Savage Game: A dark billionaire romance (Savage Billionaires Book 1) Read online

  Savage Game

  Savage Billionaires, Book 1

  Karen Nappa

  Contents

  Savage Game

  Prologue

  1. Day One

  2. Day Two

  3. Day Three

  4. Day Four

  5. Day Five

  6. Day Six

  7. Day Seven

  8. Day Eight

  9. Day Nine

  10. Day Ten

  11. Day Eleven

  12. Day Twelve

  13. Day Thirteen

  14. Day Fourteen

  15. Day Fifteen

  16. Day Sixteen

  17. Day Seventeen

  18. Day Eighteen

  19. Day Nineteen

  20. Day Twenty

  21. Day Twenty-One

  22. Day Twenty-Two

  23. Day Twenty-Three

  24. Day Twenty-Four

  25. Day Twenty-Five

  26. Day Twenty-Six

  27. Day Twenty-Seven

  28. Day Twenty-Eight

  29. Day Twenty-Nine

  30. Day Thirty

  Epilogue

  31. One Year Later

  About the Author

  Also by Karen Nappa

  Red Hot Romance

  Copyright © 2021 by Karen Nappa and Red Hot Romance, Inc.

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including, but not limited to, photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. [email protected]

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, locales, and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, and events are purely coincidental.

  It is supposed to be one month only.

  * * *

  When Charlotte meets Byron Nolan on her husband’s poker night, she has no clue her life is going to change—irrevocably.

  When Charlotte Randall enters the room, Byron knows two things:

  1. She’s wasted on her clueless, arrogant husband.

  2. Married or not—she’s going to be his.

  * * *

  This story contains elements of abuse and dub-con intimacy. If these topics disturb you, this might not be a book for you.

  Prologue

  Charlotte Randall placed the tray with snacks on the hall table and checked her appearance in the mirror hanging above it. She looked a bit pale, but her makeup was flawless and concealed the fist-sized bruise on her cheek. She’d styled her hair in an elegant updo with not a strand out of place. She ran sweaty palms down from her waist to her hips, smoothing out a crease in the fabric of the red and white polka-dot dress. Although her insides felt as crumbled and decayed as some ancient ruins, her reflection showed the polished trophy wife of a successful executive in every way. In her thirty-two years, she’d learned to put on a façade for the world.

  I hate poker night.

  Sighing, she opened the door, lifted the tray, and pushed herself inside the dark room. The smell of cigars assaulted her nose, and she took shallow breaths to avoid coughing. Ice tinkled in scotch glasses, and she slowly walked toward the round table in the middle of the opulent room.

  Liam’s lecture on etiquette fresh in her mind, she first approached the man sitting on Liam’s right side. Waiting next to the man’s left shoulder, she held out the tray and couldn’t help but admire how perfectly his broad shoulders filled the expensive material of his suit jacket.

  Without saying a word, he kept his gaze on the cards in his left hand, and—with an impatient flick of his right fingers—he dismissed her offering. Startled, Charlotte lifted her gaze at her husband, who jerked his chin with an impatient glower. Charlotte swallowed. I hope I’m not going to pay for this after the guests leave. Liam’s nose and cheeks were ruby red already, which didn’t bode well for her, either.

  She hurried to the next poker player. Mr. Dennehy wasn’t bad as guests went. He didn’t leer, didn’t touch, and possessed a nice smile.

  “Dear Ms. Randall, what are you offering?” Dennehy let go of his cards.

  “Cold canapes, sir. I have honey-drizzled apple bites with gouda cheese and bacon, mini-BLTs with prawns, Parma ham and Parmesan cheese on ciabatta, and salmon-cucumber wraps with cream cheese.” She bent a little forward to lower the tray.

  “Looks lovely as always.” Mr. Dennehy selected a BLT with his left hand and popped a salmon wrap in his mouth with his other. His head bobbed enthusiastically as he chewed. Her shoulders relaxed a bit at his silent approval.

  Reluctantly, Charlotte continued to the next player. She didn’t like Michael, her husband’s partner and best friend. He and Liam shared many traits, including their mean streaks and nasty tempers when drunk.

  When she lowered the plate to offer Michael a selection of food, he snaked his hand under the hem of her dress and curled his hand around her thigh. She froze and closed her eyes for a few seconds.

  Don’t show him your revulsion, it will only prolong the inevitable and make him crueler.

  Her arms trembled as she forced herself to remain immobile while Michael stroked the soft skin above her stocking and toyed with the garter. His fingers didn’t wander higher, and her shoulders sagged in relief when he removed his hand and chose a snack.

  Her eyes lifted and landed on the face of the stranger at the other side of the table. Charlotte sucked in a breath as if he’d punched her in the stomach. On one side, horrible scars marred his face, but what kept her captivated was his cobalt-blue gaze.

  Byron Nolan leaned back in his chair and watched as the little housewife scuttled from the room. Liam Randall and Michael Connolly were new business associates and, until now, the evening had been enlightening and disheartening.

  His gaze slid to the other man at the table. Although Byron didn’t know Ben Dennehy very well, the man had an excellent reputation in the business, and he seemed less reckless and entitled than the other two at the table.

  The entire evening Dennehy held back on the liquor and so did Byron, but the other two men indulged extravagantly. With the increasing amount of booze in their systems, their bets became more daring and their play sloppier. On their third round, Dennehy acted as the dealer. It put Byron at the disadvantage of being first, but at least he didn’t need to worry the dealer might be cheating.

  Like doing business, playing cards was a combination of skill, mathematics, timing, and a little bit of luck, and then there was the most important reason he liked the game.

  With poker more than any other card game, it was also about observational skills and knowing when to go all in and when to fold. Byron was a winner both in business as well as at the card table. Sadly, he hadn’t played poker with these men before he’d gone into business with them.

  Oh well, it wasn’t like they’d sworn “until death do us part”. And even that famous oath didn’t make it for five out of ten marriages.

  Byron focused on his cards—Ace-Queen suited, not bad at all. He dropped two blue chips in front of him. “Call.”

  Randall and Connolly raised, and Dennehy and Byron called.

  After collecting the chips, Dennehy placed the flop on the table—Queen, nine, and Jack, none of them spades.

  “Bet.” A green chip dropped on the table in front of Liam Randall.

  “Call.”

  As the evening’s play had continued, Randall and Connolly kept increasing
their bets, and this hand was proving to be no different.

  “Raise.” Fifty dollars landed on the table in front of Connolly. Byron liked the man even less than their host. Connolly was clearly bluffing, and badly.

  Mentally Byron went over the possibilities and took a small sip from his tumbler. “Call.” He pushed forward his own chips.

  His host raised to seventy-five dollars with a self-satisfied expression. Connolly did the same, but he appeared uncertain now. Dennehy called.

  Byron lifted the corner of his cards and peeked at them again, feigning indecision.

  “It’s your turn, Nolan.” Liam swirled his scotch and the ice cubes in the amber liquid rattled in the otherwise quiet poker room as he waited for Byron to answer his challenge. “Don’t make us wait all night!” His host smirked, his arrogance palpable in the air.

  The guy was too smug for his own good, and after a few hours in their company, Byron regretted going into business with his new partners.

  Byron eyed the large stacks of chips in front of him and the diminished piles before the other play partners. Time to raise the stakes.

  “Raise.” Byron threw in four black chips and lifted a challenging brow.

  His host called, leaving him with only a handful of blue chips, two green, and one black.

  “I’m out.” Connolly folded, tossing his cards down on the table. After he abandoned the game, he rose and got his third cigar.

  Dennehy called, took the turn from the stack, and revealed the ace of hearts.

  Wordlessly, Byron called by dropping his chip.

  Randall tossed in a twenty-five-dollar chip. “Bet.”

  The fool should have checked first, but it was his funeral.

  Byron called. Dennehy folded, collected the chips, and placed the river card.

  Something in Liam’s cheek twitched, and he shoved two blue chips forward. “Call.”

  Two black chips landed heavily in front of Byron. Deliberately, he took another sip and stared his host square in the face. “Raise.”

  Liam’s ruddy face was sweating but his beady eyes were greedy. Liam’s eyes dropped to his cards, he licked his lips and eyed the chips. “I can’t call.”

  “Hmm.” Byron stroked his chin. “We can work something out.”

  “I… I…”

  From the way Liam’s face scrunched up, it was obvious his host was trying to think through his booze-fogged mind.

  Liam’s face cleared. “I have a Rolex. It’s worth more than what’s on the table here.”

  “I’m not interested in your watch.” Byron pulled back his sleeve and revealed the titanium Seamaster Diver on his wrist. “I prefer Omega.”

  “Oh.” Liam swallowed and his shoulders slumped.

  Byron struck like a cobra. “If you lose, I want a month with your wife, to do with her whatever I please.”

  Who said kicking a man when he was down wasn’t fun?

  1

  Day One

  Dressed in a pencil skirt and a light-blue blouse, Charlotte exited the taxi. Shaking in her three-inch stilettos, she accepted the wheeled suitcase from the driver. She tipped back her head and stared up at the high-rising skyscraper with the bluish-tinted windows. Squinting against the sun, she wondered what kind of job she would get. Liam had been vague about the arrangement, but she guessed he’d told her employer she didn’t have any work experience.

  Who hires an employee for a month anyway?

  Charlotte pulled the suitcase behind her and walked toward the imposing entry with her head held high. When dealing with an unknown challenge, it was important to appear confident after all. She was so out of her depth, it wasn’t even funny.

  But I will survive. I always do.

  After fifteen years of marriage to Liam, she’d perfected her mask and could blend in like a chameleon. Not good enough to avoid the occasional abuse, though. Whatever the job requirements were, it could hardly be worse than the demands Liam placed on her. Right?

  A doorman pushed open the glass doors and tipped his head. “Ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” She gave him her kindest smile. What a shitty job, standing outside in a stiff and stifling uniform, opening the door for people.

  A nasty voice in the back of her head—a voice sounding exactly like her husband—sneered, “It might be what you’ll be doing for the next month.”

  Oh well... Sighing, she pulled the suitcase with her and entered the building.

  Pausing for a moment, Charlotte scanned the opulent space. Stunning marble floors covered the expanse, and floor-to-ceiling tinted windows let in the light. A bank of elevators was at the back, clusters of seats were scattered about, and potted plants spread out on her right. Charlotte pulled in a breath and marched over to the reception desk. The impressive gleaming marble counter spanned the left side of the entry hall and boasted three computer screens.

  A well-groomed woman with streaked blonde hair in a stylish cut, wearing an immaculately tailored dark-blue blazer over a creamy-white silk blouse with a firm’s name discreetly embroidered on the chest pocket, greeted Charlotte with a kind smile. “Welcome to Nolan House, how may we help you?”

  “Um.” Charlotte let go of her suitcase’s handle and stepped forward. “My name is Charlotte Randall for Mr. Nolan.”

  “Ah, yes, Mrs. Randall. Mr. Nolan informed us about your arrival today. If you would be so kind to wait, I’ll get someone to escort you to the private elevator. It’s the only one with access to the penthouse.” She gestured to the plush seats at the opposite side of the hall.

  Penthouse? This is an office building, right?

  Charlotte nodded. “Thank you.” She opened her mouth to ask for clarification, but the phone rang, and the receptionist turned away to answer it.

  Charlotte hesitated but didn’t want to eavesdrop, so she turned, pulling her suitcase with her, and dillydallied toward the inviting seats and sofas. Her progress was so slow, she hadn’t yet taken a seat when a man in the masculine version of the suit the receptionist wore, with the addition of an earpiece like some kind of secret agent, stepped up to her.

  “Mrs. Randall?” He folded his hands in front of him.

  “Y-yes.”

  He moved closer with brisk efficiency. “Follow me, please.” Without asking, he took possession of her suitcase and walked past the bank of elevators toward an obscured door in the corner. After swiping a keycard, the door opened automatically, and Charlotte followed him through and down a long hallway past several doors until they reached another elevator.

  Earpiece as she called him in her head, punched a set of numbers in the keypad so fast she wouldn’t have been able to recognize the code.

  Not that I expect to need it anyway.

  When the car arrived, he gestured for her to enter but instead of following her as she expected, he stayed back. “What–” the elevator doors closed, cutting off her question, and her stomach dropped as the car practically lunged upward. It took less than twenty seconds before the doors opened, and she tentatively stepped out and into another long, darkened corridor.

  What the hell?

  At a loss, Charlotte took a hesitant step forward, moving away from the elevator and further into the dimly lit hall. Halting again, she frowned as she realized Earpiece still had her suitcase downstairs. She was about to turn and get back in the elevator when the doors behind her whooshed closed.

  Not knowing what to do with herself, she turned and scanned the area.

  If this were some creepy castle instead of an office building, I would now turn and come face to face with a serial killer or a vampire.

  She almost chuckled at herself but the moment the thought popped into her mind, uneven footsteps approached her from behind.

  Heart pounding in her throat, she pivoted on her heels and sucked in a lungful of air. A tall figure, his face obscured by the shadows in the hallway, approached quickly despite the clear limp in his gait.

  “M–mister Nolan?”

  A six-foot-pl
us frame with broad shoulders bore down on her. Fighting the urge to run, Charlotte forced her lungs to expel the air she had been holding. Everything about him screamed power and wealth and hinted at a cruel and singular intent. She took a tentative step back and tried not to panic.

  As if he caught on to her distress, he slowed, halted at a polite distance, and tilted his head.

  She recognized him. How could she not—the scarred, blue-eyed man from poker night. She swallowed and forced herself to hold her ground. She clutched her hands in front of her.

  Don’t show fear.

  Oh, but she was afraid. Not of his scars, but of the power he exuded. It reached out and encased her like body heat. Charlotte blinked.

  Please, don’t tell me I’m attracted to this guy.

  She stifled a mortifying moan and stared down at her feet. No matter how much she willed herself to lift her gaze, she couldn’t.

  A barely audible huff from him told her he’d moved closer even before his perfectly polished dress shoes came into view.

  “Mrs. Randall.” The tone of his velvety voice oozed disdain. So did the pause before, “Follow me.”

  He showed her the backside of his shoes before they moved out of her sight, and Charlotte’s brain kicked in. She hurried behind him, almost running to keep up with his long, irregular strides.