The Billionaire Beast Read online

  He stopped in front of her, standing between her and his huge desk, looming over her, making her feel like she was the size of an ant.

  His eyes glittered and there was something feral in them, something that made her mouth go dry and fear curl up tightly in her chest. She could suddenly see why Mr. Nero de Santis had difficulty finding a personal assistant who lasted longer than a week.

  “So,” he said without any niceties at all. “You want to be my assistant?” His voice was deep, harsh, with a gravelly quality to it that for some reason felt like a velvet cloth rubbed roughly against her skin.

  She stiffened, not liking the sensation. In fact, she didn’t much like the punch-to-the-gut response to him, full stop. She rarely let people get under her skin, but she had a feeling that if she wasn’t careful, he could. It would pay to proceed with caution from here on out.

  Controlling her instinctive irritation at his rudeness, Phoebe met his gaze calmly. “Yes, that’s the general idea.”

  “Why?”

  The abruptness of the question caught her off guard. “Why do I want to be your assistant, you mean?”

  He folded his arms, the fabric of his jacket pulling tight across his massive shoulders, and stared at her with the same kind of unblinking intensity as a great cat would stare a deer it would quite like to eat. “That’s what I asked. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  She blinked at the roughness of his tone. Okay, so she was starting to get more of an idea of why this man was considered so difficult. He was rude. Then again, she’d dealt with rudeness before, quite frequently. In fact, she’d gotten quite a name for herself as being an assistant who could handle difficult people, so she was pretty sure she could handle Nero de Santis, despite whatever rumors there were about him.

  “Well,” she began carefully, “I’d like this job because it sounds like an exciting opportunity to—”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said bullshit.” His arms dropped and suddenly he was walking away from her, going over to the window and glancing out, then coming back over to where she sat and circling her.

  He moved with a kind of restless, kinetic energy crackling around him that made her feel unsettled. That made her want to keep her eyes on him in case he did something. Though what, she had no idea.

  “Don’t give me that shit about opportunities and exciting challenges.” He circled her chair, and she had to resist the urge to turn her head to follow him, her whole body tensing for reasons she couldn’t name. “You must have heard the rumors, how I went through ten assistants in one month and how I reduced every single one of them to tears.” He came around the front of her chair once more and paused, looming over her like a mountain. “Or about how I like my assistants to be near me 24/7 and that I call them to fulfill my needs at any time of the day or night. How I expect instant obedience and do not tolerate protests or arguments.”

  Phoebe took a silent, deep, calming breath. Actually, she hadn’t heard some of those rumors, not that it would matter of course. Fundamentally, she didn’t care how difficult this man was or how difficult the job, she needed the money it was going to pay her to care for Charles and she’d put up with anything for that alone.

  And hell. It was better than stripping.

  She gave the man looming over her a pleasant, professional smile. She’d found that the best way to deal with difficult people was to be as calm and as pleasant and as accommodating as possible. At all times. “I have heard some rumors, yes,” she said, keeping her voice utterly neutral. “They don’t concern me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

  “Because rumors are invariably just that. Merely rumors.”

  There was a silence where he looked at her for one long, uncomfortable moment. Then he leaned down very suddenly so they were nose to nose, his face mere inches from hers.

  The unexpectedness of the movement made shock unroll down her spine, and she had to work hard not to flinch away from him.

  His eyes were so dark, sharp and glittering like the edge of an obsidian blade, the pressure of his gaze like a hammer blow.

  “They’re not rumors,” he said, that harsh voice of his becoming softer, more deadly. “They’re all true.”

  Chapter 2

  Nero watched with interest as the color leached out of Phoebe Taylor’s milky skin. The pupils of her pretty brown eyes had dilated, the darkness swallowing the glints of pure gold that he’d seen flash in the depths as he’d circled around her. Glints of temper or fear, he wasn’t sure. But he’d like to find out. In fact, there were a whole lot of things he’d like to find out about her. Now, preferably.

  He didn’t question why he wanted to know, because he didn’t question himself much generally. It was only that there was something about her that he found . . . intriguing. He liked surprising people, or rather, he liked shocking them, and yet apart from that initial widening of her eyes as he’d walked through the door into his office, Phoebe Taylor hadn’t shown any signs of shock or even surprise. She’d merely sat there with her hands clasped in her lap, those sharp features of hers betraying nothing but calm. And she’d looked at him like . . . Fuck, he didn’t know. Only that he hadn’t seen a woman give him that kind of look before. Normally they either stared at him like he was something good to eat or they ran the hell away.

  Not prim Miss Taylor, though. Apart from that initial shock, her gaze had been detached almost. As if he was a problem she had to solve.

  He decided he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  “The rumors are true,” she echoed in that prissy little British accent, one red-gold eyebrow lifting as if he’d said something completely ridiculous and she was humoring him. “Are they indeed?”

  Which would have been infuriating if she hadn’t been pale, revealing the delicate dusting of freckles across her nose. Getting up in her face had scared her, no doubt about it.

  He didn’t move, staring into her eyes, watching for more telltale signs that his nearness bothered her. Yet apart from a certain rigidity in her posture, she gave no sign that it did.

  “Yes,” he said flatly. “They are. Now answer my fucking question. Why do you want the job?”

  A normal person would have been moving restlessly in their seat, disturbed by the fact that he was so close and possibly by his crude language, but not Phoebe. She sat very still, self-contained, and utterly self-possessed, matching him stare for stare.

  “I want the job because it pays well,” she replied, her tone as flat as his. “And because it’s better than stripping.”

  Honest. Good. That was a start. He liked honesty.

  “How do you know stripping isn’t something I might want you to do?” Her skin was incredibly fine-grained and smooth. Soft, too, he’d bet anything.

  “I would assume you have other people who could do that better than I could.” Her voice was calm, but pink tinged her cheekbones.

  Nero reached out and trailed a finger across the pretty color, and sure enough, her skin was as soft as he’d imagined.

  She became even more motionless but didn’t pull away. “Is this still an interview for your personal assistant?” she asked levelly. “Or are you interviewing for another position?”

  He very much wanted to cup her cheek in his hand, feel her skin against his palm, and since he was a man who never denied himself anything he wanted, he did just that, sliding his fingers along the line of her jaw, letting his palm press against her cheek.

  Fuck, so soft. Like a rose petal.

  Her pupils dilated more, whether in shock or something else, he couldn’t tell, but that was the only response she gave.

  She smelled good. Not of those intense, deeply sexual perfumes that the women who usually came to his house wore, but of something else. It was a simple, sweet smell that reminded him of his garden. Was it . . . jasmine maybe?

  “What other position would there be?” He let his thumb trace the line of her cheekbone. “My personal as
sistant is there to provide me with everything I need. Everything I want.”

  “I see.” Her voice remained infuriatingly calm. “If providing you with what you want includes touching, then I’m happy to find someone else who can let you do that.”

  He gave her another stroke. “What if what I want to touch is you?”

  “That might be a problem. I have a fiancé.”

  Nero frowned in genuine puzzlement. “How is that a problem?”

  Some expression he couldn’t interpret rippled over her face, which annoyed him. Though he had no problem with reading people’s most basic feelings, such as fear or anger or desire, he had difficulties with reading complicated or subtle emotions. Normally this didn’t bother him since he interacted with very few people and those he did interact with, he didn’t much care about. But for some reason, right now, the fact that he couldn’t read Phoebe was profoundly irritating.

  “It won’t be a problem,” he said, before she could respond. “Because whether you have a fiancé or not makes no difference to the requirements of this job.” He let his hand fall from her cheek and straightened. “Which are as follows. This is a live-in position. My assistant needs to be available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They are required to fulfill any requests I care to name, without argument and without protest.”

  Phoebe didn’t move, the expression on her face exactly the same as when he’d had his hand on her cheek. She seemed utterly unfazed by anything he’d said. “I see. So, to be clear, I have to live here and be on duty twenty-four hours a day?”

  He scowled at her. “Didn’t you hear me when I said I don’t like to repeat myself?”

  “I just wanted to be sure I heard you correctly,” she said in the same level tone. “Your requirements are not . . . usual.”

  “I don’t give a shit whether they’re usual or not. Those are the requirements, and they’re not up for discussion.” Abruptly restless, he turned away from her, moving over to the window that gave a view out to the walled area that was his private garden, pausing there to check the weather. It was brilliantly sunny, which added to his general irritation.

  Summer in New York always made him even more restless than he was normally.

  “When you say you require every request to be fulfilled, do you mean . . . anything?”

  He stared at the greenery below him, noticing that one of the rose bushes looked like some insects were getting to it. Shit. He was going to have to get James to speak to the gardener again. “Of course, I mean anything,” he said brusquely. “I get what I need when I need it. End of story.”

  “What if I can’t provide that?

  “Then you’re fired.”

  There was a pause.

  Sensing some kind of emotion coming from her, Nero swung around. “What?” he asked.

  Her gaze was calm. “I didn’t say a word.”

  “No, but you have opinions, don’t you?” He moved away from the window. “One thing you need to be clear on, Miss Taylor, is that I do not pay for anyone else’s opinions. I’m not interested. The only opinions that matter are mine. Is that understood?”

  Her expression didn’t give so much as a flicker. “Yes, that’s understood.”

  He moved behind her, but she didn’t turn, her gaze directed instead to the stag’s head above his desk. “All you have to do is whatever I need, whenever I need it. That’s all. And in return, I’ll pay you six figures.” He paused, looking down at the top of her red-gold head. Not a curl, not a single wisp of hair escaped the bun at the nape of her neck. It was coiled neat and tight with small, practical brown hairpins. “Six figures every three months.”

  Her head turned quickly to the side, and he couldn’t help baring his teeth in a feral smile. Money, it always came down to that. Offer people enough and they’d do anything for you. Anything at all.

  Even things they wouldn’t normally do.

  “That wasn’t in the advert.” A certain sharpness had entered her tone.

  “No, because I’ve just decided to up the salary right now.”

  “Why?” Again, her voice was sharp, and this time there was an edge of demand to it that should have made him angry and yet didn’t.

  No, it excited him.

  “You don’t get to ask the questions, Miss Taylor.” He reached out to take one of the hairpins, slowly sliding it out of the tightly coiled mass of hair. “Like I said, this position requires total obedience, and if I don’t get it, you don’t get paid.”

  “If I take the job,” she amended.

  Nero dropped the hairpin on the ground and reached for another one. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Which one?”

  “About why you want the position.” He dropped the second pin and reached for a third, tugging it slightly.

  Clearly feeling the tug, she shook her head, as if trying to free her hair from a branch that had caught it.

  “Keep still,” he growled, pulling the third pin free.

  She let out a soft breath. “What are you doing?” The question was perfectly calm and yet . . . was there an undercurrent of something there? Some kind of reaction?

  “I want to see what your hair looks like.” He reached for a fourth pin. “Answer the fucking question.”

  She went very still, which pleased him. “I did. I told you I wanted the money.”

  “Why do you want the money?”

  “Why does anyone want money?”

  “You’re supposed to do whatever I say, not answer questions with questions.” He eased out a fifth pin then went on to the sixth. Fuck, she had a lot of hair. “Last time. Why do you want the money?”

  “I see. This is a test. Very well.” She was silent a moment. “I need the money because my fiancé is in hospital. He’s been in a coma for two years, and I’m coming to the end of my savings. The care in this particular hospital is very good, and I’d like him to stay there.”

  Another man might have felt some sympathy for her, or even felt sorry for her. But Nero felt neither. He generally didn’t like to feel much at all beyond basic, physical pleasures, and certainly other people’s traumas were of no interest to him. Not when he had his own to deal with.

  “If you want money, you’ll have to work for it.” He picked out the last few pins and discarded them with the rest on the floor, watching in fascination as the coil of hair began to loosen and fall down her back in thick, red curls. “I’m not a fucking charity.”

  If his harsh words had any impact on her, she gave no sign. “Obviously,” she said, her tone cool. “If it was charity I wanted I would have used GoFundMe.”

  “Or you could try stripping.” Reaching out, he pushed his fingers through her hair, watching as the coil began to break apart into a glorious fall of red-gold curls. The strands felt silky against his skin, soft, too.

  “Apparently I still might if I take this job.”

  That cool note was in her voice again, and for some reason it sounded like . . . amusement? Strange. Why the hell would she find something she didn’t want to do funny?

  He looked down at her, sifting her hair through his fingers, that sweet, flowery scent rising around him. “You’d do it if I asked you to.” He didn’t make it a question.

  “Or else you’d fire me, of course.” A pause. “I should warn you that I draw the line at getting rid of bodies.”

  Nero frowned. Then he eased his fingers from her hair and prowled around her chair so he could see her face. She stared back at him, absolutely calm, as if he hadn’t suggested he might want her to strip for him. As if she hadn’t had a complete stranger take down her bun and run his fingers through her hair.

  “And if I wanted you to?” he demanded.

  She gave him a pleasant if impersonal smile, her lovely hair falling down around her shoulders, softening her sharp features. “Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now, is there anything else I should know?”

  * * *

  Phoebe’s heart was beating unco
mfortably fast and her scalp was prickling all over from the feeling of his fingers in her hair, but she absolutely refused to let any sign of her discomfort show.

  Six figures every three months was worth any kind of provocation. Even letting a complete stranger touch her. Even having his fingers in her hair, taking out her hair pins and scattering them on the floor.

  She’d expected him to be difficult, but she hadn’t fully realized just how difficult until now. Until he’d touched her cheek without asking. Until he’d run his thumb across her cheekbone. Until he’d taken her hair down . . .

  It had been a long time since anyone had touched her. Certainly, the last time anyone other than her stylist had touched her hair had been when Charles had pushed it behind her ear as he’d kissed her good-bye, just before he’d left on that business trip to Vermont. That had been two years ago.

  She hadn’t wanted anyone’s touches since then and still didn’t. And that included Nero de Santis. But for six figures every three months? Hell, she’d even change her stance on the stripping thing.

  Phoebe sat still and calmly met Nero’s black eyes. She badly wanted to fix her hair, but she ignored the urge to put it to rights. No point in letting him know he’d bothered her. He’d probably only repeat the same bad behavior if he did or maybe do something even worse.

  In many ways, he reminded her a little of her father, who’d always been demanding and self-centered. He hated fuss, too, and Phoebe had found that the best way to handle him was not to argue, but simply give in without drama. That discovery had come in handy with many of the executives she’d worked for in New York, and she suspected it would come in handy now.

  Nero said nothing, the pressure of his impenetrable inky gaze like a hand pressing down on her. He was standing close, giving no regard whatsoever to her personal space, that wild energy he gave off crackling against her skin like electricity.

  It was unnerving.

  “You understand you’ll have to live here?” he asked in that same harsh, abrupt way.

  “Yes.”