Complete We (A Her Billionaires Novella #4) Read online

  Complete We

  A Her Billionaires novella

  by Julia Kent

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  Copyright © 2014 by Julia Kent

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  Author’s Note

  This novella is not a standalone book, but rather is a continuation of the series I started with the Her Billionaires: Boxed Set book, and continued in It’s Complicated. While new readers are absolutely welcomed into the world of Laura, Mike and Dylan and Laura’s best friend Josie and her boyfriend, Alex, Complete We will make more sense if you’ve already read the Her Billionaires boxed set, It’s Complicated, Complete Abandon, Complete Harmony and Complete Bliss.

  Chapter One

  Josie

  Josie was at the reception desk for Good Things Come in Threes when the most irresistibly pleasant older gentleman knocked lightly on the main door and entered. Well into his fifties, but preserved with a self-effacing confidence that was charming, the man looked like a cross between Robert Redford and Harrison Ford. Smart. Clued in.

  Almost courtly.

  “Excuse me,” he said in a voice that reminded her of Mad Men, as if he were enjoying two fingers of brandy in a square highball glass, sitting in a leather-covered chair at a steakhouse, smoke trickling up in willowy lines from a manicured man’s hand. None of that was true, of course, but the sense of that impression was so strong, just from that opening phrase.

  “Is this the threesome dating service?” he finished, using a lower register in his voice, not out of shame but from a sense of privacy. His eyes were whisky dipped in moss, an unsettling shade of green against hair the color of wet sand. A little grey was interspersed above his ears, and he had those deep wrinkles that people who smile—a lot—get on their face, from forehead to cheeks.

  An appealing man.

  “Yes, it is.” Josie stood, came around to the front of her desk, and stuck out her hand, a bit wary. He could be a reporter. Or a warrant processor. Or someone from the property management company, concerned about parking spots again. A thousand scenarios flashed through her mind, but number one was:

  Why did I have to give Darla the rest of the day off?

  They didn’t get many walk-ins, and the ones who did come in tended to be the slimiest of the slimes, members of the media or part of a fundamentalist Christian group that was closely associated with the Westboro Baptist clan.

  So Mr. Suave was already pinging her subconscious radar, no matter how sophisticated and nice he seemed to be.

  “My name is Frank Stedman.” His grip was warm and friendly, the handshake of a man accustomed to pressing the flesh a great deal. His cultured voice was like liquid laughter, and against her better judgment she found herself melting into his niceness.

  “Josie. Josie Mendham. Nice to meet you, Frank. You here for business?”

  “I’m here to learn as much as I can.”

  The hair on her upper shoulders went tingly. “Learn? Are you doing an investigative piece?” Two months ago a journalist had come in and claimed to be an intern at a local college newspaper. He had asked a million questions and then wrote up a three-thousand-word exposé for a major newspaper, the web link making its rounds. The nasty comments on the web had led her to ban her friends from reading the articles, not that she had any sway.

  Laura had read them, as had Darla. The former was worried for Jillian, the latter that she’d lose her job.

  Twenty-seven new clients had signed as a direct result, so hooray for unintended consequences, but the stress of the negative wasn’t worth it. They were getting closer to making matches, and another biased news article could threaten that. Then again, maybe it would get the right person’s attention…

  “No,” he said, shaking his head slightly, clearly perplexed. “I’m here to find the right people so I can live in perfect threesome harmony.”

  Those words sounded so fake, so scripted, that Josie laughed in his face. C’mon. This guy wasn’t for real. And he wasn’t even a good actor.

  “Frank,” she said matter-of-factly, positioning herself closer to the door in case he gave her trouble. The UPS guy Darla slobbered over was due to deliver packages soon, and she also knew that the weekly staff meeting for the CPA firm next door would end any minute now. The more company, the more eyeballs and ears she could get if needed, the better. “I don’t think we have what you’re looking for.”

  He fixed her with a hard, solid look, no negativity. Just a cold calculation, measuring her as surely as if he’d pulled out a yardstick. What he was measuring was a mystery to Josie, though.

  The two sat in silence. She sure as hell wouldn’t crack first.

  He did. “Josie,” he said with that warmth in the back of his throat, as if he could translate caring with his vocal cords, “I’m here because I lost someone very important in my life years ago, and I want to find my way forward. Your dating service is the only way I can do that. I absolutely need your help.”

  Frowning, she took him in. Plenty of perverts cajoled and begged and asked for every erotic encounter you could imagine—but as she told them, she wasn’t a madam in a brothel, so if all they wanted was a kinky fuck, go on Craigslist and post a Casual Encounter Wanted ad.

  Frank Stedman wasn’t looking for that, though. “We’re your only hope?” Josie joked. “Who are you, Princess Leia? Sorry. I’m no Ben Kenobi.”

  His face lit up with a smile. “I don’t look good in that bikini, and being chained to Jabba the Hut goes a little too far for my kink comfort zone,” he replied.

  Josie’s turn to laugh, but she didn’t take her eyes off him, especially his hands. “Fair enough. Are you here to become a client?”

  He sidestepped the question, and it would take days for Josie to reflect back on this conversation and realize how skilled, how unctuous he’d been in choosing his words very, very carefully.

  “I’m here to learn more about your service,” he answered, nodding. “And to see how I can benefit from it.”

  Josie’s eyes narrowed, her heart beating a few steps faster than its normal pace, her mind struggling to assess the situation and act accordingly. A gut check told her he was fine overall, but something didn’t sit quite right.

  “How did you learn about Good Things Come in Threes?” she asked, gesturing for him to take a seat. With great skill she maneuvered so she was closest to the door.

  “On the internet. Google, of course. The great replacer of the neighborhood fence chat. Can’t ask your neighbor Agnes anymore which threesome dating site she recommends, so…”

  She smiled without showing teeth. It seemed to rattle him in the tiniest of ways, for he hesitated, eyes reading her. He was evaluating her as much as she was studying him, and it had nothing to do with sex or love or kink.

  This was primal threat assessment.

  “We don’t get too many walk-ins, Frank, so forgive me. Just making sure you’re not here for the wrong reasons.”

  Something in his eyes flickered, the skin around them widening slightly, making an inner alarm start to ding in her chest. But he tilted his head, that brown-silver hair parted loosely on one side, the b
angs falling in light waves across his forehead. God, if he were twenty years younger she’d be squirming in her seat right now, flushed with unwelcome desire for a man who by all rights she shouldn’t—couldn’t—have naughty thoughts about, because that man was supposed to be Alex.

  Was Alex.

  Is Alex.

  Frank’s age had little to do with her ability to keep her clit in check. It was something else, an instinct that freaked her out, because it made no sense.

  She had learned to listen to it, though. It was the same feeling she got when her mother went on a bender and brought someone home to fuck.

  Preservation.

  “What would be a wrong reason, if I may ask?” He saw her eyes blip over to the door and his face morphed to a look of alarm. “If you feel unsafe with me, Josie, by all means we can take our discussion to the coffee shop downstairs, or you can open the door.” His face softened, eyes appearing to reflect her own worry back to her. “I would never want you to feel uncomfortable around me, and your personal safety is of utmost importance.” The smile he gave her was meant to offer solace, but instead made her feel ashamed.

  Where was that coming from?

  “No, no,” she said, backing down even as an inner voice screamed for her to be bold, to stand and go to that coffee shop, to do exactly what he had offered. That was the problem: doing what he suggested felt like a failure, a defeat, like she was giving in to his belief that she was overreacting. This was crazy-making. How could she have been bent over business expense spreadsheets just minutes ago and now she was second-guessing her emotional reaction to this man?

  “If it would be better for me to return when you have a coworker here—” Frank started.

  “Darla will be back shortly,” she said primly, remembering her self-defense training classes. Never let a potential predator know you were alone. The lie lived on her tongue quite happily.

  “Do you have other coworkers? I’d imagine a business like this must be bustling. You’ve practically cornered the market.” He winked. “And it’s an important market. I read the write-up you got from that national sex columnist.”

  Half of Josie’s mouth went up in a reluctant smile. Charmer. But it was working. She was damn proud of getting such positive coverage for that interview. Laura had stayed behind the scenes, as usual, but Josie embraced her work now.

  “We’re a small operation,” she replied. “Just the owner, me, and some clerical workers.”

  “And the owner—I believe she’s in a loving, stable threesome relationship with two men herself?” He kept his face impassive, eyebrows raised, the corners of his lips turned up just enough to convey friendliness, but those eyes.

  Hawk eyes.

  Laura’s story was one that they worked hard to manage and protect. Potential clients were always eager for details; knowing that their dream was a reality for at least one group was the best promotion the service could possibly get.

  Yet maintaining Laura, Mike, Dylan, and baby Jillian’s privacy was far more important, to Josie, than hawking the service’s wares by whoring out details on Laura’s life.

  Walking that tightrope was hard.

  “Yes.” Josie gave a tight smile. “She is. The owner lives the life.”

  “And do you?”

  Her smile fell. “I don’t talk about my personal life with clients, Frank.”

  “I’m not a client, Josie.”

  Ice water ran through her as those hawk eyes zeroed in on her as if they’d telescoped, prey spotted, target isolated.

  Attack imminent.

  He chuckled. “I’m so intrigued by this company, by the lifestyle. You find a way to help people achieve a kind of love that mass society considers a sin.”

  The alarm bell migrated from her chest to her head, ringing in duplicate.

  Muted voices next door, plus the shuffling sounds of chairs being pushed around, told her the CPA meeting was over. One of the accountants, Janet, might stop by and ask Josie if she wanted a latte from the very coffee shop Frank had suggested they move to.

  Please stop by, Josie thought.

  Frank looked at his watch, an expensive Movado or a cheap knockoff. Josie couldn’t tell the difference. “Oh, dear. Time for me to go. Do you have an application I might take with me? A brochure? I’m very interested in learning more about how this lifestyle works.”

  Sin. Lifestyle. Code words? Was he with the religious protestors?

  She added another deadly sin to the conversation: lying. “I’m so sorry, Frank,” she said, handing him her business card, “but we’re revamping all our sales materials right now. We’re completely out of print brochures. But if you give me your telephone number and mailing address, we can be sure to reach out and give you whatever you need.”

  “Whatever I need? Sounds good to me,” he replied, scribbling on the back of a card he pulled out of his breast pocket. He handed it to Josie and she took it, not looking at it.

  “We’ll be in touch,” she said as he slipped out of the door. Janet was in the hallway and caught Josie’s eye. Josie gave her an index finger to ask her to wait.

  “Oh, yes, Josie,” Frank said with great affect as he pumped her arm silly with an overly enthusiastic handshake, “you most definitely have not seen the last of me.”

  Josie’s phone buzzed, trapped in her purse in a desk drawer. She ignored the sound as Frank walked away, whistling some tune she couldn’t name, the echo following him.

  Janet craned her neck and let out a low whistle of her own. “Who’s the silver fox? Meow.” Janet was about the same age as Frank, Josie guessed, and was happily married to her high school sweetheart, a marathon runner who cracked chests as a cardiac surgeon in his spare time. Talk about a power couple.

  “Someone who wants to be a client,” Josie said absentmindedly, fingering the card he’d given her. The handwritten phone number and mailing address were barely legible, but indicated a Boston address. No surprise there. Most people who became clients were local, though an increasing number were signing on via internet.

  “Huh. If I could get Herb on board, and if that’s the kind of man you’re getting as a client,” Janet muttered as she watched Frank’s ass turn a corner, “then maybe I need to come in for a free information session.”

  Josie rolled her eyes and snorted. Janet’s husband, Herb, had the personality of Mr. Rogers. The man served homeless guys on the street in downtown Boston, handing out wool blankets in subzero temperatures in the winter.

  “That’s enough. You’re buying,” Josie choked out.

  “Why am I buying?”

  “Because now I need coffee to bleach out the vision of you and Herb and…that guy…” She shuddered.

  “I can’t believe you’re such a prude and you run a threesome dating service!” Janet’s eyes twinkled and she said the words quietly, leaning in as though sharing a salacious secret. Which, actually, she was. While most of the accountants knew what Good Things Come in Threes was, they didn’t talk about it publicly.

  “Not a prude. Just don’t want to know about your fantasies. Or Herb’s.” Josie shuddered again.

  “Hey, I do commit double entry all the time.” Janet cocked one eyebrow. “In a strictly professional sense.”

  Josie’s groan filled the staircase as they made their way down to latte central.

  Even a cup of great coffee, though, wouldn’t drown out the voice of warning that wouldn’t stop yammering inside Josie.

  She needed to talk to someone, and Janet wouldn’t do.

  “Shit!” she barked as they made their way down the stairs. Janet always took the stairs, both up and down; she said working at a desk meant she needed to move her body whenever she could. “I left my purse back in the office.”

  “I’m buying,” Janet said with great sarcasm. “Remember?”

  Josie perked up. “Oh. That’s right. Never mind. It’s locked in the office. Thanks!”

  By the time she read the nine text messages from Laura later that aft
ernoon, the coffee’s buzz had long worn off, but the bitter taste in her mouth remained.

  * * *

  As Mike and Dylan walked into her East Cambridge apartment, Jillian perched on Mike’s hip, it occurred to Josie that the men had never been here. Laura had come over with Jillian plenty of times, for business meetings or “business meetings” which were thinly disguised coffee chats that Laura needed, but Mike and Dylan had never been over.

  For a split second she felt self-conscious. The place was neat and tidy, so no worries there, but it certainly didn’t hold a candle to Mike’s lodge-like cabin in the woods, a fortress buried in the middle of nature, where the sounds of the city were as distant as the heavens. Her place was small and a bit shabby, with baseboards that hadn’t been painted since the late 1990s, old radiators that hissed and groaned when called to action during New England winters, and her cat, Crackhead, who stared at the now-toddling Jillian with a look of horror so pronounced it made Josie burst into giggles.

  The cat shot under the television cabinet in the living room and probably would be there for the next three days.

  “Kiht,” Jillian said with glee, practically running to the cabinet, swiping her hand to grab at the disappeared cat and knocking over a stack of DVDs.

  Shit. Her (and Alex’s) apartment was about as childproofed as Jennifer Lawrence’s cell phone was secure from hackers.

  Which was to say: not.

  “Sorry,” Dylan muttered, bending down to pick up the DVDs. He grabbed a small stained-glass candle holder from a lower shelf and handed it to her. “Jillie will destroy this, so you might want to put it high.”

  “And secure your car keys,” Mike said pleasantly, sitting in one of her chairs, legs stretched out. He was just a tiny bit taller than Alex, and his legs nearly touched the TV cabinet. When Josie sat in that chair, her legs barely touched the ground.

  “Yeah,” Dylan said, laughing. “She threw mine down the vent again.”

  “No vents here,” she said, pointing to the silver-painted radiators. “Just those.”