Page 525 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

I tilt my head, the makings of an idea buzzing through my synapses.

I need a little time to flesh things out though.

It’s the only reason I deign to answer her question which, let’s face it, I have no obligation to respond to.

But for the moment, it’s in my interest to humor her and buy myself a little time.

"Lila and I are well-matched in every way. We come from good families—"

"You mean rich families?"

"That, too. Our families move in the same circles."

"Don’t you mean boring country clubs?" she says in a voice that drips with distaste.

I frown. "Among other places. We have the pedigree, the bloodline, our backgrounds are congruent, and we’d be able to fold into an arrangement of coexistence with the least amount of disruption on either side."

"Sounds like you’re arranging a merger."

"A takeover, but what-fucking-ever." I raise a shoulder.

Her scowl deepens. "This is how you approached the upcoming wedding... And you wonder why Lila left you?"

"I gave her the biggest ring money could buy—"

"You didn’t make an appearance at the engagement party."

"I signed off on all the costs related to the upcoming nuptials—"

"Your own engagement party. You didn’t come to it.

You left her alone to face her family and friends.

" Her tone rises. Her cheeks are flushed. You’d think she was talking about her own wedding, not that of her friend.

In fact, it’s more entertaining to talk to her than discuss business matters with my employees. How interesting.

"You also didn’t show up for most of the rehearsals." She glowers.

"I did show up for the last one."

"Not that it made any difference. You were either checking your watch and indicating that it was time for you to leave, or you were glowering at the plans being discussed."

"I still agreed to that god-awful wedding cake, didn’t I?

"On the other hand, it’s probably good you didn’t come for the previous rehearsals. If you had, Lila and I might have had this conversation earlier—"

"Aha!" I straighten. "So, you confess that it’s because of you Lila walked away from this wedding."

She tips her head back. "Hardly. It’s because of you."

"So you say, but your guilt is written large on your face."

"Guilt?" Her features flush. The color brings out the dewy hue of her skin, and the blue of her eyes deepens until they remind me of forget-me-nots. No, more like the royal blue of the ink that spilled onto my paper the first time I attempted to write with a fountain pen.

"The only person here who should feel guilty is you, for attempting to coerce an innocent, young woman into an arrangement that would have trapped her for life."

Anger thuds at my temples. My pulse begins to race.

"I never have to coerce women. And what you call being trapped is what most women call security. But clearly, you wouldn’t know that, considering" —I wave my hand in the air— "you prefer to run your kitchen-table business which, no doubt, barely makes ends meet. "

She loosens her grip on her pencil, and it falls to the table with a clatter. Sparks flash deep in her eyes.

You know what I said earlier about the royal blue?

Strike that. There are flickers of silver hidden in the depths of her gaze.

Flickers that blaze when she’s upset. How would it be to push her over the edge?

To be at the receiving end of all that passion, that fervor, that ardor…

that absolute avidness of existence when she’s one with the moment?

How would it feel to rein in her spirit, absorb it, drink from it, revel in it, and use it to spark color into my life?

"Kitchen-table business?" She makes a growling sound under her breath. "You dare come into my office and insult my enterprise? The company I have grown all by myself—"

"And outside of your assistant" —I nod toward the door I came through— "you’re the sole employee, I take it?"

Her color deepens. "I work with a group of vendors—"

I scoff, "None of whom you could hold accountable when they don’t deliver."

"—who have been carefully vetted to ensure that they always deliver," she says at the same time. "Anyway, why do you care, since you don’t have a wedding to go to?"

"That’s where you’re wrong." I peel back my lips. "I’m not going to be labeled as the joke of the century. After all, the media labelled it 'the wedding of the century’." I make air quotes with my fingers.

It was Isla’s idea to build up the wedding with the media.

She also wanted to invite influencers from all walks of life to attend, but I have no interest in turning my nuptials into a circus.

So, I vetoed the idea of journalists attending in person.

I have, however, agreed to the event being recorded by professionals and exclusive clips being shared with the media and the influencers.

This way, we’ll get the necessary PR coverage, without the media being physically present.

In all fairness, the publicity generated by the upcoming nuptials has already been beneficial.

It’s not like I’ll ever tell her, but Isla was right to feed the public’s interest in the upcoming event.

Apparently, not even the most hard-nosed investors can resist the warm, fuzzy feelings that a marriage invokes.

And this can only help with the IPO I have planned for the most important company in my portfolio. "I have a lot riding on this wedding."

"Too bad you don’t have a bride."

"Ah," —I smirk— "but I do."

She scowls. "No, you don’t. Lila—"

"I’m not talking about her."

"Then who are you talking about?"

"You."

To find out what happens next read Liam and Isla’s fake relationship romance in The Proposal where Tiny first makes an appearance, click here

read Michael and Karma’s forced marriage romance in Mafia King here

Read an excerpt from Mafia King

Karma

"Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day…"

Tears prick the backs of my eyes. Goddamn Byron.

His words creep up on me when I am at my weakest. Not that I am a poetry addict, by any measure, but words are my jam.

The one consolation I have is that, when everything else in the world is wrong, I can turn to them, and they’ll be there, friendly, steady, waiting with open arms.

And this particular poem had laced my blood, crawled into my gut when I’d first read it. Darkness had folded within me like an insidious snake, that raises its head when I least expect it. Like now, when I look out on the still sleeping city of London, from the grassy slope of Waterlow Park.

Somewhere out there, the Mafia is hunting me, apparently.

It's why my sister Summer and her new husband Sinclair Sterling had insisted that I have my own security detail.

I had agreed... only to appease them... then given my bodyguard the slip this morning.

I had decided to come running here because it's not a place I'd normally go... Not so early in the morning, anyway. They won’t think to look for me here. At least, not for a while longer.

I purse my lips, close my eyes. Silence. The rustle of the wind between the leaves. The faint tinkle of the water from the nearby spring.

I could be the last person on this planet, alone, unsung, bound for the grave.

Ugh! Stop. Right there. I drag the back of my hand across my nose. Try it again, focus, get the words out, one after the other, like the steps of my sorry life.

"Morn came and went—and came, and… and…" My voice breaks. "Bloody asinine hell." I dig my fingers into the grass and grab a handful and fling it out. Again. From the top.

"Morn came and went—and came, and—"

"…brought no day."

A gravelly voice completes my sentence.

I whip my head around. His silhouette fills my line of sight.

He's sitting on the same knoll as me, yet I have to crane my neck back to see his profile.

The sun is at his back, so I can't make out his features.

Can't see his eyes... Can only take in his dark hair, combed back by a ruthless hand that brooked no measure.

My throat dries.

Thick dark hair, shot through with grey at the temples.

He wears his age like a badge. I don’t know why, but I know his years have not been easy.

That he’s seen more, indulged in more, reveled in the consequences of his actions, however extreme they might have been.

He’s not a normal, everyday person, this man.

Not a nine-to-fiver, not someone who lives an average life.

Definitely not a man who returns home to his wife and home at the end of the day.

He is…different, unique, evil… Monstrous.

Yes, he is a beast, one who sports the face of a man but who harbors the kind of darkness inside that speaks to me. I gulp.

His face boasts a hooked nose, a thin upper lip, a fleshy lower lip.

One that hints at hidden desires, Heat. Lust. The sensuous scrape of that whiskered jaw over my innermost places.

Across my inner thigh, reaching toward that core of me that throbs, clenches, melts to feel the stab of his tongue, the thrust of his hardness as he impales me, takes me, makes me his. Goosebumps pop on my skin.

I drag my gaze away from his mouth down to the scar that slashes across his throat. A cold sensation coils in my chest. What or who had hurt him in such a cruel fashion?

"Of this their desolation; and all hearts

Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light…"

He continues in that rasping guttural tone. Is it the wound that caused that scar that makes his voice so… gravelly… So deep… so… so, hot?

Sweat beads my palms and the hairs on my nape rise. "Who are you?"

He stares ahead as his lips move,

"Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour

They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks

Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black."

I swallow, moisture gathers in my core. How can I be wet by the mere cadence of this stranger’s voice?

I spring up to my feet.

"Sit down," he commands.