Bad Husband: Billionaire's Club, #3

By Elise Faber

He was her mortal enemy in the business world.

But in the real world?

He had a soft spot…and it was only for her.

And when sexy, smart, and oftentimes cold Clay Steele showed that soft part to her, Heather forgot to be the smart, calculated businesswoman she was.

In fact, Heather got stupid.

And stupid had her waking up hungover and naked in Clay's bed.

With a giant diamond ring.

On her left hand.

Oh hell—

What had she done?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elise Faber
• Release date: Dec 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215564486

Book preview

ONE

Heather

Heather sniffed and swiped a finger under each eye as Colin and CeCe drove off in their car.

So, the master businesswoman known as Heather O’Keith has real human emotions?

She stiffened, whipping around to glare at Clay Steele, successful businessman, rival entrepreneur, and sexy as fuck male . . . despite the awful porn star name.

I have plenty of feelings, she snapped. Just because I don’t make a practice of showing them in my fucking boardroom doesn’t make me less of a woman.

Clay’s stare drifted down and then back up. Anyone who says you’re not a woman has lost their fucking mind.

Heather froze.

Had he—?

Had the man who’d done nothing but dog her steps in the business world, who made it a point of tormenting her by stealing clients and undercutting bids, had he just complimented her?

How in the . . .?

Then she saw the glassy look in his eyes.

Ah. Drunk.

You’ve had a few too many, she said, waving a hand to signal the town car parked at the corner. Of all the things that came along with busting her ass to have a flush bank account, having enough money to afford a personal driver was a perk that she really enjoyed.

So? he asked, not quite belligerent but close.

Idiot man. But she’d seen way too many of them in this situation to be the least bit cowed. I hope you’re not an angry drunk.

No. Both brows came up, waggled. I’m a horny one.

Despite herself, she chuckled. With a porn star name like yours, I’m not surprised.

Hey! he said and followed her when she strode toward her car, the back door now conveniently open. I’ll have you know, my name is a family one, passed down generation by glorious generation.

A roll of her eyes as she pushed through the open door, plunking down on the plush leather seat. Maybe so. But you’re still drunk.

His expression sobered enough that she stopped short of slamming the metal panel on his head.

Didn’t stop her from wanting to do it, though.

His next words made her regret the thought. Rough day for me today.

Dammit. Why did he have to go and show that he had a human side? Heather wanted to loathe him, not have sympathy for the man.

Clay seemed to realize he’d said too much and so he stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets. He tilted his chin in the direction Colin and CeCe’s car had disappeared. Who were they?

Friends. No. At this point they were family.

Ah. One of his hands exited his pocket and shoved through his hair, leaving the thick brown locks mussed. Not that it detracted from the image. Rather, it made Clay Steele appear slightly more human instead of his typical.

Which was godlike.

Tall, broad in the shoulders, lean in the hips, with chocolate-colored hair and unusually vibrant mocha irises.

He’d been in her mental spank bank for months.

I’d give a lot to have one of those again.

His words made her frown in confusion before she realized she’d spoken aloud, though thankfully about CeCe and Colin being more than friends, and not about her tendency to masturbate to the image of Clay bending her over the bed, pinning her against a wall, grabbing her by the ankles and—

A family? she asked, blinking the images away.

Yeah. A sigh as he turned for the sidewalk. See you at the next convention, O’Keith.

Wait! Acting on an instinct she didn’t want to examine too closely, Heather put one foot out of the car, reached to snag his wrist, and hauled him to a stop. Let me at least take you back to your hotel.

I’m getting drunk, he said but allowed her to pull him inside the sedan so her driver could shut the door behind them.

You’re already drunk, she said.

He stiffened. "More drunk."

Fine, she said, half-worried he was going to launch himself from the car. She’d never seen Clay like this. Usually he was so cold and uncompromising, impenetrable, even under the toughest of negotiations. He was . . . well, he was typically as Steele-like as his last name decreed.

She wrapped her arm through his to prevent any unplanned exits from the vehicle and gave the driver the name of her favorite bar. If you really want to drink, let’s do it right.

And then she’d drop him at his hotel.

Except it didn’t happen that way.

Yes, they hit the bar.

Yes, they drank.

Yes, they got plastered.

But then they woke up . . . or at least, Heather woke up.

Naked.

With a softly snoring Clay Steele passed out next to her in bed.

That wasn’t the worst part.

Because Heather woke up naked with a softly snoring Clay Steele in her bed and she was wearing a giant diamond ring on her left hand.

Still not the worst part.

That came in the form of a slightly crumpled marriage certificate tucked under her right cheek.

And not the one on her face.

She pulled it from beneath her, a cold sweat breaking out over her body, dread in every nerve and cell.

She still wasn’t prepared for the horror she found.

The marriage license had been signed by . . . Heather O’Keith and Clay Steele.

Holy fuck, what had she done?

TWO

Clay

He woke with a splitting headache, a mouth as dry as the Sahara, and . . . completely naked.

Fuck, he muttered, rolling over on the mattress and testing the severity of his hangover by slitting his lids the tiniest bit.

Pain blared through his skull.

Fuck, he said again and slammed them closed.

Noted. His hangover was at DEFCON 1.

Not a surprise, considering what day it was.

Clay kept his eyes closed and pushed up in bed. His muscles ached like he’d run a marathon. Or . . . he supposed he’d fucked one.

That was his typical M.O. on this particular anniversary.

His closed eyes were probably why he didn’t notice that he wasn’t alone, that he wasn’t even in his own hotel room. But between the pounding in his head and the increasingly pressing urge to take a piss, he didn’t notice either one of those critical facts.

Another Fuck, to emphasize the fact that his body felt—and not that he would ever admit such a thing to any other living soul, but his heart felt the same—like it had been run over by a train.

Is that the only word in your repertoire?

Clay went ramrod stiff, his eyes flying open to send lightning strikes of agony through his brain. He knew that voice.

It had made him rock-hard from the first moment he’d heard it.

Confident, cool, and with just the hint of rasp. Heather O’Keith was sex incarnate, not that anyone who dealt with her in the business world would dare to say such a thing.

Not when she was so buttoned up and controlled in those suits she wore. Fuck if Clay hadn’t jerked off to the image of tearing her shirt open, pearl buttons flying every direction, and then bending her over and pulling those slacks past her thighs. He’d drop to his knees and eat like it was his last meal. He’d—

I’m taking your silence as a yes, she said, smirking before staring down at her perfectly painted nails as though considering whether she needed a manicure. Her right hand drifted over her left, and his eyes caught on her ring finger, remembering something.

He winced and rubbed a temple. How much had he drunk last night?

The last time he’d had a hangover this bad he’d been newly twenty-one.

Fuck, he said and dropped his chin to his chest.

Heather snorted and he glanced up, one half of his mouth curving.

His voice was rough. Apparently, I can only use the F-bomb directly upon waking.

Or upon hangover, she quipped, her left hand coming up to brush an errant strand of hair off her forehead.

There was something about that movement, about the color of her polish—red with silver sparkles—that was familiar.

But then again, how did he know there were silver sparkles on her nails?

They just looked red from here.

And he was losing it. Completely and utterly losing his mind.

What’s the matter, big guy? Heather asked. I can practically smell the smoke from here.

God, he liked this woman.

She was spine and fire and spunk, confident enough to sledgehammer a man’s balls when he was fucking up or trying to take advantage. More than that, Clay had way too much respect for Heather as a businesswoman to minimize her skills by qualifying her solely as a ballbuster. Her mind for business was unparalleled, and she had outmaneuvered him more times than his ego cared to admit.

His eyes finally processed the wall color behind her chair. The rug beneath her feet. He stood, whipped around, and realized all at once that this wasn’t his hotel room. Not his bed, not his room, and judging by the décor as he snatched a throw pillow off the floor and used it to cover himself way too late, he wasn’t even in his hotel.

Why am I here?

A huff of laughter had him turning to face her in time to witness another brush of those sparkly red nails against her shirt.

A shirt that . . . he tilted his head, studying her closely, because it wasn’t buttoned correctly. No. That wasn’t it. Her shirt was missing buttons.

Pearls flying. A freckle on her left ring finger that he’d kissed. One on her right hip that he’d nibbled.

Did we have sex?

Ding. Ding. Ding, she said, her eyes clouding with some emotion as she tapped her nose. I knew you could get there in the end.

Clay’s eyes were locked on her face, trying to recall if she’d unfrozen at all in the sack or if she’d stayed so utterly in control.

Aside from flashes of naked skin, his brain wasn’t much help. But he did know that if he hadn’t been able to shatter that famous control of Heather O’Keith’s, then he clearly hadn’t done his job correctly.

He sank onto the edge of the bed. Damn. I wish I could remember it.

His words made her flinch, a flinch he would have missed if he hadn’t been studying her so carefully. Somehow, he’d said the wrong thing without trying.

That was his specialty when it came to Heather O’Keith.

He should have just stuck with fucks.

Hey, he said, rising from the bed and walking over to her. I’m sorry, I didn’t—

She put up her hand. Stop your alpha I-need-to-fix-everything brain for a hot second. I’m fine. And frankly, we’ve got bigger problems.

And then she held up a piece of paper that made him halt in his tracks.

THREE

Heather

Heather watched as Clay’s stride faltered before he continued forward.

The man turned heads as he walked down a sidewalk, but coming toward her, only that stupid pillow tucked across his hips, all rippling muscles and sun-kissed skin . . . fuck her, it took her breath away.

She wasn’t lucky like Clay. She remembered every moment of their night together.

Calloused fingertips across her skin, hot lips pressed to hers, to her neck, to the space behind her ear that made her head spin. Hard against her soft, him sliding home, filling her to capacity before he’d proceeded to hit all the right spots. He’d known exactly how to please her, almost better than she knew how to please herself.

So, yeah, her Clay Steele fantasies hadn’t done the real man any justice.

She shifted in her seat, pressing her thighs together as the memory of him kneeling before her the previous night sent all her nerve endings on high alert.

His eyes flicked down, and moisture flowed south.

Ugh. He was so not helping her little issue.

That issue being her lack of control and her drunken idiocy. She’d been fuzzy on the details upon waking, but a long, hot shower and her attempts at locating her missing pearl buttons and then fumbling to reattach them to her shirt with the ridiculous sewing kit from the tray in the bathroom had ensured she was fully sober and in possession of every single one of those memories.

She’d only utilized her pathetic sewing skills in the first place because she hadn’t expected to spend another night in Vegas and had sent all of her luggage ahead to RoboTech’s private plane.

Which had been fueled and waiting for her—she flicked a glance down at her watch—for the last eight hours.

To take a page out of Clay’s book, fuck.

She should have called for the butler to buy her a new shirt and ran, taking the ring and marriage license with her. She could have gotten her lawyer friend Bec to arrange a quiet annulment as quickly as possible and then send Clay the details when it was taken care of.

But she hadn’t been able to leave.

Not when Clay had been . . . what?

Vulnerable. Fragile. Different from the man she knew and understood.

Yet