The Billionaire's Luck: Secret Billionaire's Club, #2

By Tracey Pedersen

Reluctant Billionaire. Does NOT seek family life...

Everett Porter likes his life just the way it is. He dedicates himself to the military, saves his money, and avoids his family at all costs. He doesn't need anyone, or anything, other than his mates in the Secret Billionaire's Club. No matter what his Grandfather has to say about it.

None of that will change because of a stupid game the other billionaires have cooked up. A game he didn't even agree to.

Working as a nurse with the defence forces, Jillian Harmer has seen it all. The jaded, and the desperate. Shouldering a mountain of responsibility, she's making plans for an easier life. When Everett arrives in her hospital ward, she longs to accept the crazy offer he unexpectedly throws her way.

With a stalled night of passion behind them, can the promise of a real family melt this Billionaire's defences and keep these two together?

 

The Secret Billionaire's Club Books:

The Billionaire's Heart
The Billionaire's Luck
The Billionaire's Treat
The Billionaire's Duty
The Billionaire's Spark
The Billionaire's Club
The Billionaire's Scare
The Billionaire's Feast
The Billionaire's Gift
The Billionaire's Surprise

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daring Online Adventures
• Release date: Mar 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9780648342274

Tracey Pedersen

Tracey Pedersen is an Australian USA Today Bestselling author who has finally accepted that she is meant to write, write, write! In 2016 she released her first romance novel and hasn't looked back. Now writing full time, and fighting the urge to write every second of the day, she loves travel, crocheting, replying to reader emails and spending WAY too much time on Facebook!

Book preview

Chapter One - Everett

Dust stings my face as our tank rolls across the parched sand. Our enemy is dead ahead, sheltering in the small patch of trees I can see in the distance. I call down loudly to my driver. I want my instructions to be clear before we begin. I also suspect he’s a little deaf.

Tommo, forward! The tank begins to move without a word from him. He sits below the rest of us, gadgets, buttons, and lit-up displays guiding him.

Loader, ready! I hear a muffled reply, then the sound of metal against metal as the grenade is loaded. Rogers is fast—one of the fastest I’ve worked with—and I have great expectations that we’ll come out on top of this exercise today. My team has only been captured once in the nine years we’ve been doing these exercises, and I don’t intend for today to be different.

We’ve been here for three days, practicing war games with soldiers from three other countries. We have weeks before we return home, prior to our next deployment. I’m looking forward to stretching my legs in real combat. I’ve been home too long this time, hanging with my rich friends, watching them get soft around the middle, and grinding my teeth at their insistence on making bets with each other to keep themselves amused.

Worrying about our little club being outed is not at the top of my to-do list, nor is planning the date Danny insists I need to make happen by the middle of the month. I smirk and give myself a mental pat on the back. I’ll be here, in the desert, with no chance to play his stupid game.

If my grandfather’s promise of a ridiculous fortune in return for my name on a marriage certificate didn’t send me running to the alter with the first woman I met, no way is a stupid idea Danny’s using to amuse himself going to get the job done. I told him the same thing I’ve told my family again and again.

I’m not getting fucking married—ever.

The radio crackles to life, and I put a finger to my earpiece. All units stand down. We have a man down. Repeat, man down.

Tommo, stop. The tank jolts to a halt while we wait for instructions.

A voice responds, The medics are on the way. How bad is it?

There’s a lot of blood, sir. We’re doing the best we can, but we need those medics, now! The voice roars the last word, and I squat down in position. My eyes meet Rogers’ and we nod to each other.

These are war games; we have no way of knowing if this is part of the drill or a real emergency. Until it becomes clear, we operate as though it’s real.

A few minutes later, we receive orders to continue toward the trees.

Tommo, forward! I resume my position and peer across the sand, but this time the tank doesn’t give that familiar lurch. We remain where we are, so I give my command again, pressing the mic closer to my mouth. Tommo! Forward! There’s silence, and we remain stationary.

I squat just as Rogers says, Umm, Commander? Tommo is out.

I peer down to where the driver sits. His body is still, slumped to the side. Rogers scampers over to check on him, and then he laughs and calls up, It’s okay—he’s just fainted. It’ll be from that mention of blood over the radio.

Jesus. When is he going to get that under control?

Rogers laughs and returns to his position. Not today, by all accounts. You want me to drive?

No, let’s give him a minute. Last time, he woke up and behaved as though nothing had happened. I radio in and give an excuse about having to check the tracks. Command will want to know why we haven’t engaged. Let me kick the tires, and then we’ll give it another try.

I jump down, the fine sand puffing up around my boots. It’s so dry here in Northern Australia; the earth is red, and it gets into everything. For weeks after we get home, we’ll be shaking it out of our underwear.

I move around the tank, admiring my favourite piece of military equipment. The tracks are in perfect order, the sand having had no effect on them after our days in the desert. I stretch and stand on my tiptoes, peering through the haze to see if anyone is moving toward us. If we get caught because of Tommo’s aversion to the slightest mention of blood, I’ll—

A blast startles me, blowing me backward. I shake my head, my ears ringing, as I stagger to my feet. What the fuck? I start back toward the tank when I see we’ve taken a direct hit from somewhere. Black smoke blows in the wind and I can smell burning. What the fucking fuck?

We’re supposed to be using blanks, not live ammunition.

Rogers and Swinny, our gunner, burst out of the top of the tank, their faces covered in blood. Rogers’ usual quiet nature has deserted him and he screams, Tommo is down there!

I scramble up to join him, and the sight of smoke pouring from the space our driver was last seen makes my blood run cold. I instruct Rogers to call in, and then I climb down, holding my breath and worrying over what I might find.

The heat crinkles my skin, sucking any moisture from it the moment I get close. Flames are licking the inside of the tank.

That’s bad.

Tommo! I scream, my lungs filling with smoke and heat. I cough and suck in more fumes as I lean down to look into his area. I feel around, my hands frantically searching for him, fingers seeking something to cling to—a sign that he’s alive.

I hear a moan and hold my collar over my nose, trying to get a breath as my eyes stream, clouding my vision.

I won’t leave him.

Then it strikes me. In my panic, I’ve forgotten Tommo has his own hatch. Habit finally kicks in and I grab the handle, turning the turret into a position that will let us get Tommo out. I climb out of the tank and rush to open the driver hatch.

Tommo! I shout again, and