knew much more than the superficial shit she was feeding me. Perhaps it was her way of getting her own back. I wouldn’t blame her.

I’d engaged her until midnight, and the meal ended at eleven. We could have lingered over aperitifs and coffee, but I wanted something else. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her if she wanted a good tip, but I wouldn’t put it past her to walk out. Instead, I helped her from her chair and led her outside into the taxi I’d ordered earlier, when I’d taken a bathroom break. I didn’t want to give her a chance to refuse.

Maybe the fact that the driver took a different route allayed her suspicions, but she sat primly next to me until the car drew up outside my apartment building. Her head jerked to one side and she looked at me as I got out, and held out my hand to help her. She took it, the first time she’d touched me that evening. The first time I’d allowed it. “Where are we?”

I glanced up at the building. “I moved into a condo.”

“I didn’t know you owned a property in New York.”

I chose not to correct her but tightened my hold on her and led her inside. I was beginning to hate myself. I didn’t understand what I was doing, just as I didn’t understand my role as Antony yet. Were the two bound up together, or was something seriously wrong with me? Had I lost it? That was the actor’s fear, the thing that kept us up nights. Losing the magic. When it happened, it could be grisly. I’d seen actors blaze through their early careers and then spend their later years making potboilers, and crap because they couldn’t get back on the bus.

I’d rather retire than let the public watch my meltdown. Perhaps they felt like I did now, that something was slipping away, and kept trying, praying that the next job would do the trick.

Uncertain, anger never far from my mood, I coolly escorted her upstairs. I kept my hands off her, except for a small touch in the small of her back to guide her in the right direction. Even then heat sizzled through me when the warmth of her body went through me.

I let her look around while I fixed coffee. She asked me a few questions about the art and the furnishing, none of which I could answer properly, because my PA had leased the place as it stood. Very little in here was mine. My surroundings rarely meant much to me, as long as they were adequate. “Do you like it?”