Coerced (Billionaire romance)
Coerced (Billionaire romance)_ Blackmailed by theionaire (Buchanan Romance Book 1) -Alexx Andria,
-1-
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Sutton Buchanan idly walked the upscale Covington Art House. His bored gaze flicked with disinterest over the current pieces gracing the exhibit walls.
When had art become so damn boring? Blah, blah, blah, the same old shit on every wall. No sense of emotion or passion.
Wasn’t that what art was supposed to do? Spark some kind of reaction?
Hell, he was no fucking art major but this shit?
Boring as fuck.
Sutton rounded the corner and nearly ran into a short, round, plainly agitated blonde who dropped her art portfolio with a small shriek at the unexpected contact.
“Oh! Ohmygracious! Sorry...” She pushed her glasses deeper on the bridge of her nose and then bent to collect her spilled artwork, her small hands fluttering with anxiety as she attempted to quickly grab her art and bail. It was then he realized she was crying.
Intrigued, Sutton began to help but she brushed him off.
“I got it, thanks.” She sniffed and shoved the artwork deeper in her bag before hustling off, leaving Sutton with a very nice view of her generous ass. That was one squeezable, spankable behind, he thought with interest.
Long blonde hair trailed down her back in gentle curls and waves and he was struck with the image of twisting that gorgeous mane in his palm, bowing the woman as he rammed his cock between those luscious cheeks.
Amusement curled his lips, his licentious thoughts interrupted by the effeminate voice of the art house director. “Mr. Buchanan...what a pleasure.”
With a small sigh of regret, he turned to accept the limp handshake of the director. “Mr. Polk, I presume?”
“You presume correct,” Polk tittered, clasping his hands together before gesturing toward his office. “Let us discuss business in my office...or should I say, your office?” He tittered again, believing himself clever. “To be owned by a Buchanan...one can only dream.”
Sutton suffered a short smile for the sake of the director. Buchanan Enterprises had recently acquired Covington Art House and his west coast cousins, Dillon, Vince and Nolan — otherwise known as the cocksuckers — had foisted the details onto him to smooth out.
Polk drifted into a seat like a butterfly and graced Sutton with a blinding, too-white smile. “What do you think of Covington? Honest opinions, please.”
“I think it’s fucking boring,” Sutton returned easily, enjoying Polk’s instant wilting. “It’s stuffy and staid. My grandmother has edgier art in her bathroom than this place. It’s a wonder you’ve managed to keep the doors open.”
Clearly not the reaction Polk had been expecting but Sutton enjoyed putting people off their game.
And the man had asked for honesty.
“I see,” Polk straightened, losing his flirty behavior and stiffening a little. “We have some of the most esteemed artists of the area gracing our walls. What exactly do you find so boring, as you say?”
Sutton shrugged. “There’s no life. There’s no danger, no sense of challenge. The artists are comfortable and it comes out in their work.”
“I see,” Polk repeated, uncomfortable. “Well--“
“Tell me about the artist that left in tears...the girl.”
Polk stared blankly. “The girl?”
“Yeah, the one that left minutes ago. What’s her story?”
Suddenly remembering, Polk gave a small dismissive shudder. “The fat one?”
Sutton smiled coldly. “Yes.”
Polk must’ve sensed he was on dangerous ground.
“Oh, um, well, her art was decent enough but here at Covington we cultivate a certain image and she doesn’t fit within our vision for the exhibit. She’s a train wreck,” he finished as if it should be obvious. “Can you imagine her walking around our clientele? She’d scare away business.”
Pretentious prick. “Shouldn’t the art sell the work, not the artist?” he pointed out, enjoying watching the man squirm.
“Of course,” Polk agreed quickly, bobbing his shaved head. “But...times today...it’s all about the visuals, as you would agree. It takes more than talent.”
Sutton could give a rat’s ass about the art. He wanted to know more the woman. “What’s her name?”
Polk stared a moment then, realizing Sutton was waiting impatiently, he moved quickly to find her resume. “Ahhh, yes, her name is Elizabeth Downing,” he read from the paper, handing the resume to Sutton when he gestured brusquely. “Young, local artist. Hard-luck story. Something about her parents dying and leaving her with a disabled sister to care for. Tragic. But...what are we? Social services?”
“And what did you say to her that made her cry?”
Polk, plainly nervous, answered, “I simply said she wasn’t right for our exhibit. I certainly didn’t mean to make her cry.”
“Of course not.”
He folded the resume and placed it in his interior suit pocket. He was no longer interested in Polk or the art house. But since Dillon had put him in charge of this project, he’d have some fun of his own.
“Things are going to change around here,” he told Polk. “No more of this same shit on the walls. Move me, Polk, or else, I’ll find a director with real vision. Understand?”
“O-of course, Mr. Buchanan.” Polk’s adam’s apple bobbed. “I will do my best.”
Sutton winked as he rose. “Do better than your best,” he advised and left the man wondering how the hell he was going to please Sutton, which was exactly how he liked to leave people.
Besides, his thoughts were already returning to the delectable Miss Downing.
He’d only seen her for seconds but he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
For someone like Sutton, that was quite addictive. Most people bored him.
He roamed the downtown plaza, hands stuffed into his pockets, his mind moving. He needed more information about the little curvy artist. A sudden smile formed as he warmed to an idea that immediately chased away the pervasive ennui that dogged him.
A project.
Yes...that’s exactly what he needed.
A project with nice, fat, lickable tits and an ass that made him want to bite.
Hello, Elizabeth Downing — you don’t know this yet but you’re going to be mine.
***
Elizabeth wasn’t a crier by nature but goddamn, couldn’t she catch a break?
She stared down at the letter in her hand from the state.
All that mattered was the paragraph that read, “Due to state-mandated budget cuts, care for disabled minors without life-threatening disabilities will discontinue as of their 18th birthday. Please make arrangements for your charge as benefits are slated to discontinue.”
Her younger sister, Gretchen, was currently living in a very nice facility for autistic children.
The plan had been to transition her to the adult facility of the same company but it was very pricey and without the state’s help, there was no way Elizabeth could manage the payments on her meager waitressing salary and tips.
Gretchen was two months away from turning eighteen.
Two months wasn’t long enough to figure out a new plan seeing as her hope of landing a spot at Covington House had gone down in flames.
That prancy art director had all but turned his nose up at her as he’d dashed her dreams without a second thought.
She’d even sacrificed her dignity and hoped to appeal to his sense of charity by sharing her particularly situation with her sister but she’d embarrassed herself for nothing. The man had been made of stone.
Her gaze wandered her tiny apartment and she suffered a moment of pure panic.
Art supplies were everywhere. Any useable space had been commandeered for her art, from brushes to canvases, she squeezed her art into every nook and cranny available.
How was she going to care for Gretchen in a one-bedroom? Gretchen was nonverbal and prone to violence when frustrated.
Their parents had found Rising Dawn before they’d been unexpectedly killed in a drunk driving accident three years ago and Gretchen was so happy there.
What was Elizabeth going to do aside from sell a kidney to keep Gretchen in a safe place?
Elizabeth dropped the hateful letter to the kitchen counter and was just about to grab something to eat when a knock at the door startled her.
She wasn’t accustomed to visitors — let’s be honest, she didn’t actively seek out friendships, choosing to keep to herself — and she didn’t exactly have the cash to online shop so she was a little wary of unexpected visitors.
Going to the door, she peeped through the peephole, sucking in a shocked breath when she saw the man who’d nearly knocked her soul from her body at the art house. What was he doing here? The bigger question being, how’d he find her?
Elizabeth bit her lip, rising on her tip toes to look again. That suit probably cost more than her entire monthly budget. Dark hair, sharply brushed and held in place with salon product — no dollar store hairspray for him — and wow, those blue eyes were a crime.
Okay, so now what?
Just continue to stare at him through the peephole like some weirdo who chews on her hair when no one is looking?
“Miss Downing, open the door. I know you’re home.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. He knew her name? “Who are you?” she called out. “I don’t know you.”
-1-
Bookmark: 1
Sutton Buchanan idly walked the upscale Covington Art House. His bored gaze flicked with disinterest over the current pieces gracing the exhibit walls.
When had art become so damn boring? Blah, blah, blah, the same old shit on every wall. No sense of emotion or passion.
Wasn’t that what art was supposed to do? Spark some kind of reaction?
Hell, he was no fucking art major but this shit?
Boring as fuck.
Sutton rounded the corner and nearly ran into a short, round, plainly agitated blonde who dropped her art portfolio with a small shriek at the unexpected contact.
“Oh! Ohmygracious! Sorry...” She pushed her glasses deeper on the bridge of her nose and then bent to collect her spilled artwork, her small hands fluttering with anxiety as she attempted to quickly grab her art and bail. It was then he realized she was crying.
Intrigued, Sutton began to help but she brushed him off.
“I got it, thanks.” She sniffed and shoved the artwork deeper in her bag before hustling off, leaving Sutton with a very nice view of her generous ass. That was one squeezable, spankable behind, he thought with interest.
Long blonde hair trailed down her back in gentle curls and waves and he was struck with the image of twisting that gorgeous mane in his palm, bowing the woman as he rammed his cock between those luscious cheeks.
Amusement curled his lips, his licentious thoughts interrupted by the effeminate voice of the art house director. “Mr. Buchanan...what a pleasure.”
With a small sigh of regret, he turned to accept the limp handshake of the director. “Mr. Polk, I presume?”
“You presume correct,” Polk tittered, clasping his hands together before gesturing toward his office. “Let us discuss business in my office...or should I say, your office?” He tittered again, believing himself clever. “To be owned by a Buchanan...one can only dream.”
Sutton suffered a short smile for the sake of the director. Buchanan Enterprises had recently acquired Covington Art House and his west coast cousins, Dillon, Vince and Nolan — otherwise known as the cocksuckers — had foisted the details onto him to smooth out.
Polk drifted into a seat like a butterfly and graced Sutton with a blinding, too-white smile. “What do you think of Covington? Honest opinions, please.”
“I think it’s fucking boring,” Sutton returned easily, enjoying Polk’s instant wilting. “It’s stuffy and staid. My grandmother has edgier art in her bathroom than this place. It’s a wonder you’ve managed to keep the doors open.”
Clearly not the reaction Polk had been expecting but Sutton enjoyed putting people off their game.
And the man had asked for honesty.
“I see,” Polk straightened, losing his flirty behavior and stiffening a little. “We have some of the most esteemed artists of the area gracing our walls. What exactly do you find so boring, as you say?”
Sutton shrugged. “There’s no life. There’s no danger, no sense of challenge. The artists are comfortable and it comes out in their work.”
“I see,” Polk repeated, uncomfortable. “Well--“
“Tell me about the artist that left in tears...the girl.”
Polk stared blankly. “The girl?”
“Yeah, the one that left minutes ago. What’s her story?”
Suddenly remembering, Polk gave a small dismissive shudder. “The fat one?”
Sutton smiled coldly. “Yes.”
Polk must’ve sensed he was on dangerous ground.
“Oh, um, well, her art was decent enough but here at Covington we cultivate a certain image and she doesn’t fit within our vision for the exhibit. She’s a train wreck,” he finished as if it should be obvious. “Can you imagine her walking around our clientele? She’d scare away business.”
Pretentious prick. “Shouldn’t the art sell the work, not the artist?” he pointed out, enjoying watching the man squirm.
“Of course,” Polk agreed quickly, bobbing his shaved head. “But...times today...it’s all about the visuals, as you would agree. It takes more than talent.”
Sutton could give a rat’s ass about the art. He wanted to know more the woman. “What’s her name?”
Polk stared a moment then, realizing Sutton was waiting impatiently, he moved quickly to find her resume. “Ahhh, yes, her name is Elizabeth Downing,” he read from the paper, handing the resume to Sutton when he gestured brusquely. “Young, local artist. Hard-luck story. Something about her parents dying and leaving her with a disabled sister to care for. Tragic. But...what are we? Social services?”
“And what did you say to her that made her cry?”
Polk, plainly nervous, answered, “I simply said she wasn’t right for our exhibit. I certainly didn’t mean to make her cry.”
“Of course not.”
He folded the resume and placed it in his interior suit pocket. He was no longer interested in Polk or the art house. But since Dillon had put him in charge of this project, he’d have some fun of his own.
“Things are going to change around here,” he told Polk. “No more of this same shit on the walls. Move me, Polk, or else, I’ll find a director with real vision. Understand?”
“O-of course, Mr. Buchanan.” Polk’s adam’s apple bobbed. “I will do my best.”
Sutton winked as he rose. “Do better than your best,” he advised and left the man wondering how the hell he was going to please Sutton, which was exactly how he liked to leave people.
Besides, his thoughts were already returning to the delectable Miss Downing.
He’d only seen her for seconds but he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
For someone like Sutton, that was quite addictive. Most people bored him.
He roamed the downtown plaza, hands stuffed into his pockets, his mind moving. He needed more information about the little curvy artist. A sudden smile formed as he warmed to an idea that immediately chased away the pervasive ennui that dogged him.
A project.
Yes...that’s exactly what he needed.
A project with nice, fat, lickable tits and an ass that made him want to bite.
Hello, Elizabeth Downing — you don’t know this yet but you’re going to be mine.
***
Elizabeth wasn’t a crier by nature but goddamn, couldn’t she catch a break?
She stared down at the letter in her hand from the state.
All that mattered was the paragraph that read, “Due to state-mandated budget cuts, care for disabled minors without life-threatening disabilities will discontinue as of their 18th birthday. Please make arrangements for your charge as benefits are slated to discontinue.”
Her younger sister, Gretchen, was currently living in a very nice facility for autistic children.
The plan had been to transition her to the adult facility of the same company but it was very pricey and without the state’s help, there was no way Elizabeth could manage the payments on her meager waitressing salary and tips.
Gretchen was two months away from turning eighteen.
Two months wasn’t long enough to figure out a new plan seeing as her hope of landing a spot at Covington House had gone down in flames.
That prancy art director had all but turned his nose up at her as he’d dashed her dreams without a second thought.
She’d even sacrificed her dignity and hoped to appeal to his sense of charity by sharing her particularly situation with her sister but she’d embarrassed herself for nothing. The man had been made of stone.
Her gaze wandered her tiny apartment and she suffered a moment of pure panic.
Art supplies were everywhere. Any useable space had been commandeered for her art, from brushes to canvases, she squeezed her art into every nook and cranny available.
How was she going to care for Gretchen in a one-bedroom? Gretchen was nonverbal and prone to violence when frustrated.
Their parents had found Rising Dawn before they’d been unexpectedly killed in a drunk driving accident three years ago and Gretchen was so happy there.
What was Elizabeth going to do aside from sell a kidney to keep Gretchen in a safe place?
Elizabeth dropped the hateful letter to the kitchen counter and was just about to grab something to eat when a knock at the door startled her.
She wasn’t accustomed to visitors — let’s be honest, she didn’t actively seek out friendships, choosing to keep to herself — and she didn’t exactly have the cash to online shop so she was a little wary of unexpected visitors.
Going to the door, she peeped through the peephole, sucking in a shocked breath when she saw the man who’d nearly knocked her soul from her body at the art house. What was he doing here? The bigger question being, how’d he find her?
Elizabeth bit her lip, rising on her tip toes to look again. That suit probably cost more than her entire monthly budget. Dark hair, sharply brushed and held in place with salon product — no dollar store hairspray for him — and wow, those blue eyes were a crime.
Okay, so now what?
Just continue to stare at him through the peephole like some weirdo who chews on her hair when no one is looking?
“Miss Downing, open the door. I know you’re home.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. He knew her name? “Who are you?” she called out. “I don’t know you.”