Banking Her (A Billionaire Bad Boys Novella)(15)

“It’s nothing, okay?”

“What’s nothing? You said it was business,” the clever bastard continued, chipping away at me one clue at a time. Next thing I knew, he’d be telling me it was Colonel Thatcher, in the hotel room, with the binoculars.

People shuffled along the busy sidewalk, but I knew she was supposed to arrive by car, and I knew she was supposed to text me upon her arrival. I’d managed to ask her the details of her shoot and convince her to give me that peace of mind without tipping my hand. Because, trust me, when she got a load of my crazy fucking cards, she wasn’t going to be happy. That’s why I needed to make sure she never figured it out.

You know, like an honest to God stalker.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“It is business,” I lied.

His voice was a growl when he asked, “You’re not cheating on Cassie, are you? Because I’ll fucking kill you with my bare hands.”

Yeah, right. Maybe with a cleverly crafted tool and the element of surprise, but not his bare hands. Still.

“No!” Jesus. “No, I’m not cheating on her, okay? I promise, I am not cheating on Cassie. I love her.” I lowered my voice and muttered under my breath, “Obviously, too much.”

“Then, what the hell is—”

My vision tunneled and my ears completely closed to all conversation as a car with Cassie’s beautiful dark locks behind the wheel came to a screeching stop across the street.

“Gotta go!” I managed to snap out before hitting the end button and tossing my phone to the love seat off to my left.

Pressing myself to the windows like a leech, I watched closely as Cassie climbed from the car, a smile on her face and fire in her pretty blue eyes. I couldn’t actually see them from this distance, but just from the plump of her cheek, I could tell. I knew everything there was to know about every expression in her arsenal, and this one was all Cassie—sassy, happy, sarcastic as fuck, and everything I’d fallen so hard for in one appealing package.

“God, you fucking animal,” I muttered to myself as I watched her lazy fuck of an assistant get out of the car on the other side without a single thing in hand. She’d had to get a new one after firing that cunt, Olivia. Cassie didn’t look like she was struggling as she lifted the camera bag over her shoulder, but that didn’t matter. I was point five seconds away from homicide. And in my opinion, it was justified.

Cassie spoke highly of the guy, and sure, he looked innocent enough with his button-up shirt and glasses and alarmingly friendly smile, but he wasn’t helping a pregnant woman carry shit. So, basically, he was right up there with Lee Harvey Oswald, if you asked me.

Leaning down, Cassie reached into the car, and I caught a glimpse of heaven—or the top swells of her sweet breasts. To me, the two were interchangeable, both mystical wonders created for good little boys by God himself.

But I couldn’t concentrate on that like I wanted to because she was reaching into the car for even more things to carry, and it took everything I had not to shoot some sort of Spiderman web out of my hand and bust through the fucking hotel window to swing my way down there.

It’s only, like, twenty-five pounds of stuff, max, I tried to remind myself. She’s not going to drop dead on the sidewalk from lifting less than thirty pounds of camera gear. The baby’s fine, she’s fine, everyone is fucking fine except for you because you’re a goddamn psychopath who can’t shake this pessimistic doomsday outlook about Cassie’s completely healthy pregnancy.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I’d been shot up with all kinds of hormones of my own. I wasn’t sure which ones, but they were the kind that made you ripe with paranoia, I guess.

As she disappeared inside the building, I shoved my feet in my shoes sans socks, grabbed my keycard off the table and my phone off the love seat, and jogged for the door.

I’d have to get creative, now that she was actually inside the shoot. Thanks to some careful investigation, done primarily during the middle of sex so her mind would be on other, more cock-like things, I knew the majority of the pictures were to be taken in an outdoor pool. And since I’d scouted the location earlier, I knew there was a restaurant around the back, a block over, with a rooftop deck where said pool was visible. Sure, I wouldn’t be in range to do more than dial 911 if she slipped and hit her head and fell into the water and started drowning, but at least I would know.




I was settling my ass into the chair at Want and Waste, an apparently popular San Diego restaurant that served and supported a completely vegan lifestyle, when my phone rang again.