The Philanthropist (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 5) Read online

  Jamie’s now mine, in a way.

  And in a way, I’m hers.

  I can’t stand Jamie Kyle.

  But I’m sure I can’t walk away.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  JAMIE

  I WAKE IN THE MORNING and Aiden is gone.

  Of course, he was never in my bed to begin with.

  We had sex in the driveway. Outside Anthony’s gate. Like vagrants.

  At first I’m sure I dreamed the whole thing. It seems surreal, and so unlike me. I was my daddy’s little girl, and when Daddy was gone, I became Anthony’s. I’ve always gotten along with my mom. I never rebelled or acted out. I certainly never sucked a guy off in a club bathroom or had sex in the back of some shitty little car on prom night.

  So having sex on a car seems, at first, like an obvious dream.

  Anthony is coming home today. That means I have evidence to destroy.

  I hurry downstairs. It’s already 9 a.m., and Anthony isn’t known for sleeping in. He’ll be checking out of the L'Auberge and coming home soon. I’ll have a hard time sneaking around once he is.

  But my luck holds: I find the security playback controls and figure out how to delete unwanted segments. Time indexes on the digital clips are confusing, I have to watch some of each to know I have the right ones, including a surprisingly excellent shot of myself, on my knees, giving Aiden a blowjob.

  I have to fast-forward through the clip to its end, but it isn’t fast enough. I still see myself hop up onto the hood of the car and spread my legs — and Jesus. He didn’t even open them for me. I was that turned on, that in need.

  I watch Aiden fuck me, half averting my gaze. I watch him thrust hard, finish, and kiss me.

  Somehow, that’s the worst part: He kissed me. And I won’t lie to myself: I was into that kiss — as much as I was into having his dick inside me.

  I erase the clip, then play back the edited segment. I watch the time index in the corner skip over half an hour in the span of a second, but I doubt anyone will check these records to notice something’s missing, unless there was a break-in. Which there wasn’t.

  Not unless you count Aiden breaking into my pants — and he didn’t have to break in because I wasn’t wearing underwear.

  And because I invited him in.

  I exhale, looking at Anthony’s security equipment, wondering if there’s any chance I can convince myself that it didn’t happen now that the evidence is gone.

  It’s a nice thought, but not exactly realistic. For one, I know better. And for two, Aiden’s bound to—

  Ugh, I don’t even want to think about what he’s bound to do or say — or tell everyone — now that this has happened.

  I strip, take a shower, and try to wash the shame away. Then I tell myself that there’s no shame — that if a man can have sex with a woman without it meaning anything, then a woman can have sex the same way with a man. I just “got mine,” is all.

  Apparently I needed it. I came three times.

  I slid off of the car after we finished, and back into reality. I didn’t need to gather my gown and wrap it around me to conceal my nudity; Aiden got it first, then helped me into it. We dressed in silence. Then he got into his car and drove away.

  I don’t know what it’ll be like, the next time we see each other — and because fate has a wicked sense of humor, of course we will. I don’t know if he’s on the board of Anthony’s foundation. I didn’t even know where my flicked-away driver’s license was for a while, until I used my phone flashlight to find it in the grass. Then I went inside, put it away, and started working to forget.

  It didn’t work. I watched TV until I fell asleep in a pair of Anthony’s pajamas, then woke nine or ten hours later with a piece of paper stuck to my face.

  I have no idea what today will bring.

  Whatever Faustian bargain Aiden and I made, I doubt either of us knows the terms. I don’t trust him to keep his word anyway. He’s a snake, slithering after his oily desires.

  I hear the door open downstairs. Anthony’s big, booming voice echoes through the halls: “Honey, I’m home!”

  I scamper down like a little girl greeting Santa.

  Anthony’s at the door, larger than life. He’s a curious breed of rich man. He has more money than I can fathom, but growing up poor has made him humble. He wears the finest suits, but runs to the cleaners himself. He travels on a private jet, but often drives his own car. He has a cleaning service but no live-in help. Anthony Ross doesn’t live in this world so much as own it, and yet here he is in the foyer, portering his luggage.

  I leap at him, wrapping my arms around his brick-strong torso. His arms rise, and for a minute we’re a Norman Rockwell sketch of Father Coming Home. I feel twelve years old, needing this big man’s protection.

  He was thirty back then. How times have changed — and what dirty deeds this innocent maiden has got herself into.

  “Woah, hey, what’s this?” But when I look up from my one-sided embrace, I see Anthony smiling. The arms come down and he hugs me hello.

  “Just glad to see you.”

  “You saw me last night.”

  “For, like, a minute. Then you had to go off and rub elbows with the rich and famous.”

  “Sorry about that. You come all the way out here and I’m all the way across the country working, and the second I come back I dive into—”

  “It’s fine. More than fine. You had this stuff booked way before I told you I was coming.”

  “I could have cancelled. The seminars are only about ten percent of my business.”

  I know he’s bluffing. It’s true; Anthony’s money comes mainly from a dozen other places in the conglomerate these days — and that doesn’t include whatever I think he’s brewing in that rich-guy club he’s in with Caspian White, Onyx, and …

  … and other arrogant-but-sexy men who must not be named.

  But the big seminars are Anthony’s passion. Most people think they’re just feel-good bunk, but they’re not. I’ve attended a few as his guest, and an Anthony Ross event is like a rock concert that sprawls for days. Unlike Aiden’s, Anthony’s passion for helping people is genuine. He would never leave attendees high and dry by cancelling.

  “Stop it. You’re here now.”

  “Maybe I should take you to Disneyland again,” Anthony says as we part. “What do you think? We could see princesses and eat nine-dollar hotdogs.”

  I laugh. “How was your trip?”

  “From San Diego? Uneventful.”

  “As a whole. The tour.”

  “Amazing. But it always is. And like usual, it’s good to be home. Especially now that my girl is here. What have you been up to while I’ve been away?”

  His tone is innocent, but it makes me think of my teen years: What have you been up to, Jamie? Up to no good?

  “Not much. I’ve been seeing Caitlin a lot.”

  “Oh? How is she?”

  I look at Anthony’s earnest blue eyes. They’re like sapphires. People say he captivates everyone he speaks to, making them feel like they’re the most important person in the world. With me, that feeling might be accurate. But this mention of Caitlin clicks my mind into seeing him as others must — and yes, I understand why my surrogate father is the subject of so much female adoration. He has a square jaw, a hard but honest gaze, stands over six feet tall, and keeps himself in immaculate physical shape, with a chest like a barrel.

  I get why Caitlin talks about him the way she does, I suppose.

  But to me he’s just Anthony.

  “She’s good,” I say.

  “She’s not married, is she?”

  “No, she’s …” I trail off, having forgotten that bit of unpleasantness in all the seduction and hate-fucking. I was going to say, … she’s seeing someone. But first of all, that might not even be true, depending on what happened after we parted ways. And second, if she is still seeing Rudy, I need to do my best to make sure she stops.

  “She’s what?”

 
“She’s happy,” I say instead.

  Anthony smiles to close this part of our conversation, then grabs his bags. He has two in each hand, and they look like they must weigh a ton, but they don’t bow him at all. His arms bulge like Superman’s, but his face shows no effort.

  Anthony moves them to the side but not upstairs, parking the bags in the hallway nook before turning to face me with a new expression — one my greeting hid, but which seems to have resurfaced.

  And he says, “We need to talk, you and I.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JAMIE

  WE’RE SITTING IN THE LIVING room, sinking into the overstuffed couches, before Anthony speaks seriously again. “Aiden Page.”

  I feel slapped. I look over.

  “You know him, don’t you? What’s your relationship like?”

  Anthony is only asking questions, but I feel called out. I look up, unsure how to respond, then finally say, “Our relationship?”

  “You’ve mentioned him a few times. And last night …”

  … you let him fuck you in my driveway, I imagine hearing.

  “I saw you talking to him for quite some time.”

  “I was chatting him up, since he was your guest of honor.”

  My heart is beating too fast. And shockingly? Honestly? I’m feeling sparks between my legs. My body’s betraying me. Yesterday I hated Aiden. Now I’m conflicted. He was hateful before we had sex, then curiously different both during and after.

  What of Aiden now?

  Is he foe or lover? Demon or seducer?

  “Was that it?” Anthony asks. “You aren’t friends?”

  A hollow laugh. “Definitely not.”

  “But he was your boss for a while. When Forage bought Urban Design?”

  “It was more like they leased it.” I roll my eyes, remembering the manipulations of my best friend Mia behind that little coup. It all worked out for her, but holy shit. It’s another reminder of who Aiden truly is.

  “Regardless. You worked for him.”

  “For like a week.”

  “What was he like?”

  Here’s my chance. I’ve been keeping Aiden away from Anthony for months, actively preventing him from ingratiating himself to my father figure. So far, it’s been gatekeeping. I haven’t had a chance to opine on the man, or on Forage, straight up. Until now.

  I’ll skewer him. It’ll be hard to say terrible things about a man who’s donated such a large sum to Anthony’s foundation, but since Anthony flat-out asked, I’m not going to lie.

  But for some reason all I say is, “He’s distant.”

  “Distant?”

  “He can be charming.” I don’t want to admit what’s next, but I’m already rolling. “I thought he was interesting when we met.”

  “But?”

  “How do you know there’s a but?”

  “Jamie.” He tips his head. “Come on. I know you.”

  “I don’t trust him. I don’t know that I like him much.”

  A tiny Jamie inside my mind starts screaming, batting her tiny fists against the brittle walls of my skull. Why am I softening? Why am I not saying what I truly feel?

  “Why not?”

  “Everything seems to have a double meaning. Like he’s working two angles at once.”

  “That can be a good thing in an entrepreneur,” Anthony says.

  “I don’t know. He’s …” Again, words fail me.

  Oh, come on, bitch. A guy lays you once and you lose track of all that you stand for? Are you really that pathetic?

  “He called this morning while I was driving home. He turned down my offer for a spot on the board of the foundation, but graciously thanked me for the offer.”

  My heart stops. “Did he say why?”

  Anthony looks at me with curious eyes.

  I’ve always been pleased by his foundation’s mission and all the good it does for the world, but I’ve never cared about its organization, politics, or glad-handing. To me, the society snobs who donate big bucks always seem like poseurs, donating to ease their guilt and advance their social standing. It’s the smaller donors — the ten- and twenty-dollar heroes — I truly admire.

  To downplay this sudden curious interest in the foundation, its board, and Aiden Page, I add, “Because isn’t that why someone donates big? To say they’re on a board? You know, for PR reasons?”

  “Sometimes, but that’s a jaded way to see it. Sometimes they give because they want to. Or at least for the tax deduction.” He situates himself on the couch. “Maybe Aiden realized he didn’t have time to serve on another board. I don’t know. It just surprised me because he had seemed so eager to join.”

  “Is he leaving you high and dry?”

  Anthony shakes his head. “The board has enough members. Honestly, his stepping down makes things easier.”

  I look at Anthony. “You said we needed to talk.”

  “Right. We do. About Aiden.”

  “We’re talking about Aiden right now.”

  Anthony shakes his head. “Not like this.”

  He’s so dire, I wonder what’s happened. Then I realize: Somehow, he knows.

  Anthony knows that Aiden seduced me and that I was willingly taken. He somehow saw it all — maybe, now that I’m thinking about it, through one of those apps that lets you check in on your home’s security cameras while you’re away.

  I’m a grown woman, but in this man’s presence I’ve always felt like a child. It’s not that he belittles me; if anything, the opposite is true. It’s more that I feel like a child around Anthony because he’s always been my protector.

  The idea of him hearing about — let alone seeing — me do anything I did last night fills me with shame. More than anything, I don’t want to disappoint him. I want to be the angel he’s always seemed to believe I am.

  “Anthony?” I don’t trust myself to say more.

  “I asked you to tell me about Aiden, but I don’t feel like you’re telling me the whole truth.”

  “I am. I swear it.” Then, seeing his disbelief: “Why? What did he say about me when you talked on the phone?”

  “He asked me,” Anthony says, now smiling, “if you were seeing anyone right now.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AIDEN

  THE VOICE ON MY PHONE says, “Who the hell is this?”

  I pull the screen from my face and stare. First of all, this asshole called me. Second, this isn’t an official Forage number; it’s my personal cell phone. And third, what a dick.

  “Who the hell is this?” I counter.

  “I was told this was Aiden Page’s number. You don’t sound like Aiden Page.”

  “Then maybe you should hang up,” I say, having gone from placid to irritated in 4.4 seconds, “and go fuck yourself.”

  “Wait,” the voice says, suddenly tentative. “Have I reached Aiden Page?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care.” My finger hovers over END. Fuck this guy, whoever he is. I was feeling good for a while there, having made myself at home at the L'Auberge for an indefinite San Diego stay, driven by indefinite reasons. I didn’t ask for this intrusion, nor do I welcome it.

  Nobody talks to me that way.

  “Wait. I’m sorry. Now you sound like yourself.”

  But the man on my phone doesn’t sound sorry at all; he sounds obligated — perhaps driven by the knowledge that I’m sorry is what normal people say when they’ve been assholes, whether they intend to stop or not. This guy, stealing my precious seconds, sounds pompous more than apologetic, and still seems to feel that he’s the one being put out, despite his making the call.

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “My name is Parker Barnes. We have a mutual friend in Daniel Rice.”

  The shrink.

  “I know Daniel. I wouldn’t say he’s my friend.” Truth is, we’re both members of the Trillionaire Boys’ Club, but this Barnes dickhead doesn’t need to know that. I’m still on the attack, unwilling to hear this guy out unless he ser
iously impresses me.

  “And Caspian White.”

  “Again: I know him.” But again: also a member of the Boys’ Club.

  “Then perhaps Evan Cohen. You know him, too, correct? He didn’t do anything impressive. Just founded the LiveLyfe social network.”

  That’s not the point, of course. Giving me Evan’s credentials is moot; Daniel and Caspian’s accolades (not that the world knows Daniel’s) are equally impressive, and well-known. But this time I think Barnes knows something. Evan and I spoke last week, and something tells me this conversation bears on that one.

  “I know Evan.”

  “As do we,” Barnes says, and though I think he’ll explain his ominous (pompous) use of the plural, he doesn’t. He dramatically pauses then moves on. “I hear you two had a discussion. About us.”

  “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “Understandable,” Barnes says. “But you will. Just as you’ll know the name Alexa Mathis.”

  “I don’t know her either.” Then, unimpressed: “How did you get this number?”

  “From Evan. I hear you’re approaching Anthony Ross with a deal.”

  “Maybe. But that’s none of your concern.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  This man’s every syllable drips with arrogance. And not a good arrogance either — like Caspian, or what I hear about my own. This man sounds like a weasel. He has the arrogance of a kid who was tormented through childhood, then grew up to be an adult with more power than he deserves.

  “I think,” he says, “you’re the one who’s out of the loop here. And maybe, Mr. Page, you should give me the respect due to someone who’s very much in it.”

  “Noted,” I say. I pull the phone away, and again go to the END button.

  “You asked about Clive Spooner.” Barnes’s voice is now distant, intriguing me against my will.

  I return the phone to my ear. “What about him?”

  “Evan knows Clive. We know Clive. Ross knows Clive. All that’s missing, it seems, is an algorithm.”

  “An algorithm for what?” The statement is out of the blue, the thing that doesn’t quite belong in his list of statements.