Bought by a Billionaire (Endowed Book 1)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Betsy Worthing needed coffee.

  As she opened the door, the rush of the bustling coffee shop perked up her senses, bolstered by the rich aroma of good coffee beans on a cold morning. There was a line at the counter, as always. Fortunately the coffee shop had a good system, run by a strong staff, and it moved quickly as order after order was paid for, prepared, called out and picked up. Betsy checked her purse for her wallet out of habit, making sure she hadn't been pick-pocketed. Not that she had much in there, but she could do without the embarrassment of ordering a caramel macchiato and then not being able to pay for it.

  A chill went through her as she joined the line. It was early yet, and the sun hadn't had a chance to work its magic. She pulled her jacket a little tighter around her, trying to warm up- boy, that macchiato was sounding really good right about then.

  Betsy's heart skipped a beat as she spotted a familiar face in line. Claire Martin, a girl she'd gone to college with, was three customers ahead of her. She knew those pointed ears anywhere. They showed her for the devil's spawn she was.

  Claire had been so mean to her back in college, especially in the dorms, where her constant presence almost made Betsy consider quitting school. In junior year, Claire had even started hooking up with Troy, a boy on the lacrosse team Betsy was interested in. The only mistake she'd made was telling Claire she liked him. It took all of two days for Claire to set her sights on Troy, and a week to close the deal.

  Betsy couldn't deal with talking to Claire. She could already picture the scene, Claire turning to leave with her coffee in hand, then seeing Betsy in line. She would give her that fake smile and pretend they were best friends catching up, and then she would deliver some thinly-veiled insult that would embarrass Betsy in front of everyone on line. She would go to work with their interaction looping in her head over and over, and each time she would kick herself for not telling off Claire when she had the chance.

  In short, her day would be ruined before it even started.

  Betsy turned around and left the coffee shop. There was coffee at work. It wasn't great, but it would do. If she hurried, she could still catch the early bus.

  *

  As Betsy stepped into the elevator, she couldn't help but be amazed by how many people worked at her job. In the year since she'd been hired by Grant International right out of college, she had never gone a single day without seeing a new face.

  Being good with numbers, Betsy understood that in a fifty-four-story building there were bound to be a variety of faces. But Betsy was also a practical girl, who liked arriving at almost the exact same time every morning, rarely making adjustments to her daily routine. She had to figure that a good amount of her co-workers would have the same routine as she did, so at least some mornings should be a repeat of the previous one. And yet here she was, looking at mostly new faces once again, a few of them as always engaging in morning chat.

  She leaned past one such face, a particularly hot guy with a great, musky cologne. It had been a while since she'd had a man in her bed, and it was getting harder to hide the need building inside of her. Smiling awkwardly, she blushed a little and pressed for floor number twenty-two: accounting.

  There was just one stop she'd have to make first.

  *

  The Grant International building had so many conference rooms spread throughout its fifty-four floors that some of them went months without a single person stepping inside them. Entire forgotten corners existed in the building, and there were a few floors that no one seemed to know what they were for.

  Betsy had come across the conference room tucked away on the twenty-second floor by accident. It was her first week at the job, and she'd been looking for the bathroom. Seeing the silent room with its long, oak table and two dozen leather chairs, she'd backed out of there quickly, assuming it was someplace she wasn't allowed to go. But after a few months, once she realized no one even looked at that room let alone used it, it became her little secret. A private getaway when things got stressful and she needed a little release.

  Making sure no one had seen her, Betsy closed the door behind her with a quiet click. There was no lock on the door to keep people out. Sometimes she wished there was, but the truth was the risk of being caught excited her. The dimmed overhead lights and the sunlight just barely peeking through the vertical blinds helped set the mood, just as the smell of oak and leather enticed her senses. But there was one thing above all that made Betsy choose this room over far safer ones like a restroom or even a closet.

  A portrait of Logan Grant, founder and CEO of Grant International, hung above the long conference room table. He looked more like a male model than a CEO, impossibly handsome with a dark head of hair. He seemed far too young to be the head of a global corporation, and Betsy had her suspicions that Grant was a false figure-head; an imaginary billionaire, invented by a vast network of greedy men.

  In here, though, Logan Grant was just the inspiration Betsy Worthing needed. Her panties always went damp at the sight of his chiseled face. Betsy pulled out the chair facing his portrait and sat down. They were expensive chairs- Grant International never cut corners- and she sunk into it with a slight sigh. She hiked up her plain skirt until it was around her waist. Then she pulled back her wet panties and slipped her hand underneath. The cool leather felt amazing on her bare ass.

  Betsy played with herself, slowly at first, then faster, building in speed as Logan Grant's portrait stared down at her from above. His eyes were intense and powerful, filled with the kind of confidence only self-made men possessed. She imagined being another of his conquests, one more hostile takeover, as she rubbed herself faster and faster.

  She pictured him walking into that conference room, throwing her onto the table with her ass up in the air, then undoing his belt buckle, taking down his pants and ramming himself into her. She slid her fingers inside as she envisioned him railing her against the oak table, her breasts sliding over its smooth surface again and again as he possessed her completely, body and soul.

  Warmth spread through her cheeks. Her legs shuddered as an orgasm filled her senses. The tingle of nerves overtook her body completely before fading away into a warm, fuzzy feeling. Then, standing up, she adjusted her panties and fixed her skirt.

  Before she left, Betsy looked back once more at Logan Grant's portrait. In all the time she'd been employed with the company, she'd never once seen him, not even in passing. From the little she spoke to her co-workers, their stories went about the same. Supposedly he came to work every, single day, tucked away in his office that took up the entire top floor, yet no one actually saw him come or go. Some said he never left. Betsy had more than once looked him up online, but other than his official photo on the company website, the only thing she could find was his Wikipedia page with some basic information.

  He was, even in the modern age of information, a mystery.

  *

  Bent down in her chair, Betsy adjusted her nude-colored stockings as she overheard Jim and Melissa talking in hushed tones over by the coffee machine.

  "I hear he spent a year in Brazil studying martial arts. When he came back he sent a stock-holder to the hospital," Jim said.

  "Well I hear he owns no less than three S & M clubs downtown, and he spends his nights hopping from one to the other," Melissa said.

  "Who told you that?"

  "Nathan."

  "Nathan f
rom the mail room?"

  "Nathan from legal."

  "He hasn't worked here in six months."

  "Yeah, and he told me seven months ago. Coincidence?"

  Betsy looked out the window at the business district. She knew who they were talking about without having to ask; Logan Grant inspired more conspiracies than John F. Kennedy, and more mythology than the devil himself.

  "Did you finish the Whitewood analysis?"

  Betsy flinched. Her manager Jaclyn Simmons had come up behind her as she was daydreaming. Jaclyn didn't need any more reasons not to like Betsy- for motives she could never understand, Jaclyn had always treated Betsy like a temp, and a bad one at that, even though Betsy went out of her way to be a reliable and hard-working employee.

  "Whitewood?"

  "The market competition review. You do remember that I assigned it to you." Jaclyn squinted down at Betsy, her bony fists on her bony hips.

  "It was only yesterday, I need-"

  "You need to finish it A.S.A.P."

  "It's a lot of data to compile." Betsy checked her calendar, seeing it was Wednesday. "If I really put a rush on it I can get it to you by Friday, but that's really cutting corners."

  "Friday?" Jaclyn was obviously mad. She always got a twitch in her left eye when she was mad. "I need to have that on Grant's desk by the end of today, or else you need to explain to him why it's not."

  "He would actually see me?"

  Jaclyn sighed. "Of course not."

  "I just...I assume Mister Grant would rather have it done right than done quickly."

  "As always, you assume wrong." Jaclyn walked away from Betsy's desk and down the rows of cubicles that led to her office. "I can stretch it to tomorrow, but that's it. You can thank me later for saving your job."

  Sure, Betsy thought. Right after I shove my heel up your ass.

  *

  At twenty minutes to five, Betsy finally admitted to herself that there was no way she'd have the analysis done by the end of the work day. She knew what that meant. One after the other her co-workers passed her, heading to the elevator to go home for the day, and as usual most of them paid no attention to her, still typing on her keyboard surrounded by a pile of papers.

  Jaclyn glanced at her from across the office, her pointlessly expensive handbag clutched in her claws. "I haven't approved any over-time."

  "I'm just wrapping up. Five more minutes and I'll be gone."

  "If that analysis isn't in my hands first thing tomorrow, you'll really be gone."

  "It's under control." She smiled at Jaclyn until the woman turned and continued to the elevator. The moment Jaclyn wasn't looking, Betsy's smile dropped from her face. She considered herself a tolerant person, but she genuinely couldn't stand her manager's condescending attitude, and the way it only seemed to be met with reward and recognition.

  It was going to be a long night. She had lied to Jaclyn: she wasn't planning to stay for five minutes. It was more like five hours.

  *

  By eight-thirty the cleaning crew, who gave her a few odd looks but left her alone, had long since left. Betsy found herself in a very empty, half-lit building. Her eyes were bleary from staring at the computer screen and her back was badly cramped, and even though her work wasn't complete yet, she decided to get up and stretch her legs.

  With security guards somewhere in the building- most likely the lobby, but there was no guarantee- Betsy decided she would only go as far as the ladies room. She whistled to herself as she made her way down the hall, so different and creepy at night, then made her way inside the restroom. After she'd peed, she made the mistake of glancing in the mirror as she washed her hands, seeing how messy she'd let herself become. Even with no one around to see it, she did her best to tie her hair back, straighten her skirt and splash a little cold water on her face.

  When she came back into the dim corridor, she halted. Chills went up her back from the sight she saw- at the end of the hallway, facing into the room where she'd been just minutes ago, was a tall, dark man, his face concealed by shadows. By the way he was dressed, in black long-sleeved shirt and pants, she knew it couldn't be security.

  She felt the fear grip her legs as she realized she was all alone with this man. Security was two pudgy men who probably had their feet kicked up on the counter twenty-two stories down. Her only ways out were either the stairs or the elevator, and both could only be reached by passing the eerily motionless stranger.

  He must have noticed her standing there or felt her presence watching him, because as she stood frozen in place the man slowly, coldly turned his head to look at her.

  "Who are you?" His deep voice reverberated in her chest.

  "Betsy. I work in accounting."

  "Does security know you're here, Betsy?"

  She swallowed, her throat dry. "I could ask the same about you."

  "I should hope they know me."

  "Yeah? W-why is that?"

  He stepped into the light, revealing a familiar face, one she had never seen except on the company website. And of course, in the portrait above the conference room table.

  "My name is on their paychecks."

  Betsy let out a tiny gasp. Apparently Logan Grant was not only real, but the picture hadn't done him justice. There was something about his intensity, the way he held his eyes on her, as if he was taking her apart and putting her back together in his mind, that couldn't be captured in a photograph. Not to mention the way he filled out his pants made her go a little weak in the knees. He was muscular under his clothes, his arms and chest straining against his shirt. She'd been touching herself for so long to his picture, she couldn't have imagined that the rest of him surpassed every fantasy she'd ever made up.

  "Mister Grant, I'm so sorry, it's dark in here and-"

  "You still haven't answered my question."

  She had to think for a moment. "No, they don't know I'm here. I stayed late to finish a project, and I guess I never informed them."

  "What project is so important that you had to break the company rules to complete it?"

  "The Whitewood analysis."

  He was quiet for several long seconds, in which Betsy squirmed and straightened her skirt, feeling as if she was on the dissecting table. Finally he broke the silence by simply saying, "Show me."

  *

  Betsy sat at her desk, unlocking the screen with her password. Every workstation and every file at Grant International was encoded and protected, which was exactly why she couldn't simply bring her work home with her and finish it in the comfort of her small apartment. Mister Grant stood behind her as she nervously cued up the file, his hand on the back of her chair. He was so close she could smell his cologne- something sporty and expensive- along with his natural musk. She discretely palmed the cat figurine she kept on her desk and tucked it away in a drawer before he could see it. With a handsome billionaire around, it suddenly seemed a bit embarrassing.

  "Give me that." Mister Grant leaned over her, his chest brushing against her shoulder, and grabbed the mouse from her hand. He quickly scanned the first few pages. "Who told you to work on this?" His tone was aggressive, accusatory, and it caused Betsy to hesitate. "If you're trying to protect someone, I promise you I'll find out eventually."

  "I'm not trying to hide anything, I just...my manager assigned it to me. She said you wanted it A.S.A.P."

  He stared into Betsy's eyes like a human lie detector, reading her expression, her every muscle contraction, and Betsy was torn between being scared of this man and finding him painfully hot. The two feelings came together, somehow making one another stronger.

  Mister Grant straightened up. "Print this."

  Betsy complied, printing everything she had. As the printer across the room spit out page after page, Mister Grant ordered Betsy to delete all her files, not just relating to the Whitewood analysis but everything on her computer. At first she began to do as he said, starting with the Whitewood files, but before she moved onto the rest, Betsy stopped.

&n
bsp; "Am I fired?"

  "I'm asking the questions here."

  "I understand that, but I think I deserve to know what's going on. What you're planning to do."

  "My thought process is none of your concern."

  "No," she blurted, and Mister Grant raised a sculpted eyebrow at her. "This is your company, I appreciate that, but this is my career, my life. I deserve to know what's going on. You're treating me like I've done something wrong when all I've done is sacrifice my night to finish a project I didn't want to do in the first place." She stood and walked away from him, her hands trembling from the adrenaline rush. "I should be at home watching TV, and instead I'm being threatened by the company boogeyman."

  Before she could get ten feet, he caught up to her and grabbed her so tightly by her wrist it hurt. "Let me go," she warned.

  Mister Grant brought his face close to Betsy's. His expression was unreadable stone, and Betsy felt a tingle in her loins. Her body reacted sometimes in ways she didn't understand, as if being in trouble excited her, while in fact she went out of her way to avoid it at every step.

  "No one talks to me like that," he growled. Betsy hoped the next words out of his mouth were something like, 'I'm glad you did.' Instead he said, "Don't ever walk away from me. Don't you dare disrespect me like that again. I'm in a position where I can ruin more than your career. Do you understand?"

  Betsy felt tears well up in her eyes. "Yes."

  "Yes, what," he spit.

  "Yes, sir."

  Mister Grant suddenly caught himself, as if something had occurred to him. He let go of her arm, leaving a red mark she knew would turn into a bruise. He looked as if he would say something. Then he walked past her and exited, stopping only to gather the pages from the printer. "Go home and watch your television," he said, and with that he left, leaving behind a confused and frightened woman.

  Betsy quietly gathered her things and went home.