Insatiable: A Dark Billionaire Romance Read online

  "Fine, fine, fine..." I growled. "So, I'm looking for a car? What kind of car? Clown car? Mini-Cooper? Oscar Mayer Weiner Mobile?"

  Nora scowled.

  "No. No, obviously not." Did the dumb Brooklyn bitch actually think I was serious? "You're looking for a Lexus town car. Fancy, but understated. Black."

  "Fine," I scowled in return and hung up. I bit my lip and watched the street--darkness, pierced only by the dull, sickly orange lights of the street lamps.

  And then, it appeared--rolling slowly, picking its way down the street like a huge, predatory beast hungry for its next meal. I bit my lip once more--was this for me?

  Trembling, I stepped out of the convenience store and into the darkness. It had gotten colder over the course of the last hour, I realized--or maybe it was the toxic combination of drugs in my system.

  I leaned down to the Lexus window.

  "I, um, I'm Tara North. I think a car was sent for me?"

  The black tinted windows didn't roll down, but rear side door popped open. I guessed this was mine.

  Inside, nestled in the sumptuous leather interior, I found a few bottles of Fiji water, some mints, and some almonds. Classy. I popped a few almonds and my stomach growled, finally getting food after so long. I found myself hungrily digging into the almonds, and then the water and the mints. Something about the night had gotten me hungry. I mean, I'm usually hungry, but I'm generally able to avoid it, or ignore it.

  There was a partition between myself and the driver. I reached forward to knock on it. It curled down slowly; agonizingly slowly.

  "Yes?" the driver asked in ever so slightly accented English.

  "Um, where am I going?"

  "I'm not at liberty to tell you that, ma'am."

  He pronounced "ma'am" like "mum." So, he was from somewhere in the former British empire--I had always liked that. I couldn't see if he was white, black, or brown, but I liked the sound of his voice and I wanted him to keep talking. The clean, polite English he spoke rolled off his lips in the most comforting, assuring way possible--as if assuring me that there would always be an England, that the sun would never set on the empire, and that Mario would never get me.

  "Who do you work for? Did Nora call you?" I asked, trying my luck."

  "I'm not at liberty to tell you who I work for, ma'am. He specifically does not want his name revealed to you. I do not know this Nora."

  Well, that was a dead end.

  But wait--whoever Nora had called... He didn't want his name revealed to me? Okay. This was sketch city.

  What had she said about him? That he was scary rich, and that he had been interested in me--romantically, I supposed?--but she hadn't brought it to my attention because something seemed off about it.

  God, but that was weird.

  Traffic was light, but that shouldn't have surprised me, since it was a Sunday night--really, a Monday morning.

  I tried to track where we were going--first uptown, and then back downtown. He was driving in such a way as to avoid anyone who might be following us, I realized. Clever. He had me lost. If I were trying to follow us, I’d be positively enraged.

  When we finally stopped, at the base of a huge apartment building, I craned my neck up. It was a new development, gorgeous all glass monstrosity. I caught a glance at the cross street and I realized it was less than four blocks from my apartment, in fact.

  "Right this way, ma'am," the driver said, hopping out of his seat and leaping over to the passenger's seat in one fluid motion.

  He opened the door for me, ever so polite. I smiled, blushing in spite of myself--he was a tall, skinny black guy, quite handsome and I might have flirted with him if the situation were different.

  He led me into the building. The lobby was even more luxurious than what I was used to--new construction, fireplace and chandelier, not one but three door men, and an Asian girl who looked more like a flight attendant who immediately approached me and pressed a hot cup of tea and a wet wash cloth into my hands. I cleaned up a bit, drained the warm liquid in a single gulp, and passed them back to her. She smiled broadly at me, as if there were nothing else I possible could have done that would have pleased her so much. Somehow, that smile gave me the willies. There was something about it… The smile of a person who knows damned well what’s coming next for you.

  What was I getting myself into?

  The driver led me over to the elevator. He pressed a card against some sort of keypad and it popped open. One of the doormen nodded significantly at him and I saw the way their eyes met--something grim and sinister passed between them in that moment, something which sent shivers up and down my spine.

  This was deeply, deeply stupid. What if I was walking into an ambush organized by Mario? Or, even weirder, what if I was about to become a prostitute? Or what if, God, I don’t know—I was about to be abducted by aliens? One of my favorite things was to pop a few pills, pour myself a glass of chilled vodka, and watch Ancient Aliens on the History Channel, while zoning out and imagining all the crazy stuff that could be out there. What if this was it?

  I took a deep breath. I had to keep myself under control. Everything was going to be fine.

  I had to believe that.

  "Good luck, ma'am," the driver said as he ushered me into the elevator. I knew I should have tipped him, but I didn't have any cash. I got the sense that this wasn't the kind of situation where I was expected to tip. I got the sense that my driver was being well compensated for his skillful driving and, more importantly, for his ability to keep quiet no matter. Discretion is just as valuable as skill, I supposed.

  I would miss his delicately accented English--English that suggested a tropical empire far afield. I wanted to go to there, wanted to try the spicy food, sit out in the jungle at night, hear the birds and the buzzes of the exotic animals and insects.

  "Thanks," I said, giving him a little mock salute, as if signing off before disappearing on a doomed mission into the bush. For Queen and Country!

  3

  The Negotiation

  The elevator ride was longer than I expected. And then it dawned on me--of course, the penthouse at the top of the building. Of course, my anonymous benefactor would be up there. Of course that would be his place--that explained the keycard required for the elevator. The private elevator.

  As the doors finally slid open, I was greeted with an enormous canvas. Massive, with delicate sweeping blues, abstract and whimsical, I found myself drawn to it--it seemed to depict eyes, among other things, and I suspected I could find faces too--

  "Yes, it's what you're thinking it is," a voice said. The roughness of the voice was somehow incongruous with the beauty of the painting. "It's a Picasso."

  I'm not much for art, but any model in New York has gone to her fair share of gallery openings on some wealthy asshole's arm.

  "This must be worth a fortune," I whimpered.

  "I'm sure. It was plundered by the Nazis in the forties, and though I've attempted to return it to its rightful owners, they don't seem to want it--not really able to take care of a painting like this. The maintenance alone is quite costly. Not to mention making sure everyone keeps their mouths shut about it being here. But it's never been valued, and I don't have a PhD in art history, so I'm not really able to say what it's worth at this point."

  I turned to see, finally, who I was talking to.

  The apartment was mostly darkened, but based on the windows, pin-pricks, practically, in the distant dark, it seemed that it was utterly, utterly enormous. I felt like an astronaut stranged in space, careening into a blackhole.

  And out of that darkness strode a man--tall, broad of shoulder, but slender and athletic--dressed impeccably in a suit and tie--Armani? Hugo Boss? I don't know. Men's wear all looks the same to me. He held a glass of amber liquid in one hand--scotch, I could only assume--and a glass of champagne in the other.

  But the most stunning and shocking thing about him was his mask.

  He wore--I swear to god--an African tribal
mask. The hideous face, carved out of wood, seemed to be something between a crocodile and a pig. I could see his dark eyes glittering through the eye holes. I took a step back in spite of myself and he chuckled.

  "My apologies. I thought this might be startling, but I couldn't help it--this is one of my favorite pieces. Nearly three-hundred years old. Said to grant the virility of a god to whomever wears it. I personally think it's the artistic equal of that Picasso there, but our racist society doesn't really appreciate the achievements of anyone who wasn't a Spanish or Dutch man, do we?"

  "Why... Why are you wearing that?" I stuttered.

  "Because I want to conceal my face," he replied. Well, d'uh.

  "But... Why?"

  "Because, Tara, I don't want you to know who I am."

  Fine. This was going no where. He could see the displeasure on my face, I guessed, because he chuckled. I liked his chuckle, but I’d never admit that to him. And, to be honest, one some level, it pissed me off more. And on an even deeper level, I liked that he could press my buttons. I liked not being in control, even if it scared me.

  "Listen, it's better this way. We'll both enjoy ourselves more."

  Enjoy ourselves? What the hell was that supposed to mean? So this WAS some sort of prostitution thing?

  "Why... Why am I here?"

  "Nora told me you needed some help. Something about an angry boyfriend."

  He swirled the champagne a bit.

  "But we'll get to that soon enough. This Dom won't drink itself, love."

  I followed him into the darkness, wondering what the hell I was getting myself into. He didn't seem like the type of guy who needed to be hiring prostitutes. I assumed, you see, that he was just ugly beneath the mask. That would be the explanation--why else would he want to hide his identity?

  Just for shits and giggles, I ran through possible people he could be--there was no way he was, for instance, a family member. That would be too weird and, more importantly, no one in my family was this rich. I doubted he was an ex-boyfriend of mine. I had never dated anyone quite this rich, though I would have jumped at the opportunity.

  And that was precisely why I just assumed he was ugly. Most rich guys don't really care what they look like but say, for the sake of argument, that he's really insecure? What better way to hide your face than to put something priceless in between it and anyone talking to you? Show off your wealth, hide your face--everyone wins.

  But that still didn't explain why I was here. Because even if he was ugly, a guy this rich didn't need prostitutes. He could go to any club in Manhattan, start handing out bottles of champagne, and he could have half a dozen lonely girls looking for a good time in his limo home, in no time flat, each one of them with daddy issues out the wazoo.

  Maybe he was turned on by the power of prostitution? Maybe that was it? But even then--I had a hard time believing that he couldn't find what he wanted for free. But, some guys just like hookers. I had heard several men tell me, after too many drinks, that the way guys look at it is simple: all women are whores. If you marry one, sure, you're not technically paying for the sex, but you pay for all the stuff that's required for her to hang around--clothes, house, vacations, what have you. With the prostitute, at least, everyone is honest. You're paying for the sex, she's just there for the money, and you don't have to go to Parent-Teacher meetings with her the next week.

  To be fair, all of the guys who said this were divorced multiple times over, so maybe they weren't the most reliable sources. Still, I couldn't help but feel like maybe there was something to this point of view, like maybe it was right for both men and women--after all, hadn't I been with Mario precisely so he would pay for my apartment, so he would give me as much free blow as I wanted?

  The lights came on so gradually, it reminded me of a sunrise sped up, like in a nature documentary. I stifled a gasp--the massive living room bled into a balcony which over looked the city, glittering lights dancing around us. It was hard to tell, even in the light, where his apartment ended and the night-lit city began. Outside, on the balcony, were several of those large, free standing out door heaters that bars will put up on their patios in the late autumn. It was a cold night, and I was only just starting to feel it as the pills and liquor began to wear off.

  But on the balcony, where I followed my mysterious benefactor, it was almost as warm as inside.

  "Are you cold?" he asked, as if sensing my changed state. "I've tried to do this thing, you see, that they do in Hawaii--have it so that you can open all the windows, so that the outside is as much a part of your living space as the inside. Of course, it's a hell of a lot easier in Hawaii, what with the weather. These heaters are pretty good, but they struggle in the winter."

  God, he had it set up like this in the winter? But he produced a remote from his suit pocket, clicked it a few times, and suddenly I felt the warmth of the heaters burning even more intensely all around me.

  "Thank you--that's nice," I said, for lack of anything more eloquent.

  "No problem. So."

  "So," I replied, finally lifting the champagne to my lips. "What year is this? Tastes like--2014? 2013?"

  Did you know that sparkling white wine has the best ratio of alcohol to calories of any commonly consumed booze? Bet you didn't. But every model in Manhattan knows that. We know our champagne like a dentist knows cavities.

  "No. It's--well, it's a 1961. One of the vintage which they re-released for Charles and Diana's wedding. I bought a few bottles as part of a package a while back."

  I almost spit it out. 1961? This was fifty year old champagne!

  "I don't like to talk prices, but I can tell you that it's overpriced. I mean, I suppose it's worth what anyone will pay for it, and anything relating to the Crown is inflated, but it doesn't taste particularly... Royal, does it?"

  He chuckled.

  "But that's neither here nor there. This is America--we're a meritocracy. To hell with our former overlords. May the monarchy crumble and the common man be exulted."

  I couldn't help but grin at the irony of this fiercely wealthy man speaking of the "common man."

  "So, Tara, Tara, Tara... What has Nora told you about me?"

  "Um," I said, suddenly off guard. "That, uh, you're very wealthy--well, that's obvious, I guess. And that you had approached her a few years about pursuing a relationship with me but she didn't think it was a good idea. At the time."

  "Yes, that sounds about right."

  "But nothing else."

  "Good."

  "Why don't you want me to know who you are? I mean, I don't even know what to call you?"

  "That's right. You don't have a name for me." He paused for a moment. "What shall it be... What shall it be... How about... 'Boss.'"

  "Boss?"

  "That's right. Boss. You've had a boss before, haven't you? You see, Tara, I'm everyone's boss. The Nigerian boy who picked you up? I'm his boss, and he lives in a nice part of Queens with his wife and small son, because he's good to his boss, and his boss is good to him. Back in Lagos, he would be making the barest fraction of what I pay him. But here he is, in New York, getting his part of the American dream. He's good at what he does, and I value him for it."

  He took a sip of scotch.

  "I like to be good to people, Tara. And I want to be good to you."

  Here it was.

  "So, is this like a prostitution thing?" I blurted out finally. Boss laughed.

  "No. Not exactly. No, I don't think so, but maybe you'll disagree. Here's what I'm proposing. I understand you're in a bit of trouble. I understand you're afraid for your life. I also understand that you're not going to be modeling much longer."

  "What do you mean?" I asked, the pit of my stomach dropping. His dark eyes locked with mine and I felt my lip tremble. That look… Damn.

  "You know exactly what I mean. I happen to know that you and I are the same age, Tara. We're both twenty-five. Actually, I'm already twenty-six but that's neither here nor there. I'm at the beginning of my r
ise; you're at the end. It's nothing to be ashamed of. We're simply in industries which favor different attributes. Yours favors youth, and it happens to wreck havoc on the bodies of those in it. I suppose, then, it also favors the ability to--keep it together, for lack of a better word. Mine favors ingenuity, innovation, knowledge..."

  "And what makes you think modeling doesn't favor those things?" I asked icily.

  "Is any part of what I said incorrect?" he replied as icily as I had spoken. "I'm simply observing that you entered an industry which is superficial in a way which does not forgive age. Tell me, Tara, am I wrong? You made quite a bit of money when you were nineteen, but how long does it go on? How long before they decide it's easier to hire a girl just off the boat from Ukraine rather than air-brushing your wrinkles?"

  I stood up and tossed the champagne in his face. We were silent for a moment and then he burst out laughing.

  "That's my girl," he growled.

  "I'm not your girl. I'm not anyone's girl."

  "You were Mario's girl."

  "But he didn't own me."

  "And if you let me, I'll make sure he doesn't hurt you," Boss continued, as if I hadn't said anything at all. "I'll make sure all those problems go away."

  "I don't know. Mario's family is pretty brutal. They're mobsters, you know. I mean, all this is nice, but..."

  Boss didn't answer. He simply pulled his cell phone out of his jacket, clicked a few times, and then passed it over to me.

  It was a CNN article. A Breaking News! sort of thing. I gasped when I read the headline.

  "BREAKING NEWS: MAFIA PRINCE GUNNED DOWN IN TRIBECA. MANHUNT FOR GENNADY ROVCHENKO UNDERWAY..."

  "Gennady?" I gapsed.

  "Already on his way to Mexico," Boss said smoothly. "Don't worry about him. I quite like him. He was very understanding of your situation. He did some work for me earlier. He's been going to Cancun every January for a few years now, practicing his Spanish. All too eager to go somewhere warm. Somewhere without Russians, he says."

  "Is... Is Mario dead?"