Bartered Submission: The Billionaire's Wife, Part 5 (A BDSM Erotic Romance) Read online

  Bartered Submission: The Billionaire’s Wife, Part 5

  Ava Lore

  Copyright 2012 Ava Lore

  Smashwords Edition

  Discover other titles by Ava Lore at Smashwords.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, the please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Bartered Submission: The Billionaire's Wife

  by

  Ava Lore

  Part V

  So it turns out that when you get secretly married to one of the richest guys on the planet, it doesn't stay a secret for long.

  I slept on the plane back to New York while Anton worked. His desire to bone until we both ended up in the Emergency Room with third degree burns on our genitals seemed to be doused in the cold light of a hundred and fifty urgent emails dinging on his phone the next morning. We'd grabbed only coffee and pastries for breakfast in Anton's haste to get back to work. By the time the plane touched down, the news was spreading, and I knew it was only a matter of time before it reached people I knew, if it hadn't already. Sadie had a really big mouth.

  "Keep your head down," Anton advised as we ducked into his town car.

  "What?" I said, looking around. "Why?"

  Anton gave an exasperated sigh. "Because," he said patiently, as though explaining something to a very small child or a particularly dim hamster, "there's paparazzi everywhere, and you just gave them a great shot of your face. Congratulations."

  "What?" Shit!" I was not at my chipper best. Slingshotting to Nevada and back had made me crazy jetlagged and I wasn't even sure what time it was. All I knew is that I wanted a Filet o' Fish and a Dr. Pepper the size of my arm, and my chances of getting one were vanishing with every merry ding of Anton's phone. I let my hair fall over my cheeks as the driver—sadly, not Zachary—shut my door, and breathed a sigh of relief when I realized the windows were tinted to hell and back.

  "It's inevitable that we will be uncovered," Anton said as he scrolled through yet another email, "but you may perhaps wish to do so on your own terms." He gave me an almost teasing look from the corner of his eye. "Makeup, perhaps. And you might want to have your hair done."

  Distressed, I patted my face and hair, but to my surprise, Anton reached out and grabbed my hand. "You look lovely, Felicia," he said before releasing me. "Don't worry about it too much."

  "Easy for you to say," I snapped at him. "Not all of us were born into this world with perfect looks."

  His brows twitched. "You think I look perfect?"

  Oh, jeez. "Don't be a girl," I said. "You practically rolled out of bed and into your clothes this morning, and you look like you could be on GQ."

  "I have been on GQ. And there's nothing wrong with being a girl."

  "Yes, I know, but if they were daily they'd just show up at your door every morning and take a photo."

  Anton tilted his head, and I saw that faint smile on his face suddenly bloom into... dare I say? Almost a full blown grin. No teeth yet. I'd get there someday.

  "Thank you, Felicia," he said.

  We stared at each other for a long moment, until the air between us crackled and sizzled.

  He broke contact first and shifted in his seat, as though he had suddenly become uncomfortable. "At any rate," he said, far more brusquely than usual, "we need to talk about living arrangements."

  "What?" I said. "Oh. Right. Shouldn't I just come... live with you?" Crap. I didn't know where he lived. Or what his house looked like. What if it was one of those really spare modern places with chairs you couldn't sit in? Did it have a sex dungeon? It had to have a sex dungeon. If it didn't have a sex dungeon I was going to have to question everything I knew about Anton Waters, which still wasn't much.

  But every minute I spent with him taught me more.

  His phone rang. Checking the screen, he cursed under his breath. "Sorry, Felicia, I have to take this."

  "Sure," I said, and pretended to inspect my nails as I observed him from the corner of my eye.

  "Waters," he said into the phone. "Yes. Yes. No. That's not going to work." I listened as the person on the other line burbled for a while. Anton sat with the phone to his ear and smiled that faint smile. He was like a Buddha. A business Buddha. Eventually the person on the other end of the line realized he was talking to a brick wall and trailed off. Anton waited.

  He'd used this very same tactic with me, and it was incredibly effective. After a moment the voice burbled again, this time sounding very contrite.

  "Yes, thank you," Anton told them, and hung up, then dialed a new number. "Arthur, I need to speak to Don Schmidt as soon as I get into the office. Yes, clear that appointment." The whole time he spoke in a slow, calm manner, his voice almost soothing, unless, I suppose, you had fucked up in some way. Then it probably sounded like a bomb about to go off. Unpredictable. And yet I'd never heard him yell, and he'd only become closed off and angry once or twice with me in private.

  He had incredible control. I'd observed last night that his need for control was consuming, and could be a weakness. Say what you like about my father, but he tried to teach me—between rounds at the golf course when he forced me to be his caddy—about the business world. Some of it had sunk in, despite my best efforts, and I found myself falling back on them now, trying to decipher the enigma Anton presented. Before our ill-fated shopping trip, I'd read up on him on the internet.

  Anton Waters. No known family, though he had said that his parents died in a car crash when he was young in several interviews. He got his start in real estate, flipping properties like pancakes as the bubble swelled. Money flowed from his real estate ventures into finance and manufacturing, and he was known throughout the business world as a man who made no attachments. He held no trust in others, and others held no trust in him. His only hobby, apparently, was cooking.

  And crazy sex. Couldn't forget that part.

  Anton hung up and turned to me. “Where were we? Oh, yes, living arrangements.”

  “Am I not coming to live with you?” I asked.

  “Do you want to?” His green eyes bored into mine, intense in the dim light inside the car. Outside the sky was gray with late-autumn clouds, and everything was gloomy. Strange how his eyes burned so brightly, even in this light.

  “I don't know,” I said. “I don't even know where you live.”

  “I have a mansion on Central Park West,” he said.

  “Of course you do.”

  He smiled faintly at that. “But if you would like to live separately for a while, I have no problems with that, as long as we are together for the agreed-upon number of nights as stipulated in our prenup.”

  I put a hand to my forehead and began to rub little circles over my nose. “How many was that again?” I asked. “Per week?”

  “Three,” he said. “Or ten days in a row per month. Open to negotiation, of course.”

  Of course. Anton was a very particular man, but for a guy who was famed for no attachments, he had attached himself to me in a very big way, without even knowing me.

  “I think I'll move in with you,” I said. “But I need a place to
sculpt.”

  His eyes widened a bit at my answer—perhaps our first encounter, when I barged into his office and demanded to know who the hell he thought he was, trying to arrange a marriage with me, had left a more lasting impression on him than my current, slightly softer feelings. Nevertheless, he recovered quickly. “Of course,” he said. “Would you like to keep your apartment as your studio, or something closer to... home?”

  Hmm. Studio in Manhattan, or studio anywhere else in the world? Gee, what a dilemma. I opened my mouth to tell him to move my shit to an expensive little corner apartment in one of the arty districts, but then I shut my mouth again. My apartment was mine. Did I really want to leave it behind just because I was technically moving up in the world? “I'll keep my apartment,” I said after a moment. “I like it there.”

  He nodded. “Very well. You can pack up your personal effects if you wish, or I can arrange to have that done for you.”

  “How fast can it be done?”

  “By tonight, if you like.”

  I like to keep it real, but not that real. If I didn't have to wrap up my shitty mismatched glasses personally, then I'm not going to. “Yeah, have someone move that stuff,” I told him. “Anyway, what's on the agenda for today?”

  A vague look of regret passed over his face. “I'll be in meetings and at work all today, but I will be home in time to take you out to dinner tonight. In the meantime, why don't you take the time to get acquainted with your new home, and perhaps call your, ahem, new personal assistant?”

  Personal assistant? Oh, right! Sadie. She is going to plotz. “Great. Coffee with girlfriend, dinner with, um...” I trailed off. “You,” I finished awkwardly.

  The shutters behind his eyes closed, and I sighed inwardly. Good going.

  “Husband,” he supplied.

  “Husband,” I said. “Sorry, it's all a bit sudden and a little weird.”

  To my surprise, he rubbed a finger against his temple, and his shoulders relaxed. I hadn't even noticed them tensing. “You are right,” he said. “This is very sudden for you. I'm sorry.”

  I could only nod as the car slowed down, and then we were at Anton's house.

  *

  "Jesus shit," Sadie said when I opened the door later that day, and I have to say I agreed with her assessment. Anton had dropped me off at the house, telling me to explore to my heart's content, then given me a quick kiss on the cheek and jetted off to work, leaving me with a battered suitcase and an overwhelming desire for some McDonald's. I'd called Sadie immediately and told her where to meet me—with a Filet o' Fish—and set about exploring.

  And holy shit. A mansion on Central Park West. Even in my father's wildest dreams he couldn't have afforded this place.

  Five floors and a basement. That's all I can really say about it. Huge. Wood floors, stained glass, a garden, a terrace, and, high on the fifth floor, the master bedroom underneath a skylight, painted white, lined with bookshelves and filled with light, even on this cloudy day. It was sick. Just sick.

  I loved it.

  "This is just sick," Sadie said. "I love it."

  "That's what I thought!" I told her. "But that's not the best part. Anton wants me to have a personal assistant, and I told him I already had one."

  She cocked an eyebrow. "You do?"

  And I'm the thick one? "You, dummy."

  Sadie failed to faint at my feet in gratitude. "What if I don't want to be your personal assistant?" she said. "What do I look like, the help?"

  I rolled my eyes and pulled her to the back of the ground floor where the kitchen and breakfast nook stood, looking out onto the garden. "Don't you get it?" I said. "This is free money. You get hired, we spend the day hanging out together, you get paid and don't report back to Anton any of the suspect stuff I do, and we all go home happy."

  "What suspect stuff?"

  "Like figuring out what makes him tick," I told her. "Here, have some coffee. It took me like fifteen minutes to figure out how to use Anton's crazy coffee maker so you'd better drink some."

  Sadie pulled away. "Felicia," she said, which she never says unless she is trying to be serious with me. "What is with you calling him Anton all of a sudden? And why would he want me to report back to him?"

  I poured her some coffee and shoved it into her hands. "He's got some control issues. And I think we're on a first name basis now. You know, since we're married and all."

  "Yeah. Which reminds me, you might not want to go on the internet today."

  I blinked. "What?" I hadn't even thought to check my email yet. My phone was almost out of battery life and I'd left my charger in my apartment, which was way out of reach now. I'd had to turn it on and write down Sadie's number and call her from the landline—Landline! How quaint!—in the living room.

  "You're all over it." She sat down at the kitchen table—a gorgeous wrought iron and glass affair—and sipped her coffee. I stood in the middle of the kitchen and stared at her.

  "What?" I said again.

  "Don't worry," she told me. "I hacked into your Facebook account and made it private, and then I sent a really flattering photo of you to a couple of celebrity gossip blogs."

  My mind was blown. "What?" I said a third time. "I mean... What?"

  Sadie gave me an irritated look. "Well, I didn't want anyone getting their hands on that photo of you where you're on the beach and wearing your wet swimsuit under your jeans and it looks like you've wet yourself."

  "Yeah..." I said slowly. "And you don't think you'd be a good personal assistant... why?"

  "I didn't say I wouldn't be a good one," she said. "I'd be great. But I don't come cheap."

  I groaned. "Anyway. I don't want to talk about the internet."

  "That's probably a good thing."

  I bit my lip and sat down across from her. "How bad is it?"

  "It's great," she told me. "Just a bunch of celeb gossip sites talking about the marriage of the worlds hottest, most eligible billionaire to some no-name girl. Men think you're hot, and women hate you."

  "What about gay men?"

  "I think Perez Hilton likes your hair."

  I stared out at the garden from the faceted glass of the window. "Well, that's something, right?"

  "You'd better look fabulous the next time you leave this house," Sadie told me, "but other than that, yeah, that's not bad."

  I took a deep breath. "Okay. Right. Not that bad."

  She took another sip of her coffee. "Now, what's this about you trying to find out what makes him tick?" she asked me. "I thought you just wanted to marry him for his money."

  "He won't tell me why he wanted an arranged marriage," I said. "I mean, he kind of did, but it can't be the whole story."

  "So why?"

  "He says it was the best way to get a companion."

  Sadie barked a laugh. "He should get a dog."

  I nodded. "He should get a dog. He likes dogs. I read that in one of his interviews. But you can't fuck a dog."

  "Weeeell..." Sadie said.

  "Ew!" If we'd been back at my apartment, I would have thrown a pillow at her, coffee or no coffee. But we were in Anton's immaculate house. And I didn't have a pillow. "Don't be gross."

  "I'm just saying. You said he had control issues. Sit. Down. Stay. Seems like it'd be perfect for him."

  I shot her a glare. "Don't ever tell anyone I said that."

  "Relax." Sadie gave me a smirk. "You pay me well for my silence. And my expertise in the field of Felicia Studies, which I will be charging extra for."

  I groaned. "Fine. You'd better fucking bring that shit, because I have no idea what's going on here."

  She sniffed and took another sip of coffee. "I think I do," she said.

  My attention was suddenly riveted on her. "You do?" I asked eagerly. "Tell me!"

  She put her coffee cup down. "You are totally into this guy," she said.

  I sat back in my chair. I stared at her. Then I started to laugh.

  Sadie looked offended. "What?" she said. "
I'm right."

  "No way," I told her, still laughing. "He's just interesting."

  "And hot. You like fucking him, don't you?"

  That quieted me down. "Well, yeah." Frightening glimpses into the bottomless abyss of the psyche aside, the sex was pretty hot. But that was all it was. Anton Waters wanted a wife for a reason, and he'd hung me over a barrel to get me to sign on. I hadn't really had a choice, all his protestations that I could say no notwithstanding, and it stuck in my throat. "But he basically bought me. That's totally not what a good relationship is built on." A sudden pang of doubt struck me. Since when had I ever seen anyone in my life have a good relationship? "Right?"

  Sadie shook her head at me. "Waters isn't the only person around here with control issues," she told me. "You want to figure out some way to get back at him for forcing you into marriage."

  "Duh," I said.

  "But why?" she wanted to know.

  I didn't really have an answer for her. "I guess..." I trailed off. "Maybe because my mom spent so much of her life getting shafted in a bad marriage to a rich asshole who didn't really love her. I didn't want to end up like her, but now I'm just like her."

  Heaving a sigh, Sadie shotgunned the last of her coffee. “You really need to get over your parents, Lis. Your mom could leave any time she wanted to. She's a big girl. She makes her own choices. And so do you.” She shook her head again. “After your mom is all better, you can cut ties with Waters and never have to see him again if you don't want to.”

  “I don't want to,” I said. Of course I don't.

  Do I?

  I bit my lip and thought of the incredible sex we'd had in the limo, mere minutes after tying the knot. I thought of Anton's face in the dressing room after I'd surprised him and turned the tables, sucking his cock and leaving him with that lost, abandoned look. There was more to him. And I wanted to know what it was, because...