Page 8 of Unwrapping the Billionaire

“Your father sent me,” she says huskily, drawing a delicate finger across the impressive swell of her tits. I barely glance at them, though. I’m too busy losing my smirk so damn fast I’m still feeling the breeze. “I’m Past,” she adds, moving even closer, owning those six-inch heels like she was born wearing Louboutins.

“And I’mpastall this crazy shit,” I croak. “If you’re not here to clean up my office, I suggest you get the hell out of it.” I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s nine twenty. Grace is due here in forty minutes. For some reason, I’m filled with relief at the thought.

“You don't get to smart talk your way out of this one, Mr Farley,” she says, moving closer to my desk.

“How do you know my name?” I demand.

“I know everything about you, Mr. Farley, and you’ve been abad, badboy…”

Any other man would be leaking from those words coming out of those lips, but my dick’s fast asleep and dreaming of another.

She leans over my desk, her long blonde hair trailing over my discarded acquisitions file, and fingers the tails of my red silk tie. I only ever wear that color and style, and there’s a reason behind it which I try and ignore.

A second later, she’s yanking me forward so hard I’m sprawling out across my desk. I try to jerk away, but she’s too strong.

Who is this chick? Arnie’s cousin?

Giggling like a maniac, she lets go of me with a hard shove to my shoulder, and I tumble backward into my chair. It rocks violently, and then I’m tipping—arms and legs flailing—until the back of my head hits the floor.

“Hold tight, Mr. Farley,” I hear her say as things go hazy on me. “It’s time for the truth, and she bites and kicks even more than I do…”

6

Jonas

Past - Four Years Ago

The worst thing about Christmas isn’t the eight million corporate events I’m expected to attend. It’s the forced joyfulness of the occasions. It’s the whole fucking farce of it. People who have spent the last twelve months firing litigation bullets at their rivals’ backs are now fawning all over them like they’re old college buddies from way back when.

As far as I’m concerned, no amount of holiday cheer can erase those kinds of shit stains. Loyalty is for life, not just for Christmas.

Then again, I’m biased... I’ve always hated this time of year. My mother died of a broken heart on Christmas Eve five years ago.Thanks Dad.Last year, my older brother decided to join her by committinghare karioff the side of the Brooklyn Bridge. Tonight’s event is good for one thing, and one thing only—getting so shit-faced I can't remember my own name, with a bunch of assholes who will forever remain nameless to me.

I sip my Macallan and glance about the swanky Manhattan bar, blatantly ignoring the idiot who’s reeling off stock market figures at me like they’re baseball scores. This place is puking crystal chandeliers and gray marble. It’s also radiating heat, designer suits, and bucketfuls of that fake Christmas cheer I was talking about.

My father has decided to branch out into the entertainment industry. When I say ‘branch out’, I really mean ‘seek and destroy’. He sent me here as his spy. Loose lips sink entire corporations, especially after several glasses of Dom Perignon. Any hint of an injured business, and he’s on that shit so fast any CEO will think a magician’s made his sales figures disappear.

In truth, mergers and acquisitions bore me stupid, but since my mother and brother died, I’ve been moving through my life like a shadow, and this industry gives me a lot of dark corners to hide in.

It also gets my father off my back. Recently, he’s decided he wants to mold me into his successor, and I’m happy to play along, for now… As soon as his cocaine habit catches up with him, I’ll be selling his company and reaping the rewards for putting up with his selfish dickhead ways for thirty years.

All of a sudden, the door behind me bangs open as a gust of wind takes charge. A woman appears in the entrance, shaking her umbrella out, and clearly flustered by her tardiness. Her pale cheeks are flushed from the cold and embarrassment, and her soft, brown curls are still smeared across her face from the wintry blast outside.

All around me, heads turn and expressions frown, before disinterest draws them back to their inane conversations again. Not me. I can’t take my eyes off of her, and that’s strange because usually women hold my interest for all of about two seconds, and then I’m done.

She slips out of her coat and hands it to the hovering cloakroom attendant. I watch her mouth a thank you at him.Strange occurrence number two. Most people in this bar don’t know the meaning of those two words, let alone how to say them out loud.

Underneath, she’s wearing a short, black dress that makes her slender legs seem endless. She’s adorably awkward in her high heels, too. It gives her whole game away, even before she’s had a chance to open her mouth.Definitely a Chucks girlI decide, and I’m thinking her favorites might be a pair of cherry-red high-tops to match those fuckable lips.

I continue to observe her for a little while before making my move. From the way she’s glancing around the room, I can tell she’s been coerced into attending this event, too.Let’s be reluctant attendees together, sweetheart.Maybe I could use a drinking partner, after all.

Her gaze shifts my way, and she catches me staring. Predictably, her blush deepens. I’m used to that reaction from women. If my height doesn’t prompt it, my face usually does the trick. For some reason, it doesn't irritate me like it usually does, and I find myself guessing at her name as I make my way over, concluding it’s most likely something feminine and florid likeRosieorDaisy.

“Fashionable, or deliberate,” I say, extending my hand. Up close, she’s at least a foot smaller than me, and even more alluring. She has that delicate, classy thing about her, a bit like the actress Natalie Portman, but she’s far more interesting than that.

“Excuse me?” A polite frown appears as she takes my hand. Her grip is surprisingly firm.Fuck me, her eyes are amazing.Deep, dark and curious... Like two oval windows into a place I want to slap down a deposit on immediately.

“Your excuse,” I clarify, motioning to the doorway.

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