One Night With My Billionaire Master
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Authors: Cynthia Sax
One Night With My Billionaire Master
Cynthia Sax
One night. No one must know.
This is the text I sent Logan Ross this morning. The billionaire financier is my father’s number one nemesis and has been pursuing me for months. He wants to own me, completely, promising exquisite pleasure balanced by equally intense pain, vowing to dominate me, to show me wicked things a virgin like myself shouldn’t be interested in.
But I am extremely interested, and I’ll risk everything—my job, my family, my future—to experience one night of total submission with this powerful Dom.
Will one night be enough for both of us?
One Night With My Billionaire Master
Copyright 2015 Cynthia Sax
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All Rights Are Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this story are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First box set edition: April 2015
First ebook edition: July 2015
For more information contact Cynthia Sax at
Table of Contents
Chapter One
One night. No one must know.
This is the text I sent Logan Ross, billionaire investor and my father’s most hated adversary, eleven hours ago. Fucking Logan is inevitable, I tell myself, as I stand in the crowded ballroom. He won’t stop pursuing me until he has me, and I’m tired, so damn tired, of resisting him, delaying what we both want, what we both need.
I half-heartedly listen to Benoit, my flamboyant French second-in-command, grumble about broken champagne flutes and incompetent waitstaff. Normally I’d care about these details, taking my job seriously, but I’m too wired to work tonight. All I can think about is sex and Logan, his rough hands, stern voice, intense no-bullshit gaze.
He’s been as subtle as a sledgehammer over the past seven months, standing guard over me at every event, every dinner, glaring at any man who dares to approach me, making his claim on the St. James slut, thrillingly obvious.
Logan must be aware of my reputation, everyone in our business circles knows of my mom, how I’m expected to follow in her notorious footsteps, yet he treats me with respect. Sure, he whispers scorching hot sexual fantasies into my ear, brushes his calloused fingers against my neck, shoulders, and arms, every chance he gets, but he’s never crossed the line, never made me feel like anything other than his woman.
And, sweet mother, I love it. I shiver. It’s a miracle I’ve withstood his single-minded seduction this long.
No one believes I have resisted him. Everyone thinks we’re already fucking.
I can tolerate the speculation as long as there’s doubt. My father won’t disown me without concrete proof, my half-siblings reminded of this during their last attempt to usurp my minor role in our dysfunctional family. I trust Logan to be discreet, to handle the details, to protect me.
Tonight.
Tomorrow, he’ll turn his attention to another woman. I smooth the full skirt of my black sleeveless gown, the garment chosen for its ease of access, bra and panties not required.
The thought of my billionaire standing by someone else’s side shouldn’t sadden me. I know who I am, whom everyone believes I resemble. I have my absentee mom’s blonde hair, big breasts, and long legs, and my appeal will be as fleeting, as empty. He’ll get me out of his system and move on.
At least my night with Logan shouldn’t have any deadly and long-lasting consequences, unlike my media tycoon father’s fateful night with my opportunistic mom.
My father had been so lust-struck with my free-with-her-favors mom, that he cheated on his critically ill wife. I was conceived. My birth and the subsequent highly-contested paternity test revealed my father’s secret to the world, forcing him to give me his last name and a place in the family. That humiliation killed his wife, the woman he claims to have adored, leaving their three children without a mother.
My aggressive billionaire, in contrast, isn’t married, doesn’t have any children who would make a possible ‘oops’ baby feel unwelcome, unworthy, hated. I’m on birth control, and I suspect, with my inherited slutty reputation, he’ll use condoms.
My gaze drifts once more over the buzzing ballroom. Ladies wear long gowns in a variety of rich colors, offsetting the stark black of the men’s tuxedos. Precious gemstones glitter around the women’s necks, in their ears and hair.
My fingers close around my plain gold pendant, my sole adornment, and I’m filled with satisfaction over an event well-organized. The crème de la crème of Toronto society is attending my family’s charity gala. I recognize politicians, movie stars, the business elite. Everyone I expect to see is here.
Except Logan. I don’t spot his tall, muscular physique and distinctive ink-black hair in the crowd.
“He hasn’t yet arrived, Ari,” Benoit observes. A small smile curls his lips, illuminating his handsome face. “Believe me, I’ve been looking. That delicious man of yours fills out a tuxedo jacket nicely, and his ass?” My friend flicks his gaze toward the heavens. “Like a gift from God.”
My face heats. “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” I lie, knowing exactly whom he’s referring to. Logan does have a great ass and beautifully wide shoulders. “Esteban won’t appreciate you scooping other men out,” I warn. Benoit is in a committed relationship with the venue’s top-ranked chef.
“Esteban doesn’t care where I get my appetite as long as I eat at home,” he jauntily replies, as though having someone to love who returns that love is a casual accomplishment.
I don’t say anything, suppressing my envy, hiding my loneliness, my need for company.
“Are you finally banging your billionaire tonight?” Benoit returns to this embarrassing topic. “Is that why you’ve put me in charge of this fiasco?”
“Keep your voice down.” I hush my friend, aware that I’m being watched by my half-siblings. They report every infraction, imagined or real, to my father, hoping he’ll finally withdraw his support and his love. “You’re in charge because I need, no, I
deserve
one evening to relax.” This isn’t a lie, but it isn’t the full truth either, as I
will
be banging my billionaire tonight. “I don’t know why I must be the one to make all of the decisions.”
“Because you have a keen brain in that pretty little head of yours.” Benoit winks. “Which is why I chose to work for you, and why your Mr. Ross guards you closely. Your man doesn’t want stupid children.”
“He’s not my man.” Logan doesn’t think of me as marriage material.
“Tell that to him.” My friend shrugs. “Speaking of decisions we must make, we’re running low on the eighty-two. We only have three bottles left.”
“Then serve the eighty-three.” He opens his mouth, a refusal written all over his pretty face, and I hastily add, “I realize that vintage of champagne isn’t as rich as the eighty-two, but it’s late in the evening, and very few guests are as discerning as we are.”
“They’re ignorant buffoons,” the Frenchman grumbles.
“Who are generously supporting our educational programs.” I pat his tuxedo-clad arm, trying to pacify him. “That was my last decision of the night, my friend.”
He frowns.
“You agreed to this,” I remind him. “And I trust you to handle any minor problems.” He knows I consider almost every problem to be minor. “If there’s an emergency situation, speak with Cindra.”
“Not Cindra, anyone but her.” Benoit glances over his shoulder at my half-sister and shudders dramatically. “I’d rather drink the seventy-eight.” Seventy-eight was one of the worst years for champagne in recent memory.
“There’s no one else.” Frederick, my half-brother, flat out refused to help. Kayla, the youngest half-sister, couldn’t make a decision to save her life. “I doubt there will be any emergency situations.”
My friend mutters under his breath.
“You’ll manage, Benoit. I have faith in your abilities.” I walk away, ignoring my guilt. He knows the routine, having shadowed me at dozens of similar events. He can handle this responsibility.
I approach my half-siblings, my dread carefully hidden behind a polite mask. Frederick, Kayla, and Cindra watch me with a disturbing level of interest, as though they expect me to embarrass myself, to shame our father.
I won’t be their entertainment tonight. I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. I’m no longer a child they can tease and torment.
“Your boy toy looks unhappy.” Cindra throws the opening verbal punch, her blue eyes glittering with malice. “Are you having a lover’s tiff?”
Guests, hovering nearby, twitter behind their hands. Her words will be embellished and repeated, tarnishing my reputation even more.
“Benoit was consulting with me on a gala issue.” And he prefers men. I keep this information to myself, his personal life being no one’s concern but his.
“He was
consulting
with you?” Kayla supports Cindra as she always does. “Is that what you’re calling your activities now?” She looks down her perfect nose at me, a glass of champagne clasped by her well-manicured fingers.
I wish it was the seventy-eight.
“His unhappiness is to be expected.” Frederick joins the fray. “According to rumors, you’re having nightly private
consultations
with Logan Ross.” His lip curls.
“Daddy won’t like that,” Cindra sings.
“Our father knows those rumors aren’t true.” Tomorrow I won’t be able to use this defense. The gossip
will
reflect reality.
My half-siblings laugh, causing a wave of whispers to roll through our audience. I don’t know why I respond to their jibes. No one believes a word I say. They all think I’m fucking Logan.
“You’re just like your mother.” Cindra, the eldest and the meanest, is the first to bring up my ethically-challenged parent. “When Daddy finally sees that, you’ll be cut off.”
That’s their goal, to drive a permanent wedge between our father and me, his unwelcome slut-spawn. It isn’t enough that they have the bulk of his affections. They want it all, begrudging me the gold teardrop-shaped pendant I wear while our father drapes them in diamonds, complaining about my economy vehicle even as they stand in front of their luxury cars, contesting my five percent share in St. James Communications using income earned from their ten percent ownerships.
I stifle a sigh. I’m weary of being attacked, weary of being alone, untouched and isolated, starved for affection. A movement catches my eye and I glance upward, hope and longing coloring my soul.
It isn’t Logan. My burst of happiness fades. Benoit lurks in an alcove, signaling that he wishes to talk to me. I shake my head, refusing his request. My workday is done. I told him I’d made my last decision.
He frowns and beckons again, his movements more exaggerated and frantic. I’m not in charge, I silently scream. For once in my life, I don’t want to be responsible for anything other than my own pleasure.
The Frenchman waves his hands in the air, almost clipping a passing waiter with his elbow. His mouth is moving. I can’t hear his words, he’s too far away, but I see his desperation. He needs my help. I take a step toward.
“Oh my God,” Cindra gasps. The mood in the ballroom shifts, the air thickening with expectation. “He did dare to show his face.” She sounds almost giddy. “Daddy’s going to blow a gasket.”
Only one man can cause our father to lose his temper. I mouth a clear no to Benoit, adding a hand chop for emphasis. If the newcomer is who I think he is, my friend will have to deal with his problems on his own.
“He has some gall,” Kayla chimes in. “He might have been able to sneak into the other events, but this is our gala. Everyone knows he has no business being here.”
It must be him. I look over my shoulder and my breath hitches. It is.
Logan Ross, billionaire investor, thirty-five percent shareholder in St. James Communications, and my father’s sworn enemy, has arrived.
My heart races and my senses tingle, my body awakening as though from a long sleep. The man I’ve chosen to be my first, perhaps my last, lover, stands in the ballroom’s doorway. He draws every gaze, his shoulders barely contained in his black form-fitting tuxedo, his stance deliciously dominant, his feet braced apart like he’s preparing for battle. The lights from the crystal chandelier shine a spotlight on his thick mane of black hair.
