Tempted by the Billionaire, page 1
Contents
Copyright
About Tempted by the Billionaire
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
Seducing the Innocent
More Than Promises
About Shayla Black
Other Books by Shayla Black
TEMPTED BY THE BILLIONAIRE
A Forbidden Confession: Filthy Rich Bosses
Written by Shayla Black
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This book is an original publication by Shayla Black.
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Copyright 2021 Shelley Bradley LLC
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Cover Design by: Rachel Connolly
Edited by: Amy Knupp of Blue Otter
Proofread by: Fedora Chen
Excerpt from Seducing the Innocent © 2020 by Shelley Bradley LLC
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ISBN: 978-1-936596-87-4
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by an electronic or mechanical means—except for brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews—without express written permission.
eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away, as it is illegal and an infringement on the copyright of this work.
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All rights reserved.
ABOUT TEMPTED BY THE BILLIONAIRE
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What price will he extract for the career of her dreams?
I’m Savannah.
I’m a recent college grad in desperate need of a job.
When Billionaire CEO Chad Force interviews me, I’m blindingly attracted to him.
But he’s older. Wiser. And notorious about going after what he wants.
That will never be me.
Except the way he’s looking at me says it might.
Just how far am I willing to go for the opportunity of a lifetime?
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Enjoy this Forbidden Confession. HEA guaranteed!
Boston, Massachusetts
February 1
1 p.m.
Savannah
“Excuse me? Would you mind repeating that?”
The older woman, though seated behind the tall counter, manages to look through her bifocals and down her nose at me. “Your interview has been moved to Mr. Force’s secondary location. Did you not receive the message?”
I dig through my secondhand purse, held together by shoe polish and grit, and find the pay-as-you-go phone. The screen says I have one message…and I’m out of credits. That’s why I didn’t listen to the voicemail. It would have cost me money I don’t have.
I gulp as I look back to Mrs. Turner, according to the placard on her desk. “I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
She purses her mouth in displeasure, then jots something on the back of a business card and hands it to me. “You’re supposed to be at this location in five minutes.”
With a shaking hand, I raise the card and read the address. I’ve been in Boston exactly two days. The street name doesn’t ring a bell.
Mrs. Turner’s glare tells me I can’t admit that to her. I’m already in grave danger of losing this interview. “Thank you. I’m sorry for the mix-up. I’ll be on my way immediately.”
“I suggest you hurry. Mr. Force doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
I know that well. His reputation is exacting. He’s difficult, cold—and utterly brilliant. He doesn’t suffer fools and he’s even more harsh with those he considers lazy.
Why has our interview been moved and how can I possibly reach this alternate location on time?
With a bob of my head, I back away from Mrs. Turner, nearly bumping into a pair of suits carrying their lattes. After a profuse apology, I see the older receptionist shaking her head as I dash through the lobby and push my way out the revolving door, into the freezing Boston afternoon.
I should have listened when my best friend, Renee, told me not to move to Boston without a good coat.
Fighting a shiver, I extract Grandma Lienna’s gray sweater from my oversized purse and wrap it around me tightly, but the freezing air is humid and the wind gusts. I feel the chill down to my bones.
“Do you need a taxi?” a doorman besides me asks.
I wish. “No, thank you. I just need to know how to get here, preferably using public transportation.”
He peers down at the address proffered on the back of the card, then looks up at me with something painfully like pity in his eyes. “There’s no public transportation to the high-rent district. Sorry.”
“Something that will get me closer, then? I need to be there in”—I glance at my phone—“three minutes.”
“Sorry, miss. There’s nothing, and if you walk, you’ll be about an hour late.”
I don’t have time for panic, but logic isn’t helping. I need this job. I was so shocked to get a call from Force Financial the week after I blindly sent a résumé. I’m not even sure what their job opening entails, but if it gets my foot in the door at one of the most venerable financial institutions on the East Coast, I want it.
More importantly, I can’t survive without it.
“Can you give me directions?” I don’t need to compound my tardiness by wasting time being lost.
The guy, who’s probably my age, eyes me. “New to Boston?”
Is it that obvious? “Yes.”
He mutters something under his breath, then calls out to one of the nearby cabs. “I’ve been there, too, miss. This one’s on me.” As the cab stops, he opens the back door and pokes his head in. “Hey, Gus. Would you take this one to Mr. Force’s place?” He hands the driver twenty bucks. “She needs to get there fast.”
“You got it.” Gus smiles.
As I slide into the seat, I look back at the kind doorman. “I don’t even know how to thank you… What’s your name?”
“Dan.”
“I’ll repay you. As soon as I get my first paycheck—”
“Don’t worry. Consider this paying it forward. Just promise you’ll do the same for someone in need when you can.”
“Done.”
He smiles my way and shuts the door, then taps the roof of the car before Gus lurches forward.
Traffic is a snarl, and the driver doesn’t ask for the address. I’m biting my nails and lamenting every moment we sit at a light or in a jam, but finally the office and government buildings of downtown give way to a very swanky residential district that doesn’t just smell like success but old money.
That’s no shock since Mr. Force isn’t too many generations removed from American royalty, and he’s managed his cash flow even better than his ancestors.
Joy Street gives way to Mount Vernon. The row houses are old, stately, and unbelievably elegant. But then we turn the corner, and Gus stops in front of what I presume is Chad Force’s residence.
“Holy shit.” I gape.
The turn-of-the-century brick building is enormous and stately, five stories topped by a rooftop deck that clearly isn’t seeing any action in the dead of winter. The huge, glossy black door faces a private park that’s dormant this time of year. Rows of big, traditional windows are flanked by shutters that match the door. An old-fashioned, wrought iron gas light stands in the brick sidewalk, along with a discreet sign proclaiming this private property and that all trespassers will be prosecuted.
I can’t even imagine what this place is worth. My guess? Somewhere around twenty million. I can’t even afford to stand on the sidewalk.
Why did he ask me to come here?
“You need anything else?” Gus prompts gently.
Of course he wants me out of his car. Time is money, and I’m keeping him from his next fare.
“No. I’m great.” I pull my sweater and my ratty purse closer. “Thanks.”
As he nods, I let myself out of the taxi and glance at my watch. Less than ten minutes late. Considering where I came from, I’ll call that a win.
Though I doubt Mr. Force will.
The moment I shut the cab door Gus drives away, leaving me alone. I have no idea where I’ll go when I leave here or how I’ll get there.
Worry about that later. You need this job first. Go knock him dead.
The self-pep talk is probably pointless. Chad Force is financial elite. No matter what I’ve accomplished, he won’t be impressed. Why should he be? He’s smart, wealthier than Midas, and more handsome than sin. He’s also a notorious recluse, so I’ll need to curb my habit of babbling when I’m nervous.
I square my shoulders and raise a shaking hand to the doorbell.
“What?” a deep voice barks through the discreet intercom on my right.
“Savannah Blythe to see Mr. Force.”
“You’re late. I don’t tolerate tardiness. Go away.”
“Y-yes, sir. I don’t, either. There was a mix-up. I didn’t receive the correct address in time.” Not entirely true, but I hope the lie will pass muster.
“That’s your problem.”
I wince. He’s the sort of man who wants results, not excuses.
“Give me ten minutes to prove I can be an asset. I’ll never be late again, and I’ll work tirelessly to make your clients money.”
Shit. Shit. Shit!
I didn’t push myself academically to become anyone’s assistant, but I’m willing to work my way up. And a job reporting directly to Chad Force himself? Priceless.
“Unless you can wrestle a cat,” he adds.
Did I hear that right? “A cat, sir?”
“Yes. This feline is the bane of my existence. If you can make the damn beast behave, I’ll reconsider.”
“I’d certainly like the chance to try.”
“Do you have experience with cats?”
“A lot, actually.”
“All right. It’s your funeral, which I’m not paying for if you fail. Are those terms acceptable?”
“Yes, sir.”
Suddenly, I hear a buzz and a click. “Come in. Lock the door behind you. Find me upstairs and I’ll explain.”
“Upstairs?”
“Did I stutter?”
He didn’t, and I’m trying not to. “With all due respect, sir, I would feel more comfortable if we met downstairs.”
“No doubt, but I had knee surgery last week.”
So he can’t descend the stairs, and it’s unlikely there’s an elevator in a building over a hundred years old.
“I’ll be right there.” I push open the heavy black door and find myself in a tall foyer with marble floors and a half-barrel ceiling in pure white. A massive chandelier gleams overhead. At the end of the long passage sits a hall table with scrollwork legs that looks very Drexel Heritage, topped with fresh white hydrangeas in a simple green vase. The painting behind it is an original Chagall.
He has half a million dollars of art just hanging on a wall?
Of course he does. Stop gawking and start thinking.
I pry my gaze away from the splendor and shut the door, carefully locking it. Then I draw in a deep breath and search for the stairs. When I finally find the staircase, I blink up in awe. The architectural marvel is oval, with a dark walnut banister and traditional white balusters, that winds up as far as the eye can see, covered in pristine gray silk carpet.
Wow. But everywhere I look, the whole house is amazing.
Damn it, I should have asked Mr. Force what floor he was on. But I’m guessing that lower floors would be considered utilitarian and that the fine folk would want the park and city views available from the upper levels.
After I scale all five floors of the staircase, I’m breathing harder than I’d like. Gripping the dark railing, I try to catch my breath when a flash of black darts by.
What the heck was that?
“Are you going to huff and puff or get in here?” The deep voice sounds from the end of the hall, to the right.
I bite back the fact it’s easy to disparage my physical abilities when he doesn’t have to move a muscle, but I don’t dare. “Coming, sir.”
I swipe my suddenly damp palms on my blue wool dress—my singular splurge—wincing every time my black heels click on the tile floor and bounce off the high ceilings.
During my trek, I do my best to recall everything I’ve ever read about Chad Force. Age thirty-nine. Birthday: November first. Born in Boston to billionaire parents Jacob and Caroline Force, who divorced just before his third birthday. His father is a cousin of the Kennedys, and his mother kin to the Astors. He attended a fancy prep school, the name of which escapes me. He went on to Harvard for both his bachelor’s and MBA. All attempts to drag him into politics have been for naught. He’s never been married, has no children, and by all accounts is an unrelenting workaholic. And that’s a shame because in all his pictures he’s hot as hell.
That’s irrelevant, Savannah. Focus. You’re here for a job, not a boyfriend.
At the end of the hall, I pause in the open doorway, my heart pounding so loud the sound reverberates in my ears. Here I am. Make or break. About to meet the man who can crush my dreams or make them all come true.
Drawing in a breath for composure, I turn slowly to take in the masculinely stylish room. Gray walls frame the dark-paneled cove ceiling. From that, a chandelier that’s just a bit too minimal to be called elegant hangs. Four framed pieces of art form a cluster between the two windows overlooking the park across the street, flanked by gray Dupioni drapes. There’s a stately marble fireplace and a cozy chair beside it. A thick Persian rug that’s undoubtedly an antique leads up to a plush sofa in a soft taupe shade, draped with a cashmere throw. Behind that is a massive four-poster bed with a curved burlap headboard. A giant map of the world hangs above the bed, framed by the same dark wood that dominates the ceiling.
And sitting up in the bed is Chad Force, wide shoulders encased in crisp navy-blue pajamas. He’s combed his black hair ruthlessly into place. His fresh morning shave has given way to a five o’clock shadow despite the fact it’s not even two p.m. His infamously sharp eyes, a shade somewhere between gray and green, glare at me.
Our eyes meet. Suddenly, I feel dizzy and weak. I expected him to be gorgeous. I didn’t expect to feel an instant urge to peel off my clothes and beg him to touch me.
“Hi.” It’s the stupidest thing I could utter and the only word I can seem to find in my vocabulary while I feel his stare all over me. I don’t sound at all like the valedictorian of my high school, like I received a full academic scholarship to Notre Dame, or like I graduated summa cum laude in four years—all while waiting tables. “It’s, um…nice to meet you.”
Chad
The girl lingers in the doorway, scanning my bedroom as if she’s never seen anything so opulent in her life. The moment she breezed inside, the fresh air blew in with her.
I sit up and peer closer.
She’s painfully young and even more painfully earnest. But that’s where everything I expected ends.
She’s tamed her dark hair into professional curls that twist past her shoulders, framing a surprisingly girlish face. Her flawless pale skin possesses a hint of brown that has nothing to do with the sun. Her sculpted brows arch elegantly above intelligent, black-lined eyes the color of a tropical sea. But her full red lips shout fuck me without uttering a word. She’s dressed in a severe businesslike dress that clings to her small frame and mouthwatering breasts. The baggy, threadbare sweater she’s wearing over it tries to conceal her small waist and lush hips…and fails miserably. Her purse and shoes should have been in the waste bin long ago. She’s in desperate need of a manicure, and her jewelry is a disgrace.
But when I look at Savannah Blythe, my cock instantly thickens and rises for her.
I ignore it because, from a glance, I know her story. She’s an underprivileged—and I suspect mixed-race—kid who scraped through her poor childhood. She was forced to grow up too fast because her family needed her help to make ends meet. She exceled at school because it was something she could control, recognized it was her ticket out of poverty, and she refused to worry her loved ones about her future. She wears a façade of toughness because she learned to navigate mean streets growing up, and she has good instincts about people, but she lacks real experience. She’ll say or do anything to get ahead—until I hit whatever her ethics hot button is. By the hint of good-girl clinging to her, I know she has one, just like I can tell I make her nervous.
“Ms. Blythe.” I nod.
I’ve already read her résumé, of course. She excels at everything she touches. The letters of reference from professors and an old boss at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant back in Indiana all call her clever, hardworking, and tireless. Blah, blah, blah. They’re the same adjectives I’ve heard to describe someone who’s a cut above average for decades. I selected her CV from the stack of others because I heard two attributes I value far more than the usual platitudes.
