To Be His

By Terri L. Austin

A companion novella to the RT Reviewer's Choice Nominee His Every Need, told from the hero's POV

I didn't amass an empire without taking risks, but I'm not a complete arse. So yes, when I offered to trade Allie Campbell three months as my mistress for her family home, it was a joke. Only thing is, she wasn't laughing...and she bloody well took me up on it.

Well, all right then; I could play that game. I figured I'd take her on, we'd have some fun, and in three months, she'd walk away with her family intact and I could get back to what I do best: making money.

But I'd made one mistake along the way. I stupidly assumed that after having her, I could walk away. I was wrong. I don't know how long this feeling-this consuming need-will last, but I'm not ready to let her go.

Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Beauty and the Brit
His Every Need
To Be His: companion novella
His Kind of Trouble: coming Fall 2015
His to Keep: coming: coming Spring 2016

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sourcebooks
• Release date: Aug 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781492631248

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Copyright © 2015 by Terri L. Austin

Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover image © Geber86-istock

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Author’s Note for His Kind of Trouble

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

About the Author

For Jeff. Always.

Author’s Note

As a lifelong obsessive reader of romance, I cut my teeth on British heroes. Historical or contemporary, it didn’t matter. I found myself falling for their dry wit and stiff upper lip attitude. That’s why I wasn’t shocked when Englishman Trevor Blake started talking to me. I heard his deep, posh voice when I went to bed at night and when I awoke each morning. The man wouldn’t leave me alone. (It’s not as crazy as it sounds, promise. It’s just a writer thing.)

I was working on another book at the time, but Trevor was insistent. Actually, he demanded I tell his story. So the minute I finished my project, I started writing His Every Need. Trevor’s irreverent, sarcastic sense of humor made me laugh. His blunt words often took me by surprise. And when his heroine, Allie Campbell, fell in love with him, I did too.

When I finished the book, I thought I was done with Trevor. He had his happily ever after. But I couldn’t get him out of my head. In fact, I missed him. While His Every Need is told from both Allie and Trevor’s third-person point of view, I decided to revisit my English hero and put a spin on the original story. This time I used Trevor’s first-person account to get a little deeper into his psyche. After all, it was only fair. He’d been inside my mind for months.

In To Be His, we get Trevor’s unfiltered reactions, his firsthand struggle in fighting an undeniable attraction to Allie.

Poor guy.

He never stood a chance.

Chapter 1

Money mattered. Period. It was the only thing that did, really, and anyone who argued otherwise was either a fool or a dreamer. All that blather about it not buying happiness? Nonsense. Money could buy anything—happiness included—if one had enough of it.

As I studied my earnings for the quarter, a feeling of deep satisfaction settled over me. Sums and figures. So reliable. So rational. Numbers showed a refreshing honesty that words often lacked. They represented everything in life. Assets versus liabilities. Cost versus benefit. These numbers in particular, with all their lovely commas and zeroes, represented my value. Irrefutable proof of my worth.

When a timid knock sounded at the door, I reluctantly glanced up from my monitor. I knew that knock—my butler, always hesitant to disturb me. My housekeeper, Frances, had no such qualms. She’d barge in whenever she felt like it.

I looked at the clock. Not quite teatime; nevertheless, I was spitting feathers. Arnold must have anticipated that. He knew me too well.

Come in.

His posture stiff and unyielding, Arnold stepped through the door. And sadly, his hands were empty.

Though in his sixties, he looked the same now as when I was a lad—frozen in time, never changing, never aging. A constant. He’d been in service with my family for years, first with my grandfather, now with me. After the old man’s death, I’d decided to move from dreary England to dry, hot Vegas, and Arnold insisted on accompanying me, whether I wanted him to or not. In turn, he brought Frances. Still and all, I was glad they were here. We rubbed along rather well together. Created something of a unit.

Now, as Arnold approached my desk, he pinched his lips together ever so slightly, and the carved lines of his wide forehead deepened just a bit. To strangers, he would probably appear unflappable, but with those small tells, I knew something had disturbed his well-ordered routine.

What’s wrong? I asked.

There’s a young lady at the front gate, Mr. Blake. She insists upon seeing you. Won’t leave until she’s done so. I could call the authorities and have her forcibly removed…

I turned my attention to the screen on my right. Then do so. I’m busy. Can’t have strangers storming the gate, can we? The stock market had just closed, and I wanted to see how well I’d fared. If I possessed one real talent in life, it was making money.

Hands folded, Arnold stood unmoving, as though made of marble. At this point in the conversation, he would normally nod and say, Very good, sir, in that prim, disapproving way of his. Not this time. And when I continued to ignore him, he very quietly cleared his throat—a sure sign that he wouldn’t leave until he’d had his say.

With a sigh, I gave him the benefit of my undivided attention. All right, then. Tell me why I shouldn’t have this woman chucked off the property immediately.

She’s terribly upset. Something about her family, her sisters. She says her home is in jeopardy. I believe she’s in trouble, sir.

Oh, dear God. She must be quite something, this girl with the troublesome tale. Arnold had a weakness for a sob story and a pretty face. He should know by now that I was immune to both. So what does she look like, this damsel in distress?

Very lovely indeed. It’s not my place, sir, but I should think you’d like to see her.

Of course he did. Arnold had a regrettably soft heart.

I pushed back my chair and stood. Fine. She has five minutes. And if it goes pear-shaped and she turns out to be deranged, I’ll blame you.

Naturally, sir.

I rolled down my sleeves and refastened the cuffs. I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, you know. What’s she called?

Allison Campbell. With a nod, he pivoted and left the room.

That name rang a bell. As I knotted my tie, it clicked. Allison Campbell, daughter of Brian Campbell…a man who owed me money. I fucking hated it when people didn’t pay their debts. That was the agreement—I’d give them capital to expand their business, and they’d pay me back with interest. A simple transaction agreed to by both parties. But Brian Campbell had defaulted on his loan, and now his house was mine. Not for long, of course. Planned on selling the bloody thing and recouping some of my investment.

Why had I listened to Arnold? The damsel was here for one thing: to beg me to reconsider. That wasn’t going to happen. Once I made a decision, I rarely changed my mind. This entire exercise would undoubtedly be embarrassing and uncomfortable for us both. I shrugged into my jacket and—taking out my annoyance on the fine wool—gave the lapels a vicious tug.

A moment later, Arnold knocked on the door once more before ushering her into the room. Miss Allison Campbell, may I present Mr. Trevor Blake? Then he slipped away.

Well.

No wonder Arnold had been so eager to help her. She was absolutely gorgeous. White-blond hair fell over her shoulders in waves. When she swiped her tongue across her full lips, my cock hardened. Her body was slight, nearly too thin, but those breasts were stunners. Although that awful green waistcoat didn’t do them any favors.

She stood in the doorway and glanced around the room before her sky-blue eyes fell on me. And as she stared at me, a wariness crept into their depths, but determination was there as well. She took a deep breath and thrust her shoulders back. Nervous, yet courageous. I could respect that, at least. I go by Allie.

Come in. I pointed to a chair across from the desk. She dropped her eyes to the hand-loomed rug and walked forward with quick steps. Must be damned difficult, swallowing one’s pride to beg from a stranger. I’d never do it. Far too humiliating.

Before resuming my seat, I cast my gaze over her. Damned shame she was wearing trousers. They hid her long legs, which were undoubtedly as spectacular as the rest of her. Why are you here, Miss Campbell?

She lifted her gaze and paused before speaking. I know my dad owes you money, Mr. Blake. I just found out today. He messed up, and I get that, but we have extenuating circumstances.

All the deadbeats had extenuating circumstances. I’d heard every sob story possible—from dying grandmothers to incontinent pets to a sluggish economy. Still, I decided to let her finish.

As she spoke, her pleasant voice flowed over me. Lulled me. I couldn’t stop looking at her. At those amazing tits. I debated with myself—natural or enhanced? With narrowed eyes, I stared at them some more. No, they were real. Had to be. From the look of her cheap bag and hideous uniform, she couldn’t afford to buy a pair that perfect.

I propped my chin on one palm and half listened to her woeful story. Something about a deceased mother, troubled sisters. Frankly, it bored me. Like I said, I’d heard it all before. Her face, on the other hand, was fascinating. Very expressive. And those generous lips—mesmerizing.

So, that’s why we have to keep the house.

When I realized she’d stopped talking, I roused myself. Listening to her, staring at her—it was a pleasant break after a long day, but now break time was over. I don’t care, Miss Campbell.

Those unusual eyes grew wide as my words sank in. Excuse me? she finally whispered. I don’t understand.

I leaned my elbows on the desk and studied her. She seemed shocked by my lack of empathy. Although part of me really did feel sorry for her, it was high time Allison Campbell learned a few hard truths. Welcome to the real world, darling, where no one gives a fuck about you or your dire straits. I said I don’t care. Not about your problems, not about your house. I don’t care about any of it.

Her jaw nearly came unhinged at my blunt words. But…my mother died six months ago. We’re still trying to recover.

Sad. Tragic, really. Though it changed nothing. I wasn’t running a charity. Yet, that serious, despondent look on her lovely face… No, it couldn’t be helped. I’m terribly sorry for your loss. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. I pointed at the door, hoping she would take the hint and leave me in peace.

She wouldn’t be fobbed off that easily. No, I won’t excuse you. Didn’t you hear what I said? Her voice rose in pitch. Uncrossing her legs, Allison Campbell edged to the front of her chair with jerky, agitated movements. She was working herself up into a lather. Hot pink dotted both of her cheeks, and her eyes turned a deeper shade of blue. Bloody hell, she was glorious. I don’t know what my father owes, but we can pay you back. We just need time.

I’d given her father time—six months—and he’d squandered it. Pity, his business had such potential.

Her five minutes were up. I had things to do. Tea to drink. Markets to check. I was only half listening, really. You’re rather beautiful. I find it distracting.

With her mouth clamped shut, she tightened her grip on the chair. I was making her angry, and it didn’t bother me a jot. In fact, I was enjoying myself. She was easy to wind up.

In the past, women had accused me of being cold, emotionless. That was a fairly accurate estimation of my personality. I found that people tended to be boring, predictable. But this woman intrigued me. Though here for a favor, she didn’t act obsequious—bowing and scraping—nor did she attempt to seduce me. After all, there was nothing remotely sexy about that uniform. No, Allie Campbell walked in here expecting me to give her exactly what she wanted, and when I didn’t comply, she became heated. All that pent-up emotion—too bad we couldn’t put it to better use.

She took a deep breath, and the green material of the waistcoat grew tight over her breasts. Please, she spat out, as though the word tasted bitter on her tongue. I’m trying to keep my family together, Mr. Blake. Since my mom died, that house is all we have left. Surely you understand that?

I don’t have family, Miss Campbell. Technically, that wasn’t quite true. I had two narcissists I called Mother and Father, when I deigned to call them anything at all. Relatives are considerably more trouble than they’re worth.

Before lowering her head, a look of pure anguish raced across her face. It was gone so quickly, I thought I must have imagined it. And when she gazed up at me again, her entire demeanor changed. With a tilt of her head, she widened her eyes. They were filled with an imploring coyness that took me by surprise. "Please? she whispered. Can you give us an extension?" Her voice dropped in range as she tried to coax me into compliance. In a calculated move, she slowly scraped her teeth over that lush bottom lip and stared at me through her lashes. Now this was seduction. On most men, it probably worked quite nicely. Just a month or two, she said. I promise we’ll pay every cent.

If I thought she’d been interesting before, she’d just upped the stakes. This little submissive, sultry routine of hers was delightful. Too bad the performance was wasted on me.

Do you know what I do, Miss Campbell? Who I am?

With a sigh, she dropped the act and sat up straight. Who are you, Mr. Blake? She even lost the raspy timbre to her voice. What a shame. She’d probably sound like that during sex—husky, breathless. As my cock grew harder, I shifted to a more comfortable position.

"I am, for lack of a better phrase, an investment angel. When I loaned your father money to