Billionaire Bad Boys Read online

  Meaning, therefore, he is my boss …

  … technically speaking …

  … because before now, I’ve never seen the man. He owns the company, it’s his name that’s plastered across the office building’s front. But people like Harlan are supposed to stay on floors a whole lot higher than mine.

  “There’s no need for that,” he grins, sticking out his hand, “just call me Harlan.”

  I just stare at the floating hand.

  I’ve got no idea how to act. How the heck am I supposed to dig myself out of a hole this deep? I just practically assaulted the freaking CEO. Worse, if you can believe it, is what he might have read in my journal. Most of it contains just embarrassing thoughts – my hopes, fears, and any problem I might have had during the day. I’m pretty sure I’ve never bitched about the company, at least…

  But there’s one secret that would kill me if anyone found out.

  “I’m – I’m so sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t – I mean – I didn’t know it was you. I mean, that you were you.” I clam up, and clap my hand across my offending mouth. I play back what I just said in my head and cringe. I sound like an idiot.

  Harlan looks at me with an expression shaded by pity. Then he glances at his outstretched arm. When it’s obvious that I’m too panicked to shake his hand, he lets it fall to his side.

  “I should hope not,” Harlan says, still grinning broadly.

  It’s like all this is a game to him. I guess, when you’re worth twenty billion dollars, life is just one big strategy game.

  Harlan crouches down. He’s wearing a light gray, perfectly-tailored Italian suit that hugs his body like a second skin. I can’t help but watch as his muscular thighs bulge, straining against the cloth. God, the man has the body of an Olympic athlete.

  And then I realize what Harlan’s doing. He’s reaching for my journal. The one I just batted out of his hands.

  But now I am stuck. I feel like my feet are encased in concrete. I can’t possibly throw myself at the journal a second time. But I’ve got to do something, to say something, at least.

  “Why –”

  “– am I in your office?” The billionaire, hedge fund manager, completes my sentence and smiles, picking up the gray notebook. “That’s an interesting question, Skye. Not as interesting, though, as what I read in here…” He taps the side of the journal.

  I feel my cheeks heat like a runaway forest fire. “That’s –,” I croak, “Private.”

  “Unfortunately for you, Skye, if it’s in this building, then it’s not private. To me, anyway.”

  Harlan glances down at the incriminating journal, chews his lip, then hands it back to me. I hold my breath the entire time. I am uncomfortably aware of how attractive he is. His eyes are iceberg gray, his hair thick and black and virile.

  A few gray hairs betray his age – late thirties – but he shows no sign of balding. In fact, he couldn’t be further away. Besides, he has the body of a man half his age. He looks lithe and fit, and almost painfully sexual. That’s the only way I can describe him. His expression crackles with intent, with desire.

  “But I can see it’s causing you some bother,” Harlan smiles. He wraps his knuckles against the journal one last time, and then hands it to me. I practically snatch it out of his grasp.

  Harlan surveys me for a couple of seconds, the same intrigued smile tickling his lips. I do my best to fight the panic surging through my veins, carried on a tidal wave of adrenaline.

  Monkey brain off; put your adult head on.

  “Why are you here?” I ask. My voice sounds a couple of octaves higher pitched than usual, but other than the embarrassment burning my face, my reaction is tolerable. “I mean – sir.”

  “Oh, there’s no need for that. Like I said, just call me Harlan.”

  “Okay, Harlan,” I say, sucking in a deep, greedy breath, “is there something I can help you with?”

  Harlan takes a step back and leans against my desk. I notice that every couple of seconds, his eyes glance at the door, as though he half-expects someone to come charging through it, brandishing a weapon. I file the thought away.

  “I’m not sleeping,” he finally admits.

  It takes me a couple of seconds to process the comment. I feel like I’m on a bungee cord. One second, I’m ready to tear someone’s head off for reading my journal, the next I think I’m going to be fired the man who’s – technically – my boss. Now…

  … Now the CEO of Wolfe Capital is asking me for help.

  I blink.

  I know. Not exactly my finest moment.

  “Sooo,” Harlan says, biting the inside of his lip. He grimaces as if he hates having to ask, as if it somehow reveals weakness. “I was wondering if you’d be able to help.”

  “You want me to help?” I squeak, “You?”

  Harlan smiles, “Precisely. It seems we’re finally on the same page, Miss Warren.”

  Time seems to slow down.

  For a therapist, helping a man like Harlan Wolfe is the pinnacle. It’s like an artist handling a Rembrandt, a world-renowned violinist playing a Stradivarius or a basketball fan meeting LeBron James. Hell, getting into the heads of men just like Harlan is exactly why I joined Wolfe Capital as the in-house therapist. I want to be the best, and to be the best, you’ve got to treat the best.

  Or at least the most fucked up.

  “But… I can’t,” I say lamely.

  Harlan’s eyebrow kinks upward. “Oh?” he growls dangerously. “So… exactly why would that be, Miss Warren?”

  Be careful now, Skye. You don’t just say “no” to a man like Harlan Wolfe.

  “Because,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut for a second as I cast around for a reason. A reason other than the fact that I’m embarrassed to treat the man who’s read my journal, and might know my secret. “Because – it would be a conflict of interest!”

  “A ‘conflict of interest’?”

  “Yes,” I nod, grateful to have found a plausible reason for declining. “Because – you’re my boss.”

  Harlan flicks his fingers dismissively. “I don’t care about that. I’ll sign whatever disclaimer you need. I’ve come to you because you’re the best, Miss –,” Harlan pauses, and catches himself. “I mean Doctor Warren.”

  “The best?” I say in a small voice. I didn’t even know that Harlan Wolfe had ever heard my name. Knowing that he knows who I am is kind of terrifying.

  “It’s why I hired you,” Harlan says, plowing on as though he’s unaware of my discomfort.

  “Since you joined the team here at Wolfe Capital, the traders under your care are producing an average of 7% more return. That’s statistically… astonishing. In fact, I’ve been considering requiring every trader to undergo regular sessions in this office. As for your bonus –”

  “Bonus?” I squeak. I feel like I’m on a roller coaster – one second plunging toward disaster, the next climbing to higher and higher heights.

  Harlan stares at me strangely. “Yes, Skye. You’ll find I can be a very –,” he licks his lower lip, “rewarding boss.”

  I open and close my mouth a couple of times like a goldfish. Finally I say something, though nothing clever comes out. “Oh.”

  “It’s agreed then,” Harlan says, turning to leave. “We’ll start the sessions tonight.”

  “Tonight?” I stammer. “But –.”

  Harlan wrinkles his forehead. “Well you don’t expect me to come and see you when the markets are open, do you Doctor Warren? I do have a business to run, after all”

  I shake my head. I guess not…” I whisper.

  “Perfect,” Harlan says.

  His lips graze my cheek as he passes by. It’s an uncomfortably intimate gesture. Hell, my therapist’s brain screams that it reads of a power move – a dominant alpha male laying down a marker. And Harlan Wolfe is a hell of a lot more than some summer breeze alpha male. He’s a freaking hurricane.

  And I kind of like it.

  “I’ll see yo
u later, Skye,” Harlan smiles as he reaches the door. I jerk back into the moment. “Eight o’clock, sharp. My assistant will be in touch with the details.”

  And just like that, Hurricane Harlan is gone.

  Initial Session Notes:

  I’m in over my head. Patient has assumed a driving role in this relationship from the start. Effective therapy will require starting afresh.

  Dominant personality

  Used to getting what he wants

  Charming, and highly intelligent

  Does he know my secret?

  2

  Skye

  I kick my apartment’s front door closed behind me, and set an overflowing stack of my patients’ notes down on the little kitchen’s marble countertop. I had planned to spend all night going through them and coming up with specialized treatment plans for rich men while drowning in a bottle of cheap wine.

  After Harlan’s offer, I guess that’s off the table…

  Oh God. Harlan. Now what the hell am I going to do about him?

  I take some much-needed seconds to decompress. My head tilts forward against my chest, and I take a couple of deep breaths. I hide a smile when I realize I’m doing exactly what I tell my patients to do.

  “What a fucking day…”

  I look up at my neat, tidy apartment. The sight of it never fails to bring a smile to my face. It’s hard to believe that I’ve ended up in a place like this – especially given where I came from. I didn’t exactly have a white-picket-fence kind of childhood.

  Not even close.

  Girl, you need a damn shower. Anything else can wait.

  I kick off my work shoes, shimmy out of my skirt and head for the bathroom. I turn the temperature knob as far left as it will let me, and step into a cauldron of burning steam. Ever since Harlan Wolfe stepped into my office earlier this afternoon, my head has been spinning.

  I don’t know what to do or how to act. Nothing in my life to date has prepared me for going to dinner with a billionaire, especially not a billionaire who happens not only to be my boss, but who just might know my deepest, darkest secret.

  Is it a date? I wonder.

  And if it is, can I do anything about it?

  I don’t know how long I stand there, with boiling hot water turning my pale, freckled skin a curious shade of pink. The cramped shower billows with a fog of steam – so much steam that I struggle to breathe. The mirror attached to the shower’s tiled wall quickly fills with condensation, until even my outline disappears into nothingness.

  I like it, though, disappearing into the hot mist. It’s calming. It’s like I’m not even real, as if I was never here.

  And for a few seconds, at least, it helps me forget my nerves about my dinner – my date – with Harlan freaking Wolfe.

  But I don’t lose myself for long. I never can. I guess my mind just isn’t wired like that. I don’t like to stand around doing nothing. I like to act – to be in control. A second savored is a second wasted – or at least it is to me.

  I glance down my legs. I don’t know what I’m going to wear tonight, but whatever I choose, I probably can’t turn up with my legs looking like they do right now. I look like a shaggy brown bear.

  I shut off the flow of hot water and grab my razor.

  There’s easily enough steam to stop me from being attacked by the biting cold kiss of the AC. I lather up my legs and carve clean, hairless pathways through the snowy fields of suds.

  “God, Skye. It’s been way too long since you’ve done this,” I mutter to myself. I carefully ignore the reason – it’s not like I’ve had a reason to play dress-up, if you know what I mean.

  When I’m done, I run the backs of my knuckles along the freshly-shaved skin. An image of Harlan touching me there flashes through my mind.

  I flinch.

  It has been a long time since I’ve thought of a man touching me like that – or anywhere, in fact.

  “Don’t do it, Skye,” I groan. But even as the words escape my mouth, I know that the seed of the idea has burrowed too deep.

  I’m going to do it.

  “You’re such a pussy,” I mutter ironically. “And for God’s sake, girl – stop talking to yourself!”

  Clinically speaking, there’s nothing exactly wrong with speaking to one’s self, as long as it doesn’t happen all the time, anyway. My therapist’s brain tells me that it’s a perfectly rational response to a bout of nerves.

  And I’ve certainly got one heck of a reason to be nervous…

  As if I’m being operated by remote control, I watch my arm reach out for the shaving cream. I see my fingers lather the tuft – thicket, really – of burning ginger hair between my legs. If it’s been a long time since I shaved my legs, then I can’t even remember the last time I shaved my pubic hair…

  So don’t…

  But for some reason I can’t stop myself.

  It’s almost as if by trimming myself like this that I’m playing into a fantasy – a fantasy that I thought I had given up on a long time ago. A time existed when I played in the dating game like every other girl. I giggled with my girlfriends as we got asked out, one by one.

  I batted my eyelashes at guys in fancy bars.

  I had boyfriends, more than one.

  I tried every damn fetish and every damn kink, but none of them worked. Ten years, and I never came once. It took a decade without ever having an orgasm for me to realize the truth.

  I’m … broken.

  So I gave up on men. I gave up on sex. After all – what’s the point? When they can’t make you come, all men act the same. It punctures their ego. They treat it as an insult – like they are the one who’s suffering!

  Harlan will be the same… if he even wants that from me. What makes you think he’s so interested in you, anyway?

  The steam starts to subside. I inspect my freshly shaved legs, and my freshly shaved pussy. It has been years – literally – since I last saw the skin underneath my pubic hair. I feel practically embarrassed just looking at myself – as though I’m trying to play a role that isn’t me.

  Who are you trying to impress? You know none of this will work, don’t you?

  My reflection appears once again as the condensation drips off the mirror in the shower. I scowl at myself. For some reason, the sight sours my mood.

  “There –,” I grunt. “Happy now?”

  My reflection doesn’t reply. That’s probably a good thing. I’d have to cart myself off to a mental hospital if she had…

  The doorbell rings.

  I have a brief moment of panic as I try to figure out what to do. Do I try and throw on some sweatpants and run to the door – but risk missing the delivery, or instead just open it in my towel.

  I decide to go with the second option.

  It’s not exactly ladylike, but I guess sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I grab a towel, throw it onto my dripping shoulders and sprint for the door.

  The doorbell rings again. It sounds irritated this time, though I know that’s just in my head.

  “Delivery,” a man calls out in a gruff voice. He raps the front door with his knuckles, and calls out again.

  “All right, all right,” I mutter underneath my breath. “I’m coming…”

  You wish.

  I look through the peephole. The delivery guy isn’t exactly what I expected. He’s wearing a crisply tailored, dark navy suit, and carrying a small, rectangular black box. He looks more like a luxury chauffeur than a guy from FedEx. It doesn’t take an expert to figure out who sent him.

  My forehead furrows. What the hell is this? But I’ve got to admit, my curiosity is piqued.

  “Just leave it out there,” I call.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  I watch, clutching my towel to my damn body as the smartly-dressed courier crouches and places the box on the ground. He stands up, glances down at it, then up at me – or at least, where the peephole is. He chews his lip with indecision.

  “It is fine,” I c
all out. “I’ll get it when you’re gone. I’m in a towel…”

  The driver blanches visibly. His face drains of blood as he processes what I just said. I squint as I wonder what’s going through his mind.

  “Yes ma’am,” he stammers. “I’m not – I wasn’t.” He shut his eyes, takes a breath and says. “I’ll be going, now.”

  He practically runs back the way he came.

  The corners of my mouth curl up with amusement. Does he think that Harlan and I are dating – and that I might think he wants to peep on me? As if someone like me would ever end up dating someone like Harlan Wolfe…

  An irritating voice pipes up from a dark corner of my mind. It’s irritating because I know it is right.

  If you don’t think there’s a chance of something happening tonight, it says. Then why did you shave down there.

  I wait a couple more seconds until I’m sure the delivery driver’s absolutely gone, then I open the door. I peek around the door jamb, check left, then right, and reach out to grab the box left on my doorstep.

  Even the cardboard feels luxurious. Whatever is inside, I already know is going to be expensive. The thought should excite me, but instead it sends a tremor running through my stomach.

  I sit down on my couch and lay the box on my knees. I chew my lip as I try and figure out what to do with it.

  “You’re getting yourself into trouble,” I mutter. “You shouldn’t be hanging around with a guy like Harlan. You’re playing checkers while he’s playing chess…”

  Then again, what else can I do?

  As long as I work for Wolfe Capital – at my dream job, no less – then I kind of have to do whatever the boss tells me to do. Unfortunately for me, Harlan Wolfe is definitely the boss.

  So, there it is. I’m definitely not giving up my dream job. Not after I’ve worked so hard to get it. I was the youngest woman in a decade to get a psychiatry degree from Stanford University. I deal with testosterone-charged, misogynistic, asshole traders every single day.

  I’m sure I can deal with one fancy dinner.

  Or are those your famous last words, says a low voice mutters in the back of my brain.