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The Boss Billionaire (Paperback)

The Boss Billionaire (Paperback)

Dark, steamy and suspenseful billionaire brothers romance series

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The Boss Billionaire Trilogy—a captivating saga of romance, mystery, and desire, set against the backdrop of a secluded billionaire's ranch.

Tempting, Book One: Stranded in an unfamiliar ranch with no one but a daunting list of duties for company, an innocent assistant's life takes a thrilling turn when her elusive, devastatingly handsome billionaire boss, Spencer Blackstone, finally appears. Sparks fly, but will his dark secrets cool their flames?

Impulse, Book Two:  The tale of seduction and mystery continues as the secrets of the reclusive Spencer Blackstone begin to unravel. His undeniable allure grows stronger, but will the revelation of dark truths about the secluded ranch extinguish the passion, or fan the flames?

Bliss, Book Three: In this heart-pounding finale, every secret is laid bare. As dark truths about the seductive billionaire are revealed, will the love between an innocent assistant and her enigmatic boss withstand the test, or will the revelations be too much to bear?

Experience an intoxicating blend of passion, secrets, and a love that defies the odds in the 'The Boss Billionaire' Trilogy—a must-read for fans of romantic suspense and billionaire romance.


The Boss Billionaire (Spencer Blackstone)

1 - Tempting

2. Impulse

3. Bliss

4. Exposed (Bonus Book) Purchase separately.


Chapter 1

Drained and covered in sticky sweat, I've just endured the most grueling two and a half days of my life. I last showered the night before my flight from New York to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Now, at last, I'm nearing my final destination. From the back seat of my billionaire boss's hired car, I struggle to keep my eyes open. Though I try to take in the unfamiliar surroundings, exhaustion makes my eyelids droop. I'm grateful the driver isn't chatty; I don't have the energy for conversation. I can only hope my accommodations are comfortable because all I crave is a rejuvenating sleep in a plush bed.

I was meant to touch down in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, on Monday, but it's now Wednesday. The delay? During a layover in Salt Lake City three days ago, a small fire broke out in one of the terminals. As a result, all flights were grounded pending an investigation. This situation left me in a tight spot. I was on standby, with a mere six dollars in my wallet. Although I had a hundred and thirty-three dollars in my bank, I couldn’t use it. A minimum payment for one of my maxed-out credit cards is due, and I need to ensure there are sufficient funds to cover it.

Yet the terminal remained bustling with travelers, all eager to get to Jackson Hole. Ten hours later, when flights finally resumed, those with confirmed tickets were prioritized. By the end of the day, I hadn’t secured a seat, relegating me to a restless night on the airport's hard chairs.

The following day, I weighed three options. My first option: call my mother, Congresswoman Patricia Forte. But interacting with her felt akin to striking a deal with Rumpelstiltskin. Turning to my dad wasn't a solution either; he would inevitably inform my mother, drawing me back into that Rumpelstiltskin scenario. The second option was to reach out to my new employer, billionaire Spencer Blackstone. Lastly, the most tempting alternative was to abandon the Wyoming idea, head back to New York, and take my best friend Hope's offer to live with her while searching for a job in the city.

But the pay… oh, the pay…

Ever since a media behemoth took over Caldwell Jamison, my former PR firm, and deemed my position superfluous, I've been without a steady income. That dismissal came in January, and I've subsisted on my savings ever since. Despite being prudent, focusing my expenditures on essentials like bills, groceries, and other basic needs, I'm now financially depleted – truly scraping the bottom of the barrel.

Several months ago, I stumbled upon a job listing from Blackstone Family Enterprises, helmed by Spencer Blackstone. It wasn't until I was officially on board and had signed the non-disclosure agreement that I realized I'd be working directly for the man and his empire. The job was for an executive assistant, and the offered salary—five thousand dollars a week—far surpassed my previous pay. The amount was so astounding that I double-checked to ensure I wasn't on some scam website. Thankfully, I wasn't; the job was listed on the reputable Headhunters Deluxe site. The hiring manager later informed me that this particular position was disclosed to a select few candidates, attributed to unique keywords in their resumes. Whatever those "special keywords" were, I'm grateful mine included them.

The name "Blackstone" is as emblematic of wealth and influence as DuPont, Carnegie, or Rockefeller. It stands to reason that someone bearing that surname could indeed offer such a generous salary. On Friday, after my official hiring, I received a call to finalize details.

"Is this Jada Forte?" The voice on the other end was monotone.

Surprised, I raised my eyebrows. "Speaking. May I ask who's calling?" I kept my tone composed.

"This is Spencer Blackstone."

Suppressing my astonishment, I responded, "Yes, Mr. Blackstone."

"Can you start in three days?" he inquired.

Caught off guard, I momentarily stumbled over my words. I had expected to begin in a week. However, an earlier start meant an earlier paycheck. “Absolutely, Mr. Blackstone,” I responded.

His next words weighed heavily on me. “You’ll need to relocate to Jackson Hole, Wyoming.”

Joy quickly turned to apprehension. I hesitated, mentally mapping the vast distance between Manhattan and Wyoming. "To Wyoming?"

“Ten thousand a week,” he interjected, likely detecting the hesitation in my voice.

I almost sent my lukewarm coffee flying off my desk. "Did you just say ten thousand a week?"

“And I expect a commitment of six months,” he stated, his voice a blend of seduction and monotony.

Instantly, my mind crunched the numbers. That would amount to nearly a quarter of a million dollars in just six months. Without hesitation, I replied, “Yes. I'll move to Wyoming.”

Initially, he had intended to arrange my flight to Wyoming. However, an hour later, he called back, his voice mumbling something about an account hiccup. He asked if I could make my way to the ranch, assuring reimbursement upon my arrival. “Okay,” I responded, although in retrospect, I should've confessed my inability to afford the ticket. I didn’t want my vulnerability to show.

With my last two hundred bucks of disposable cash in the bank, I bought a standby ticket for $191. Hope drove me to the airport so I didn’t have to pay to ride the subway. Luckily, I secured a fast flight out of New York and didn’t hit a snag until Salt Lake City.

On night one of being stuck in the airport, I came close to securing a flight, but the late party showed up at the last minute, and I was bumped from the only available seat on the small airplane. The next day, I was bumped from every flight heading to Jackson Hole. The ticket agents kept apologizing, promising that what was happening was unprecedented. 

By day three, everyone who worked behind the counter was pulling for me to hook a flight and not get bumped. But it looked like I would be forced to sleep on those uncomfortable chairs again, so I forced myself to choose option number two and call Spencer Blackstone and ask for help. 

I frantically relayed my experience of the last forty-eight hours. Once I finished gushing, I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed. He remained as silent as a church mouse for way too long.

“Hello?” I finally asked.

“You’re in Salt Lake City,” he said in the same lackluster voice he’d used when he offered me the job.  

“Um, yes,” I replied, half hoping he would fire me. Then it hit me. The only reason why I hadn’t called him on day one was because I wanted to sabotage my job. I wanted him to fire me.

“I’ll call you back.” He hung up.

The chilling remnants of his voice haunted me. I thought there was something wrong with a man with no variation in his tone. 

Just come home where you belong, I heard my mother’s voice say.

But where is that? New York or California? I asked the Patricia Forte who lived in my head.

With me, she snapped, and I stiffened.

Thank goodness my phone rang again. It was Mr. Blackstone, and he said a car would be waiting for me at Arrivals within an hour. He ended the call in the same abrupt manner he’d used earlier.

“Wow, what a…” I whispered, looking at my phone. I didn’t want to say it. If my new boss turned out to be a jerk, that would be the worst-case scenario—no one wanted to pack up, talk her landlord into allowing her to vacate her apartment without notice, accept her friend’s offer to pick up her things and put them in storage, and travel way across the country, all to work for an asshole. 

It took nearly an hour to get my luggage from the standby area. They had to find it. I was sweating with every step, feeling as if my feet were made of cement by the time a car took me to another nearby airport. I boarded a small private airplane and left Salt Lake City for Jackson Hole. The flight was bumpy with no frills or thrills. I prayed and prepared to die the whole way, especially after the aircraft took a sharp dip. At twenty-nine years old, I was probably too young for a heart attack, but for a little while, I thought I was having one. Then the pilot’s voice came over the loudspeaker, apologizing for the drop and telling me not to worry and that the turbulence was worse than usual. I took my inability to secure a flight out of SLC for almost three days, the stress of getting my luggage, and the latest encounter with deathly turbulence as signs that greed had probably made me make the wrong decision. I should have stayed in New York.

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