Club Beta (Billionaire's Game Trilogy Book 2), page 1
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PROLOGUE
Gia
Five years prior
“GIA, I'M SIMPLY throwing your words back at you. All the advice and encouragement you gave me has come full circle.”
Full circle. The story of my life. The soft, tender underbelly of what I hardly admit to and certainly never will to anyone else—risks exposure from my own emotions.
My reticence fills our cell connection like a well of silent water.
Greta's sigh breaks the awkward quiet, “Don't be angry, Gia.”
I'm not mad... I'm scared. There's a big difference. An Ivy League psychologist with a trust fund the size of Texas shouldn't be concerned about anything.
Money and security only grow a person so far.
My inhale is sharp from the sting of my fear. “I know Zaire Sebastian, Greta. He loves proving people wrong.”
“And I'm forever grateful he worked his magic on Paco and me,” she replies instantly.
My eyes remain shut as I answer, “And as your sponsor, I'll never refute that.”
“So let Zaire put you into the Club, Gia.”
“I'm not ready.”
“And I was?” Greta's indignation burns through the invisible line that ties our cells in a conversation I didn't want.
“No... Yes—I don't know, Greta. I need to recover. What happened to you in Norway with your insane sibling and the attacker—”
Greta's voice falls flat. “Don't say it.”
“I apologize, darling. That was tactless.” I rub my temples as the start of a fine headache takes hold.
“No, it's my fault. I called to tell you the great news, and instead, I try to sell you on Club Alpha. I mean,” her pause sends the visual of my pale friend gnawing her lip like she's done countless times before, “even though you're a woman, the minute a man sniffs out your billions, who knows if he's really interested or if he's a player.”
That was the entire point of Club Alpha. To establish character for the players. To make it possible for the truly wealthy to discern whether the one they loved actually loved them for who they were rather than the circumstance of their wealth.
I'm aware of why men date me.
As if drawing my thoughts from the ether, Greta says, “Not every guy who comes along knows you're an heiress.”
Mostly true. But they end up finding out eventually, don't they?
“There might be a man out there who recognizes how smart you are. And beautiful.” Greta laughs. “Your snark is the part I love the best.”
“Who's the doctor, and who's the patient here?” I ask, proud that my voice doesn't betray me.
“You know that answer, Gia. But I was your friend before I needed you in a professional capacity, and that is what I'm offering now. Paying it forward.”
I hold back the sigh. “I'll think about it. Regardless, Club Alpha is a moot point now. The police are still combing the business for any wrongdoing.”
“There wasn't any.” A pause inserts itself then, “Aros was independent of the game.”
I'm so proud of Greta for articulating her attacker's name, but don't say so aloud. Instead, I pose the logical question, “Are you sure?”
The pause from Greta is so long this time I yearn to fill it but refrain.
She finally speaks, “There's no way Zaire would have cut it that close, or used my attacker—”
“He couldn't have known. No one did,” I say quietly.
“True,” Greta lets the word draw out, “but if you're not entering the game because of the threat of...”
“I don't have your background, Greta,” I softly interject. The words hang between us like black marks.
“No,” she answers just as quietly. “And I'm so glad you don't.”
The headache at my temples gives a vicious pulse.
“You're twenty-eight, Gia—the clock's ticking.”
I'm acutely aware, leaving that fact unacknowledged. “Take care, Greta—let me know when the baby comes.”
“We'll talk before then.”
I hear the question in her voice and nod, realize she can't see me, and say, “Of course—I miss you. You've been in Mazatlán forever.”
“Not forever, Gia—just six months.”
“Long enough to get pregnant,” I say, voice dry.
Her smirk comes across clear as a bell. “I hear that only takes a few seconds.”
We laugh, tension eased, and say our goodbyes. For Greta, things are easier, but not for me.
Never for me.
“You didn't tell your friend,” he restates the obvious.
Twisting my hands together, I note my high-end manicure and stuff my hands beneath my hips.
I lie supine on a classic psychologist's couch, the rough crosshatching of tweed material harsh beneath my skin.
There's one in my office as well, but this one belongs to Amos Talbot—my friend and colleague.
“You're all the people that get to hear that tale.”
“You were a teen, Gia.”
Old memories return in a rush, and I do the very thing I counsel others not to: I stuff them.
“I'm one person, people are many.”
I wave my hand. “Semantics.”
Amos steeples his fingers, striking the classic shrink pose. “Someday, you'll trust.”
“Not yet.”
“Touché.” Amos gazes over the top of his frameless clear glasses he wears only for looks. They showcase his pool-water blue eyes perfectly.
We both wear glasses, though neither of us needs to. Being a young doctor has its pros and cons; looking young and being taken seriously is a challenge.
The glasses are a prop.
“You know why you always take on cases of females who've been attacked.”
My head swivels on the couch, and Amos's compassionate eyes are smoke on my face, seeking to gain entry through the fissures of my psyche, my soul.
“I know my mind very well, thank you.”
“Of course.”
The lull in conversation is so loud I'm deafened.
“I was there, you know,” he says in a voice so low I almost can't hear it. “I picked up the pieces of what they left.” Amos splays his fingers on his chest. “Gia, I'm your friend.”
Hot tears slide from my eyes. Not the first I've shed but the millionth. “You want more,” I whisper and understand the accusation flavoring my voice isn't fair.
A man can save you, he can love you, he can try and be everything for you—sometimes, all of that is not enough, and I hate myself that it can't be.
“Yes,” he grinds out, temper lost.
No matter what the circumstance, that I'm playing patient for a man who saved my life instead of just returning what he offers seems selfish.
It's not. I can't pretend to feel things I don't, and somehow, Amos is inexplicably twined into that horrible night. I can't excise him from that memory no matter how much I want to—nor can I tell him the awful truth.
That fateful night never ends.
Because my rapists won't let it. They still want their pound of flesh ten years later.
Long after they defiled mine.
The tale burns on my tongue, and Amos senses there's something more, something he's on the verge of discovering.
That's why I don't entertain Club Alpha. If I were to do that, my blackmailers would have a feast of carnage at my expense.
There is no man.
There is no future.
If all I can do is help other women and exist, treading the water of this life, it's better than the entire world knowing about that night and how someone with a genius IQ could have been so stupid.
Zaire
Stick a fork up my ass—so fucking done. Holy shit, what a nightmare.
If it weren't for Paco's swan dive into matrimony, none of this would be bearable.
The tenth FBI suit swoops in and then out with the last box of my records.
Fuckers.
Just then, Gia Township breezes through the threshold of the open door, narrowly missing the last Fed and the first real smile of the day seats itself on my face.
She's a great-looking woman. As I study her, I wonder, for the second time, if she has a little Mediterranean in her background with the dusky hue of her pale coffee skin. Whiskey-colored eyes and dark, chocolate brown hair has length to it, though it's hard to determine length with as curly as her mane is.
I blink, and we laugh.
“Good to see you, Zaire.” Her unique eyes sweep the room, missing nothing.
Because there's literally nothing in my former office, the Feds have cleaned it out.
Her shrewd gaze snaps back to mine. “You can fight this. They have no right to make you culpable for this Norway mess.”
My lips quirk. “ʻNorway mess?ʼ”
Gia smirks, crossing her arms beneath a hot rack, I note. She gives a vigorous nod, possibly oblivious to my lecherous admiration. “Yes. I should have known something...”
Her trailing words steal that half-smile she wears, and I grieve its passing. There's something so vital, so intense about Gia.
“Hey,” I give a casual shrug, hands stuffed in beat-up jeans along with a rude slogan shirt I wear when I won't be seeing clients. Like today.
The Feds weren't amused.
“What?” she asks a bit breathlessly. Then a giggle escapes. She wordlessly points to my shirt.
Fucks given, it proclaims in fancy script, an arrow pointing to the right.
Lifting a shoulder, I tell her the truth, something I don't like to do outside of a courtroom. People generally want the lie.
“Nobody—least of all you and me,” I jerk my hand from my front jean pocket, planting my thumb at the center of my chest, “could have ever anticipated the witchery of those fucking insane asylum candidates.”
Gia gives a soft snort, her grin making an appearance again. “Truth.”
“You got telepathy online right now?”
I shake my head. “Never had, never will.”
“Then, shelve the guilt.” She shrugs narrow shoulders. “Paco and Greta tied a big-ass knot over a year ago.”
Her face is full of undisclosed knowledge.
I hold my breath for the other shoe to drop.
“She's expecting, you know.”
I feel my face light up. “Hot damn, my man, Paco!” I perform a square dance pirouette right there, and Gia laughs.
“He knocked Greta up in a hot hurry.” I rub my hands together in mock glee.
Gia punches me in the bicep.
I turn on her, grab her arm, and haul her toward me. It's instinctive and reactionary, nothing more, nothing less. I wouldn't hurt a woman under threat of torture.
Gia screams.
Not the cute, frightened little girl cry of surprise. But a shrill, terrified, hoarse shout of terror.
Instantly, I release her.
She staggers a graceless couple of paces from where I stand.
Our chests heave as we stare at each other.
“What the fuck was that?” I ask, incredulous at how fast things went wrong.
“I don't know,” she whispers, rubbing her palms up and down her bare arms.
“You do know I was fucking around, that I just reacted—darlinʼ, I'd never hurt you.” My eyes mine Gia's for whatever would cause her to react that way.
She nods, shoulders dropping as a shaky exhale escapes her lips. “I do know, Zaire.”
“Could've fooled me.” I cock my head, really studying her. “You been holding out on me?”
I want her to tell me what's made her that afraid of an innocent touch.
She doesn't. Instead, her face aligns in carefully neutral planes. “No.”
I notice the lie comes easily.
I chuckle, straightening. “I guess you're still not ready for Club Alpha when I get this mess straightened out?”
Slowly, Gia shakes her head. “I just had this discussion with Greta, and I'm not doing a repeat with you, Zaire. Helping Greta was my one time with a hat in the ring.”
“As you like, Ms. Township.” I create an uneasy, artificial distance and don't like it one bit.
Somehow, I spooked the benefactor of Greta Dahlem.
It's been my experience that women don't act like that unless they've been given reason to. For the first time since I met Gia over a year ago, I wonder more about her background than just entertaining her altruistic bent to sponsor a young woman who didn't have the means to become a player in Club Alpha.
After all, not everyone has a cool fifty mil lying around to enter a dangerous game of surfacing a person's true character and motivations for love.
Some regular folk have to meet their love match at the bar.
“Listen—I'm sorry for my reaction—” Gia begins, trying for a klutzy backpedal from the moment.
I hold up a palm. “My fault, I just grabbed ya, darlinʼ; wasn't meaning anything by it.”
“No problem,” Gia gives a hard swallow. “Doesn't look like I'd be able to do Club Alpha anyway.”
Together we take in the empty space with the odd crumpled paper here and there.
A slow smile overtakes my face. “This is temporary. I already have my partnersʼ best sharks sniffing out the blood. Club Alpha will be well and truly rolling before the month's out. Mark my words.”
Gia gives a careful nod, her next words ignoring my last statement. “I wanted to come by personally and give you the news about Greta.”
“Paco would have told me,” I say.
Her smile is wan but present. “When the baby was in Kindergarten.”
“Probably,” I admit. “He's all about Greta now.”
We share a look.
“As it should be,” Gia states quietly.
There's a wistful note in her voice. As though what Greta has, Gia can't have.
I want to tell Gia that's not true, that cupid Zaire will surface her man if she'd just give Club Alpha a chance.
She certainly doesn't need a man's money—only his love.
Gia would be a perfect player.
How hard can it be?
I see her to the door, so many things left unsaid in the aftertaste of her fear.
They choke us into an uneasy silence.
CHAPTER ONE
Present day
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GIA. Thirty-two and counting.
“I hear your nails tapping.”
On her words, I halt the nervous tapping.
“This is not a call I was looking forward to receiving,” I say in a sour tone, meaning the sentiment... and not.
Greta laughs. “Well, I wanted to phone and bawl about Freddie going to Kindergarten. It's not all about your birthday, Gia,” Greta adds with a touch of humor.
Alfredo Francisco Dahlem Castillo. A helluva name for a five-year-old to haul around on his tiny shoulders. But Greta has explained before that those long names are traditional.
I tilt my head. “How's our boy doing?”
“He's fine—it's his mama who's freaking out.” Greta sighs.
I smile despite my melancholy mood. I hear when the first one goes to school, it's a tear-jerker.
I wouldn't know—I don't have kids.
My head dips, and I recross my legs on the perch I attach my ass to, studying the tight, vertical grain Douglas fir of the two-hundred-year-old table I'm seated at while Greta talks away. The vision blurs as I half-listen, throwing my usual pity party. I'm an expert at those by this time.
Coming back to her voice, I answer, “Of course not. It's not a milestone, just a number.”
Greta opts to leave that conversational thread alone for the time being. “Freddie asked if he could talk to auntie Gia.”
“You know I'd love to facetime him the minute he returns and I can get every minute detail of his day.”
“They'll be lots of Play-Doh exploits, I'm sure.”
“Yes—and I want to hear them all.”
Another awkward pause inserts itself. Then, “You still putting off Zaire?”
That one's easy. “Oh my, yes.”
“I haven't hassled you about Club Alpha in years.”
“Not that long.”
“Hell, yes—that long. Remind me again: when was it that he got his gaming license reinstated?”
“After a two-year court battle.”
“That you won for him.”
I did.
Being a lawyer and a psychiatrist has its bennies. I'd fought like my life depended on it. Sometimes, I wonder if it wasn't some subliminal Freudian urge to put myself through the paces of a game I won't play.
For a man I can't have.
With a deep breath, I intercept her next question—Greta's annual question. “No great plans.”
“Huh,” Greta's voice is filled like a cup of disappointment.
“Don't worry, I'm getting together with Daddy.”
“Tell Paul hello.”
I don't know what I'd do if it weren't for Dad, who I still call Daddy. He doesn't know anything about my challenges. But he worries about my happiness. I see the emotion edge his tight gaze like a perimeter of anxious lace fanning from the corners of his eyes.
Each year, the fine lines of worry spread further.
Each year, I remain unmarried, childless, and my effort toward normalcy is heavier to bear—weightier to hide.
“I will.”
“When can Freddie facetime you?”
I think of the meeting with my blackmailers and heave a sigh that sounds more like a grief-stricken exhale and reply, “Anytime after nine.”
“So late?”
