Untamed: A Billionaire Romance
Untamed
Billionaire Romance
Kira Blakely
Contents
Also By Kira Blakely
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Note
Untamed
Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Thank you!
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Billionaire Bad Ass
Description
Prologue
1. Ashton
2. Laura
3. Ashton
4. Laura
5. Ashton
6. Laura
7. Ashton
8. Laura
9. Ashton
10. Laura
11. Ashton
12. Laura
The End
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Billionaire’s Claim
Description
1. Bonnie
2. Bonnie
3. Nash
4. Bonnie
5. Nash
6. Bonnie
7. Bonnie
8. Nash
9. Bonnie
10. Nash
11. Bonnie
12. Bonnie
13. Nash
14. Bonnie
15. Bonnie
16. Bonnie
17. Nash
18. Bonnie
19. Bonnie
20. Nash
21. Seraphine
22. Bonnie
23. Nash
24. Bonnie
25. Bonnie
26. Eight months later
27. Bonnie
The End
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Extended Epilogue
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 by Kira Blakely
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Also By Kira Blakely
Billionaire’s Protest Box Set
Billionaire Bad Boys Box Set
Caught Off Guard
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WANT A FREE STEAMY SHORT STORY? Kira Blakely is giving away a steamy deleted scene from her best-selling series, Billionaire’s Protest (no strings attached). This book is exclusive to her free VIP readers group. Click the button on the next page and download it now!
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours!
Wendy Hood
Note
I’ve included two additional stories from two of my best-selling series. The main story ends at 40 percent.
Untamed
A Billionaire Romance
Description
Falling prey to a lion!
Nathan Landers, New York’s, hottest, most eligible… womanizer… just strolled up and started kissing me.
He said it was to hide from another woman, but the kiss lasted too long to be fake.
His passion, his lips, those muscular arms wrapped around my waist. It was enough to make my knees buckle and my cheeks catch on fire.
I try to escape him. But I can’t resist. I fight his power at first. But it’s useless. I’m the prey, and he’s the predator.
And once I’ve felt what it’s like to be in his clutches, I want to be devoured.
1
Sam the Squirrel
Have you ever thought that people are not so different from animals?
Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I just like to think so, because I’d rather be a wildlife photographer than a lifestyle photographer. I know, I know. I’m a woman. I’m supposed to like parties, but I’d rather be taking pictures of animals in the wild than pointing my camera at people wearing fancy clothes and fake smiles at galas.
That’s what the event this evening is — another gala. Sure, the reason for each is different. Supposedly, this one’s to recognize New York City’s top entrepreneurs but if you ask me, it’s another excuse for the poor to look rich and the rich to spend their money.
Hiding behind the lens of my Nikon D810, I can tell who’s who. That woman in the sparkly black dress, for example, is wearing sandals that are a tad too small for her, the tips of her toes over the front edge. A last-minute loan from her sister, maybe? Or a friend?
She’s like a zebra, that one. Trying to blend in with the herd so that she doesn’t get picked off and torn apart by the lurking hyenas.
Speaking of hyenas, that older woman in the lavender gown is one. She’s already had her third glass of champagne, and she’s been looking around for prey. Someone she can say a mean word to or simply turn her pointy nose up at. Maybe someone whose cheap dress she can spill her fourth glass on.
Right now, she’s eyeing the hen across the room. I say hen because she’s sticking out her chest more than usual, and because she’s been clucking the whole time. She’s got feathers on her head, too. My guess? She was born poor but married rich. Lucky for her.
Having decided on its prey, the hyena starts moving, preparing to pounce. She’s interrupted by a man in a purple suit and a golden watch, though. A peacock. He says something, and she gives a loud, fake laugh.
Definitely a hyena.
As for me, I’m a squirrel. Samantha the squirrel. I like cozy spaces. I like nuts — almonds, pistachio nuts, and chestnuts. I keep a stock of them in my pantry. I forget where I put my things. I’d rather run than fight. And you bet I can run. I was on the high school track team. I can scratch and bite, too, though. Just ask that dumbass who tried to mess with the first camera I ever owned, or that jerk who tried to feel my butt during the first party I covered.
“Quite the party, isn’t it?” Matilda, who I like to call Mattie, interrupts my thoughts as she stands beside me in her perfect green gown.
A lynx. That’s what she is — slender and gorgeous with naturally sultry eyes and dark skin.
She’s my partner at work. I shoot the pictures. She writes the articles.
“It’s okay, I guess,” I tell her.
“I have to say, this new ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton is fantastic,” she adds as she takes a sip of her martini. “Did you know they only finished this one last month?”
“Really?”
The place is fantastic. Blue crystal chandeliers hanging from a blue and gold dome. Intricately carved arches and sculpted marble pillars. Fountains in the corners. It’s a fusion of classical architecture.
Mattie leans closer to me. “So, who do we have here so far?”
I take a picture. Snap. “No one new.”
“Really?” I can tell her thin eyebrows are creased even without turning my head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that blonde in the black dress.”
Snap. “You mean the zebra trying so hard not to stick out?”
Mattie chuckles. “I see you’ve turned this party into a zoo again.”
“Not a zoo. I hate zoos.”
There’s nothing I dislike seeing more than birds in cages or lions in enclosures, lazily waiting to be tossed their next meal.
“A jungle, then.”
“A savanna,” I correct. “Zebras don’t live in jungles.”
Mattie shrugs. “Well, you’re t
he animal expert. Seriously, I don’t know why Henry won’t put you on the staff of the nature magazine.”
I lower my camera and narrow my brown eyes at her. “Are you saying you don’t like working with me?”
“Shut up.” She takes another sip from her glass. “You know what I’m saying. He’s stupid for not putting you where you want to be.”
“He thinks I’m not ready.” I lift my camera, pointing it around as I look for my next shot. “Bullshit. I had my first camera when I was three.”
“A pink toy camera that plays nursery rhymes whenever you press the shutter.”
I adjust the lens. “I’ve been taking pictures of animals since I was six.”
“Farm animals,” Mattie reminds me. “They don’t really move around, do they?”
“Says someone who’s never been to a farm.” I frown. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours. So what if you have no experience? You have talent. That’s what counts.”
“Tell that to Henry. He seems to have a thing for you.”
Henry looks at Mattie the way a male dog looks at a bitch in heat.
“He has a thing for everyone with boobs and a place between their legs for him to stick his cock into,” Mattie says. “Hey, maybe he’s keeping you around because he likes looking at you.”
I snort.
“And he’s not the only one,” Mattie adds. “I’ve seen a few heads turn in your direction this evening. I can’t blame them. Your red dress is hard not to look at.”
I glance at my dress. Red. One strap over the right shoulder. A flared skirt reaching up to the ankles. Quite simple, really.
“This old thing? I haven’t worn it in ages.”
“No one’s seen it then? It’s good as new.”
“So, it’s the dress,” I tell Mattie as I snap another shot. “People are looking at the dress, not me.”
“Sweetheart, they wouldn’t look at that dress if it was on a hanger right in front of them. They only look at dresses when they have curves.”
The men in the room were staring at my curves?
Just then, I see a familiar face doing just that from a few feet away. Barry Baker. Black hair. Brown eyes. 5’5”. A little bit on the stocky side. Paparazzi by profession, if it can be called a profession. He’s been asking me out since I started, but there’s no way I’m going to let him get his greasy paws on me.
Weasel.
“That’s not very comforting.” I put down my camera and take the toothpick of olives from her nearly empty glass, eating one.
Mattie frowns. “I’m not trying to comfort you. I’m trying to compliment you.” She takes the toothpick back from me and eats the other olive. “You’re a chick, Samantha Willis. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
“Says the woman who’s won the Prettiest Face award at the company party three years in a row.”
Mattie gulps down the rest of her drink and smiles. “I have an expert opinion then.”
She’s got a point. Still, me, a chick? Sure, I’ve got a tiny waist and long legs, but my boobs aren’t as big as I’d like them to be, and my auburn hair has got a mind of its own.
I don’t feel like arguing with Mattie over such a trivial thing, though.
Change of topic. “Anyway, we’re here to work. Not to look good.”
“Ah, but why not do both if you can?” She places her empty glass on a tray held by a passing waiter. “Speaking of looking good, is Nathan Landers here yet?”
I pause in the process of wiping my lips with a sheet of tissue at the name.
Nathan Landers. Head of Landers Innovations. An IT magnate only six years in the making. A self-made man. Time Magazine’s incumbent Person of the Year.
And one of the hottest men alive.
I still remember the first time I saw him. I was at the Lincoln Center, just covering my third event, and he was an honored guest. As I caught him on my film for the first time, my mind preserved the image of his blue eyes, that head of rebellious, wavy brown hair, that chiseled jawline, those broad shoulders, toned arms and that flat abdomen that was apparent even through the tailored suit he wore.
I was the one behind the camera and yet, I was the one who had been captured, frozen in time.
“Um, Sam?” Mattie’s voice disrupts my reverie.
“Nope, I haven’t seen him,” I tell her quickly, wiping my lips.
Mattie must never know I have a crush on Nathan Landers.
Well, I wouldn’t call it a crush exactly. Admiration? Fascination?
Fine, a crush, and not the first I’ve had in all my twenty-six years, I might add.
Yup. Just another silly, innocent crush.
Innocent? I hear mocking laughter inside of me.
I frown. Fine. I’ll admit it. I’ve imagined him naked while lying on my bed. So what? Everyone’s entitled to a little fantasy, right?
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with hoping.” Mattie squeezes my shoulder. “But in the meantime, I think I see someone over there that I’d like to ask a few questions.”
And she’s gone, the crowd parting for her and then immediately shifting back into place like the steady flow of the tide.
Count on Mattie to walk up to the wealthy and the powerful like she was just walking up to a tree.
Confidence. She has that, all right. She probably got my share as well.
Work, my mind tells me.
Right. Break’s over.
I place the used tissue inside my purse, lift my camera and continue taking pictures.
“A picture for Prima Vida, please.”
One picture here. Another there. One more. Two more. Three more. I’ve lost count.
That’s the beauty of digital cameras. You can take as many pictures as you want, and someone else can just decide later which ones are worth keeping and which ones can be deleted with the push of a button.
At least, as many pictures as you can until the batteries run out.
The battery icon starts to flash, so I turn off the camera and get the spare batteries from a pouch inside my purse.
I’m a professional. I’m always ready.
I’ve barely put in one of the new batteries, though, when I hear a buzz through the crowd. I look up, my breath catching as I see the man descending the staircase.
He’s here.
Nathan’s here.
He holds himself like a lion. Noble. Magnificent. Dangerous. Forbidding. Confidence and power come off him in waves, demanding attention, commanding compliance. And yet he moves like a wolf, a silent force of lean muscle. Suave. Sexy.
Wild.
He may be in a crisp tailored suit, and he may act like the perfect gentleman, but something tells me he’s never been tamed.
Maybe he never can be tamed.
Just like a wild animal that can never be captured and one can only hope to take a good picture of.
A picture.
As if I’ve been splashed by a bucket of icy water, I spring into action, preparing my camera. I must have been too much in a hurry, though, because the next battery slips from my hands, and when I kneel down to pick it up, I am frozen again by a startling sound.
A sound one never wants to hear.
Fabric tears at the seams, the side of my dress bursting open to reveal skin, particularly the side of one bare breast.
Shit.
“It’s hopeless,” I say to myself with an exasperated sigh as I lean my head on the door of the bathroom stall ten minutes later.
Or has it been twenty? Thirty?
It seems like an eternity since I ran to the ladies’ room after my gown tore.
I never should have worn this gown.
If I had at least two safety pins, this would have been manageable. But no.
As I go through the contents of my purse for the hundredth time, all I find are extra batteries and memory cards for my camera, my wallet, my phone, a small pack of tissues, the keys to my apartment, my comb, and my lipstick. That’s it. I bet not even Mac
Gyver could do anything.
To make matters worse, I didn’t wear a bra, since this gown has only one strap and a sheer back. I am wearing bra petals, but they’re no use now, are they? I mean, they only cover your breasts from the front, not from the sides.
I don’t even have a blazer, cardigan or shrug. I usually wear one over my gown, but nope, not tonight. Tonight, I only chose to bring a thin shawl because it’s been a hot day and the air was still warm when I left my apartment.
I get off the toilet bowl and try experimenting with my shawl. I wrap it around my chest but it looks funny. I try tearing a piece of it so I can make some sort of patch, but that doesn’t work, either. The fabric of my shawl is tougher than my gown.
What’s a girl left to do?
I have only two options — go back to the ballroom with my ‘peek-a-boo’ dress and finish my job, which seems like a disaster waiting to happen, especially with Barry around, or go home. My editor, Nancy, will be mad, but hey, I can’t help it.
There’s no way I’m going back in there looking like this.
Even Cinderella in her torn after-midnight dress looked better. At least none of her private parts were sticking out.
My mind made up, I send Mattie a message. She must be wondering where I am after all.
Going home. Wardrobe malfunction. Sorry.
Taking a deep breath, I exit the stall. Mrs. Hen is there, and she throws me a curious glance then a disapproving one. What? Has she been here as long as I have?
Surely, she doesn’t think I’ve done something naughty.
Does she?
Ignoring her, I leave, one hand still under my right armpit as a first-aid measure, just to keep the tear from getting bigger and turning into a gaping hole.
Now, all I have to do is make a sharp turn and a bee line for the exit, and I’ll be out of the woods. Easy.
But then I never expected to see Nathan Landers running toward me.