The Billionaire Beast(11)

He didn’t bother questioning his decisions. He made them based on gut instinct and he’d never, ever been wrong.

Except he had the sneaking suspicion that the decision he’d made in the gym—to touch Phoebe—had been wrong somehow. Even though she’d been the one to slap him—her employer—across the face.

He should have fired her for that alone, yet he hadn’t and he wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t sure why he felt that he’d been the one who’d screwed up, either. Sure, he knew that touching a woman who didn’t want to be touched was wrong, but Phoebe’s eyes had been full of gold fire and the pulse at her wrist had been fast and frantic. She’d radiated anger rather than fear, of that he was sure. In fact, he was sure that for a moment she’d been as excited by him as he was by her. Certainly, if she’d been afraid, he’d never have gotten so turned on since he’d never found fear attractive in anyone. So why had she gotten so angry about it? Why had she hit him?

Not knowing infuriated him. He’d hoped studying her where she couldn’t study him back would give him some insights into why she might have denied him and why the feeling of wrongness was so fucking persistent.

Her expression gave him no clues, though. There was a slight crease between her delicate brows, the rest of her features drawn tight in lines of concentration. Whatever she was doing was taking her whole focus.

Was it her fiancé again? The fee schedule she mentioned? Hospitals were expensive, he knew that much. Or was she putting all her effort into finding him the women he asked for? Or was it something else entirely?

He leaned his elbows on the massive black desk in front of him and interlaced his fingers, scowling at the screen.

He’d never not gotten what he wanted, not since he’d escaped the room he’d grown up in. Yet here he was, having retreated to his control room to lick his wounds because this uptight Englishwoman had denied him. Had stopped him from getting what he wanted with only one little fist and a threat she’d had no idea of the power of.

Nero narrowed his gaze at her. She’d taken her shoes off and was leaning back against one of the arms of the couch, her legs stretched out in front of her and bent at the knee, her feet resting on the couch cushions. Her skirt had rucked up, revealing a bit of pale thigh, the closest he’d ever gotten to seeing her not completely neat and tidy.

His cock hardened, the response almost instant.

He growled, cursing softly under his breath. Of course, what a fucking cliché he was. His body had decided that what it wanted was the first thing it had been denied in years, and that was a goddamn problem.

Especially when she’d been very clear that she’d call the police the second he touched her, and he had no doubt at all that she would. And they’d come, invading his house, invading the space that was his and his alone. His domain, where he was king.

It was true that he could probably get them to leave him alone—he was rich, and money talked when it needed to. But it wasn’t a guarantee. There was always the risk that he would be forced to come down to whichever precinct they wanted him at, and then there would be the media . . .

He glanced down, noticing that his hands were pressed to the black wood of his desk, his nails digging in as if he was hanging off a cliff and only moments away from falling. With an effort, he straightened them, his jaw hardening as he did so.

No. There could be no going down to the precinct. No media. No police.

No Phoebe.

Unless, of course, he got her to change her mind.

Slowly, he lifted his head, staring at the screen again.

Her mouth was pursed in the prettiest little cupid’s bow as she typed, her brows drawn down in furious concentration. What would it be like if she was furiously concentrated on him? If that delicious mouth pursed as she touched him, explored him? Finding out exactly what got him hard . . .

Nero sat back in his seat, adjusting himself to ease the tightness in his pants. No, he’d be fucked if he settled for a couple of random women from his favorite escort agency. He wanted Phoebe or no one. He would not be denied.

All he had to do was think about how to change her mind.

Decision made, Nero reached out and closed the tab with the feed from Phoebe’s sitting room, and once more focused his attention on his stepfather’s file. He had one more lead to follow up on—one he’d been letting lay low for a few years now, because it was a long shot. But since that last one had ended up a dead-end, he had no choice.

Nero pulled up the details he had, staring at the picture that appeared on one of his screens. An older woman who’d once, long ago, been beautiful. Until time and hardship had blurred her features, scoring them with rough lines, a sagging chin, a thinning mouth. Dulling the dark eyes that had once been full of laughter.

The one bright spot in his shitty childhood.

The woman who’d kept him safe for so many years.

His last lead. His mother.





Chapter 5


Phoebe took dinner in her sitting room that evening, her laptop open on the coffee table beside her, scrolling through likely looking candidates for Nero’s bed. She’d spent most of the afternoon looking and hadn’t found any she thought would be suitable—not that she had any idea who would be suitable since she had no idea of Nero’s tastes.

She supposed she should have asked him before he’d disappeared off to wherever he disappeared off to, that wasn’t either his office or his gym, and where he wasn’t to be disturbed on pain of being fired.

Except she hadn’t asked him. And so here she was, hours later, looking at various high-class escort websites and trying to determine what he might like in a woman and what he didn’t, and coming up with nothing.

God, she had a feeling he was going to be extremely annoyed if she didn’t find anyone for him tonight.

He might even ask you to fill in for them.

The thought sent a hot, electric pulse through her that made her deeply uncomfortable. Damn, hadn’t she told herself she wasn’t going to think about that once already today? So why was she thinking about it now? She’d been celibate since Charles’s accident, and she was okay with that. She didn’t want to get involved with anyone else.

This whole thing was insane anyway. What did she know about what kind of woman a man like Nero wanted? Yes, she could navigate meetings and buy paintings, and get umpteen dozen cups of coffee, but hire him a couple of escorts?

That wasn’t anything she’d done before for anyone.

You wanted challenging, remember?

Phoebe scowled at the parade of women currently cluttering up her screen. Well, a challenge was one way of thinking about it, that was for sure. Except it wasn’t a challenge she particularly wanted to take on.

She sighed. Looked like she was going to have to ask him what he liked in a woman, or at least get more information as to his . . . tastes. Or she could just choose a couple of women at random and if he didn’t like them, then that was too bad.

But no, she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t abide not doing a thorough job, especially with a boss as exacting as Nero. She’d already made one mistake by hitting him across the face, and she was lucky he hadn’t fired her on the spot, no matter that he’d been in the wrong.

Phoebe frowned. Actually, now that she thought about it, that was a good point. Why hadn’t he fired her? Because he could have. Instead, he’d merely ordered her to get him a couple of women for the night, then walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Maybe it was because she was doing a good job and he hadn’t wanted to get rid of her? Or was that merely wishful thinking?

Whatever, it meant that now there was extra pressure on her, and she did not want to make a mess of things. Especially not now that Charles’s care depended on her doing a good job.

Pushing away her half-eaten dinner, Phoebe made a decision.

What sort of woman do you like? she typed quickly into the message program, pressing send before bracing herself for Nero’s terse and usually one word answers.

Send me a list was the response.

She frowned and answered. I don’t have a list. There are too many and I can’t choose.

He responded within seconds. Link me.

Phoebe sighed. Which site do you want? There are a few.

For a brief moment where there was no response. And then another message appeared. Come to my library. Now.

Arrogant so and so. Rising from the table, Phoebe gathered up her laptop, then went out the door.

It had taken her a good two days to get familiar with Nero’s huge house and to know where his main haunts were. Yet even so sometimes she lost her way and ended up in parts of the house she’d never been in.

His library though, had been easy enough to find given it was right next to his office. The door was closed so Phoebe knocked once—one of his rules—and then entered.

The library was a fairly grand affair, all wood paneling and tall floor-to-ceiling shelves that virtually lined the walls. There was even a rail set up for a ladder, to make it easier to reach the upper shelves.

A massive fireplace was set into one wall, which would be cosy in winter when it was lit, but now, in the middle of summer, it was merely a cavernous black space. A couch and armchairs were grouped around the fireplace, leather covered and comfortable looking, and on a side table was a tray with a decanter of whisky, a couple of tumblers beside it.