The Billionaire Boss's Temptation 2-3 Boxed Set

By Lexi Black

Book 2

The last slither of setting sunlight peeks it’s head over the dark horizon as I stand in the street outside my house, setting the sky above in beautiful ripples of smokey grey, dark purple and fiery orange. It’s an enchanting sight, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes from the sleek, black Mercedes that has just pulled up in front of me.

As I gawp like an open-mouthed fool, a man steps out of the driver’s side. For a second my breath catches in my throat, thinking that it could be Logan Norse - my mesmerisingly good-looking (if undeniably impertinent and arrogant) boss. But then I catch sight of the chauffeur's cap and the double breasted, shining silver buttoned jacket, and my heart allows itself to resume its normal pace. Of course I should have known that Norse would never drive himself anywhere, let alone come and pick me up to take me to the airport personally.

Book 3

The hot, sweet steam that rises from the fresh cup of tea clenched between my fingers, helps clear my blocked, swollen sinuses a little. I gaze down at the wooden kitchen table top through burning, blurry eyes, my vision fuzzy and distorted through the last of the tears I’ve been crying for God knows how long.

As I begin to finally regain my senses and awareness, I realise with a shock that this must be at least the fifth cup of tea my housemate, Gina, has patiently made for me, and that while I’ve been sat here, weeping and drinking slurpily, the morning sun has fully risen and now shines in at me through the small kitchen window, illuminating what I can only imagine to be my very mascara-streaked, puffy and unattractive face. What a wretched state I must look - and all over an obnoxious, ass-hole of a man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lexi Black
• Release date: Aug 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536513646

Book preview

The Billionaire Boss's Temptation

2-3

Lexi Black

Copyright © 2016 by Lexi Black. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form without the prior written consent of the author.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, incidents and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

2

CHAPTER ONE - First Class Travel

CHAPTER TWO - First Class Accommodation

CHAPTER THREE - First Class Shopping

CHAPTER FOUR - First Class Dining

CHAPTER FIVE - A Night to Remember

CHAPTER SIX - Back to Reality

3

CHAPTER ONE - A Good Friend

CHAPTER TWO - Initiation

CHAPTER THREE - Four Weeks Later

CHAPTER FOUR - London

CHAPTER FIVE - Forgive and Forget

EPILOGUE - One Year Later

2

Love in Bloom

CHAPTER ONE - First Class Travel

The last slither of setting sunlight peeks it’s head over the dark horizon as I stand in the street outside my house, setting the sky above in beautiful ripples of smokey grey, dark purple and fiery orange. It’s an enchanting sight, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes from the sleek, black Mercedes that has just pulled up in front of me.

As I gawp like an open-mouthed fool, a man steps out of the driver’s side. For a second my breath catches in my throat, thinking that it could be Logan Norse - my mesmerisingly good-looking (if undeniably impertinent and arrogant) boss. But then I catch sight of the chauffeur's cap and the double breasted, shining silver buttoned jacket, and my heart allows itself to resume its normal pace. Of course I should have known that Norse would never drive himself anywhere, let alone come and pick me up to take me to the airport personally.

Miss. Sartre? The chauffeur asks, and I nod silently. He walks over and politely takes my small travel-bag from my hands and places it into the boot, before opening the car door and gesturing for me to step inside. I balk for a second - the last time I saw a car like this I had been drunkenly spying on Logan Norse in the early hours of the morning, watching as he guided a beautiful, leggy blonde into the back of his car. The memory still makes irrational jealousy bubble away hotly in the pit of my stomach, and I can’t help but wonder if this is in fact that same Mercedes.

If you don’t mind Ma’am. The chauffeur speaks again, a slight hint of impatience in his tone as he once again gestures for me to enter the car. Mr. Norse doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

I nod silently once more and duck inside the leather-clad back seat. I don’t dare to look behind me, because I just know that my three housemates - Harvey, Gina and George - will have their faces pressed against the window, watching with wide eyes and open mouths as boring, mousy, unexciting old me is chauffeured away to Bristol airport behind tinted windows. I’m going to miss those three, but at least I’ll only be gone for a few days, and I suppose I can’t really complain about an all-expenses paid business trip to Chicago. Especially when I’m taking that trip with a mind-blowingly handsome, billionaire tycoon. I still can’t believe he actually asked me of all people to go along with him, but then again I suppose I am technically his P.A (even though he couldn’t actually remember hiring me, but he’s a busy and important man, so I assume he has a lot on his mind).

If I thought being privately chauffeured in a Mercedes was extravagant, it is nothing compared to what I’m presented with when we arrive at the airport. Instead of having to park and go through the long and arduous checking-in process with the rest of the public, I am driven straight onto the tarmac and directly up to a private jet. It’s huge, sleek white form stands out starkly against the star-studded black night sky, and I have to ask myself if I’m not in fact dreaming this whole thing. But then the chauffeur coughs impatiently and I snap back to reality, realising that he is once again holding the door open for me, this time for me to exit the vehicle.

I step onto the tarmac with jellified legs, the cool evening wind whipping my long brown hair around my face. I try and fail to control my messy mane as I ask the chauffeur if he’s sure this is the right place.

I’m guessing this is your first time? He responds laughingly, and I blush - is it really so obvious that I don’t belong in this world of rich, high-flyers?

Well, you’d better get used to it. He continues in a friendly tone as he unloads my bag from the trunk. Mr. Norse never does anything by halves.

I thank the chauffeur in my tiny, mouse-like voice before beginning to make my way towards the open door of the private jet. The wind continues to buffet me, but my numb body doesn’t feel it. As I reach the bottom of the stairs leading into the belly of the jet, I notice a kindly looking old man, dressed in no less than a tuxedo, stood at the top of the steps and smiling down at me.

Ma’am. He greets me as I reach the top of the stairs, taking my luggage and bowing his head slightly before turning and taking my belongings into an unseen room. My head reels - did an old butler actually just bow at me? But of all the surprises this night has thrown at me, they are nothing compared to the sight my eyes are greeted with as I step fully inside the jet.

The interior is so glaringly decadent that I almost have to shield my eyes against it. I blink a few times in disbelief, but the view doesn’t change. In front of me lies a wide aisle of high-gloss white tiling, stretching all the way to the back of the jet. On either side of the spacious, glittering aisle are two rows of thick, plush, semi-circle white leather armchairs, trimmed luxuriously with gold. The chairs are set in groups of two, around sturdy circular steel tables, decorated in patterns of black, gold and white. Rows of small, round little spotlights are set into the laminate flooring, and also into the pale wood ceiling above my head. Each pinpoint of white light reflects a hundred times over against the white tiles and silver steel, setting the whole magnificent scene in a sheen of glitter.

I wonder to myself if I’ll ever be able to find my voice again. Assuming I’m alone in the cabin, and with nobody around to witness my open-mouthed stare, I allow myself to gawp stupidly at my surroundings. But then a sudden, strong voice (with the barest hint of a sexy, Irish accent) speaks from just behind my shoulder, and I nearly bite my tongue off in surprise.

Ah, Tasha! Good - you’re just on time. I know instantly that it is Logan Norse, if only from the way the sound of his voice sends goosebumps instantly springing up across the back of my neck and down my arms, but I’m still not prepared for the sight of him as I turn around (even though I’d seen him just this morning).

He’s standing closer than I expected - no more than a foot away from me. I have no idea how he managed to sneak up on me so quietly, but he’s stood so close that I swear I can feel his body heat radiating off him. Or that could well be my suddenly and rapidly increasing body temperature.

He is still wearing the same white cotton shirt and perfectly fitting blue jeans that he had been wearing this morning, but now that he’s stood mere inches away, I get a close-up look at the more than pleasant view offered by the un-buttoned v-neck of his shirt. The contours of the muscles that stretch along his collarbones and down beneath the material of his shirt are perfectly illuminated and defined by the jets modern lighting. In the glittering light