Billionaire's Curvy Arrangement Read online

  BILLIONAIRE’S CURVY ARRANGEMENT

  by

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

  1

  HAYES

  “Anything can be bought,” Ingram declares through a cloud of dark cigar smoke. “And anyone can be bought.”

  “Same thing, isn’t it?” I say with a glint in my green eyes as I hold my breath to avoid inhaling that foul tobacco. “People are things, last time I checked.”

  Ingram grins and nods to acknowledge my brilliant insight. Then he stubs out the fat stogie and taps his thick ring on the edge of his empty scotch glass, sending the waiter scurrying to the bar.

  “You still wear that old ring?” I say, raising an eyebrow and rubbing my stubble as I wonder what I did with mine. What difference does it make. All that shit was so long ago it’s not even a memory. I look at my thick fingers and smile to myself. No rings. No fucking way. You couldn’t pay me enough to wear one.

  Ingram shrugs as he downs his fresh scotch like it’s a shot. He holds up his hand. He’s got the ring on the middle finger of his left hand. Interesting choice. “Yeah. It’s a good prop,” he says. “When I’m on the hunt, I can just move it over to my ring finger so women think it’s a wedding band.”

  “And that’s useful because . . . ?” I ask with an eye-roll. Ingram isn’t much younger than me, but he still has a ways to go before getting to the level of don’t-give-a-fuck that I’m at.

  Ingram grins. “That way women know what I’m looking for—and it’s most certainly not twenty years of changing diapers and going to little league games.”

  “Amen to that, brother,” I say, a smile crinkling on my well-lined face. “We made a lot of mistakes on the road to the big B, but getting hitched wasn’t one of ‘em.”

  The big B, of course, is that moment when your net worth shoots past the Billion dollar mark. It’s that moment when you know you’re so far into the realm of fuck-you-money that you’re invincible, free in a way most people will never understand, powerful in a way most people wouldn’t dare imagine.

  But I’m not most people, and neither is Ingram, I think as I glance at that ring again. We earned those rings back in college, but they aren’t college rings. There’s no logo or inscription on the black titanium band that shines with the seductive power of nightfall. You wouldn’t know what that ring stood for if you didn’t already have one, and there’s just a handful of us left who do have one.

  “I have one, thanks,” comes a woman’s voice from behind me, interrupting my train of thought. That doesn’t happen often, and I turn my head halfway in her direction, just to make sure she knows she’s talking too fucking loudly for the private room in the city’s most exclusive club.

  But the moment I see her I’m struck by those curves, and my cock hardens so fast I almost black out. She’s wearing a black skirt-suit, one leg crossed elegantly over the other knee, her jacket barely holding back a bosom that makes me want to pant and beg and lick. The effect she has on my body is shocking, just fucking ridiculous. I’m around gorgeous supermodels who flash their lashes while making the turn on the catwalk, hot trophy wives looking for a no-strings-attached side-hustle while they wait for their husbands to keel over, and I’m so jaded I barely look up when a bombshell walks into the room.

  But this woman makes me want to walk over there and make her mine. All mine.

  She was talking to the waiter, not me, I realize after I bite my tongue to stop it from hanging out like a panting wolf. She’s about to light a cigar, and the waiter had rushed over with a lighter before she waved him off, saying, “I have one, thanks.”

  I watch those dark red lips pucker up as she lights the cigar, and I want to be that cigar. The flame lights up her face with flickering shadows, and when I see how pretty she is, I know I have to talk to her.

  “Are you lost?” I drawl across to her, grinning like the cocky asshole I am.

  “No,” she says curtly, barely looking at me as she pulls a leather-bound folder from her briefcase. Then a lightning quick glance at me that hits like a hammer. “Are you?”

  My jaw almost drops at her whip-smart response. Nobody talks to me like that. Especially nobody at this club, which has my name on the library and the gym. Though I want my name on her lips more than anything. And branded on that ass that I can tell is nice and wide, just right for my big hands.

  “I thought I knew all the new members,” I say, swallowing my anger at being hit with a comeback that stung.

  “What makes you think I’m new?” she says while casually flipping through her folder like she has better things to do than talk to me.

  “Haven’t seen you in here before,” I say.

  “Haven’t been in here before,” she says.

  I wait for her to continue, but clearly she wants to end this conversation. And clearly she doesn’t know that I decide when a conversation ends.

  “This is a private room,” I say. “Only the highest tier of donors get access to this room.”

  She snorts and rolls her eyes without looking up. “I’ll be sure to leave a tip on the way out,” she says, puffing on her cigar, which I immediately realize isn’t tobacco but some sweet-smelling herb that makes this room smell like a spa. I watch as she looks at the cigar, frowns, and then stubs it out and reaches for a perfumed wipe to get the stench off her fingers. “Nasty,” she mutters. “Well, I did my research. Smoking stinks, even when it’s not tobacco.”

  Immediately my guard is up. Research? Who the fuck is she? A reporter or something? The Club got some bad press a few months ago when it was used as an example of the male-dominated elite clubs where billionaires gather to plot world domination while being served expensive cocktails and exotic meats—which is pretty much spot-on, actually. Still, as one of the senior members of the club, I care about its reputation. I’m about to challenge her for being in here, but just then she pulls out her phone and starts talking.

  “No cell phones in here,” I growl across to her, my feathers still a bit ruffled from the way she spoke to me. But the sight of her framed in a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke is ruffling a lot of things in me right now, and I’m riled up like a bull on the first day of mating season. It’s been a couple of months since I took a woman back to my downtown penthouse, and it was so forgettable I seriously don’t remember her face, let alone her name. This woman, though. Fuck, I already know I’ll never forget her face. I’ll never forget the sultry shadow of her heavy cleavage as she leans forward in her leather armchair. I’ll never forget how that skirt makes me yearn to get a glimpse of her thighs as it rides up in the most subtle, sexy way.

  She rolls her eyes again and points casually past me. I turn, and then almost throttle Ingram when I see he’s barking into his phone, chewing out his lawyer for some contract.

  I shoot my buddy a look he can’t ignore, and with a nod Ingram gets up and leaves the room. I didn’t need to tell him that I wanted to be alone with this she-devil in a black dress, and when I hear the silent click of the door being locked, I know the waiter isn’t coming back in unless Ingram lets him through.

  Which he won’t.

  Not until I’m through.

  Through with what needs to happen right now or else I’m gonna have a fucking coronary as every blood vessel in my swollen cock explodes.

  2

  HANNAH

  “You look like you’re about to explode,” I say to the man I know is Hayes Henley. He doesn’t look like the photos I saw online. He’s older, thicker, and brutally handsome in a way that can’t be captured on film. He’s also glaring at me like the school principal used to when I was bad—which was an awful lot, now that I think about it. Though mostly I got sent to the principal’s office
for being super-snarky to the teachers. I had a problem with authority back then, and judging by the way I’m messing with this silver wolf with that tailored suit and a chest bigger than a pirate’s booty, I haven’t gotten over my childhood problem with authority.

  Clearly I haven’t lost that little girl’s ability to get under someone’s skin either. I always had a knack for pushing people’s buttons, ruffling the feathers of even the calmest eagle, and when I see the way Hayes is looking at me, I feel myself rise to the challenge even though it’s probably a bad idea, given his reputation.

  It didn’t escape my notice the way the other guy left the room. And though I might be wrong, I swear I heard the deadbolt slide into place on the outside. That should raise about ten red flags, but I don’t feel threatened by the big bad wolf who’s all hot and smoky under that French collar. I know how to handle myself—physically and mentally. I also know how to judge a person’s character in just a couple of interactions, and although Hayes is muscular like a lion, I know he isn’t gonna touch me. Sending his buddy out of the room and locking me in is a power play, and boy do I know how to play with power.

  How else do you think I became a millionaire? Inherited it from Mom and Dad? Hah. They worked until they dropped dead, punching the clock every day to put me through college. Sometimes I think if I hadn’t been such a snarky little bitch in high school I mighta got good enough recommendations to end up with a college scholarship. Maybe that woulda taken some of the load off Mom and Dad. I do feel guilty about that, like maybe my antics ended up shortening my parents’ lives. But I know how to use guilt, how to generate power from it, how to redirect those feelings into ambition. Ambition that skyrocketed me to the top of my firm, then shot me out into the free-for-all world of venture capital, where I made my fortune advising investors on which start-ups to fund. I always had a good eye for a good investment—in fact that’s why I’m here in town: to check out that herbal cigar company. Certainly not to check out the blazing green eyes of Hayes Henley, a man who’s the farthest thing from a good investment.

  Nope, not a good investment if you’re looking for a future, a husband, a family. Hayes Henley isn’t that man. He’s a man who’s always made it crystal clear that marriage is for the birds and kids are for the wolves. A man who’s turned his back on supermodels, starlets, and royalty over the decades, taking what he wanted and then walking away without a second look. A man who’s been quoted as saying that a wife and child is nothing more than a ball and chain and he’d rather amputate his big toe than start a family.

  Hayes rises from his leather chair, and I try not to stare as he strolls across the dark carpet and stands above me like a giant. I’m not a small woman, but I feel tiny as his broad shadow falls over me like a dark cloud. He’s taller than I thought, and much more muscular. His chest is so well-defined I can see the outline through his suit, and when I allow myself to lower my gaze, I almost choke at the sight of his obscenely filled-out crotch, a bulge so pronounced that a vivid image of him naked and hard roars through my head before I can stop it.

  I’ve never been a casual-sex kinda girl, but if I ever wanted to try it, this is as good a chance as I’ll ever get. No cameras in here. No one really knows I’m in town. And it would be a mutual one-time thing, since Hayes Henley isn’t a man I’d ever want in my life long-term. I assume he’d feel the same about me. Hell, we’re the perfect non-match! And we’re both super fucking rich too, so there’s no chance of money complicating things!

  As for that other great complicator, the only thing that fucks with people more than money?

  No chance of that happening either.

  No chance of falling in love.

  Not after one meeting.

  I might be a romantic, but love at first sight is too fairytale for me. Doesn’t exist. People can’t fall in love at first sight.

  “Almost fell for it,” Hayes says, casually sliding his right hand into his hip pocket and placing his left foot on the coffee table, which groans under the weight.

  “Fell for what?” I say, brushing an imaginary strand of hair from my forehead and almost wincing when I see a hint of a smile on his grizzled but well-groomed face. Hayes is a master negotiator, and he must know that when someone touches their face or hair, it means they’re nervous, unsure of themselves, scared. My only play now is to convince him that I was faking the “tell” so he’d think I was nervous.

  “Fell for you,” he whispers through that deadly smile.

  I almost fall over, and it’s only when I see the wicked gleam in his eye that I know he’s probing, pushing, playing in a way I didn’t expect. Of course, what’s even more unexpected is the way I feel about this little game.

  “I’m busy,” I say, frowning as I glance at his big shoe on the crystal tabletop. Italian leather with hand-stitched seams and sleek rawhide laces. One of those shoes costs more than most of the cars parked outside. And damn, those are some big feet . . .

  “So was I until you interrupted,” Hayes says, pushing the ashtray across the table and turning his nose up at the stubbed out remains of my herbal cigar. “What the fuck is this travesty?”

  I laugh and then shrug. “The latest thing in Silicon Valley, apparently. All the prestige of a cigar but without the stench of tobacco—not to mention the health effects.”

  “Prestige?” Hayes says with a snort. “If someone walked into a negotiation puffing on that thing, I’d toss him through a window.”

  I almost laugh through my nose at his deadpan delivery. Then I look around the dark room and pretend to exhale hard. “Good thing for me there aren’t any windows in here.”

  Hayes raises an eyebrow and frowns down at me. “I didn’t realize this was a negotiation, Miss . . .”

  “Name’s Hannah,” I say, touching my hair again. “And every conversation is a negotiation, in my experience.”

  “Your experience? And what might that be?” Hayes grunts, glancing at my briefcase and phone like he’s trying to figure out what I do.

  “Guess,” I say, leaning back in the cool leather armchair and almost smiling when I see how difficult it is for Hayes to not look at my cleavage. Of course, the moment I think cleavage, I’m struck by the image of Hayes between my boobs, pinching my nipples so hard I scream, his cock pushing my thighs apart as he—

  “Reporter,” he says, interrupting me just before I start to lick my lips like a whore on a webcam. What the fuck is happening to me?! Was there something in that awful herbal cigar that’s getting me all wet and willing? Have I already decided to do this?

  My eyes widen as I wonder if he’s serious. “Reporter?” I say, almost insulted. “That’s your guess?” I frown and cross my arms under my boobs. “For the New York Times, right?” I add.

  Hayes grins. “I was thinking sophomore newsletter at the local college,” he whispers, totally baiting me with a low blow that makes me so mad I could punch him.

  “Oh, is that where your daughter goes to school?” I ask with sugary sweetness as I flutter my eyelids up at him. I don’t like making fun someone’s age, but I want to jab him back for that insult.

  “Granddaughter, actually,” Hayes says, delivering the comeback without missing a beat. “Do you know her?”

  I want to snap back, but I’m caught off-guard by how confident Hayes is about his age. Actually, that’s not right. It’s not confidence so much as he just doesn’t give a fuck, like worrying about getting older hasn’t even entered his mind.

  “All right,” I say with a smile. “You win that round. But you really think I’m a reporter who talked her way into your private boy’s club to get a scoop on . . . on what? You?”

  Hayes smiles and shrugs. “I have nothing to hide,” he says, holding his arms out wide as I hold my breath at the sight of his shirt-buttons straining under that massive chest. “Ask me anything. Go on.”

  I blink up at him, not sure if he really believes I’m a reporter or if this is some pervert billionaire’s fantasy about pulling off a
Fifty Shades type thing. I hesitate so I can study his face, look deep into his eyes, see if I can figure out what’s going on in that head. But one look into those green eyes and I don’t know what’s going on in my own head, let alone his. Clearly he’s attracted to me, which I didn’t expect. It’s not that I lack confidence in myself or my body—hell, I proudly strut my big ass with the best of them. But I’ve seen Hayes’s former lovers. They’re all tall, skinny, cool drinks of ice-water with asses like little dinner rolls. In other words, the total opposite of me.

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Older than you,” he says. “My turn now.”

  “I thought I was the reporter,” I say, playfully whining even though I’m not a whiner.

  “You’re not a reporter,” Hayes says softly. “But my gut says you came here looking for me. Why?”

  “Why is your gut wrong? Is that the question?” I shoot back.

  “My gut’s never wrong,” he says, leaning forward just enough for me to pick up his heavy, masculine scent. No cologne. No chemicals. Just pure man, natural like the sunrise.

  He reaches toward me, and I tense up as I wonder what I’ll do if he touches me. But he doesn’t touch me, his fingertip almost grazing my cheek but not quite. The motion messes with my body, and I feel my pussy tighten in my wet panties as I swear I sense movement at the front of his bulging trousers. Again those twisted thoughts of being taken by Hayes whisper to me, and I imagine him putting his fingers into my mouth, asking me to suck them as he rubs my neck with his other hand.

  “Make a wish,” he says, and I blink up at him, wondering where that came from.

  Then I see he’s holding an eyelash. My eyelash. It must have fallen and gotten stuck to my cheek. Damn, he’s got a delicate touch I didn’t expect from fingers that thick. Fingers that could fill a girl up, bring out the woman in her. Ohmygod, stop it!

  “I don’t wish on eyelashes,” I say.

  Hayes shrugs. Then he cocks his head, and with those green eyes focused on me, gently blows that eyelash into the turgid air between us. He holds the eye contact, and I already know what he just wished for.