Page 13 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Liam

"You could have given me some advance notice." She folds her arms across her chest.

"If I had, would you have more agreed to get on the plane with me?"

She firms her lips.

"That’s what I thought."

After breakfast, I gave her just enough time to grab her handbag before I whisked her out of the house and into my car.

I refused to tell her where we were going, but when we’d reached the private airstrip, it became clear to her we were leaving the city.

When she refused to get on the plane, I reminded her of our arrangement.

She scowled at me but finally conceded. To my relief.

Now she glances out the window, then whips her head around in my direction. "What about my clothes? My accessories, my—"

"Medication?"

Her features are pale. "How do you know about—"

I glance at the handbag she’s thrown down next to her seat. A bottle of pills peeks out from the opening. She stuffs it back inside, then juts out her chin. "They’re vitamins. I need them to support my energy levels."

I raise my hands. "What you take is your business; I’m not asking."

She huffs, then glances about at the plush leather seats, the thick carpet, the gleaming light fixtures, not to mention the glasses of champagne the stewardess gave us as soon as we boarded. She sniffs, "If you’re trying to impress me, I’ll have you know I’ve flown private many times."

"If I were trying to impress you, you’d have been so swept off your feet, you’d have been rendered speechless. Finally."

My phone vibrates, as does hers. We glance at each other then pull out our devices.

"Mother," I answer my phone.

"Did I hear that you’re taking Isla and leaving for the island before the wedding?"

"I’m on the plane right now."

"Good. I hope you’re using the time to turn this wedding into the real deal."

"Nothing of the sort is going to happen. As you said, this is the only way for you to get an heir, so you should be grateful for that."

"Liam," my mother admonishes me, "that wasn’t very nice of you."

"You’re right." I squeeze the bridge of my nose. "Look, I thought it best we leave early and be on hand to make the final arrangements. That way, when all of you arrive," I wince, "everything will go smoothly."

"I don’t buy that one bit, but that was almost convincing."

I rub the back of my neck. "Why is it that talking to you always makes me feel like I’m five?"

"Because no matter how old you get, you’ll always be my child."

Leave it to my mother to cut me down to size. "I’ll see you in a few days, Ma." I disconnect at the same time as Isla.

"Was that–?"

"My mother." She frowns. "How strange they both called at the same time."

"Knowing mine, they’re probably together right now and have already plotted out our progeny and their names."

It’s her turn to wince. "I knew it was a bad idea introducing the two of them. Also—" She stiffens. "How are our phones working on the flight?"

"Voice over WiFi."

"Ah, of course."

"Which means," —her features brighten— "I have access to social media." Her fingers begin to fly over the phone, and I snatch it away from her.

"Hey, that’s not fair. I need to speak to all of the vendors and make sure all of the arrangements for the wedding—"

"Are being taken care of."

“Exactly. How am I supposed to get anything done if you won’t let me use my phone?”

“There’s no need.

"What do you mean?"

"I deputized one of the best people on my team to take over the preparations."

"Wait, what?" She sits up straight. "You did what?"

"Made sure all the organizational headaches belong to someone else so you can enjoy your own wedding."

She opens and shuts her mouth, but no words emerge.

"I believe you owe me a thank you?"

"Motherfucker." She fumbles with her seatbelt and jumps to her feet so quickly, the glass of champagne next to her tips over. I grab it, right it, and look up in time for her palm to connect with my cheek.

Pain radiates out from the point of contact.

She stands there, chest heaving, color high, and her eyes sparking with such intensity, it’s a wonder the plane hasn’t caught fire. She’s magnificent, this woman. And hot and glorious in her anger. My heart thumps into my ribcage. A hot sensation coils in my chest. My balls tighten.

"How dare you take over my business?" she spits out.

"I’m not taking over; I’m simply allocating you enough resources to ensure the ceremony goes off without a hitch."

She raises her hand again.

I glare at it, then at her. "If I were you, I wouldn’t do that."

"And imagine if I’d done the same thing to you and allocated 'extra resources' to help you on one of your key projects—without telling you anything. How would you feel about that?"

"That would never happen."

"Why not?"

"I’ve planned out so far in advance that the occasion would never have risen where I would need additional resources. You, on the other hand, have been running your organization as a one-person show for far too long. It’s unsustainable, not to mention incredibly stupid."

Her gaze narrows. "Incredibly stupid, eh?"

"What happens if you’re not available for some reason, or you’re not feeling well? Who’s gonna fill in for you?"

"That’s never going to happen. You know? Not all of us have enough money to hire loads of people to help. And I do have third-party vendors helping out."

"Not the same thing.”

“I have an assistant—”

“If you’re referring to the receptionist who answers your phone and takes care of your admin work, we both know that’s not enough.

You need someone more experienced. A second-in-command who can pick up some of the load and cover for you when you’re off, so you don’t spend all of your time worrying about your projects.

You need time off to rejuvenate and replenish your energy.

Even a workaholic like me knows when to switch off. "

"And I don’t," she says in a flat voice.

"You don’t. Given the nature of your job and the need to be on top of social media, I understand why, but it’s not going to help you in the long run. If you don’t manage your time wisely, you’ll burn out."

"And you’re the man who’s going to stop that from happening, I suppose?"

"As your future husband—"

"Fake husband."

"—Fake husband, it’s only right I help where I can."

"By taking over my business?"

"By giving you a helping hand."

She tips up her chin. "And if I refuse to accept?"

"Are you refusing to accept?"

She bends and stabs a finger in my chest.

Sensations sizzle out from the point of contact. My blood seems to pump faster through my veins, most of it draining to my crotch. I’m instantly hard.

"I absolutely, completely and utterly refuse, you overgrown, egotistical, swollen-headed baboon." Her gaze meets mine and holds it. In her baby-blues, silver sparks flicker like drops of rain on a lake’s surface. Such gorgeous eyes, with those haunted depths that call to me.

I’ve never been able to resist puzzles. And this woman, with her prickly attitude and independent nature, not to mention, her clear aversion to me—even though she’s also attracted to me—is one that piques my interest like nothing has in a long while.

I can’t rest until I’ve found a way to get to the bottom of whatever it is she’s hiding from me.

I grip her wrist and tug; she loses her balance and falls into my lap, then throws her arms about my neck to support herself.

She opens her mouth to speak, and I’m so tired of hearing her say no, I shut her up the only way I can think of.

I kiss her. I slant my mouth over hers and bite on her bottom lip.

She gasps, and I slide my tongue inside her mouth.

I kiss her deeply, suck on her tongue, drink from her, and she kisses me right back.

She opens herself up, presses herself close so her breasts are pushed into my chest. All the blood drains to my groin, and my cock thickens.

I dig my fingers in her hair, wrap the strands about my fingers and tug.

She moans, plasters herself to me, and burrows in even closer, then her entire body stiffens.

"Let me go." She pulls away from me so suddenly, I release her. She slides off me and hits the floor.

"Isla, are you okay?" I reach forward to help her, but she jumps to her feet.

"Stay away from me, asshole."

She pats her hair in place, snatches up her handbag, stands up and holds out her hand.

I glance from her outstretched palm to her.

Her eyebrows lower. "Give me back my phone."

I hesitate. "Just give it a little more time. Let things settle down before you check—"

"Don’t tell me how to do my goddam job. Give me my phone. Right now, Liam."

Fuck. I pull out her phone and place it in her hand.

She turns and marches off toward a seat on the far end of the plane.

The one that’s farthest away from me. For the rest of the flight, she’s engrossed in her device.

Even across the distance, I can tell she’s stressed.

Her cheeks are pale, her shoulders rigid.

She deserves it, of course, considering how she screwed up all of my plans.

But damn if I’m not pissed that she’s so upset.

She stabs at her phone screen, shakes her head. Stabs at the screen again, then glowers at me.

"You deleted my social media apps, and I’m not able to download them."

"Correct."

Her scowl deepens. She goes back to playing with her phone for a few minutes, then grips the device so hard the skin stretches white across her knuckles.

"I don’t have access to my emails, or the internet, nor to the phone numbers of any of my vendors."

"You get a ten out of ten." I smirk.

She jumps to her feet, raises her hand as if to throw her phone at me, then thinks the better of it. "But my mother was able to reach me."

"As will your close friends and family. Their numbers have not been blocked."

"What?" She glances at her phone, then back at me. "How did you do that? I had the phone with me all this time."

I tilt my head. She holds my gaze then her jaw hardens. "I see, you don’t need to physically access my phone to fiddle around with it."

"You’re acing all the tests today, LadyBird."

Her features flush, and her eyes spark. "This is all wrong. What you’re doing is illegal."

"Not when it relates to the mental health of my fiancée."

"Fake fiancée," she snaps.

"Real fiancée in the minds of all those who saw the video we posted."

Her shoulders snap back. "I demand to be able to access the internet and all of my social media platforms. I need to see what’s happening. I need to be on top of things."

"There are people who’ll do that for you. Once we’ve turned the corner of this media storm, I promise, you’ll get access to everything again."

"And when will we turn the tide of this… this media disaster?"

"It’s not a disaster." Not if I have anything to do with it.

"It has all the makings of a disaster of such proportions, I won’t be able to fix anything, even with seven generations of schmoozing."

I chuckle. "You have a vivid imagination; I’ll give you that."

"Turn this jet around. Right now," she cries.

"Sorry, babe, not happening. You may as well strap in and enjoy the ride."

"Argh!" She makes a noise at the back of her throat, then pivots and stalks away in the direction of the restroom. I almost rise to my feet to follow her, but then sink back down. Best to give her a little time to cool off.

Besides, she’s right. No doubt, the social media feeds have gone crazy since the last post. It doesn’t bother me one bit, but clearly, she’s taking it more personally than I am.

It’s the nature of the beast though; that’s how media cycles work.

We’ll be the hot news of the moment, until the next big thing comes along, and then they’ll move on.

I’m aware it’s more difficult for her to look at it dispassionately.

And she’s right—chances are, they’ll paint her in a worse light than me.

I need to do something about it… Without it being obvious that I’m the person behind it, of course.

Something to manage this flurry of publicity so things don’t get out of hand.

I pull out my device and dial a familiar number.

"Hello?" Karina Beauchamp comes on the line. She owns a security agency and is married to one of the Seven—which means, she’s trustworthy. Also, her brother is the head of the Bratva, so she won’t bat an eye when I tell her about my intentions.

"I need your help."