The CEO's Fantasy (The Billionaire Bachelors Series)

  The CEO’s Fantasy

  Billionaire Bachelors Series, Book 1

  RG Alexander

  The CEO’s Fantasy

  Copyright 2014 RG Alexander

  Editing by D.S. Editing

  Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-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, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Coming Soon!

  Other Books from RG Alexander

  About RG Alexander

  Prologue

  Our favorite Billionaire Bachelors were spotted this weekend at Warren Industry’s annual charity gala.

  Yes, the country’s most eligible bad boys are all in town again and they each decided to go stag—that is, sans their usual sugary arm candy—signaling to single Cinderellas everywhere that these princes are on the market once more. Surprised? If you are, you haven’t been paying attention. This fierce foursome goes through women like…well, let’s just say if I had a nickel for every time a heart was broken by our charming scoundrels, I’d be a billionaire too, and between globetrotting and manicures, I wouldn’t have time to fill you in on every last detail of their infamous adventures.

  I dare you to send Ms. Anonymous your nickels.

  But potential sudden windfall for yours truly aside, this relationship update leads me to today’s question:

  We know every debutante’s mama wants a piece of their action, but if you could choose without repercussions, which of the Billionaire Bachelors would be your fantasy? The true hardcore cowboy who has enough land and employees to start his own country but no dancing partner for his special kind of two-step? The musician with a royal pedigree, a wild streak and a vast fortune at his disposal, who’s never been seen with the same woman twice? His best jet-setting buddy who can claim no less than five estates, four degrees and three charges of lewd public behavior on his record? Or the sweet-talking, picture-perfect tycoon-cum-philanthropist who used to be the baddest of the bunch but put those days behind him when he took over as CEO of his family’s company? (Or did he?) His public image has certainly been polished to a dazzlingly dull shine, but is the strain of the straight and narrow getting him down? If his grim countenance and lack of companionship of late are any indication, perhaps it is.

  So ladies, pick your fantasy lover—rocker, rancher, rebel or reformed rogue. Glass slipper shopping is a dangerous sport to be sure, especially with prey as slippery as these particular animals, but I’ll still wish all my readers happy hunting.

  Dean Warren crumpled up the gossip page of the newspaper he’d been handed and drank the rest of his scotch in one go, reaching for the bottle that had been left for him at the table.

  “Happy hunting, my ass.” Someday he was going to find Ms. Anonymous and tell her what she could do with her column. In graphic detail. As it stood, he’d be spending more time at his office, and his assistant would be busy for the next month fielding personal calls and invitations instead of working, the way he did every time the columnist mentioned Dean in her article. He’d ask for another damn raise and Dean would give in, because he would rather pay the man more money than allow his secretary, Mrs. Grandholm, to take on the burden alone. She was a national treasure and too close to her well-deserved retirement to start worrying about his love life again.

  “I don’t think reformed rogues are supposed to swear,” Peter Faraday admonished, grinning at the others around the dining table in the private room Dean had reserved for the four of them. “But then, I’m not sure his image would keep its sparkle if Anonymous knew where he was right now. This place is more my speed, according to her. Speaking of, did you notice how she always finds a way to use the word lewd in connection with me? Every damn time. What’s that about?”

  “She obviously knows you well,” Henry Vincent offered helpfully from his chair. “Maybe you got her mother arrested, you cad, after convincing her an orgy in a public fountain was harmless fun. Now, because of your indecency, we’re being punished with this flagrant example of stereotyping. Rocker, rancher, rebel, reformed rogue…” He snorted. “As a writer, I commend the clever alliteration, but she makes us sound more like Ken doll collectibles than men. I’m not just a piece of beefcake performing on a stage, you know. I have feelings. I’m a complicated man with a dark, mysterious soul. I’d be more than willing to show her, if she’d like.”

  Peter groaned. “Dude, give it up. Co-writing song lyrics doesn’t make you a writer. And there’s nothing mysterious about you other than why you brought that to dinner and why we’re here instead of Dean’s townhouse. I thought you wanted to stay under the radar this trip.”

  “I picked the restaurant,” Dean assured him. “Henry told me he wanted real food, Tracy always enjoys a show with his meal and I didn’t think you’d care. To put your mind at ease, Franco’s is the best kept secret in the city. He wants privacy to work on his gastronomic masterpieces, and I have a fondness for his seared scallops, so it works out perfectly. No one who comes here discusses it, and no one who hasn’t knows it exists. It’s about as under the radar as I could manage on such short notice.”

  “Your pick, huh? For us? And I’d been told you’d lost your touch.” Peter leaned back in his chair and smiled wickedly. “I’m not convinced your chef was thinking about his culinary art so much as his personal sexual fetish when he designed this place.” He waggled his brows. “You have to admit crème brûlée and whips and chains don’t normally go together.”

  “Few interesting things do,” Dean murmured, glancing toward the floor-to-ceiling one-way mirror Peter was gazing through—the one giving them a private view of an erotic exhibition. And it was pure exhibition. A nude woman, her nipples pierced and her arms and inner thighs covered in irezumi—Japanese tattoos—was chained to a St. Andrews cross, being thoroughly and patiently played by both a male and a female dominant. She was writhing in pleasure, her body artistically marked with welts from the man’s whip and bruises from the female’s pinching fingers. She had given herself over to them, but she was the one in control.

  There was a time he would have wanted to capture this moment with his camera. To frame the ecstatic submissive’s expression that told him she was as excited by the knowledge that strangers were watching her as she was by her partners’ actions. I
t was the only reason she played here instead of in the privacy of one of the more secluded dungeons. She wasn’t doing it for money—participants here volunteered—but for the thrill.

  Sadly, he was neither thrilled nor aroused in return. He felt no twinge of curiosity. No interest—sexually or otherwise.

  Hell, he was grim.

  Dean lifted his glass toward his friends as a distraction. “To things that don’t usually mesh.”

  The other men hoisted their drinks in response. They were an unlikely group personality-wise, each leading very different lives. It had been a year since the four of them were last together, so when Henry let him know they were going to stay in town for a while after his company’s event, Dean had streamlined most of his month’s schedule in order to accommodate them.

  He hadn’t realized it, but he’d definitely missed having them around—the three people he trusted completely and could be himself with. His friends.

  Henry Vincent had been touring more on than off for years, Tracy Reyes was often neck deep in maintaining his land and cattle empire, and Peter rarely stayed in one place long enough to meet for drinks. Dean had known Henry and Peter since they were children, but it wasn’t until they met Tracy in college and rented a house together off-campus that they’d bonded over beer, basketball and their love of trouble.

  Those days they’d been wild and careless—and Dean had, indeed, been the baddest of the bunch. The one to introduce quick-study Tracy to all manner of vices, the one who rivaled Peter for public spectacles and Henry for his luck with the ladies. Back then he would have laughed over a harmless article like this. Or paid someone to write it. Back then he hadn’t cared what people thought or why a woman wanted him, as long as he got his way.

  The last fifteen years had changed him, the last five even more—not that anyone had noticed. The knowledge left a trace of bitterness on his tongue and in his heart. No matter how straight the path he walked or how many accomplishments he had under his belt, he would always be seen as the baddest of the bad. To the board of directors, his uncle who pulled their strings, and to any woman he found remotely attractive, the thoughtless words of one loquacious gossip columnist would always matter more than his actions.

  It made him wonder, not for the first time, why he tried to so hard to toe their line. To be better than his father had been. To be known for something other than his social life or his grandfather’s success. To win the board over to his side. The task was Sisyphean bullshit.

  He stared at his glass morosely until a heavy sigh made him look up. Tracy was studying him with concern. He took off his ever-present hat and ran his hands through his short, thick waves before he addressed Henry and Peter. “If you two would just settle down, start thinking with the head on your shoulders and stop fucking your way through the phone book like Dean and I have, the gossip would die off pretty quick.”

  Wishful fucking thinking.

  “Don’t play the gentleman hayseed everyone seems to think you are. We won’t let you get away with it.” Henry reached into the ice bucket filled with beer he’d requested and pulled out a new bottle. “We know what she means when she says special two-step. Case in point, Dean picked this place with you in mind, and I’d be willing to bet you’re on speaking terms with at least one of those lovely kinksters in the other room.”

  Tracy responded with a lazy, sideways smile. “The difference between us is that I understand the meaning of the word discreet.”

  “I know what it means.” Henry took a drink and licked his lips. “You have no idea how discreet I can be. But if I wanted to settle, I’d have let my mother pick her favorite blue blood while I was away and I’d be rocking a white picket fence and a wife obsessed with tiaras by now. Settling sounds like an appetizer. I want the whole meal. One I have an actual craving for.”

  “Oh, the problems of a royal rock star.” Peter laughed. “I suppose that’s the benefit of being the genuine bad boy of our club—I have zero familial expectations and no particular skill set, and women rarely think of settling down when they see me. I don’t get much sleep, or that much respect in the morning, but if I die, it’ll be with a lewd smile on my irresistibly handsome face.”

  That was Peter’s favorite line, but Dean knew better. Faraday had earned four degrees in little more than the same time it took the rest of them to snag one, and he’d still managed to get into trouble between finals. He was a certified genius, and between his highly publicized dalliances and cock-ups, he spent his time in ways that would surprise the hell out of the gossipmonger and the rest of his friends. Peter didn’t like people to know what kind of man he really was. Dean wasn’t sure why. Maybe playboy had a better ring than polymath.

  Tracy muttered something in Spanish under his breath. “You joke all you like, but some of us care about our family legacy and having someone to pass it on to before we die.”

  “Then get busy,” Peter countered, his irritation clear. “What’s stopping you, Patricio? My sex life or yours? Afraid you’ll have to stop practicing your roping skills on long-legged city girls who don’t know horns from balls about country living? Worried the woman who’s willing to put up with your schedule and your family to make a mini rancher or two will only do it with the lights out and no handcuffs in sight? I’m sure there’s a good, wholesome girl out there secretly yearning for a controlling cowhand. Track her, tie her down, make a baby and quit bitching about it.”

  “It’s not that simple, smartass.” Tracy knuckles went white as he clenched the brim of his hat. Peter had struck a nerve.

  “Why not?” Henry raised a brow. “Sure, dating is pain in the ass, particularly when every woman you meet for coffee gets a four-page spread in Sleazy-Gossips-R-Us—but it isn’t impossible. It’s just a poor little rich boy problem. We’re all intelligent, most of us are good looking and we aren’t exactly wanting in the financial department. To a man, we’re all a better catch than Anonymous makes us out to be.”

  Poor little rich boy problems. It was what Dean’s mother had said to his father every time he complained about his lot in life. If she were still alive, she’d agree with Henry, but Dean wasn’t sure he did.

  “Which one of us are you calling ugly, you tattooed, bearded hippie?” Peter glared.

  “Guess.” Henry caressed his full beard to show off his sleeve of tattoos. “But don’t change the subject. Anonymous is getting famous making us targets with her talk about the Billionaire Bachelors. Some of us are fine with the speculation and bad press—hell, it’s done wonders for ticket sales—and Tracy is the Teflon Cowboy, the kinkiest of us all but nothing sticks to him. I’d guess the head of Warren Industries doesn’t get off as easily. He’s spent the last five years being a sitting duck in a suit.”

  Dean shook his head, taking another drink. “I’m a big boy, Henry. It’s nice to know you care, but I do just fine. I don’t need to be your between-tours project.”

  “Bullshit,” Henry challenged. “You’re not doing fine, and everyone knows it. And not just because it’s time for another damn performance review. When was the last time you took a trip that wasn’t for business? Had such mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex that you couldn’t move your legs? When was the last time you did something you wanted to do without thinking about how it would look to that damn board? To Ms. Anonymous and the rest of her ilk?”

  “Fuck off, friend.” Dean’s smile took some of the edge off his words. “When was the last time you kept your nose out of my business?”

  “I can’t believe none of us have found out who she is,” Tracy grumbled, breaking the tension. “Tracked her down wherever she holes up to write and paid her off. I’m tempted to buy the paper just to fire her and be done with it. If we were the kind of men she believes we are we’d have done it already.”

  Dean had thought of that, but the results would be disastrous and impossible to contain. Suing the paper for defamation or firing the columnist would only draw more scrutiny to his personal life, call into question hi
s capabilities and remind them about all the worries they’d had when he took over. If he couldn’t deal with one basically harmless gossip columnist, how could he handle a multi-billion dollar corporation?

  “I have something in the works on that front, but she’s not the real problem.” Henry leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “If she was, I’d have convinced Peter to hack into her computer by now. Gossip happens. She doesn’t help, but she isn’t the only one who shares every detail of our private lives for money. At least she’s honest about what she’s doing.”

  Then she was a rarity, Dean mused, his fingers tightening on his glass. People lied all the time to get what they wanted, and everybody wanted something. A merger instead of a relationship. A scandalous chapter in an autobiography. A picture on the front page of their favorite tabloid. Money in exchange for silence. Everyone had a price.

  No one could blame him for deciding to focus on the business for a while.

  Henry studied Dean’s reaction. “We’ve all got horror stories. But this article… She plays to her reader’s fantasies about who we are. Who they want us to be. The way she worded it started me thinking.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Thinking is not what he’s known for,” Peter agreed with Tracy smugly.

  “Just some harmless dinner conversation, Tracy. And I’m surprised at you, Peter. You used to think my ideas were brilliant.” Henry swigged his beer. “Question. If you could have any woman you wanted—”

  “Audrey Hepburn.” Peter interrupted swiftly. “Or Lara Croft. Let’s be safe and say both at the same time because I refuse to choose between them.”

  “They have to be alive and not characters in a video game.” Henry kicked Peter’s chair with his booted foot. Hard. “I’m serious. What’s your idea of the perfect woman? Librarian, gymnast or candlestick maker?”

  Exchanging amused looks with Dean, Tracy shifted in his chair and leaned over to steal a bottle from Henry’s bucket. “Aw, hell, this isn’t what men talk about when they sit around drinking and watching a woman get well and truly played. This is a Cosmo quiz.”