Page 2 of Vicious Arrangement (Alpha Billionaire Daddies #7)

Chapter Two

NOAH

My grandfather, the coldest fuck I’ve ever known, is dead.

And my head pounds.

My stomach lurches like I want to hurl.

All that, and he’s still fucking dead.

With a groan, I throw an arm over my face and wait for my alarm to go off, six a.m. as usual, though today, I don’t have to be anywhere until ten.

I don’t sit up. I know what the king of kings hangover feels like. Something like hell, and I’ve only visited this place twice before.

Once at eighteen when Genevieve McMasters ripped my heart out through my throat and stomped on it. And then that night of… I don’t even know what that second one was in honor of, so it probably had to do with my friend, Asher, and yesterday, after Grandfather’s funeral.

Not Gramps, Pa, Pops, Grandpa, or even Oscar. Grandfather is the only name he tolerated from me, or at work, Mr. Templeton.

He was a mean old bastard, to me.

My stomach turns, and the ache hits hard behind my eyes.

I can’t believe Grandfather’s dead.

One day he was fine, getting a little frailer, ignoring me to see someone about the wheeze and shortness of breath he’d developed, and then… gone.

I sit up and drop my head in my hands, holding it until the sledgehammers stop.

Okay, maybe not so sudden, but it feels like it. The heart attack shouldn’t have taken him. He should?—

“Yeah, yeah, Noah, you’re a fucking weak kid. Sniveling and sobbing over spilled milk. He’s dead, get over it.”

Not even paraphrasing him helps.

I rise and head to my bathroom in my SoHo duplex, a wildly expensive place that looks out over Manhattan.

There’s aspirin in my cabinet, and I take some, grabbing a bottle of water I left there the night before.

A night that weaves in and out.

He was a bastard, and I both hated him at times, learned not to like him, and yet… I did respect him. Worse, I loved him.

That little kid in me still jumps and hides under the bed or in the back of the closet in my head.

“Fuck you, Noah.” I turn on the shower and step in, having shucked all my clothes in a drunken mess the night before.

I’ll admit it. His death, the funeral yesterday, hit me hard. So much harder than I ever thought.

A funeral brings it all slamming home, and all I’d wanted to do from the moment I acted as pallbearer to the wake afterwards, with sharks and rich fucks dressed as business people and society swarming all over the place, speculating about the fate of Templeton Properties, was to forget.

I wanted to forget all of them there, ignoring the fact that I stood there, the newest CEO, freshly appointed the day before in the wake of Grandfather’s death.

I just wanted to fucking forget.

Forget the pain.

Forget the guilt relief brought.

Forget the grief.

Forget it all.

“So forgive me,” I mutter to my rain shower as I wash my hair, “if I got absolutely, balls to the wall drunk.”

I rinse my hair, rinse my body, and turn off the water, feeling marginally better.

“And what did I get for it?” I dry off, and get dressed and open the giant windows to the terrace of my duplex penthouse that wraps around the living quarters and let the warmth of the spring breeze in .

The clouds and rain are gone, and it’s just me.

And my hangover.

I grind some coffee and set about making an espresso, then, eyeing the bottle of whiskey on the counter in my open plan kitchen, pour some in a mug, then pour the coffee over it and order breakfast.

Bagel, lox, cream cheese, and some fruit from a very fine spot I like.

When it arrives, I’m on my second cup and feeling better.

What the fuck did I get for getting drunk, anyway? Oh, yeah, a ruined suit.

And an angel with curling blonde hair in a low-cut red dress.

“Bad angel who ruined my shoes.”

In my head, I picture her, how she went straight for it, boldly going where no girl has dared to go quite so publicly and began to mess with my junk.

Not that I minded. I know it was an accident.

The water sloshed out, but she really got in there, feeling the lines of my cock, stroking up and down and continuing after I got hard.

And she didn’t leave.

In fact, I think she was into me. I held her wrist. Her pulse fluttered and jumped. Yeah, she liked me. Was turned on.

Pupils dilating, licking her lips to make them wet, the banter she stayed for. I wasn’t holding her with any strength.

She could have run. She could have shoved the napkins into my hand.

The bad angel did none of those things.

She. Flirted. Back.

In fact, we had a vibe, one of those natural things that held real sparks, and a wild edged vibe, and I’d fucking planned on getting her back here, a sweetly whispered invite, a suck on her earlobe, shit, maybe some promises of what, exactly I’d do—and then her drunk friend turned up and they disappeared.

I looked for her, I’m not an idiot. Even drunk, I know when something is hot like her, and I needed that fun, that escape.

I don’t know how to explain the pull to her, but it was there, singing and pulling us into each other’s orbit. Neither one leaving until that friend arrived.

But I looked for a while and then I got fucking sick of rejecting other come-ons. Shit, I should have taken one of them home.

The sound of traffic below soothes me, and I breathe in and pop another raspberry into my mouth, as I contemplate a third drink but decide it’s a bad idea.

Hair of the dog is good. Getting drunk again with the dog is not. Besides, I don’t like dogs.

I rub a hand over my face and go into my office to answer the pile of emails of condolences that are building up. Better to get it over and done with now.

But that angel lingers. I liked the sweetness of her, her sass, and her humor. I liked how she blushed and smiled and the way she held herself like she didn’t realize just how hot she was.

I liked that it felt like we had a connection.

Which means her disappearing was probably for the best. I don’t need connections and I avoid them when looking for a hookup.

Connections bring complications, girls thinking there’s more there than just sex.

“Fuck, Noah, leave it. She’s another missed spark, that’s it.”

It’s not until I get up to get a coffee, sans whiskey, that my phone buzzes.

Fuck.

It’s from Leonard, Leonard and Bore. Aka the company’s head lawyer, and my grandfather’s old friend, one of the more genuine people who was at the funeral.

I look at the text.

Peter: Time is money, Noah. We have a meeting and you’re late. Be here in five minutes. At my firm.

“Well, who knew the old fart knew how to text?”

Screw that. He answers to me now, not the other way around. I’m not even fucking late, I will be when I get there, but as of now, I’d be ten minutes early.

Bitterness fills my mouth as my throat closes. How like my fucking grandfather to insist anything other than fifteen minutes early is late.

I take my time getting there, and when I do rock up at Leonard, Barkley and Rose, his receptionist flutters her eyelashes at me while looking embarrassed and apologetic.

“If you’ll wait, Mr. Templeton, I’ll let him know.”

She gets up, her auburn hair pinned up, and a pencil skirt showing off her assets, just like her white, button-down shirt does at the front. For a moment I wonder if they’re doing the nasty, but I dismiss it. He’s gotta be sixty, and she’s about thirty and wearing an engagement ring.

I enjoy that view, though, and then follow her in because I’m not waiting.

His office is wood-paneled and has a hint of art deco about it. Perfectly staid for a corporate lawyer who mostly deals with us and our holdings. But honestly, I don’t care about Peter and his office. He’s nice enough, I guess, but we’re not buddies.

Peter sits back in his leather chair, and frowns at me from behind his thick-rimmed glasses and smooths a hand down his tie.

If displeasure could be handed down as a gift, I’d almost believe Grandfather handed his to Peter.

“Pete,” I say, and offer him my most charming smile.

His eyes form narrower slits. “Insubordination is a little juvenile, don’t you think? You’re CEO, not a wild teen.”

“Maybe I don’t like being dragged in first thing in the morning.”

“You’re usually at the office by seven, when you bother to show. Which needs to stop.”

“Showing up or being there by seven?”

He slams his hand on his neat desk. “Enough, Noah. You need to act like CEO, not a rich… what’s the word? Fuck boy?”

“That sounds so wrong coming from your mouth,” I say, pulling up a chair and sitting in it. “I was late because?—”

“You got drunk, again.” He tosses me his phone, and I don’t pick it up. I don’t need to. It’s a gossip site, and I’m there, drunk, wet crotch, looking like I pissed myself when all I’m doing is getting an Uber home.

“I buried my grandfather.”

“In a bar?” He looks spectacularly unimpressed. “Listen to me, and this is me and not words from beyond the grave, though, I do have them, if you’re interested. Oscar had a lot of things to say to me in the days before his death. Many of them about you.”

It doesn’t hurt. Not at all. Not one bit.

Because who else would Grandfather speak to? Me?

No.

“You need to get your shit together, Noah. No more partying. No more scandals.” He takes his phone. “No more crap like this.”

“I don’t tend to do scandals. People like to talk about me. I can’t help that.”

“They’ll stop if there’s nothing for them to talk about, Noah,” he says. “You are CEO, so the partying stops, the late nights stop, the bleary-eyed look you’re trying to hide stops. All of it. Act like a responsible head of a company.”

I lean forward in the chair, hands on my thighs, and pin him with a look.

“Maybe you should mind your own business, old man.” The fire streaks up my spine to the back of my brain.

“Or you might find yourself out of a job. I get it, you’re good.

There’s work out there, but I’ll hazard it’s not as lucrative as what Templeton brings you, both in terms of our business and others. ”

“I’m the only living heir of Grandfather’s estate, and I’m already named CEO. There’s no question I’ll be inheriting everything, including Templeton Industries.”

I stand, suddenly furious at Grandfather and, by proxy, this man who I know hasn’t done anything wrong.

“There’s the merger, Noah?—”

“Fuck the merger.” We don’t need it. I don’t need it. I don’t know what Grandfather was up to, but fuck it all.

“This merger was between Grandfather and?—”

“His friend, William Sanderson. This deal should go through. It’ll cost to get out of it.”

“Templeton doesn’t need the merger. At all.”

“Mergers happen, but…” He trails off.

Fury dances in my eyes, and my breath catches on what feels like jagged shards of glass in my lungs.

The but.

The fucking but.

Peter means my grandfather did this to help his friend, help him out of a rut. I told Grandfather that it was a bad idea, and he didn’t listen. He said sometimes a man needed to show kindness.

I almost laugh.

Because that’s how my fucking grandfather was. Help out someone who needed it, even if it didn’t benefit him.

Unless, of course, that person was me.

Oscar was kind and willing to help everyone but me. In fact, I’d never met someone so cold, so hard on me, that could flip like a switch when it came to others.

Deep down, I know it was because he hated and resented the fact he had to raise me.

Maybe William needs the merger, but the merger isn’t done, and kindness doesn’t make a man money.

The merger, by my calculations, will ensure we lose millions. Grandfather said we had more than enough and we could build it back, but fuck that.

I need to stop it.

So I sit. “Okay, I won’t fire you. I need you to put a stop to the merger. Nothing’s been signed, so we end it and walk away.”

“It’s not that simple, Noah.”

“My grandfather’s dead, therefore so is the merger.

It’s that simple,” I say, sitting back and wishing Tiffany, or whatever her name is, would come in and offer me a drink.

I’ll take water because the time Peter’s taking to answer me is making my mouth dry and my heart start to thud. “I own the company now. It’s simple.”

“Actually, it’s not.” Peter eyes me through his thick-rimmed glasses. “Your grandfather put in place several conditions surrounding your inheritance of both his fortune and the company.”

This time I do laugh.

“Conditions?” I repeat. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“This is why I called this meeting, Noah.” Peter sighs. “In order for you to be more than CEO, to gain control and your grandfather’s controlling shares, to be president of Templeton Properties, and of course have Oscar’s full fortune—it’s billions—you need to do one of two things.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say, trying to keep the snarl from my voice. The money is mine. It’s my parents’ money, my inheritance, the fortune I deserve to add to what I already have. After a life with Grandfather, I fucking deserve it.

“One of two things, Noah,” he repeats. “Go through with the merger?—”

“No.”

“Or you marry, and stay married, to William’s granddaughter.” He flips through some papers to his right. “One Aria Sanderson.”

I laugh like he’s just told me the funniest joke. Because it is a joke… isn’t it? “You’re fucking joking.”

“No, I’m not.”

He slides over a sheet of paper with my grandfather’s signature on it and it’s real. All of it.

The fucker wanted to make sure I went through with the merger.

It’s a fuck you to my thoughts, my advice, my knowledge, all the way from beyond the grave.

“Here’s William’s number. Work it out, let me know, and tomorrow you need to be the CEO your grandfather raised you to be. And make the right decision. Don’t blow this, Noah. Billions are at stake.”

I nod tersely and leave. I don’t go to the office. I go fucking home.

Once there, I rip off my tie and drink from the bottle. It’s reckless and stupid, but I’m not planning on a repeat of last night. I just need…

I need something.

Because there’s no way in hell I’m letting someone else slide into the president slot. And there’s no way I’m letting billions go.

It’ll also be an ice age in hell before I let this merger happen.

I take another swig, then set the bottle down on the kitchen counter and cross to the great room, sinking into one of the cream leather sofas.

“Well, Noah, I guess you’re getting married.”

There’s no way I’m chasing this fucking girl down, or anything else. I’ll meet her, and then I’ll meet her again at the wedding. Something small and quick.

The anger still sparks and pops in my veins, and I find the card Peter gave me and I call fucking William Sanderson.

“Sanderson.”

I grip my cell tight. “It’s Noah Templeton. You need to convince your granddaughter, Aria, to marry me. Or I’ll destroy your company.”