Wolfe: Billionaire Boys Club, #3
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For a moment, she thought she'd dreamed of their lovemaking, but, the minutes passing, knew she hadn't and wept for the craving that now captured her soul.
The truth clarified in her, all their actions lying exposed. She'd needed him before for all the wrong reasons. She needed him now for only one – she loved him.
Billionaire bachelor, Paxton Wolfe, has everything money can buy and an aristocratic ancestry people respect. Good friends and business partners with Atlas Bellamy and Calix Steele, he's set to become the face behind their newest, successful venture, a cruise line.
However, behind the walls of his eccentric mansion, a troubled childhood and failed engagement have hardened him. People are there to be used. He'll take what he wants and never let heartache strike again.
Lovely songstress, Isobel Harding, is no exception to the rule. In her, his lust knows no bounds. But their toxic relationship exacts a high cost, and what he now wants the most might be lost forever.
Book 3 of 7 in the BILLIONAIRE BOYS CLUB series by SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS.
Suzanne D. Williams
Best-selling author, Suzanne D. Williams, is a native Floridian, wife, mother, and photographer. She is the author of both nonfiction and fiction books. She writes a monthly column for Steves-Digicams.com on the subject of digital photography, as well as devotionals and instructional articles for various blogs. She also does graphic design for self-publishing authors. She is co-founder of THE EDGE. To learn more about what she’s doing and check out her extensive catalogue of stories, visit http://suzanne-williams-photography.blogspot.com/ or link with her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/suzannedwilliamsauthor.
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Wolfe - Suzanne D. Williams
SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS
www.feelgoodromance.com
© 2015 WOLFE (Billionaire Boys Club) Book 3 by Suzanne D. Williams
www.feelgoodromance.com
www.suzannedwiliams.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Scenes in this story may contain graphic and/or sexual situations not suitable for young or sensitive readers, but are framed by Christian morals and solutions.
PROLOGUE
THE SPOTLIGHT ONSTAGE hid the patrons of the club from her view, except for a man in the front, who stared at her intently. He was attractive, thirtyish, light brown hair, cut short, a dusting of hair on his chin. He was also incredibly overdressed for the crowd, his tuxedo coat and silk cravat making him look like an aristocrat of some sort and not the middle-income attendees she usually saw.
Off kilter from the attention, she faltered temporarily, fumbling the words of the song, and, realizing it, yanked her eyes away. Despite that, she felt him there, engrossed and earnest. Eyes closed, the tune purling from her throat, she found the meaning of the music changing to suit him, her energy concentrated for his purpose, the rise and fall of the notes aimed at his ears.
It was as if everything in her changed and she couldn’t go back. She was two steps in his direction without meaning to be, her soul reaching for his, automatic, impulsive, and ready to leap wherever he asked, any time that he required it.
The song ended, she reopened her eyes and found his seat empty. Disappointment swept through her, her mood diving to a depth she’d not felt in several years. Crestfallen, she left her stool, mumbling an excuse to the musicians, and pushed into the hallway behind the stage.
A messenger met her at the door, a boy, maybe eighteen, holding a handwritten note. This was left for you by the gentleman in the tux,
he said.
A skip in her heartbeat took her breath, and her fingers trembled ever so slightly. She gave a brief nod, waiting until the boy had left to open it, then flattened her back to the wall in anticipation.
Delectable, he’d written. You must sing for me. My representative will be in touch. Paxton Wolfe.
Her mouth moist, her breaths eager, she crushed it in her palm. Representative? Who was he? The question fled her mind as quickly as it had entered.
It didn’t matter. She would agree to it, no matter the cost.
CHAPTER 1
LATE AFTERNOON LIGHT leaked through the leaded-glass windows, washing the library shelves shades of yellow and gray. Books spanning hundreds of years, from modern paperbacks to ancient first editions bound in fine calves’ skin, stood proudly, a testament to the power of words to affect the mind and heart. A fire flickering in the hearth added to the pleasant atmosphere and warded off the chill crusting the stone walls outside.
Paxton Wolfe tossed his feet up on the mahogany desktop, the heels of his designer shoes digging into the fine wood grain. Go on.
He waved one hand, flashing a diamond-encrusted ring.
The Bellamys, obviously,
his sister, Ainsley, said from her place in a chair on the opposite side.
They were a lot alike, him and her, same regal bearing, same evenly toned skin, same golden-brown eyes. He was older by three minutes, something he liked to remind her of.
Both senior and younger,
she continued. Then the Steeles.
She paused, lowering the notepad in her hand. Do we call them the Steeles? They aren’t married.
As good as,
he said. Flynn has some hang-up about releasing her independence.
Is that really an issue between them?
she asked.
He tilted his head, scratching his temple with one hand. Not on his part. Anyhow, the Steeles and ...?
She returned to her list. The Lindseys.
He grunted. I wish we didn’t have to invite that interloper.
You do have to invite him,
she replied, because if you don’t, he’ll write up something ugly we don’t want the world to see ... even if he has to make it up to write it.
Harold Lindsey fancied himself part of the upper class. He dressed the part, schmoozed in popular circles, though he hadn’t enough cash to rub two pennies together. No one liked him, but everyone kowtowed to him, since he owned the local press.
Who are the Lindstroms?
Ainsley asked.
Related to Calix.
Oh ...
Her mouth made a perfect circle. That was quite a stir. Wasn’t it? What a horrible woman Samantha Steele is to ruin the life of someone as kindhearted as Calix.
Amen to that,
he said. She’s been shunned, every ounce of dignity she ever worked so hard to attain, stripped away. As is just.
His sister bobbed her head. So the Lindstroms. There’s a couple dozen more names. Do you want them all now or ...?
Just leave them for me and I’ll look them over,
he said. What about food? I won’t be outdone.
Taken care of. We were able to get International Cuisine to host. They always do a phenomenal job. And ...
She held up a hand, forestalling his next remark. I’ve instructed them to limit the alcohol. I’m with you. I wish we could eliminate it entirely, foul stuff, but there are those who will complain.
Everyone has a complaint,
Paxton said with a snort. Robert Sox was asking if he could forgo the costume. Forgo it? It’s a costume party. You’ll be the moron without one.
Have you chosen yours?
Ainsley rested one hand on the list and reclined.
He chuckled. I’m going as Henry the Eighth. All I need is a woman minus her head to complete it.
You always were gory.
She smiled, however, when she said it.
I’m going as Helen of Troy.
The new voice turned both their heads toward the far doorway. The woman standing there was every bit of eighty, but spry with a sparkle in her eyes. Going to pick me up one of those cuties with a tight a—
Paxton coughed, covering the last word, and Ainsley laughed. Grandmere, I’ve no doubt you will. But don’t torment them this time. The young men are allowed to dance with the pretty young women.
Their grandmother waltzed gracefully towards them, taking a seat at Ainsley’s side. She was dignity and poise at all times, always impeccably dressed, and never boring or sedate. She’d lived her life to its fullest, she always said, without any regrets.
I’ll allow it,
she replied.
Paxton shifted his gaze back to his sister. So food, you’ve covered, and entertainment, I’ve taken care of. We have the Grand Hall Orchestra,
he said. They’re also bringing their jazz musicians. There’s Peter Ford to sing and a new girl I’m excited about ... Isobel Harding.
Her named slipped silken across his tongue, and it was as if he could taste her voice again. She wasn’t a sound, but a flavor, the richest kind you lingered over, willing it to never be done. She’d felt it, too, their attraction, the strength of the song increasing at that moment.
You’re excited?
Ainsley asked.
He nodded and calmed himself. She’s up-and-coming, has the most gentle, musical voice ... mesmerizing really. I had to offer more money than usual to get her to come, however. Plus, she needs a place to stay, so I’ve offered her the rose room.
Not him directly, he’d had his business director make the call.
She’s staying here?
his sister asked.
For a week. She’s coming in on Friday from Nashville and will be here until the following Saturday ... something about hating travel and needing time to adjust.
This had also been relayed to him second hand.
Ainsley made a face, annoyance and displeasure clear in her eyes. In her mind, he always made too much of