Billionaire's Accident Read online

  Billionaire’s Accident

  Brooke Shelby

  Hudson Digital Press, LLC

  Contents

  Also by Brooke Shelby

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Mailing List

  Also by Brooke Shelby

  The Baker’s Billionaire

  Billionaire’s Karma

  Beyond the Footlights

  1

  “Here’s to Brent, the last one of us standing,” George said, holding a shot of Jagermeister to his friend. Tucker and Barry held theirs up as well and Brent had no choice but to chase the shot down, the alcohol scouring a trail of fire down his throat.

  Brent, George, Tucker and Barry had all been friends since attending business school more than six years ago, but that didn’t diminish the friendship that had been cultivated there. They had studied and partied side by side, taking the campus by storm.

  In the six years since, a lot had changed. For one, they had all been very successful in business. There was no more pooling of cash for a night out, no more taking the subway or crawling the sidewalks after a rough night out.

  In their own capacity they had each become millionaires, or very close to it. George had started buying and selling cars and had proceeded to become one of the most notable car dealers in the city. Tucker had made his millions in real estate, and Barry was one of the best stockbrokers on Wall Street. As for Brent, his fortune hadn’t come without sacrifice or hard work.

  When he had started his first company, he never could have envisioned reaching the success he had since then. His first company had soon reaped large profits under Brent’s management and keen eye for business. When he had been made an offer to sell, he didn’t think twice. He bought a larger company at a cheap price and proceeded to do the same.

  Throughout the city, Brent Williams was known to whip any business into shape before he sold it at a profit. He loved the excitement and the challenges that came with buying a failing company before he made the necessary changes in management, staff, and systems to sell it at a profit.

  As a workaholic, his friend’s successful love lives had never bothered him; his companies didn’t complain when he worked late, nor did they try to control him. And as for the women in his life; his assistant answered to him, and no other woman mattered longer than the time than it took her to satisfy him.

  Brent Williams was a free agent with only himself to answer to, and he liked it just that way.

  “Listen, guys, this has been fun but I really should get home,” George said with glassy eyes as he grabbed his coat from the barstool.

  “Come on, man, just one more drink. It’s barely 9:00 p.m.,” Brent complained, knowing that if George left then Barry and Tucker would quickly follow.

  George shook his head with a foolish smile. “Sheila is due in two weeks; I don’t want her getting upset with me. Besides, I’m sure that after getting the nursery ready she’s aching for a back rub.”

  Tucker slapped George on the back. “Come on, just admit it. You want to go home to your wife.”

  George shrugged and smiled. “If Sheila was your wife you would feel the same.”

  Tucker shrugged and Brent couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Tucker’s wife had left him for her gym instructor a few months ago and had left their children with Tucker. At four and eight years old respectively, she had told Tucker the kids didn’t fit in with her life right now.

  Tucker checked his watch and stood up. “Speaking of, I need to get home to the kids. The babysitter can only stay until 10:00 pm.”

  “That’s another hour,” Brent argued.

  “Next week. We’ll do this again next week,” Tucker promised as he followed George out of the door.

  Brent turned to Barry only to realize he was whispering into his phone. “Who are you talking to?” Brent asked, intrigued.

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Are you going to wear that little pink slip?”

  Brent groaned as he realized Barry was talking to his wife. After two months of marriage, Barry was still just as in love as he had been on the day of the wedding.

  Already knowing Barry was going to chicken out as well, Brent ordered himself another drink. He wasn’t ready to go home yet, even if his friends were.

  Just as predicted, Barry turned to him with a stupid grin. “I’m uh—heading home.”

  Brent smirked and tossed his drink back. “Yeah, I figured as much.”

  “Come on, Brent, when you have a wife and a family someday you’ll understand. I love having a few drinks with you guys, but I want to spend time with Cindy too.”

  Brent shook his head. “You’re just whipped.”

  Barry laughed and slapped Brent on the back. “Maybe I am, but I’m sure as hell not complaining about it.”

  After Barry left, Brent called the barman and ordered another drink. While he waited, he swiveled the barstool around and looked at the crowd in the bar. He could spot the young, eager faces that had just landed their first jobs in the big city. The older, more cynical souls that no longer came to bars to meet people but rather to forget them. And then there was his type.

  The type of person that was comfortable being alone, that didn’t need a crowd or a partner to feel comfortable ordering a drink. The bright lights of the city no longer attracted or even surprised you as you helped to create them. The kind of confidence that came with knowing you had made it in the city.

  Even though his friends felt sorry for him, Brent liked his life. He liked the freedom, the success, and even the demands. He liked doing what he wanted, when he wanted.

  The barman set down the glass of scotch on a napkin in front of him and just as Brent picked up the glass, he grimaced. He couldn’t drink it.

  Emilio, his driver, was down with the flu. If Brent had one more drink he would be over the limit, if he wasn’t toeing the line already. He considered having the drink and taking a cab home and decided against it.

  That would mean he would need to make arrangements to collect the car in the morning and he had an important meeting lined up. He could have another drink at his penthouse while he went over the notes for tomorrow’s meeting.

  Of the three companies he currently owned, one was up for sale. He had received numerous fair offers over the past week, but Brent was intent on selling it for higher. Tomorrow morning he had a meeting with the highest bidder. If he could get him to increase his offer by five percent, Brent would agree to the terms.

  He glanced longingly at the glass of scotch before dropping a few bills beside it. He might not have a wife and kids waiting at home, but he had more important responsibilities. He had the livelihood of all his employees depending on him making the right decisions every day.

  Brent walked out of the bar, stood still underneath the awning, and breathed deeply. Why was it that people spent their whole lives trying to be healthy, eating organic food, drinking spring water, and attending gyms like they were a religion—but when they needed to relax, to get a break from it all, they flocked to smoke-filled bars, flooding their bodies with alcohol, nicotine, and carbs and consequently undoing all the good they had focused on so hard?

  He shook his head, contemplating the human race, and headed to his car. The rain was pelting down, but it was to be expected after the heat wave they h
ad experienced over the past few days.

  Brent usually didn’t mind inclement weather, as it washed away the grime and the sweat that always clung to the concrete jungle, but he hated it when he had to walk in it. After having had a driver for four years, Brent often didn’t realize how spoiled he was by always having a driver waiting outside the door.

  Pulling his coat over his head, more to avoid the rain in his eyes than for fear of getting wet, he ran through the rain. By the time he reached his Masserati, his shoes were soaked.

  Cursing the weather and hoping his Italian loafers would survive the water, he slid the gear shift into reverse and hit the gas.

  Brent glanced at the rearview mirror and for a second thought he noticed something through the curtain of rain behind his car when he heard—thump!

  He slammed the brakes so hard that his head snapped forward. After another curse, clarity prevailed: he had just knocked someone or something over.

  Even if he hadn’t been going fast, Brent knew a little bump could mean a lawsuit. That was the last thing he needed right now.

  Brent took a deep breath and tried to slow his racing heart as he opened the door. He stepped into a puddle of water, Italian loafers long forgotten, and headed to the back of the car.

  When he noticed the pair of long legs lying on the asphalt, his heart jumped into his throat.

  2

  “Can I please have a fresh bottle of water? This one is off.”

  Tia frowned at the man who was clearly bald with a combover. Ever since he had stepped into the restaurant an hour ago, nothing had been to his satisfaction.

  The cloth napkins were too thin, the lighting too bright, the plates too big, and so it had continued. It had taken all of Tia’s reserve not to lash out, but she kept abiding him in hopes of a big tip.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Tia said with her best fake smile. “What do you mean the water is off?”

  The man shook his head impatiently at Tia. “Here, why don’t you taste it? It doesn’t taste right. It tastes like nothing.”

  Tia simply nodded and bit back the fact that water was supposed to taste like nothing. “Certainly. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Tia replaced his water and took back his food twice before he finally paid the bill and left her a measly tip for all her effort.

  By the time Tia had finished her shift she was tired, agitated, depressed, and just wanted to get home. Tia stepped out of the restaurant and groaned at the sight of the rain. The thorough soaking would be appreciated back home where rain was always welcomed, but in the city it was a mere hazard. She shrugged on a thrift store trench coat over her uniform that consisted of a black skirt and a white shirt.

  The car horns sounded loudly through the streets as general road rules were long forgotten as soon as the first drop fell. Puddles littered the sidewalk and Tia quickly jumped back when a car sped by, splashing her with grimy water.

  She looked down at her pair of high heels and considered getting a taxi. She would be back in her one-bedroom apartment in fifteen minutes, mostly dry and a few bucks poorer.

  Shaking her head, she sighed; the few bucks she would be spending on a taxi could mean getting home a few days sooner. She would compromise and take the subway; at least the rain could only lash out against her until she reached the station a few blocks away.

  A few more weeks, Tia promised herself as she headed towards a parking lot that served as a shortcut to the subway station. A few more weeks and she would be back in the small town she had once hated and now longed for everyday.

  Over the past few months Tia had taken on a second job as a barista at a coffee shop to supplement what she had come to think of as her “going home fund.”

  That meant working at the coffee shop from early morning till late afternoon when she started her shift at the upscale restaurant as a waiter. Like most days, her feet and her back were killing her, but if there was one thing you learned from growing up on a ranch, it was determination.

  Lucky for Tia, she had loads of determination in store.

  She had come to the big city with big dreams, only to have them all snuffed within a few weeks of arriving. The meager savings she had set aside to move to the city had been used within a week of arriving and things hadn’t been much better since then.

  Tia didn’t have a fancy education or a foot in the door with an acquaintance and she had quickly learned that success in the big city, more often than not, depended on who you knew and not how hard you were willing to work.

  The grass was greener on the other side, just as Tia had believed, but now she knew the grass was greener because there was more dung going around in the city. People lied, cheated, and scammed without batting an eye. Loose morals weren’t even frowned upon, and don’t forget the back-stabbers, the thieves, and chance-takers.

  Employers treated you like slaves, milking every drop of energy and service they could. Being a waiter in the city was long removed from being a waiter in a small town where your employer cared more about your well-being than that of his or her clients.

  Tia had had enough; all she wanted was to go home. But before she could, she needed to have enough money. Enough money to allow her to travel home and at least have something to show for her stay in the city.

  Enough money to prove to herself and her mother that she hadn’t failed.

  She missed good, honest people that cared for you not because they were your friends, but simply because you came from the same town. She missed her friends that didn’t worry what she wore or where she worked, but loved her for who she was.

  Even though she and her mother had barely seen eye to eye, she even missed her. Tia had started to send money home as soon as she arrived in the city to help her mother, as she had felt guilty for leaving. She phoned her mother every couple of weeks and every time her mother had asked, Tia had promised she was doing well.

  She didn’t bother to mention that she ate at work because she couldn’t afford to cook every night, or that she walked her feet to the point of bruising to avoid taking taxis, or that she hadn’t made any friends since arriving in the city.

  No, because if she said any of that Tia knew what would come; the inevitable “I told you” so her mother doled out so easily.

  Tia didn’t need to hear it from her mother. Even though she couldn’t wait to get home, Tia had learned a lot about herself since she had arrived in the city. She had learned she was tougher than she thought, more hard-working than anyone would give her credit for, and had a backbone made of steel, after she had run off a pickpocket a couple of weeks ago.

  Gripping her handbag tightly between her arm and her chest, Tia ducked her head and started running across the parking lot. Beyond the parking lot it was only one block until the station, where she would be out of the rain.

  Tia knew she would be wet by the time she got there, but maybe running would avoid her being soaked.

  A fresh wave of rain pelted down as thunder roared overhead. Tia hunched her shoulders and ran even faster. Her stomach growled but she ignored it. It had been such a busy day, she hadn’t even had time to sit down and eat. The piece of muffin she had had at the coffee shop this morning had been the last thing she ate. She quickly calculated that it had been over twelve hours ago; a few more minutes, she promised her growling stomach, when she felt something knock against her legs.

  Tia fell onto the wet asphalt and quickly tried to assess her injuries; she could still move both her legs, so it couldn’t be that bad. Suddenly her mind started floating, leaving her disoriented. Little specks of stars danced in front of her eyes when she noticed a dark figure moving around the car towards her.

  This must be my guardian angel, Tia thought as she glanced up at the bluest eyes she had ever seen. He had to be at least six feet tall with dark blond hair. He had a chiseled, clean-shaven jaw. Rugged eyebrows guarded sky-blue eyes. He had a large forehead which would have seemed awkward on other men, but Tia found it appealing. His lips were pressed into a t
hin line and yet he was still the most handsome man Tia had ever seen. Her tummy did a small flip and Tia felt her world start to fade when he spoke.

  “Are you okay?”

  Tia wanted to assure him she was fine, but as his voice was drummed out by the smattering of rain beside her head, her ears started to sing.

  She wanted to thank him for caring, but before Tia could respond her world went black. She didn’t even notice when her guardian angel cursed like the devil before he crouched over her.

  3

  Brent had never felt guiltier than he did looking at the unconscious woman lying like a discarded ragdoll in the rain. In the back of his mind he knew he should call an ambulance or the police, but he remembered the shot of Jagermeister he had had before he left the bar and didn’t want to take a chance.

  The fact that he placed his reputation over her well-being irked him, but she had spoken before she passed out; wasn’t that a good sign? Brent crouched over her in the rain and felt her pulse. He wasn’t sure what it should feel like but it wasn’t thread; it was steady.

  He dragged a hand through his hair, cursing again before he ran his hands over her legs, searching for an injury. All her bones felt intact; at least that was a positive point. Brent refused to admit he had no idea what a minor break would feel like. Surely there would be some swelling or bruising? As he reached her ankles, Brent couldn’t help but notice how slim they were and how sexy they looked with the high heels on her feet.

  For a moment he wondered what the dark-haired ragdoll would look like wearing just those high heels. Another curse slipped out before he shook his head; it must be the alcohol. Brent tried to placate himself as he moved on to checking her arms. Slim arms that were toned, ending with long- fingered hands. Her nails were cut to the quick and not manicured like the women Brent was used to dating.