Savage: A Bad Boy Fake Fiancé Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Table of Contents

  Savage

  Copyright

  Thoughts of a mad woman

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Thank you

  Last-Chance

  Throttle

  One Hot Daddy

  More by Kira Blakely

  Let's hang out

  About the Author

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  Copyright © 2018 by AG Media, LLC, a representative of Kira Blakely.

  All rights reserved.

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  Thoughts of a mad woman.

  Is it bad that I want to thought-punch line skippers?

  It’s not my fault that I’m always right!

  How come guys are the only ones who have balls? I bet mine are bigger than his.

  I’m tired of writing about bad boys, said no one EVER.

  Cats are still better then dogs.

  I need her to play wife. She needs me to play daddy.

  Olivia is torture in a Gucci dress. Spoiled and sassy.

  Everything I hate, and everything I love.

  She’s also my late best friend’s sister and guardian to his daughter.

  She’s going to help me clean up my image.

  I’m going to help her keep parental rights.

  But I’m no daddy. I’m the devil in a black suit. Demanding everything from everyone.

  Savage.

  Claiming her has been my deepest desire for years.

  Even if it means my destruction.

  Too late to stop. Too gone to care.

  I’ll pay the price. Anything. Anyone. For her.

  Chapter 1

  Beckett

  The world had been, and always would be, my bitch.

  Heads turned as I strode through the Granite Room – the most exclusive restaurant in Manhattan – unescorted, my suit so stark, my image so fucking impressive that the women shifted in their seats. The men balled up their fists.

  Chandeliers overhead, thousand-dollar champagne bottles on tables decked with decorative centerpieces of fuck-knew-what type of flower, and meal portions styled and small.

  This was my life.

  High society. Parties. Business. Any woman I could ever want.

  I should’ve been happy. I should’ve be over the moon. But a black cloud hovered over my head, and it’d been there for the past two months. No amount of booze or fucking would take it away.

  A woman rose from the crowd of tables in the restaurant and waved. Redhead, curvy, and dressed to kill, makeup contouring her already high cheekbones.

  I raised an eyebrow at her, and she lowered herself again, a slow blush creeping across her face. The heads watched on, all the eyes in the world, all the phones ready to record whatever Beckett Price got up to at lunch today.

  Hate to disappoint.

  My powerful strides carried me across the room and to the embossed Victorian chair. I tugged it back, took my seat at the table, and tapped my fingers on it. “Make it quick,” I said. “I’ve got business to attend to.”

  “And hello to you, too, Beckett,” Kayla replied and dumped her massive tote bag on the expensive tablecloth.

  A leopard-skin purse. Classy.

  I didn’t let up on the finger-tapping. This shit ate into working hours, and I needed every one I could get. Work hard, play hard. That was my motto, and this past month had been no different—I had three new potential investments to make, and private investments had been slow.

  Price Capital was a monster in the game, but Cooper Investments had fast become a leading name. My competition were sharks. They’d already sniped one potential business investment from me—an IT company developing apps for kids that was set to go live with its IPO next week. If I wasn’t careful, they’d take the next three and screw my good reputation in the game.

  Work was good. It helped take my mind off what’d happened. Same with partying.

  “Should we order lunch first?” Kayla asked, at last, after drawing her iPad from her purse.

  I didn’t answer, simply stared at her.

  “Right, right,” she replied and shrugged. “Look, we need to talk seriously about the future, Beckett.”

  “Beck,” I snapped. I hated the long form. I’d been named after my great-grandfather. Family meant fuckall to me, not in the blood r
elative sense. My only real family had passed two months ago.

  “Beck.” Kayla nodded and gulped.

  “The future,” I said.

  A waiter appeared with a glass of my regular—forty-year-old Bunnahabhain whisky, neat—and placed it in front of me. I lifted it and took two gulps. This whisky was to be savored, not glugged back, but I didn’t have time to waste on subtle flavors this afternoon.

  Kayla pursed her lips. “This is exactly what I’m talking about, Beck. You can’t go on like this.”

  “Last I checked, you were my publicist, not my therapist,” I replied and took another swig of whisky.

  “That’s exactly why we’re having this meeting. I am your publicist, and I am telling you that if you don’t clean up your act, you’re going to lose friends fast.”

  “No problem. I don’t have any friends.”

  Kayla rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. Business. You’ll lose business. Cooper Investments presents a very, uh, how do I put this?”

  “The word ‘cuntish’ is surely involved.”

  “No.” Kayla tapped on the screen of her tablet. “They present a very clean front. And they’re definitely interested in all the same businesses you are.”

  “I’m aware.” Irritation grated at me. My glass was empty and the smooth burn, the coolness of every inhale, hadn’t soothed it. “What’s your point?”

  “Simple. If you don’t clean up, you lose investment opportunities. None of your private investors will trust you with their money if you lose these three,” Kayla said and opened up a Twitter account. “And you’re going to lose these three companies if you keep behaving like this.” She spun the device and nudged it toward me with her fingertips.

  My image was on the screen, hashtagged, of course—a blonde on my left, a brunette on my right, both with their tits straining against silk or thin cotton. I looked smart as hell, albeit disheveled, and I had the hangover to prove it.

  Dark eyes stared back at me from the picture—the devil’s gaze, it’d been called. So brown it was almost black.

  I hadn’t fucked either of those vacuous girls, but it looked like I’d taken them both home by the way their stares were fixed on my face, adoration shining past the sheen of sweat, the dilated pupils.

  “I party hard. Everyone parties hard,” I replied, and it sounded too much like an excuse.

  Talking about this “habit” brought back memories. It made me seethe. It was part of the reason I’d lost my best friend, Michael, two months ago.

  Your fault. If you’d cleaned up back then he’d still be alive. He’d still be here today. The only one who’s a cunt is you.

  “Beck, while you’re out drinking your sorrows away—”

  “Don’t push it.”

  Kayla blushed again. “Sorry, but I have to be blunt. While you’re out doing this,” she said and gestured to the screen again. “Your competitors are wooing private investors, organizing meetings, busting balls. Look, you hired me to do this job, and I’m doing it. If you don’t clean up your image, you’re fucked.”

  I traced one eyebrow with my middle finger, considered it. “Fucked.”

  “Yes. It’s not like you’re low-profile. Every eye in the restaurant has been on you since you walked in. Manhattan’s most eligible billionaire bachelor.”

  “What do you suggest?” I asked. The waiter had already returned with another glass of whisky in the interim and removed the other.

  Kayla nodded to the glass. “Enough of that.”

  I ground my teeth.

  “And there might be—”

  A wail split right through her sentence, and my irritation reached its peak. “What the hell?” I grunted and swiveled in my seat. Who in their right mind would bring a kid to the Granite Room?

  “Ignore it,” Kayla advised.

  Screw that. I despised interruptions.

  The wails continued, increasing in volume, and people at the tables around me grunted, muttered, moved around in their seats, fiddled with their napkins and the glass stems of their champagne flutes. Nobody had the balls to say a thing.

  I rose from my seat, tugging on the lapels of my suit. Where had the noise come from?

  The wails turned to the death shriek of a banshee, and a headache pricked at my temples. “Christ,” I growled. “It’s getting closer.”

  A woman shuffled into view. She wore high heels and an expensive pantsuit, and she held a child to her chest. Two years old, maybe, the toddler was stiff, tossing its chubby arms around, flailing its legs, face screwed up.

  My heart thudded against the inside of my ribcage. Fuck. No. It can’t be.

  But it was.

  I knew that toddler.

  I knew that woman. That beautiful, spoiled, temptation of a woman.

  It was Michael’s sister. My dead best friend’s sister, Olivia. The same Olivia who’d been my temptress and torture in college. The same one I’d avoided like the plague to keep my sanity.

  “Shit,” I grunted.

  “Beck?” Kayla’s voice dissolved into nothingness.

  Olivia was as beautiful as she’d always been, but she was changed. Her eyes slightly puffy and red, her blonde hair pulled back in a bun instead of free around her shoulders, hardly any makeup. Clean. Pouty lips, as always, and a long, slender, pale neck.

  The panic in her expression was priceless. She shushed and cooed, casting apologetic smiles and winces at everyone within earshot, which was the whole restaurant.

  “It’s OK,” Olivia said, loudly, to the toddler. “It’s OK. We’re going to get something to eat now. Penny, you have to calm down.” The same melodious voice that’d had my cock twitching years ago, that’d fueled my fantasies, except it was streaked with barely contained hysteria.

  Penny. That’s Mike’s daughter. Christ, she’s looking after her? She’ll never manage that.

  Olivia was the epitome of spoiled. She’d been coddled and babied her entire life. She was too soft, too. She’d help people without asking, but Christ, she didn’t have a clue how to fend for herself, let alone a toddler.

  The woman was a spa queen. And puke and shitty diapers didn’t exactly fit that aesthetic.

  “Please, Penny,” Olivia said, over the wails. “Please, calm down.” She rocked the screaming kid from side-to-side.

  Penny cried harder, tossed back her head, dark curls bouncing from the motion. Her hair color matched her dad’s. A cherubic little girl. Would she recognize me?

  I strode across the restaurant, and Olivia looked up, paled, her jaw dropped.

  I halted in front of her. “Give her to me.”

  “What? No!” Olivia held Penny tighter.

  “Olivia,” I growled. “Now.”

  She shook her head again, and the toddler let out another piercing shriek. Olivia was the only person who’d have the gonads to deny one of my commands. She took after her brother in that respect. “She won’t stop crying,” she said, and tears sprang up in her eyes. “This is—she won’t—”

  I took Penny from her and lifted her like a screaming, kicking football. I turned her around so she’d get a good look at my face, at my deep, dark stare, then wriggled my nose. One tiny wriggle.

  Penny stopped crying. She blinked tears from long lashes and hiccupped.

  I wriggled again, then gave a tiny snort. We’d played this game, before Mike and Shelly died, over Christmas last year. I’d been there for the afternoon, and Olivia hadn’t bothered turning up, thank god.

  Wriggle, wriggle, snort, a quick smile.

  Penny let out a giggle.

  Wriggle, snort, snort, wriggle. Big smile.

  The giggle turned into a belly laugh. Delight radiated from her.

  Behind Penny, Olivia trembled from head to toe. It was either relief or laughter—maybe tears. Why did I care? All I’d wanted was to stop the noise. “H-how did you? How did you do that?” Olivia asked.

  I ignored her and gave Penny a hug, patted the back of her head. The girl settled onto my shoul
der and let out a little gurgle. “Beck poo,” she whispered.

  A vise-grip closed around my heart. Beck poo. The name Mike had taught Penny to call me, just to fuck with me, to prick my over-inflated ego, as he’d said. “That’s right,” I rumbled, and stroked the little girl’s back. “That’s right.”

  Her breathing evened out, and her little body grew limp.

  “Oh my god,” Olivia whispered. “She’s asleep. I don’t believe it. Here, put her in the stroller, quick.” She dragged the thing forward, and the image was truly ridiculous—high society gal with a stroller in a classy restaurant. Me, the consummate businessman, with this toddler drooling all over my Armani suit.

  I held back anger, then a laugh. Ridiculous. Trust Olivia to cause a scene like this.

  I lowered Penny into the cushy interior of the stroller, then covered her with a blanket. She threw one chubby arm above her head, dimpled at the elbow, but didn’t wake.

  Olivia stared at me. “Beckett.”

  I studied her—from the messy bun to the cleavage peeking from the cream blouse beyond her suit jacket to the tips of her open-toed heels. Her French manicure was chipped. Not like her.

  “Beckett,” she repeated, and her voice warbled.

  Maybe she needed someone to lean on. Someone to care about what she’d had to go through since Mike’s passing. Join the club, Olivia. We haven’t got T-shirts, but there’s plenty of booze.

  I met her gaze. Her green-blue specked irises had always been my mental downfall—the only woman who’d ever made me crazy. And not good crazy, either. “Next time, don’t bring a toddler to a place like this. Take her to Chuck E. Cheese.” I strode past her and toward the maître d’ at the front desk.

  “Beck!” Kayla called, softly, but I let her voice and Olivia’s stare roll down the back of my suit—much like the kid’s drool. “Beck, wait.”

  I reached the man in the penguin suit. “See the woman with the baby?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything she eats, drinks, put it on my tab. Same for the kid.” And then I was out, down the stairs, into the city streets, enveloped by familiar smells. None of them could rid me of the scent of Olivia, light peach and vanilla.

  I couldn’t deal with her now. Couldn’t deal with the memories. The help I’d offered back there would have to be enough.

  For now.

  Chapter 2