What's Yours Is Mine: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (Cerise Preston Story Book 1) (5 page)

“Well aren’t you just a sexy bitch?” he remarked, admiring.  She moved to his side and curled against him sleepily.

“You bet your ass I am,” she murmured, dropping into slumber with a contented smile on her face.

At some point during the night, Cerise awoke with a start, wondering where she was.  Looking to the left and seeing Blake snoring lightly beside her, she was struck full-force by the memory of multiple encounters which left them both satiated to the extreme.  It had been a good night, but now that the heat of the moment had cooled and the glow of fine wine had faded, her head ached and she knew that she definitely did not want to be here when Blake awoke in the morning.  Frustrated with herself and more than a bit embarrassed at yet again having slept with the man that she was methodically trying to sabotage, she moved about the room, gathering her clothes with the stealth of a ninja.  She closed the door behind her and was out of the lobby and into a cab, not having the faintest idea that her every move had been observed.

Cerise was determined to place her relationship with Blake firmly back on a professional footing, and treated him with cool indifference when he came into work the next day, refusing to speak about the night before.  To his credit, Blake took his cue from her and didn’t mention the matter, sticking to business only.  She had more than enough work to occupy her thoughts, and after a marginally awkward encounter with Blake Hamilton first thing, she managed to put the matter from her mind and once again lost herself in the complex world of talent acquisition and management.  She had just grabbed her purse and slipped into her coat when Blake popped his head into her office.

“Lunch?” he said with a frustratingly endearing smile.  She couldn’t afford to allow herself to like Blake Hamilton, he was the heir to the empire that she was taking over piece by piece right under his nose.  Falling for him in any way was the worst possible thing that she could do.

“Sorry, can’t,” she said honestly, flashing him what she hoped was a purely professional smile. “I’m listening in on an audition at The Blues Barn, and having lunch with Ernie,” she explained, buttoning her coat.

“Ernie?” Blake raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“The owner.”

“Ah, I see,” he seemed disappointed.  “Well, good luck then.” He lingered at the door as though he wanted to say more, but seemed to think better of it and disappeared back down the hall.  Cerise breathed a sigh of relief.  It looked like her resolve to establish a professional-only relationship was paying off.  Now if only she could quit having flashbacks to some of the best sex of her life.  God that man was hot…it wasn’t fair.

Practically trotting to the parking garage, because being late for meetings definitely was not her style, Cerise jangled her keys in her hand and put her purse on top of the car while she tried to find the door lock in the darkened space.  She nearly jumped out of her skin when a voice spoke to her from the shadows.

“I know where you were last night,” came the low accusation.

Cerise whirled around to see Constance Hamilton stepping from behind a concrete support, looking furious.  She would admit nothing.

“Constance, I’m surprised to see you, did you need something?” She was the epitome of cool, professional innocence.  Or so she thought.  Blake’s grasping socialite wife tossed a manila envelope onto the trunk of Ceri’s car with a disdainful grimace.

“Open it,” she commanded. “I dare you.”  Cerise was nonplussed.  She had no idea what Constance was up to, but she knew that whatever it was couldn’t be good, and she wanted to find out what was in the envelope once the barracuda was out of sight and couldn’t see her reaction.

“Ummm…I don’t know what this is about,” she began carefully, “but I’m going to be late for a meeting, so if you’ll excuse me…”  She reached for her purse and felt the iron grip of the tall blonde on her arm.

“Trust me, you’re going to want to look at this now,” she instructed in a threatening tone.  Wrenching her arm away and giving Constance a scathing look, Cerise reached for the envelope sighing.  So much for looking at the contents in privacy.  Blake was right about one thing, his bitch of a wife always had to have her way.  Forcibly not allowing her hands to tremble, she lifted the flap of the envelope and shook the contents out into her hand.  It was a stack of photographs, of her, and of Blake, in some very compromising positions.  She took a deep breath, unable to even think and entirely unable to speak.  She stayed with her back to Constance Hamilton, wondering what in the hell she was going to do, when she felt the conniving bitch’s breath at her ear.

“Now you listen to me, you filthy whore…” she growled viciously. “You can fuck my husband all you’d like.  I don’t care, I haven’t used him for that purpose in a very long time anyway.  But I’ve been watching you and your clients, and I’m fully aware that their loyalty is to you.  That seems to me like that’s the behavior of a woman who’s either thinking of going out on her own and becoming a competitor to BVR, or who is actually planning to take over the operations of BVR.”  She paused briefly, letting that sink in. “That’s right, I’m on to you, you little bitch, and I’ll just leave you with this one reality check…BVR is my bread and butter.  You can fuck with my husband, but you had better not even dream of fucking with my checkbook. I’m keeping an eye on you, whore, and if I think that you’re not acting in the best interests of BVR, I’ll have my attorney send these photos to the press.  Blake’s reputation will be ruined by scandal and divorce.  Did I mention that we have a pre-nup, so that if Blake gets caught cheating on me, I receive his share of BVR?”  Cerise paled at the thought.  “That’s a precious little agreement that our dads came up with, because they actually understand how business works, unlike my idealistic, pie-in-the-sky husband.”

Constance disappeared back into the shadows leaving a stunned Cerise trying to catch her breath in the parking lot.  She was trembling slightly, trying to process the thought that Constance Hamilton had proof that Ceri had slept with her husband and didn’t give a damn.  But, the thought that resonated even more strongly was that this high-society gold-digger could potentially thwart her plan.  The more Cerise thought, the angrier and more determined she got.  Constance Hamilton had to be put in her place, and soon, before she could do any damage to BVR.  An adrenalin-fueled plan began to form in her mind, and despite the shock of running into Blake’s leech of a wife, Cerise smiled dangerously as she stuffed the incriminating photos back into the envelope.  Cerise Preston loved nothing more than a preemptive strike, and Constance Hamilton wasn’t going to know what hit her.  The thought that bringing down the imperious wretch would hurt Blake crossed her mind briefly, but business was business, and if he had to be an emotional casualty for the good of the business, so be it.

“She’s good, Frankie,” Cerise nodded appreciatively taking in the smooth sounds at the Scat Cat audition. “Who is she?”

“Sarissa Jackson,” the son of the owner of the dive club that tended to produce the best talent in the industry proclaimed.  “Just blew into town from Mississippi.  I understand she fell into some bad company and had to leave town in a hurry,” her handsome, chocolate-skinned friend confided.

Ceri raised her eyebrows and sipped her iced tea.  Frank Sr. and his hard-working son, Frankie always provided a spectacular lunch for her when she came to their auditions, which was only a small part of why she so enjoyed working with them.  Between Frankie’s nose for talent, and her connections in the industry, they made a powerful team, one that would grow even more powerful when Cerise took over the Black Vinyl label. “Bad?” she asked, hoping not.

“Nothing we can’t spin in our favor, “he chuckled, flashing even white teeth.  Cerise smiled knowingly, nodding and raised her glass in agreement.  She pulled young Sarissa aside for a chat after a spectacular audition that made Cerise want to hear more, and was pleasantly surprised that the gorgeous young woman was intelligent, well-spoken and endearingly shy.  She gave her all when in the thrall of her music, but was more than reticent one-on-one.  Fortunately, Ceri was known for her unique ability to put young performers at ease, and soon had the future star laughing, despite the fact that she was seriously intimidated by the thought of speaking with the daughter of R&B legend Amaretta Preston.  When the young singer practically skipped from the room, Cerise’s card firmly in her grasp, Ceri turned to Frank.

“Looks like you’ve done it again, my friend,” she grinned and gave him a high five.

“Looks like
we’ve
done it again,” Frankie returned, scooping her up into a bear hug and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Indeed,” she agreed, laughing at the co-owner’s exuberance.  She squeezed his arm affectionately on her way out. “You’ll be hearing from me,” she promised, entirely unaware of the lone figure observing from the shadows.

*****

“So, where are we with New Starters?” Blake peered over Cerise’s shoulder at the spreadsheet on her computer.

“I sent you the spreadsheet,” she reminded him, simultaneously amused and annoyed.

“Yes, you did,” he agreed, squinting a bit to see the screen, “and it’s so full of your own secret codes and terms for things, that I can’t make heads or tails of it.  Can’t we come up with a plan to standardize this stuff somehow?”

“Blake Hamilton, you know very well that there are standard ways and terms that everyone in the industry uses, but we are NOT everyone in the industry.  We are different.  If we do things the same way that everyone else does, we’ll have the same results that they do, and I don’t know about you, but I’m quite content to do things my way and kick their asses every month,” she replied archly.

“Point taken,” Blake agreed, nodding and giving up easily. “Just generate some kind of report for me that’s intelligible enough to let me know what’s going on, please,” he instructed, placing his hands casually on her shoulders.  Subtly shaking him off, she turned her chair so that she was facing him.

“Will that be all, Mr. Hamilton?” she asked coolly, dismissing him.

He paused, seemed to assess her carefully before responding. “For now,” he said with a slight smile that Cerise interpreted as being suggestive.  When he left the office, she let her head fall into her hand.  She did not need the complications or distraction of an affair with Blake Hamilton, whether his wife cared or not.  Liking him and fucking him had not been a part of her plan, and now, more than ever, she needed to maintain her focus.  She was thrilled that he had bought her explanation as to why she kept her records and figures deliberately obscure, and was relieved that he didn’t suspect a thing.  Odd as it may seem, it was much easier to keep industry mogul, Blake Hamilton, in check than it was his fortune-coveting wife.  Thoughts of Constance Hamilton prompted Cerise to firmly shut her door and pick up the phone.

“Garrett…do you have anything for me?” she asked, tapping her pen on her desk blotter absently.  Whatever response she received caused a slow, triumphant grin to spread across the perfect bone structure of her face. “Perfect,” she glanced at her diamond watch. “I’ll see you in 40 minutes.”

Knowledge is power.  Cerise Preston had known that from a young age, and embraced the concept as a part of her everyday reality.  Thankful that she had friends in a variety of industries which allowed her access to information that she wouldn’t have had otherwise, Cerise left the office of longtime friend Garrett Wilson clutching a large envelope securely in her grasp, with a grim smile of determination.  Nothing was going to deter her from her goals, and anyone who tried to stand in her way would be treated as a liability.  One thing that countless folks had learned over the years is that you absolutely did not want Cerise Preston to view you as a liability.  It wasn’t pretty, and it generally wouldn’t end well for you.

Cerise decided that since she had what she considered to be a major breakthrough today in eliminating some of the obstacles standing in the way of her takeover of BVR, she’d treat herself to some quality alone time.  She had been working her ass off with very few breaks for a very long time, and while her determination sustained her, even a hard-nosed woman like herself needed a little pampering every now and then.  She put on her most relaxing collection of CD’s, filling her apartment with the sweet sounds of the music that she loved best, and, humming along, turned on the taps in her oversized tub, lighting several candles that made the room smell like freshly baked sugar cookies.  Delightful.  She slipped out of her suit and blouse, taking particular joy in peeling down her pantyhose, which felt a bit like being released from the moist confines of a nylon prison, and tossed the clothing on a bench at the end of her bed to put away later.  Padding naked and barefoot to the kitchen, she selected a bottle of her favorite Cabernet and filled up the large and elegant bulb of her wine glass, bringing it to the tub. She piled her hair on top of her head, knowing that the humidity of the bath would turn it into a soft cloud hovering above her like a dark halo, and not caring in the least.  She wasn’t going anywhere tonight anyway, she could attend to it in the morning, as usual.

Slipping into the soothing warmth of the jetted tub, she sighed deeply and leaned her head back against her puffy yellow bath pillow, closing her eyes in contentment.  She made sure her wine glass was in easy reach, and sipped from it occasionally without even bothering to open her eyes.  Right here, right now, in this moment, the stresses and challenges of life melted away, and her shoulders loosened as her body finally relaxed.  She imagined herself carried away on the notes of the music, and refused to think about anything even remotely associated with work.  It was a glorious mental and emotional vacation that was abruptly jarred by the buzzing text tone from her phone which rested on the granite vanity.  She instantly decided to ignore it, determined that nothing would disturb her private time.  Two minutes later it buzzed again, and when she continued to ignore it, the determined party on the other end decided to try their luck at calling – three times in rapid succession.  Frustrated at the noisy interruption, but resolute in her decision to relax, Cerise used the remote control to turn up her music, drowning out the phone until at last the caller/texter gave up.  She lingered in the bath until her eyes began to droop, then took her time toweling off, smoothing cocoa butter, the smell of which made her crave chocolate, onto her weary limbs, and finishing off her substantial glass of wine.  She put the wine glass down on the vanity and glanced at her phone, noting that it was Blake who had been texting and calling relentlessly, and decided not to bother reading the messages or listening to the multiple voicemails.

“Sorry, Mr. Blake Hamilton, I am NOT a booty-call kind of girl,” she mused sleepily, talking to her now-silent phone before tossing it on her night stand to be charged.  Whatever he wanted could wait until morning if it pertained to business, and would wait a hell of a lot longer than that if it didn’t.  She slipped into her softest pink flannel boxers and a stretchy matching cami and climbed between the covers, sleep overtaking her almost immediately.

“Where the hell were you last night?” Blake demanded, storming into her office without warning.  Cerise’s wide-eyed assistant Marcus was at his heels blathering apologetically about not having time to ask her if it was okay for Mr. Hamilton to come in.

“Thank you Marcus, that will be all,” she smiled sweetly at the clearly-rattled young man.  It wasn’t every day that the owner of the company violated protocol and blazed into an office without proper notification. “Hold my calls, please,” she directed kindly, then turned, eyes blazing, to Blake when Marcus closed the door.

“What is the meaning of this, Blake,” she demanded, eyes narrowed with annoyance.

“I tried texting and calling you several times last night and you never bothered to respond,” he accused, as though he had the right.

She raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “Did the thought ever cross your mind that I don’t work 24/7 and am not accountable to you after hours?” she replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“When I try to contact you that many times in one evening, did the thought ever cross your mind that it might be regarding something pretty fucking important?” he shot back, undeterred in the least by her sarcasm.  Cerise was entirely taken aback.  Typically when she challenged Blake Hamilton, he realized that she was almost always right and conceded, but there was something different in his manner today, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.  She pursed her lips, studying him for a moment before replying.

“And just what is so damn important that you couldn’t wait until this morning to talk to me about it?” she inquired, beyond annoyed, but wary as to what might be behind Blake’s odd behavior.  He brought out a manila envelope, in a hand he’d been strategically keeping behind his back, and tossed it onto the desk in front of her.  Cerise’s mind raced.  Had Constance shown him the photographs with which she’d threatened Cerise?  And if so, was she asking for a divorce?  Blake’s low voice interrupted her thoughts as she stared blankly at the envelope in front of her, masking her reaction.

“Open it,” he ordered, through clenched teeth.  Looking up at him with clear resentment in being treated in this high-handed manner, Cerise took her time selecting a letter opener out of her top drawer and sliding it effortlessly through the golden paper.  She shook the contents onto her desk, and was astounded to see photographs taken at the Scat Cat of Frankie embracing her in a bear hug and kissing her on the cheek.  The angle at which the photos were taken contributed to a much more intimate feel than had actually been the case.  “Is this how we’re getting all the best clients?” Blake snarled, disgusted.

“What are you talking about?” Cerise was actually confused.  Blake knew that she and Frank’s son were friends and that a great many of their New Starts came from auditions at the Scat Cat.

“You’re fucking Frankie Michaels,” he spat the accusation, eyes narrowed jealously. “Is that how we’re getting all of our new people?  Are you fucking every club owner in town, or just the young ones?” he taunted, his mouth curling with contempt. “I refuse to have a whore working for me,” Blake thundered, “that is NOT how we do business at Black Vinyl Records.”  He was quite ironically the picture postcard of righteous indignation.  Those who knew Cerise best, knew that if she raised her voice, stomped her feet or slammed a door, you were still relatively safe in your interaction with her, but when she got quiet, that eerie, entirely self-possessed quiet, you’d better run for the fucking hills. 

Maintaining a completely neutral expression, and not giving in to the impulse to leave her handprint on Blake Hamilton’s arrogant face, Cerise paused thoughtfully, and decided that it was time to play her ace before things escalated out of control.

“I have known Frankie Michaels since grade school,” she began quietly, taking control of the conversation by locking her unwavering gaze firmly with Blake’s.  He had to lean forward to hear her words, despite the force with which they were being delivered. “I have been to his graduations and his wedding, and occasionally I go shopping with his beautiful wife.  I never have, and never will fuck Frankie Michaels or any other business contact that I have.  I don’t need to.  If you’ll recall, I’m the best in the business and I didn’t get that way by opening my legs, Blake Hamilton, but since we’re on the subject of whores…” She decided to drop the bomb, despite the fact that she knew it would hurt him.  After his spiteful accusations, she didn’t give a fuck if he got wounded emotionally.  Tit for tat, motherfucker.

Blake eyed her suspiciously as she unlocked and opened a file drawer, withdrawing an envelope very similar to the one he had just tossed on her desk.

“Your turn,” she directed ominously.  He reached for the envelope and slowly removed its contents, closing his eyes briefly and swallowing hard at what he saw.

“Where did you get these?” he asked, beaten.

“Doesn’t matter,” she returned dismissively as the photos of Constance Hamilton in a variety of sexual situations involving first her pool boy, then her lesbian manicurist and finally her middle aged and married therapist, slipped from his hand and hit the floor as he sank into a chair in front of her desk.  “What does matter is that your pretty little wife is plotting to destroy everything you’ve worked for and will succeed if you don’t strike first.”

Blake sat forward.  “What do you mean?” he demanded, still shell-shocked, but definitely paying attention.

“Constance tried to blackmail me a little over a week ago.”  Cerise showed him the folder of photos that Constance had thrown on the trunk of her car and he closed his eyes again, rubbing a hand over his forehead in frustration.

“Well, this just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?” he shook his head, overwhelmed and pissed.

“She told me that if I didn’t alter the books to start cutting her in on the profits, she would go to the press with the photos, ruin your career, divorce you and happily take your share of BVR,” Ceri lied smoothly, without a pang of conscience.  Constance Hamilton was merely an obstacle to be conquered, and Cerise was laying the groundwork for her imminent downfall.  Besides, it was almost true, and only served to highlight the fact that what the bitch truly cared about was money, not her husband.

“What did you do?” he asked, somewhat dreading her response.

“I made some calls, had her followed, found out that if you divorce her because of adultery she loses any interest in BVR that she had as a result of marriage.  Turns out the little deal fashioned by your fathers on your conniving wife’s behalf isn’t quite as airtight as she believes it to be.  There’s only one way to handle this, Blake, you have to take her down, before she takes you down.  Go to the press, call her out on her gold-digging bullshit.  I have an entire file of information that will not serve her well in divorce court,” Cerise replied.

Blake steepled his fingers under his chin, the way he typically did when he was weighing important information, and sighed. “I would really rather handle this in a civilized manner and just divorce her quietly, no press,” he decided.  Cerise threw up her hands in frustration.

“Handle it quietly?” she snorted derisively. “After what that bitch was prepared to do to you? Are you fucking crazy?” When Blake stared down at the desk instead of responding, she knew she had to take control and fast.  “Look, Hamilton, if you don’t go to the fucking press, and fast, she will.  If you even mention divorce, she will do everything she can to ruin you, because she’s not just greedy, she’s hateful, and that is NOT a personality that you can afford to trust.  If you’re worried about it coming back to you, don’t – I have friends who can get these pictures and the supporting info to the press with no ties to you.  It’ll happen out of the blue and you can act just as surprised about it as the rest of the world.”

“But what about these?” he gestured at the pile of photos taken of his evening with Cerise.

“I tracked down the photographer, who interestingly happens to be a big fan of R&B, and had the files deleted.  I also had my private investigator confirm that only two copies of each photo existed, Constance’s private stash and the ones that she gave me.  Turns out her claims to have met with her attorney and given him copies were bogus, she was bluffing, so we’re clear there too.”

“I don’t even want to know how you found all of that out,” Blake shook his head.

“No. No you don’t,” Cerise agreed.

“What about Connie’s copies?” Blake asked, drained.

“Taken care of,” Ceri replied vaguely.

“You are quite the force to be reckoned with, Cerise Preston,” he stated with exhausted admiration.

“Damn straight,” she agreed.  If he only knew.

Blake Hamilton leaned forward on the desk with something a bit more than admiration warming his gaze. “I owe you an apology…” he began.

“Indeed you do,” Cerise acknowledged, cocky, “And honey, it’s going to be expensive.”  Her mock-predatory grin stirred something within him and he nodded, smiling.