Wanted By Him (The Billionaire Black Sheep Book 1)

  Wanted By Him

  The Billionaire Black Sheep: Episode 1

  Tessa Blake

  Happy Ever After

  © 2019 Tessa Blake

  Happy Ever After, August 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, institutions, news anchors, or bad boy billionaires is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, by any means electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system currently in use or yet to be devised.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal use and may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase a copy for that person. If you did not purchase this book, or it was not purchased for your use, then you have an unauthorized copy. Please go to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting my hard work and copyright.

  Created with Vellum

  For the Book Tarts.

  I know you guys waited a long time for this,

  and I hope it’s worth the wait.

  Contents

  1. Miles

  2. Brigitte

  3. Brigitte

  4. Miles

  5. Miles

  6. Brigitte

  7. Brigitte

  8. Miles

  9. Miles

  10. Brigitte

  What’s Next?

  About the Author

  1

  Miles

  “Last one,” I tell the bartender. I drank my way down Fifth Avenue to the Baccarat, but slowly enough that I’m barely buzzed. I’ve got this gut feeling that I should keep my wits about me tonight—and I listen to my gut. The fight I had earlier with my brother is still at the forefront of my mind, and I meant what I told him: He’s going to need me.

  How I got to this point is … well, it’s a long story. Let’s see if I can sum it up.

  For starters, I’m Miles Garrett. Yes, those Garretts.

  I’m sitting here drinking alone in the extravagant bar of an expensive midtown Manhattan hotel because my younger brother, Rafe, summoned me back to New York from California, where I’ve lived for the last several years—happily out of touch with both my family and with the mega-successful business that bears our name.

  Rafe runs Garrett Enterprises. Me? I just run.

  I glance at my phone, which sits silent and dark on the mirrored surface of the bar, and hope Rafe calls before it’s too late.

  Too late for what, I’m not entirely sure.

  There’s something going on in the company—some kind of skimming off the top, tax fraud, I’m not sure about all of it. While I can’t bring myself to care overmuch about the company, or even about the family name, what I do care about is this: someone is trying to frame my brother. For the fraud, for a murder, and who knows what’s next.

  Yesterday, I helped him get rid of a body someone left in his girlfriend’s bed. Today, he threw me out of his office and told me he didn’t need me anymore. Standard Garrett brothers bullshit. But I thought we were past it. I thought moving out to California and disconnecting myself from my family would solve all my problems.

  But how can it, if I come running back whenever I’m called?

  The Prestige Suite is waiting for me upstairs, but I don’t want to go up just yet. I don’t even really like staying here, but it’s what’s expected of me. The black sheep, right? Wasting my family’s money on shit that doesn’t matter.

  Well, they don’t know me. They don’t know what I spend my money on.

  And if that’s partly my fault because I let them think what they want, I’ll take the blame. Better that then to let any of them in, where they can judge what I’m doing, pronounce it good or bad according to their own weird prejudices and biases.

  But what I’m actually doing out there? It’s nothing like what they think. They think I spend all my time on a surfboard, or chasing beach bunnies. The money my brother sends me—behind my father’s back, since I’ve been disowned—goes right back out of my account again, and Rafe has never actually asked me what I do with it. He just assumes I spend it on bullshit, then sit around waiting for the next handout.

  And I definitely do wait for that deposit every month—but I don’t spend a nickel of it on myself. And I don’t think Rafe or my father could ever even begin to understand that. It’s easier for them to imagine that I’m a loser than to think that I might just have taken a path different than theirs, and that I could actually be happy on that path.

  My mother would understand. My mother would be proud, I think. My brother would be baffled. My father would be … I don’t know what my father would be. He wanted me in the family business, even when it became obvious that I didn’t have the aptitude for it. That’s all Rafe—the ruthlessness, the single-minded drive to succeed, the love of the game. That was never me, and it never will be. And trying to live my life in Rafe’s long shadow was never a serious option, not for me.

  So I’ve let them think I’m lazy, and a loser—that all I care about is sun and surf and bikini babes—and I figured they’d never ask me to come back here, to get involved in Garrett Enterprises business. They would never expect me to be anything other than the black sheep. And that suits me just fine.

  That’s how I like it. I don’t need them.

  I will admit, though: when I checked in, it didn’t exactly hurt my feelings to tell the front desk to send the charges to Garrett Enterprises. If my family wants to pigeonhole me as the lazy, useless son, I’ll play the game—but they can foot the bill.

  I’m pulled out of my dour thoughts by the bartender setting my twenty-six-dollar gin and tonic in front of me—in a heavy glass made of Baccarat crystal, of course. I don’t have to tell him to charge it to the room. He already knows.

  One more bill for Garrett Enterprises.

  As I take my first sip, my phone lights up and rattles against the bar. The caller ID says Little Bro.

  Well, that didn’t take long.

  For just a moment, I think about not answering it. I came running when he called, and what happened was a goatfuck of near-apocalyptic proportions. Why on earth should I get myself involved in whatever the hell he’s got going on now? I should just send it to voicemail, go upstairs and pack my shit, and put myself on the next plane back to the West Coast.

  But he’s my brother.

  I pick up the phone and swipe to answer.

  “That was fast.” I can’t quite keep the bitterness out of my voice. Always calling when he needs something—and only when he needs something. That’s our relationship, in a nutshell. “Thought you didn’t need me anymore.”

  “I don’t have time to banter with you.” Rafe’s voice is curt, but stress comes through the syllables anyway. “Get over here now.”

  Oh, hell no. “Well, hello to you, too. I’m great, thanks.”

  “Miles—”

  I cut him off. “Sure, just let me drop everything that I’m doing and rush right over.”

  “You said to call when I needed you.” The stress in his voice is heading off the charts. “I’m fucking calling.”

  He sounds real thrilled about it, too. Am I supposed to feel fortunate that he’s deigned to summon me again?

  But I did tell Ainsley to have him call me when he needed me. No one made me say that. The only thing stopping me from getting on a plane back to LA is me. Because at the end of the day, as mad as I am at them, as little as they understand—or want to understand—anything about me, family is family.

  “Ainsley
talk you into it?” I ask.

  Ainsley—now, she was a surprise to me. My brother has … let’s call them hangups. Things that have haunted him for years, and make him fiercely protective of himself. Add to that the long line of gold-diggers angling for whatever he can give them, and you’ve got a recipe for the worst kind of commitment-phobe. Rafe keeps his women at arm’s length, and cycles through them rapidly. And I’ve never seen him look at a woman the way he looks at her.

  We’re dudes; we don’t talk about this stuff. But I don’t have to have a heart-to-heart with him to know. His heart is right out there, for anyone to see. I can only imagine how disorienting that is.

  I wonder how long Ainsley will last. He’ll either dump her quickly, because feeling things is too risky, or …

  But it’s hard to imagine any other scenario. My brother doesn’t do feelings.

  He makes a sound that I’ve never heard him make before—one I’m not even sure he realizes he made. Half-sigh, half-sob. “Somebody kidnapped Ainsley,” he says. “Be here in ten minutes.”

  “Wait, what?” I stare at the drink in my hand, wondering if I can possibly have heard him right. “What the hell are—”

  But he’s already hung up.

  And I realize that’s not stress I heard in his voice; it’s panic. He sounded like he was just barely on this side of losing his shit, and about to head over the line.

  I leave what’s left of my drink on the bar, and bolt outside to hail a cab.

  2

  Brigitte

  I smile tightly at the guy across the table. He’s been talking about himself for the last … oh, I don’t know. Forty years?

  I check my watch. Forty minutes, actually, but that’s a pretty long time, considering that he hasn’t asked me a single question about myself in that time.

  This is what I get for agreeing to a date with an actor. They always think they’re fascinating; nine times out of ten, they’re wrong. So I’m stuck in a mediocre Upper West Side bar, drinking a Manhattan so weak the bartender ought to be fined, and wondering how quickly I can bail on this bore.

  My phone pings—the noise that signals a text message. I smile as sweetly as possible, pull it out of my pocket, and hold up a finger so Mr. Fascinating will shut the hell up for ten seconds. I’m not normally a rude asshole—by which I mean, I would ignore my phone, and I certainly wouldn’t shush someone so that I could look at it.

  But as far as I’m concerned, he’s earned some rudeness. In fact, he should be grateful. This way he can have some of his drink, which has so far been ignored, since his mouth hasn’t stopped moving since we sat down.

  I look at the message, and my heart sinks. Oh, man.

  Wanna get wasted and eat ice cream? I think I just got dumped.

  It’s Ainsley. She’s been … well. Let’s call it “dating.” She’s been dating Rafe Garrett for, like, ten seconds—okay, three days—and it’s been insane. And now I guess it’s over. Maybe that’s just the way of crazy, fast, implausible romances with ridiculously handsome billionaires.

  Not that I would know, never having had one.

  I type out my reply: F that and f him! That douchewizard! Ur place or mine?

  Mine. I’m in a cab.

  I calculate how long it will take me to get home, change out of my date clothes, and get to Ainsley’s. 45 min. Gotta blow off a date & not in the good way.

  Across the table, Mr. Fascinating looks a little put out. “I’m sorry to run,” I tell him, “but this is a friend who needs me.” I rise and pull a ten out of my pocket, dropping it on the table. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “Okay,” he says, looking a little stunned. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Probably better to text,” I say. “I hate the phone.”

  And, of course, a text is easier to ignore.

  I head out, ordering an Uber as I walk through the bar.

  On the way back to my place, I consider what my angle should be. Am I consoling her but being kind about Rafe? Or am I allowed to say Rafe’s a total douche—which he clearly is—and she’s better off without him? I suppose it will depend on if it seems permanent or not. Their whole thing has been so crazy—he literally made her sign a contract to date him, like some Christian Gray wannabe—that it’s hard to know the right tone to take.

  One thing I do know is this: whatever I say, I’ll be saying it over two big bowls of strawberry cheesecake ice cream.

  Fifteen minutes later—clothes changed, face washed, and carrying two pints of Ben & Jerry’s in a little paper sack—I step out of the grocery store on the opposite corner from my building. I pull out my phone to get another Uber, and shoot a text to Ainsley while I wait: OMW. Bringing ice cream.

  Her reply doesn’t come until we’re about to round the corner onto her block: Stay away danger I’m kidnapped go to rafe 1133 5th ave

  I just look at it for a moment, dumbfounded. Kidnapped? That … that doesn’t even make sense. That’s not a thing that happens, not to real people. Not to people that I know.

  But another text arrives: Swear I’m not kidding no cops

  I lean forward and tell the driver, “I … I just got a text. I have to change my destination.”

  “You can do it in the app,” he says. “But tell me what it is and I’ll get moving.”

  I check the message again. “1133 5th Avenue.”

  “Millionaires’ Row?”

  “Yeah.” I lean back. “And, uh … can you go as fast as possible? It’s kind of an emergency.”

  3

  Brigitte

  The driver cruises smoothly right past Ainsley’s building and turns onto Park Ave. There’s nothing I can do to make the car go faster—fortunately, it’s not rush hour, but on the other hand, it’s Manhattan. It’s always rush hour.

  The thought flits through my head that Rafe’s really slumming it—there’s a cluster of buildings just a bit south of his address that people call Billionaires’ Row—but that’s just my brain trying to distract me from the rising panic.

  Kidnapped? How? Why?

  Ainsley’s an investigative reporter for the Daily Press, and as such she’s amassed a fair number of powerful enemies—but she also writes under a very well-concealed pseudonym. I don’t think this has anything to do with that.

  Unless someone got under her cover.

  But they can’t. Literally four people know what Ainsley’s real job is. Everyone else thinks she’s a fashion reporter.

  It can’t be a coincidence that this happens right after she starts dating—very publicly dating, considering there was a photo of them on freakin’ Page Six—one of the richest men in the country. That’s got to be what made her a target. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

  I run through this in my head over and over until the Uber stops in front of the address Ainsley gave me. I hand the driver a ten; what should have been a thirty-minute drive at best was more like fifteen, and he’s earned it. “Thanks,” I say, and rush out of the car and across the sidewalk to the front door.

  There’s a uniformed doorman standing just inside the door. “Can I help you?” he asks.

  I stop in my tracks and realize I don’t even have any idea where in this building Rafe lives. “Rafe Garrett,” I snap.

  He looks taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Rafe Garrett. Where’s his apartment?”

  “Mr. Garrett is on the top floor,” he says, stiffly. “If you step over to the desk, I’ll call up and clear you to visit.” He steps around me, probably assuming I’ll do as he says and follow him over to the desk.

  Instead, I head toward the elevator. “No need,” I call back over my shoulder. “I’ll just—”

  Much faster than I would have expected, given the stick up his ass, the doorman is right behind me. “You can’t just go up there—”

  “I can.” I push the elevator button, and the doors open. “I am.”

  He steps into the elevator with me, literally wringing his hands as I press
the button marked 15, the highest one there is. “Mr. Garrett is very particular about—”

  “I don’t care.” I’ve never gotten anywhere in this world by letting people boss me around. Well, except my actual bosses. But they pay me. All this guy’s doing is annoying me.

  And I am in no mood to be annoyed. Panic is rising in my throat and almost choking me.

  When the doors open, I storm off the elevator, looking right, then left in the short corridor. There’s only one door, so that helps. I stride over and pound on it with the side of my fist.

  “Madam,” the doorman pleads, his voice high-pitched, “You cannot do this. That’s Mr. Garrett—”

  I round on him, furious. “I don’t give a damn if he’s God,” I say. “I will see him, and I don’t have time to waste on niceties—”

  There’s a sound behind me, and I turn back to find the door open and Rafe standing there.

  I’ve never seen him in person before, and one small part of my brain notices that Ainsley’s right—he’s so handsome that it’s literally stupid. Wow.

  I also can’t help noticing that his shirt’s not buttoned right or tucked in, and his cuffs are hanging open with no cufflinks. His hair, which in photographs is always perfect, looks like he’s been running his fingers through it. Or possibly a weed-whacker.

  I feel a tiny trickle of sympathy for him. Whether it’s his fault or not—which I’m quite sure it is—clearly he’s wrecked over this.

  “I assume you’re Brigitte?” His voice is hollow. The trickle of sympathy in me widens.