The Billionaire’s Revenge, chapter one

Foreword Five Years Ago… Jumping from the wall, I hold my breath. The walls surrounding my father’s property are not high; below is a spongy strip of grass that will cushion my fall.

My younger sister Cece sneaks out on visits, so I know this. She’s the insane one. The enjoyable one.

The one who four years ago, following the divorce, relocated to California with Mom. The typical teen who gets to attend a regular coed school and go on dates. What about me?

I am the good daughter. The eldest. The excellent, the protecting one.

Still, Dad doesn’t believe me. This morning, on my way to my all girls’ school—god forbid dad trusts me to attend high school where there could be males or booze or parties or anything he considers even somewhat “inappropriate”—he still made a point to stop me and said I have to remain in tonight.

No going out after school, not even to see my best friend Lace’s soccer game, which I told her I would be able to attend. Even worse, he didn’t say why I was abruptly penalised. Screw him, I thought as I roll to break my fall and crash hard on the grass.

Though slipping out wasn’t too tough, barely involving more than shimmying out my window, climbing the ivy lattice on the roof beyond it, and then ascending a ladder to reach this wall, my final obstacle, I’m breathing heavily. Maybe it’s simply because this is my first time doing something like this. It’s thrilling.

Ignored my father. I tell myself he deserved it. I brush off the legs of my fitted black trousers and change the crop top I put on particularly for tonight.

Knowing there was barely a snowball’s chance in hell I would ever show, lace has been texting me about this party for weeks. Still, St. Augustine’s, the boys’ Catholic high school a few towns away, doesn’t throw large events like this one very frequently. His parents are out of town and he lives on some amazing estate, perhaps nearly as large as my father’s, so he invited everyone from both his school and ours.

Lace attended the last one he threw, five months ago, and she has not stopped discussing about since. I emailed her this afternoon to inform her I was in; she was so surprised I think she almost had a stroke. Still, I become 17 in five days and should start behaving like it.

Hell, much alone kissed one, I’ve never even danced in the same room as a boy. I could use some more life experience. Following the GPS on my phone, I set off down the road.

Though I’ve never traversed the roads of our upstate New York hamlet this late at night, it’s not too far—just a 20 minute stroll. Or by me. Wishing I had remembered to pack a jacket, I shiver slightly and hug my bare belly.

Late summer, nearly fall, and cool enough to cause goosebumps on my arms, chest, and stomach. Wearing a brand-new crop top that cost a fortune. I just got it into the shopping basket by pretending it was a bra, not a real shirt.

Hugging my contours just so, the jeans are designer as well. Paired with my high heeled Manolo Blahniks, I’m looking beautiful as hell tonight, I have to confess. Not that I would know the first thing about how to really be sexy, but still.

The internet is mine; Dad’s “inappropriate content” filters can only do so much.

I tell myself as I approach the town limits and stroll onto the pavement that at least I am not the only one angry at him. His recent meetings have come to my attention. Usually, the perfectly dressed business guys who show up on our front porch with bodyguards the size of little horses seem to appreciate their time with my father.

From the liquor cupboard Dad keeps locked, they all salute to their different businesses while sipping whisky. I’m not stupid, albeit I don’t know much about what precisely those include. There’s the front Dad puts on for the rest of the world, the real estate firms and the investments, and then there are the offshore accounts he discusses in whispers, the deals done in his study over those glasses of expensive whisky, while guards man the doors and even the maids aren’t permitted to go inside.

But recently, those gatherings have changed. I’ve heard shouting more than once; just yesterday, a guy I’d never met before ran out of the house yelling over his shoulder that he’d see the Badiary name destroyed if it was the last thing he did. Looks like Dad is annoying more people than just me.

Still deep in meditation, I turn right at the town centre. Instinct then causes me to look up; the air around me has changed. The street is empty.

I tremble. Though naturally, I have never gone out thus late before, I have never seen the town this empty. I look at my phone once more for the map I had been following.

Damn it. Made a wrong turn. I return to the main road and then tally street corners once again.

Two streets ahead, I turn right and this time I hear it. Steps. Nearly in sync with mine but off by a hair.

Just enough for me to notice. I hasten, however my shoes make it difficult. I reach the next street light and then casually look over my shoulder, pretending to be unconcerned.

My heart rate triples and my gut tightens. Two men are behind me. They seem roughly my age, so perhaps they are also heading to the celebration.

I strive to believe that. But I somehow cannot picture any of these children, with their ripped jeans and large sweatshirts, glaring at me as they smoke a cigarette heading to St. Augustine’s. Prep-tastic, the St. Augustine’s lads are Catholic school rebellious.

Unlike these men. A few meters behind me, one of them walks under the street light and I notice a neck tattoo. Hi, sweetheart!

“That one calls, catching me looking.”

Turning around, I begin to walk again, quicker. Am I still heading in the correct direction? I would rather not check on my phone.

I duck my head and hurry. Where you going so quickly? ” he says.

His voice is growing louder. He’s closing in. Damn it.

I detest myself for donning these tight jeans and heels. What was I considering? “Let us keep you company,” the other guy adds in yelling.

It’s not safe out here this late. Both of them laugh softly and darkly. Then, before I know it, they are flanking me next to me.

I look back and forth between them, therefore understanding they are both taller than me. More muscular and taller. Tattoo-neck looks down at me with a sparkle in his eye.

Are you trying to party? We can point you to a nice location. “Private. Best sort of party, said the other fellow. I turn to size him up; he winks and leers at me with nicotine-stained teeth. “No thanks,” I answer, maintaining my calm and disinterest. I don’t want these people to realise how much they are currently disturbing me. Tattoo rolls his eyes and says, “Oh, I get it.” “She’s too good for us,” he says, pulling on my blouse and causing me to wince. Mentally kicking myself, I give him a sideways look. “Isn’t that correct, tiny Miss Designer Jeans? Too nice to mingle with filth like us, huh? Your first hint was what? Your first hint was what? I say, squinting. Ignoring them, I throw my hair over my shoulder and walk forward. Tattoo’s buddy then seizes my arm, painfully strong. “That’s not very pleasant. Young lady, where are your manners? Where are your manners, young lady? “Let go of me,” I say, my voice still calm, commanding. Leaning in, he whispers directly into my ear, his breath stinking. “Make me.” I yank my arm from his hold, remembering back to the self-defence classes Dad said I should attend as a child. It works—he loses his hold on me, I whirl around, plant my feet, and hit him hard in the jaw. Pride and terrible delight flood me for a second. Hah. Accept that. But that is incorrect. He hardly flinches from the blow; next, he grabs both my shoulders and pushes me into the wall. “You will pay for that, bitch,” he snarls, and Tattoo seizes my other arm, pushing me against the brick wall as his friend goes for the clasp of my trousers. Knowing even as I do that it will be futile—there’s two of them and one of me, and they know what they’re doing, more than I do—I tighten, prepared to kick him. Why didn’t I keep attending those courses? A booming, deep voice cuts us off and I grit my teeth, prepared to battle to the finish. Let her go. We all three freeze. The men smirk at each other, but I look straight beyond them to the man approaching us along the street. The streetlight catches him just as he yells, and for a second, I can see his high cheekbones covered with dark stubble. A powerful jawline, deep-set eyes that sparkle in the light. A nearly buzzed, short hairdo that brings to mind the Army. Then he strides directly towards us past the light. “Mind your own business, man,” Tattoo says, turning to confront this enigmatic guy. Though he is preoccupied, his friend keeps me pressed against the wall looking over his shoulder at the man. The man responds, “This is my company.” He’s closer now, his voice commanding and forceful, and the atmosphere around us appears to quiver. Though not by much, he appears older than us in the faint moonlight. Perhaps twenty, twenty-one. Still, there is something in his gaze that looks wise beyond his years. His gaze suggests he understands what he’s doing and he’ll do anything to obtain what he wants. I told her to go. You have ten seconds. Sure? Otherwise what? Tattoo smirks; his pal chuckles. Their distraction helps me to hurl myself forward, off the wall. Half-tackling the man holding me, I pull my leg up to strike him in the groin. Simultaneously, I swing with my free arm. My fingers sharp pointed, I strike him directly in the throat. Gasping, he stumbles back and seizes my arm once more, tossing me off-balance. Tripping in my heels, I hear crashes and moans next to me. Tattoo is on the ground, out cold when I look up to discover him catching my balance. The other man is grabbed by the stranger by the throat; I pull away and back off. I trip, fall roughly on my buttocks, but at last I am free. “You want to leave here now,” the man says, tightening his grip on my assailant. At least as much as he could with this man’s arm over his neck, the assailant agrees. The man releases his hold and runs across the street without even a backward look at his unconscious friend. Regarding my rescuer, one hand outstretched, he walks towards me, emotionless, stepping over Tattoo. We lock eyes, and for a breath, I remain still. Just observe him, cautious. From my undignified posture on the ground in the midst of this vacant street, my heart begins to race as he looks up at me. Damn, my hero is really attractive. Up close, he has a flawless face broken only by the crease in his brow as he frowns down at me, and cheekbones that might cut glass. I gradually raise my hand and put it in his. He pulls me up and tightens his hold around my fingers. Though I lift myself to my feet in one fluid move, he grips my hand tightly enough to cause pain; as soon as I’m upright, he releases it almost as if he doesn’t want to touch me. As though I burn him. In a manner I have never experienced, he surely burns me. My stomach is flipping inside out and I now get what others mean when they say butterflies. “Thank you,” I say, wide-eyed. That only makes him more frowning. “Don’t thank me,” he says. Deep as thunder, his voice echoes in my chest. You only saved me from those men. What else should I do? What else is expected of me? He moves closer, and I tense up. The way his eyes shrink and his lips tighten into a thin, harsh line makes me uneasy. His eye sparkles with something nearly like awareness. Recognition and contempt—but he could not possibly know me. I would surely recall if I had previously encountered this guy. “You have to be more cautious,” he says, causing my heart to skip a beat. Careful about what, exactly? About him? I reach out to attempt to stop the tingles running down my back. I can’t say if I’m simply jumpy after seeing those guys or whether it’s the near proximity of one of the hottest males I’ve ever seen that’s triggering me off now. Not shaking, he tightens his hold around my fingers by gripping my hand and holding on. I gasp slightly, and he moves closer to me. He’s only inches away now, and I can see his chest humping with exertion. What causes effort? His gaze pierced me. His stare nails me to the location; they’re ice blue, the lightest I’ve ever seen. He turns his hand and changes his hold, loosening it before I can respond. His fingers weave into mine, causing my cheeks to flush crimson. His lips relax just enough to allow a little grin to shine through his normally serious face. You shouldn’t roam these streets alone so late, sweet females like you. You could go into trouble. Swallowing hard, I am all too conscious of his stare resting on my lips. “Perhaps,” I say, raising an eyebrow and smirking. “But fortunately, when I do, there are men like you to rescue me.” He chuckles low and deep in his throat, only once. “You’ve got it all wrong,” he replies, grinning more. I am the problem, not the saviour. Those boys behind there couldn’t hurt you like I could. Now I move back, once more hitting the brick wall behind me. But he matches me, step for step, till I feel boxed in once more, breathless with dread. Though unlike the boys earlier, it’s hardly a negative thing given how near I can smell him. Rich, heady is his fragrance. Something like pine trees, crisp as fresh snow, and addictive. Though my heart races and my eyesight blurs with an adrenaline rush, I inhale and enjoy it. Why would you wish to hurt me? I said, my voice quivering somewhat. Though he just saved me, I can’t help but feel a new rush of dread running down my veins. Is he the nice man or a wicked one masquerading as one? You don’t even know me. “No,” he confesses, head tilted. Examining me. Drinking me in. “But I’m acquainted with your father,” he replies, and that’s when I truly shiver. Damn. He has to see how my eyes grow. Still clutching his, he must certainly feel the shake in my hand. This time he laughs louder. Indeed, Miss Badiary. I know all the awful things your father has signed into. Either commanded to have done or dedicated himself. Every method he has used to terrorise and dominate others with his authority. The innocent bystanders he has trampled in his frantic quest for power. Your father has to be cautious. Eventually, the day will arrive when he can no longer avoid his comeuppance. His lips a breath away, he leans in close to me. So near I could raise my chin to greet them. But all inside me is quaking, terrified, breathless. Is it only fear? Even now, I sense something else coiling under the surface. Something suspiciously like want. “One day, even a powerful man like Calvin Badiary will pay the price for destroying the lives of others,” His hot breath ghosts across my cheeks as he says this. His stare is riveted on mine, his smirk gone, his mouth restored to that narrow, rigid line. Though he releases my hand, he runs his fingers up the rear of my wrist, following them up my arm to my elbow. Slowly, but I can feel every inch burn through me like fire. This sensation eludes me. Why am I equally afraid and thrilled? Why I wish to run and also to lunge forward and grab him the way he is grabbing me. “You’re too sweet for your own good, Pamona,” he says softly, and I flinch, alarmed by the sound of my name on his lips. He genuinely knows me. Not only as Calvin’s daughter but also as my name, my face. Has he been tracking me? You’re a bit naive doll. His fingers softly cup my cheek. Dolls like you can also get broken. That said, he turns around and removes his fingers from my face. Strides up the alley, leaving me breathless, against the wall, my entire body quaking. Running my hands through my hair, I let myself slide down the wall to sit only when he is gone. What the hell just took place? I question. One day, even a strong guy like Calvin Badiary would pay the price, he remarked. I wonder what sort of cost he refers to, precisely…