Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club Book 2) Read online

  I was utterly ignored.

  Appetizers were brought out, and a light, crisp white wine. Charles proved adept at small talk, guiding our conversation from one light, innocuous topic to another without any awkward silences, without any further probing, personal questions. I was careful to sip slowly, keeping a sharp watch on my sobriety—Charles indulged rather more freely as dinner stretched out, but the wine seemed only to make him more personable, more garrulous. By the time dinner was over and we were sipping brandy and nibbling at flan, he was nearly charming, making me laugh.

  I could almost forget how uncomfortable I’d been on the ride here, how dissected and examined.

  Almost.

  I was feeling warm, pleasant, not quite even buzzed yet. I sipped tiny sips of brandy while Charles settled with the proprietor and chatted with him, and then we were heading to the exit. The SUV was waiting already, as if upon some signal I’d missed.

  Charles didn’t sway, miss a step, or slur, but I had the distinct impression he was still a bit more than tipsy, but very tightly controlled himself so as to preserve appearances.

  Once settled, the driver glanced over his shoulder at Charles. “Where to, sir?”

  “Chateau Marmont,” he said. To me, then: “Just a little nightcap.”

  I made a noise in my throat. “I, um, I have an early appointment in the morning. I should get home.”

  Charles only smiled. “I’ll have you home in plenty of time, Autumn. I insist.”

  I got the feeling his “I insist” was a not-so-veiled order, which no one dared go against. And we hadn’t gotten to the point of discussing the real estate he was looking for, which was the only reason I was even on this date in the first place.

  Maybe a little bit because I’d hoped he’d take my mind off of a certain other somebody.

  “One drink, then I really should get home.” I faked a smile. “I’ve had a lovely time, though. Thank you, Charles.”

  He just smiled, regarding me as if with great interest. “Nothing to thank me for just yet, my dear. But, the night is young.”

  The ride to Chateau Marmont was brief, and Charles continued to keep our conversation going with a seemingly endless font of small talk. Once seated at a small table in a corner, he ordered for both of us—without consulting me, again.

  “The lady will have the 2010 Château d’Yquem Sauternes—” and here, of course, his pronunciation was flawless, and I couldn’t have repeated what he said or even gotten close. “And for myself, I believe there’s a bottle of Balvenie fifty-year-old back there—I’ll have a double of that, neat.”

  I knew enough of fine wines to know he’d ordered me a very expensive and very sweet white, which was my least favorite kind of alcohol on the planet. I’d rather drink straight sugar water.

  I was bubbling over with irritation, which was a bad look for me. Especially as we hadn’t yet discussed business.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” I said. “I just have to visit the ladies' room.”

  “Certainly.”

  I spent a few minutes breathing and gathering my nerves. Two sales, I told myself. Even one sale would be worth the annoyance of this date. He was arrogant and presumptuous, and grated on my nerves. I hated small talk. I hated the way he was looking at me, as if assessing whether I was worth his time, his precious attention. As if it were solely up to him to decide what would happen with us, tonight and thereafter.

  Stomach it for a little longer. Get him talking about his parents. Nudge him on what kind of properties his parents are looking for. Get the sale. Move on.

  I washed my hands, and returned to the table.

  Our drinks were on the table, his a rocks glass of golden amber whisky, mine a delicate yellow-white in an elegant, long-stemmed white wineglass.

  I sat, took a sip off my wine—sweet, cloying, almost mouth puckering. Ugh. I hated sweet whites. “Mmm. Yum.”

  He nodded. “It’s my sister’s favorite. We visit the vineyard every year or so, and they do a private bottling for us.”

  “Wow. Impressive.” Butter him up. “So. Our first conversation, you mentioned part of the reason you were out here was because your parents were looking for a place on the West Coast.”

  He nodded, sipped his scotch and hummed an affirmative as he swallowed. “Yes, they’ve owned a beach cottage in the Hamptons for years, and they’ve loved it, but as they get older they’re finding themselves wanting warmer weather and a change of scenery. I told them I’d find them something while I was out here.”

  “What are they looking for, in terms of size and style? Do they have a particular location in mind?”

  He smiled. “To business, is it?”

  I just shrugged, going for cute and demure. “Might as well, right?”

  “Of course.” He watched me take another sip, an odd, satisfied half smile on his lips. “They don’t want anything too palatial, you understand, so maximum square footage isn’t required, but refinement of fit and finish is. They want something on the water, and very private. Acreage if possible, and no shared beachfront, no public access, or anything of that sort.”

  “Of course.” I nodded, already thinking of a couple possible listings. “I know of a couple places off the top of my head that might suit, one in particular. Malibu, on the water, very private, surrounded by private access beach on either side, of course. It’s only three bedrooms and three thousand square feet, but it’s an absolute miracle of architecture. It’s been in magazines and won several design awards. It’s got the most breathtaking views I’ve ever seen, and I sell stunning views for a living. The kitchen is to die for, open concept but with plenty of separation of space. And yet, despite being so architecturally magnificent, it manages to also be cozy and inviting. I’m certain I could get you in to see it tomorrow afternoon.”

  I was testing him: I was intentionally not mentioning the price. The property I was thinking of was one Six Chicks had been struggling to sell for almost a year and a half. It was egregiously overpriced for its size and comps, simply because it had an architect’s name in the description. It was breathtaking, and the design was award-worthy, but even in the heady, stratospheric world of Malibu real estate prices, the property was gobsmackingly expensive. You had to want the prestige of buying that home in particular in order to shell out the money the sellers were asking, and they were rock solid on their number—full asking or no deal.

  If I could sell that property to Charles Barrington the Third, Esquire, I’d have bragging rights with the girls for years.

  He mused. “Are either of the adjoining properties for sale? I would like to be near them. If not directly next door, then not far away.”

  I shrugged. “Everything is for sale, Charles, especially if you’re willing and able to tell them to name their price. And I do happen to know that the owners of a property a few doors down have been considering listing for a while. If you were to swoop in with a juicy offer and they could sell without ever having to list? I could help you snap them both up by the end of the week.”

  He nodded. “Excellent. Well. Put together some proposals. Talk to the owners of the place a few doors down. Ask them what it would take to move out within the month.”

  It was midway through the month, already, so that was a big ask. “All right. And for your parents?”

  “Whatever it takes. I want to be able to sign for it when I see it, assuming I find it adequate for my parents’ needs.”

  “So you’d like to see them both tomorrow, then?”

  “Indeed.” He waved a hand. “There. Business is concluded.” That grin again, one I didn’t entirely like. “Now onto more pleasant subjects.”

  I sipped my wine again, and while I’d been trying to go slow, I was already feeling a little heady, a little wobbly. I didn’t like it—I’d only taken a few sips, not even half of the first glass, and I’d only had a total of two glasses during all of dinner. I shouldn’t feel this way.

  I had a sip of water, but with every passing
moment, I was feeling worse.

  “…I have a suite here,” Charles was saying. “We could take this delightful conversation somewhere more private.”

  I didn’t quite absorb what he was saying. My head was spinning, worse than it had after my date with Seven, and I’d had so much to drink that night.

  Something wasn’t right.

  I stood up, slowly, and it required effort and concentration to do so gracefully. “I’m sorry, Charles, I’m…I’m suddenly not feeling very well. I need a moment.”

  He was at my side in an instant. “Certainly. Why don’t you come up to my room? It’s quiet there, and you can have as many moments as you need to collect yourself, and then I can return you home.”

  I was dizzy, disoriented. Way too drunk for having had maybe a handful of tiny sips from one glass.

  He was guiding me, a hand on my lower back. Possessive, pressing.

  “I…I think I’d rather go home, if you don’t mind.” Sounding normal and coherent was a Herculean effort.

  “Nonsense. My room is so much closer. Some water and fresh air on my balcony and you’ll be right as rain.”

  Something was off. Way off.

  “Home, please.”

  Yet there was an elevator bank in front of me, wobbling and separating into double, triple, rotating sickeningly. I saw his manicured hand pressing a button.

  “It’s just a short ride up, Autumn. You’ll feel much better soon, I promise.”

  His hand was lower, daring the line between lower back and backside.

  I stepped backward, away from him. “No—no thank you. I’ll just get a car.”

  “Autumn, don’t be silly.”

  I swayed on my feet as I hunted for my phone. Finding the opening to my purse was so hard, required so much concentration. What was going on with me? I had my phone, but I couldn’t make it recognize me. Upside down? Gah. I had half a glass at most, what was wrong with me?

  An ugly thought percolated within me. Maybe he’d…done something…to my drink.

  His hand was on my wrist. Tight. Pulling me toward the elevator, which was now open. “Come, Autumn. Just come with me. There’s a good girl.”

  “No.”

  “Autumn.” Scolding. What a bad, naughty girl I was being. How silly of me. “Come, now.”

  I wiggled my wrist, pulled at his grip. “I want to go home.”

  “You don’t, though. Not really. You want to come with me.”

  Something happened, then. Something unexpected.

  A deep, leonine voice snarled over mine, over Charles. “The lady said no.”

  I knew that voice.

  “This is none of your concern, my friend.” Charles, polite, but authoritative. “The lady has merely had too much to drink. I’m taking her to our room to sleep it off.”

  A pair of deep, dark brown eyes were in front of mine. “Autumn. You good?”

  It was hard to keep my eyes open. “N…” the world wobbled. “No.”

  “I insist you mind your own business. I’ll have you removed from the premises if you don’t leave us alone.” Charles again. Firm, commanding, now bristling with impatience.

  He was ignored.

  “You want to be here, Autumn?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Charles snapped. “Last warning. Go away.”

  A snarl, then. “This is your last warning, pissant. Fuck off. The lady wants to go home.”

  “I will end you—not just you, your whole existence. Everyone you know. You will all cease to exist, as if you never were.”

  A gravelly chuckle. “Like to see you try, bub.” Those eyes, then, on mine. “Autumn. Look at me, babe. You wanna go with him?”

  I felt blackness rising up in me. I managed to shake my head. “Nuh-uh.” I blinked at him. Rummaged around in my semi-conscious brain for a last bit of coherence. “Seven? Get me out of here.”

  Immediately, I was weightless. Strong arms supported me. “I got you, Autumn.”

  “Think…drugged.”

  A blustering huff. “Do I have to call security on you?”

  A razor-sharp laugh. “This place doesn’t have enough security for me.” The chest rumbled against my cheek. “I got one question for you, dickbag.”

  Silence. “And that would be what, my foul-mouthed barbarian friend?”

  “You like your teeth?”

  “My teeth?” Puzzled. His voice was in front of me, now. He’d moved to be in the way, it sounded like.

  “Yeah, your teeth. You like ’em?”

  “Um…”

  “Because if you don’t get out of my way right the fuck now, I’ll kick ’em so far down your skinny little throat you’ll be shitting molars for a month.” A hard pause. “Take one look at me and ask yourself if you think I’m kidding.”

  “Do you have any idea who I am?”

  “No, and I don’t give a shit.” Silence again. “What I thought, fuckface.”

  Movement. Chatter of voices.

  “No, I don’t need help. She don’t need a doctor. No, man, just get out of my way…my car’s already waiting…that’s it there, the yellow one…yeah, get the door, thanks. Here. And this is for giving me a head start on the douchebag I was arguing with. Just delay him…I don’t care how, just delay him, or you’ll be cleaning blood outta these nice-ass rugs ya’ll got.”

  I was lowered, settled into a car. Buckled in. A door thunked shut. Another opened, and then I smelled him—a strong scent of leather, the squeak of leather, soap, faint cologne.

  Seven.

  “You alive over there, babe?”

  “Unnnh.”

  “Well, that’s as close to a yes as I’ll get.” A fingertip traced over my temple. “Man, you sure can pick ’em. First me, then that asshole. Jesus, woman. Maybe you oughta take that ad down.”

  I would have agreed, if any part of me was capable of coherency. I was barely awake, fighting to hold on to consciousness. The world was spinning. Darkness rose, rose.

  “I’m taking you home, okay?”

  I wasn’t asleep, I wasn’t passing out. This was something else.

  I heard the low hum of a window sliding down. Fresh air, blessedly cool. “In case you gotta hurl.”

  “D…druh…”

  “Yeah, he put something in your drink. I got you, though. You’re safe.”

  Safe. With Seven.

  Somehow, that was all I needed to give up the fight. I let whatever had me in its jaws take me under.

  5

  Waking up hurt. A lot.

  Sunlight was a bright yellow warmth on my face, my closed eyelids. Silence.

  Something felt…different.

  I peeled my eyes open, and immediately my head started pounding, throbbing. Where was I?

  I was fully clothed, in my dress, undergarments, everything. I slid to a semi-seated position—in a huge bed, white sheets with an insane thread count judging by the feel of them. A pale gray comforter, thin but warm. Behind me, a huge black headboard, like the back of a couch, overstuffed velvet or velour, with big buttons in two rows. Small, minimalist square bedside tables, black with chrome accents. An alarm clock on the left side, near me. My phone was plugged in, charging. My purse was beside it, and my shoes on the floor near the foot end. Not my room, obviously.

  It smacked of masculinity. A huge flat-screen TV on the wall opposite the bed, over a fireplace that peeked through to the other side of the wall. The exterior wall was glass, a sliding door that opened onto a deep, spacious balcony overlooking a trendy part of LA—I knew roughly where I was at a glance, based on a few landmarks. Opposite, a door into a marble-and-wood bathroom, another door into a walk-in closet; the closet door was open, revealing hanging suits, shelves of neatly folded jeans, rows of button-downs, hangers festooned with belts and ties, racks of dress shoes, boots, sneakers, and athletic shoes, all arranged by type. Some hats, mostly ball caps, and, oddly, a huge Stetson cowboy hat.

  Expensive, imported hardwood floors, a thick imported antique
rug under the bed.

  I groaned as I endeavored to get out of bed—I got as far as sitting on the edge before my pounding head forced me to pause. My phone showed a bunch of texts and calls from my girls—I’d have to attend to them. I fumbled my phone off the charger, pulled up the group thread.

  Me: weird, crazy night. I’m alive, I’m fine. Thank god I don’t have any showings today. Wait, I don’t do I? Fine maybe a generous term.

  Lizzy: Yeah, you’re only scheduled to be in the office today.

  Me: Wasn’t my fault this time. You won’t believe what happened. I’ll fill you all in later.

  Zoe: I almost called the police. You’re sure you’re okay?

  Me: Well, I’m unharmed. It was…crazy. That’s all I can say. I gotta go. Must find coffee.

  I left my phone on the table and worked to my feet, which made my head spin and pound. I paused, let the pounding subside, and gingerly made my way to the bedroom door. I opened it and found myself in an open plan condo, sleek, masculine, spare. I wandered through it, took it all in. Kitchen with light cabinets and a dark island, stainless steel appliances, seating for four at the island. Floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall, another door leading to the balcony which ran the width of the entire unit. A white leather sectional facing the most enormous flat-screen I’d ever seen. Kitty-corner to the main door, a sliding barn door, open to reveal an office with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves, a desk with a closed laptop, some scattered papers and envelopes.

  At that moment, the door opened, and Seven entered.

  I swallowed hard, and felt faint, wobbly on my feet.

  He was wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts, loose and short. Barefoot. Shirtless. Sweaty, panting, huge hard chest heaving. He had a towel around his neck, wireless earbuds in, phone in his hand, using the other to wipe his face with the end of the towel.

  Good god almighty, the man was…breathtaking.

  Every inch of him was utterly perfect. Sculpted from marble, with bronzed caramel skin, a trail of black hair leading from his belly button down under his shorts. Tattoos all over his chest and arms, a scattering of scars on his torso. He was a picture of raw male power and primal sexuality.