Cade's Property 1: Alpha Billionaire Romance Read online

  Cade’s Property

  Book 1

  Emery Cross

  Cade’s Property 1

  Copyright© 2015 by Emery Cross

  Cover Design by: Avanti Graphics

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Other books in the series:

  Cade’s Property 1 (Available)

  Cade’s Property 2 (Available)

  Cade’s Property 3 (Available)

  Cade’s Propery 4 (Available)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter One

  Rafferty

  “I must admit that I sure as hell delivered. Victor is supposed to have some incredible girls, and he saves the choicest for this event. Calls it the ‘Jewel Auction’. “

  I accelerated around a limousine that seemed to be fading fast on the incline.

  Max’s sharp features flickered with the shadows cast by the highway lamps. “A billion dollar development—it’s worth the risk. An invitation to one of these cathouse auctions was the final item on that bastard’s wish list.”

  I cursed under my breath.

  “Dammit, Rafferty. The tickets to this thing were a bitch to get.”

  “I haven’t turned the fucking car around, have I?”

  “Hope you tone down the surly tonight,” he said.

  I impatiently tapped the steering wheel with my thumb. “You go ahead and kiss Lampton’s ass. And I’ll pay for the wining and dining and the choicest of whores, like we’re entertaining a client in the 19-fucking-50s, but if he doesn’t sign the papers, I’m done. I’ll build around him. I’ll squeeze him out.”

  “If you can’t be your usual charming asshole self tonight at least try for polite asshole.” Max pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket and tapped out a smoke. He sucked on the unlit cigarette. He’d quit weeks ago, but he always carried a pack with him.

  I glanced over at him. “Do you need an ashtray?”

  “Fuck you,” he muttered around the filter. “We all have a crutch.”

  “I suppose I put this on my debit card.”

  “Victor provides you with a prospectus on one of his legit stage productions. You decide to contribute funding.”

  “Brilliant,” I said with heavy sarcasm.

  “How many buyers do you think show up to these things?”

  “How the hell should I know? And they’re renters,” I corrected. “They’re bidding on prostitutes.”

  He stashed the cigarette behind his ear. “Lassiter is the exit we want.”

  Spotting a second mini-mart in the distance, I maneuvered out of the fast lane. “I still need that throwaway phone.” The first store I’d tried was well stocked with liquor and junk food and little else.

  We weren’t carrying our own phones. If the place got raided and they dragged us to jail, we’d have to hand them over. I didn’t have faith that fingerprint authentication would keep out anyone determined to access my data.

  “You don’t need to coach Sanders through every project,” Max said.

  I gave a scoffing laugh.

  Sanders’ father had one of the sharpest minds in real estate, and when he’d retired, I’d taken on his son as a favor. I’d expected him to have inherited at least some of his father’s cutthroat instincts. Unfortunately, Sanders junior didn’t just need coaching, he needed hand-holding.

  Max’s knee bounced, an annoying habit he had when he was amped up. “Once we’ve seen to Lampton, I intend on getting laid.”

  I smiled. “Assuming there are enough jewels to go around.”

  He removed the cigarette from behind his ear, flipped open the ashtray, and depressed the lighter.

  He gave me a sheepish shrug before lighting up. He took a long drag then sighed. “Ever paid for pussy?” he asked as he flicked the ashes out the window.

  “Not with cash.” For two years, gifts of designer duds, lacy lingerie, handbags, and perfume had allowed me to have sex on my terms. I’d been too preoccupied with business to realize that Veronica, who came from money and worked for a lucrative design studio, equated those presents with commitment. Two months ago, when I wouldn’t give her the ultimate symbol, an engagement ring, she accepted a position at a large advertising firm overseas. After delivering the news, she’d sprawled across the conference room table, revealing her raciest wax job to date, a pencil-thin blonde landing strip. I think she wanted me to regret my decision. For me it was just a send-off fuck.

  I parked the car beneath the single, flickering pole lamp. Max stepped out to finish his smoke.

  There was a short line at the counter, and a squat, bald guy with a heavy mustache was ringing people up. The man squinted toward the refrigerated section. “Remi,” he yelled, “I can see you sliding that sandwich into your backpack.”

  “Then where are all the day old sandwiches?” A girl’s voice called back. “I don’t have five dollars for the fresh one. And five dollars for two slices of bread wrapped around a piece of cheese and sprouts,” the voice neared, “is highway robbery.”

  The two prepaid phones available had obviously been repackaged. I grabbed the box that looked less battered and headed toward the cash register.

  The girl was now haggling face to face with the clerk. Her auburn hair, which looked rich with color even in the lousy fluorescent lighting, was pulled up in a long ponytail. She swept a glance in my direction and then did a double-take. Her lips parted slightly as she gave me a more thorough appraisal. Her eyes flickered briefly before she looked away and continued her sandwich negotiations. She had a slightly upturned nose, a delicious set of lips, and lush green eyes.

  I adjusted my tie and combed my hand through my hair. It was not every day a man met a sex goddess in a mini-mart. A sex goddess dressed like a juvenile delinquent.

  “Now, Charlie,” she said sweetly and leaned over the counter toward the man, revealing the bottom curves of her cheeks below the barely there shorts, panties nowhere in evidence.

  Max pushed through the glass doors, grabbed a pack of disposable lighters, and joined me in line. “Holy jail bait,” he said under his breath.

  Not possible, I thought. Too self-assured for a high-schooler.

  The clerk was certainly enjoying the view from the front. His mustache twitched, and his gaze lingered on her tits.

  “You know I’m the only person who buys the ones with sprouts. And you know I’m going to come in here tomorrow and buy this sandwich for half the price.” The sleeves of her hoodie were pushed up to her elbows. On the underside of each slender, white forearm was a calligraphy tattoo.

  “Tomorrow, it’ll be a day old,” Charlie said emphatically.

  “How about, I buy it today, but make sure not to digest it until tomorrow?”

  Max chuckled.

  I was getting more than pissed with the way the clerk was leering at her. What I wanted to do was forcibly close the man’s gaping jaw with my fist and set
his head rocking on its thick neck. My civilized self merely slapped a credit card on the counter under his nose. “I’ve got it.”

  The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of the exclusive black card. She took a closer look at me. Her gaze skipped from my belt, to my wristwatch, to my tie. She couldn’t have been more obvious if dollar signs were flashing in those green eyes. Her eyes lifted and locked on mine for a moment, but she quickly dropped her long lashes, shielding her calculating gaze. She turned back to the clerk and pointed in the general direction of the liquor lining the shelves behind the counter. “I’d planned on getting a pint of Irish whiskey.”

  I regarded her with a faint lift of my brow.

  “Fine, but card her,” I told the clerk. The man was smirking behind his mustache as he grabbed down a bottle of something rare and expensive that had clearly been gathering dust.

  She frowned at me as she wrangled her wallet out of her ultra-tight shorts.

  I intercepted the license as she slid it toward the man. Remi Shay. Twenty-two. Perfectly legal. That hurdle passed, I instantly allowed myself to fantasize. I imagined those delicate fingers with the short nails painted in glittering gold wrapped around my cock. I pushed the license toward the clerk.

  The girl muttered an unconvincing thank you in my direction, and snatched her items as soon as Charlie scanned them, stashing the pint in her hoodie pocket. The tiny t-shirt she wore was a match for her too short shorts. Stretched across her firm, plump breasts was faded lettering which asked, ‘How much farther is rock bottom?’

  “Does she live around here?” Max kept his gaze on the girl’s ass as she pushed through the glass doors. My shoulders tensed. I found I had no tolerance for Max ogling the girl either.

  “Yeah, she’s been on her own since she was fifteen. She’s a survivor, that one.”

  Max was already puffing on another cigarette as he paced near my car. I took a spot near the building as I dialed Sanders on the burner. It gave me an unobstructed view of the girl. She was straddling the seat of her bicycle, her long, slender legs holding the bike up as she took bites of her sandwich. Her gaze flicked from the Ferrari to me and back again. The corners of her lips curled into a cynical smile, as if she’d just realized she could have taken me for so much more than a pint of whiskey. She wrapped up what was left of her sandwich, then dropped it into her backpack.

  Somewhat satisfied by Sanders’ answers, I pocketed the phone. She was still watching me as I maneuvered myself into the cramped driver’s seat. I’d bought the car used after my first weighty deal. Five years later, I still preferred driving it to the newer model sitting in my garage with the ergonomic cockpit.

  Max craned his neck to watch her peddle away. “Shit, if they’d had girls like that walking around the halls in college, I would have stuck it out for the whole fucking degree.”

  I reversed out of the spot, tightening my grip on the steering wheel rather than taking out my frustration on Max. After all, Max could only dream about her. I’d memorized her license with the intention of tracking her down. I needed to see her again.

  Patience had made me a fortune. When I found something worth acquiring, I always waited for the right moment to strike. As tension jolted through me, I knew I wouldn’t have the same measured self-control when it came to pursuing this girl.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Remi

  Music and voices mingled into a dull roar that vibrated the walls of the makeshift dressing room. I latched the faux diamond choker and spun it around for one last mirror check. The silk teddy was as sheer as glass, and the gaudy gold panties shimmered through the transparent fabric. I fixed the long curls around my shoulders and sighed in boredom. Mindless preening for mindless work. But if Victor found any fault with my appearance, he would dock my pay.

  Hannah peered over my shoulder and pursed her lips to check her lipstick. Her emerald necklace sparkled as the vanity light reflected off of it. The green gems should really be mine, I reasoned, since they suited my red hair better. Hannah, who was a brunette beauty with gray eyes, should be sporting the sapphires and Ceci—

  “I wish I’d gotten Sara’s castoffs,” Hannah interrupted my idiotic musings.

  I smiled weakly. Hannah was right. So far, I’d only had two clients, and both had been relatively harmless. But I knew my luck wouldn’t hold forever. A chill snaked up my spine at the idea of spreading my legs for some cruel bastard.

  Hannah dotted her bottom lip with glitter gloss. “It must be nice knowing that you’re either going to be spending the evening with the lawyer, who I’d do for free, or that construction dude. What’s his name again?”

  That construction dude was more like a construction mogul with pampered, manicured hands, which left ugly fingerprint bruises on my thighs and breasts when he got too grabby.

  “His name’s Fremont. Hey, can I borrow a spray of your perfume?” I wouldn’t pass Victor’s inspection without it. He’d insisted, with his cringe-worthy dramatic flair, that we must ignite all the senses. I was convinced Victor had carny-blood flowing through his veins. I could just picture him standing in a striped coat in front of a midway sideshow.

  I spritzed myself thoroughly with the delicious jasmine scent. Too bad Charlie didn’t stock pricey perfumes behind the counter. I could have gotten the gorgeous suit to buy me a bottle. A bottle that I’d feel obliged to hand off to Hannah, of course, as thanks for being so generous with her cosmetics.

  Noticing that my nipples were standing at attention, I preferred to attribute it to the slight chill in the air rather than the idea of the impossibly handsome guy with the searing blue gaze. I decided I would be giving enough of a show to the assholes in attendance with the baby-doll outfit. No reason to give them anything extra. I rubbed my hands together and cupped my breasts, hoping to warm my nipples into submission.

  Just a few more auctions and then I’ll break free of this place, I assured myself.

  I’d started as a waitress in Victor’s restaurant. I’d studied how certain girls earned the worthwhile tips. I’d hemmed up my black skirt so it rode higher on my thighs. I bought a white button-up shirt that was a couple of sizes too small and left the button at my cleavage undone for good measure. After my mini-makeover, substantial tips rolled in.

  The generosity of a friend who let me crash in his studio apartment, along with some shameless flirting with the kitchen staff for leftovers, allowed me to start saving. But, I was rushing to rescue my sister, and the money wasn’t accumulating quickly enough. Despite therapy and medication, she’d been struggling to cope. I had high hopes for the immersive treatment center I’d found. Unfortunately, Lexi’s insurance wouldn’t cover it.

  Rumors of how Victor catered to his wealthy clientele filtered to me, but I had ignored them. They had nothing to do with me. Then Sara, his diamond, died of an overdose. Victor was scrambling for a replacement, a natural redhead like Sara had been, and he’d zeroed in on me.

  When I wouldn’t agree, Victor applied pressure. Cutting my hours, stiffing me on wages, making me bus tables instead of waiting. The truth was, I was seriously considering filling Sara’s slot. But the idea of selling my body had made my stomach twist into a painful knot, and I’d dithered so long in making a decision that Victor was forced to make a u-turn and start offering me positive rather than negative incentives. He promised I could keep my waitressing gig and assured me that I would only be expected to participate in his special auctions, six times a year. He’d also conceded, quite huffily, as though I’d insulted him with the mere suggestion, that I wasn’t to be treated as his personal toy.

  Victor knocked and then pushed the door open without waiting to be invited in. “Inspection time. We’ve got a full house, and I can smell the money.”

  Victor wore his usual slim black suit, bolo tie, and black cowboy boots. He’d drawn his long black hair back into a ponytail. Th
e jagged forehead scar, which he’d earned in a bar fight, was a reminder that beneath the sleazy-sleek exterior lurked a brutal man. His hard, acquisitive eyes scrutinized my face. He reached up and wiped a tiny bit of lipstick off my bottom lip with his pinkie. The man used every excuse to touch me, and I allowed him these small liberties rather than cross him.

  “My little diamond,” he cooed. “Both of your clients are here tonight.”

  He said it as if it were a surprise to him, as if he didn’t personally select who received the much in demand tickets.

  “However did that happen?” I quipped.

  “Watch it, doll.” He rearranged one of my curls, managing to skim the top of my breast in the process.

  “I want you to put a little rouge on those nipples and do that thing you do where you tuck in your lower back and thrust your tits out. I expect a bidding war.” He gave me a warning look that said he would hold me to blame if the auction didn’t escalate to his satisfaction.

  With trembling hands, I took the compact of rouge from my zippered cosmetic bag. My skin crawled as Victor watched me apply it under the diaphanous teddy.

  “Good girl.” He gave my hip a light squeeze. “Let’s start the auction,” he called.

  We grabbed our capes from hooks by the door to cover our skimpy costumes and headed to the gleaming wood floor of the stage. Victor had purchased an old theater and turned it into a local playhouse. His sexy productions and semi-nude shows made him some money, but the illegal ‘jewel auction’ was his cash cow.

  We stood in a line like a row of glittering gems under the glass in a jewelry shop. The whole presentation was so damned campy, but the richy-rich audience seemed to get a kick out of slumming it.