The Billionaire and the Con Artist: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Girls Series Book 1)

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opyright
© 2016 by Leanne Brice

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T
his is a work of fiction
. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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over design by Resplendent Media
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First Edition: August 2016

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T
his work is pure fantasy
. Unrealistic parts? You betcha! :)

Neither the author nor publisher approves of or recommends behavior carried out by these fictional characters in these imagined worlds, and some realistic concerns, such as pregnancy and STDs, will only be mentioned if they are relevant to the story.

Basically, this book is for entertainment purposes only and is intended for mature audiences.

Thanks for reading! :)

A
XEL

Meeting April Sumner during a weekend in Vegas? My lucky day.

I don’t date. I would make an exception for April, though—she’s the kind of girl I’d marry.

Of course, I don’t feel quite as confident once she runs off with all my cash…

A
PRIL

He’s handsome, he’s loaded, and he’ll be my amusement for the night.

Axel Addison is the perfect target: an unsuspecting bad boy who thinks I only want him for his looks.

But I like pretty things. And Axel Addison’s money will pay for them!

Let the games begin…

* * *

T
he Billionaire
and the Con Artist
is a light and fun, steamy bad boy billionaire read that touches on a few disturbing themes.

I
guess
I’m probably going to die
, I thought as I sat shivering next to the garbage bin I just checked for food, knees pulled up to my chest, my skinny arms wrapped around them.

Maybe I should have just stayed. It wasn’t so bad, was it?

A brief warmth passed through me at the memory of what it was like to be inside a cozy house, to have a consistent place to go home to every day. A familiar room.

The bedroom was all mine too—I didn’t have to share my clothes or desk or anything.

I had a solid roof over my head, at least two square meals a day.

I could easily grab blankets if it got too cold, turn on a fan if it got too warm.

I had quick, easy access to snacks...

I remembered my foster father and shivered again, this time, not from the blistering cold.

I hadn’t thought about where I’d go, what I’d do once I fled my foster home—I only knew I had to get out of there.

And now, after living on the streets, sneaking into buildings and sleeping on hard floors, subsisting on shoplifting and scraps, I wondered if it was a wise decision.

I had pretty much all I needed in that house. They hadn’t even beaten me!

Sure, my foster mom didn’t believe me or care about the night visits from my foster dad, but she had cared about making sure I was fed. That I had pencils and books for school.

This is so stupid,
I thought, pulling my knees tighter as I tried to keep myself warm.
It really shouldn’t rain on Christmas Day.

I wondered if it had rained the year before and I just hadn’t noticed because I was too busy opening presents, and I cursed myself from fleeing a good thing once again.

“Hey,” a voice breezed in, lightly penetrating my miserable fog.

I was sure I was hearing things when the voice drifted over to me, or at least sure it wasn’t being directed at me if it was real.

Since becoming a drifter, I realized I had become sort of invisible to the general public, an unremarkable part of the scenery.

No one tended to notice me, despite the fact that I was practically a child and obviously very alone.

I mean, a child to them—I was fifteen years old, pretty much a grown woman.

"Hey, kid," I heard the feminine voice say again, and I looked up to find an actual woman staring at me, one who looked very real and not like a hunger-induced apparition at all.

One who wasn’t that old, but certainly wasn’t young like me.

In her twenties, maybe?

I couldn’t really tell.

People came in stark categories to me—kid, almost-adult, adult, and ancient.

The woman wasn’t a kid or almost-adult, and she certainly wasn’t ancient, so as far as I was concerned, she could be anywhere between twenty and forty.

She had light brownish eyes, dark hair and a facial scar that made it even harder to guess her age, but she was still pretty.

"You must be so cold," the woman said sympathetically. "And hungry. I can help you. Let’s get you warm and fed and cozy. Come with me."

The woman straightened up and extended her hand, smiling maternally.

I stared at the woman’s hand for a moment before taking it, never actually considering not going with her, of course—just momentarily trapped in disbelief that someone was actually reaching out to me. Someone wanted to help me!

I didn’t know this woman from Adam, but I just knew this kind stranger could help me stay alive.

The hazel-eyed woman would keep me safe.