Mr. Bossy Devil (Alphalicious Billionaires Boss Book 2) Read online

  Mr. Bossy Devil

  Alphalicious Billionaires Boss

  Lindsey Hart

  CONTENTS

  CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  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

  CHAPTER 18

  EPILOGUE

  ALPHALICIOUS BILLIONAIRES BOX SET 1

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, or transmitted by email without permission in writing from the publisher. While all attempts and efforts have been made to verify the information held within this publication, neither the author nor the publisher assumes any responsibility for errors, omissions, or opposing interpretations of the content herein. The book is for entertainment purposes only. The views expressed are those of the author alone and should not be taken as expert instruction or commands.

  Copyright © Passion House Publishing Ltd 2020

  All rights reserved.

  Edits by Charmaine Tan. Cover by Cosmic Letterz.

  You can contact the author, Lindsey Hart at:

  [email protected]

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  Operation ex-stepsister seduction

  I know how it sounds.

  And no, I'm not backing off.

  There was a time when we were more best friends than siblings,

  Until the great fall-out between our parents.

  I always wondered how she was doing.

  But I never looked her up.

  I was too busy making billions.

  So, imagine my absolute shock,

  When she comes blazing right into my board meeting,

  Legs a mile long, curves by the millions,

  And absolutely ready to take me down a couple of pegs.

  But wait. Because what the freaking hell happened to the nerdy kid I remember?

  Since when did she have a need for a D-Cup, for god's sake?!

  And why am I ready to fire all my executives for also staring at said cup area?

  I know I should probably be way more concerned about why she is looking at me like I am the devil incarnate.

  But this devil is busy formulating other plans.

  Plans which include his ex-stepsister.

  Because this devil wants her.

  And what the devil wants, the devil always gets.

  CHAPTER 1

  Raiden

  People say they know me. They think they know me. They might even make a good case for their knowledge, based on both my business and personal reputation, and over the years, I’ve made quite a reputation, but we’ll get to that later.

  There are numerous things I detest in life, but there are three and a half things that really do it for me. The kind that’s like stubbing your precious little baby toe against a hard object in the middle of the night.

  How does one hate three and a half things? Well, the half is eggs. I like them half of the time. The other half of the time, they are an abomination that should be wiped off the earth for all I care. Especially. Eggs. With. Runny. Yolks. Might as well just crack the thing straight onto a plate and serve it up. Hard. Pass.

  The other two things I absolutely cannot stand under any circumstances are fake people and pizza. Why pizza? Because there have been at least six times when I’ve eaten it and barfed soon after, and now, it evokes such disgust in me that I can’t even look at the damn stuff without my stomach wanting to eject all its contents.

  The third thing took me by surprise. I actually just learned today, on seeing the newest addition to my tech empire, that there is one thing worse than eggs, pizza, and fake people.

  That third, magically shitty element comes in the form of one Zoe Scarlet Anderson, age thirty. My ex-stepsister.

  Yes, it is possible to have an ex-stepsister. First of all, it requires two people, namely my mom and her dad, who are completely toxic when it comes to relationships and each other. Mash them together for four years, add in a marriage which is pretty much shit in its own right, and then toss in a hint of a divorce from fucking hell (yes, fucking hell is worse than regular hell), and voila. There you have it.

  I haven’t seen Zoe since I was fourteen and she was twelve. At the risk of sounding like a huge asshole, and probably a few other things, I’ll just say she was the geekiest duck in the pond. But long story short, she’s changed. A lot. Those eighteen years have been kind to her. She was always a tomboy back then, trying hard to prove that anything the boys could do, she could do, and do better. Now she has boobs and a tight butt. Sans braces and glasses, it’s easy to see why the entire boardroom, even some of the women, are currently salivating at her as she walks past the glass windows with her head held high like a fucking goddess, a scowl on her face like she’s ready to go to war. And no, it doesn’t detract from her beauty whatsoever.

  There’s this shitty part about takeovers that I prefer to do myself. Like, show up in person in a company that just sold out to me, assure people that they won’t lose their jobs, and it isn’t the end of the world. Change is good. Rebranding is good. It’s all good.

  Except, in this case, it’s not all fucking good.

  This case is the worst-case scenario.

  I had no idea Zoe Anderson worked for the small software development company I just added to my inventory. No. Fucking. Idea. That is, right until she rounded the corner all of ten seconds ago and started a walk past the boardroom, which happens to be lined up with floor to ceiling clear glass. She started at one end of the hall, and now, half a minute later, she’s reaching for the door. The testosterone in the room, which is admittedly mostly full of men—something I plan on changing—just ratcheted up somewhere near the level of disgustingly unbearable. I think the two women in the room might even be giving off a little bit of it, because yes, Zoe Anderson has turned into someone who is just that hot.

  She’s wearing the classic SILF (which is secretary I’d like to fuck) combo—a white blouse that is almost sheer enough to see her lace bra, a tight black pencil skirt, towering black heels, and a regal bearing that says she knows she looks killer in it. She’s not tall; she’s probably only around 5’6”, but those heels highlight her sleek yet toned legs, and her ass could make a grown man weep. Her breasts are generous, and they fill out her blouse well, but it’s her face that is truly striking. Somewhere in those eighteen years, she morphed into something most definitely not tomboyish.

  Her green eyes, which used to be hidden away behind the world’s thickest, biggest, and ugliest glasses, flash when she pushes the door open and walks into the room. Her teeth, now straight and pearly white, grace everyone with a genuine smile.

  In that instant, I realize not only is the room suddenly flooded with her gentle, feminine scent, but the flash in her eyes is also for me.

  She knew. She didn�
�t just figure it out. She knew I was going to show up here. She knew who was head of the company that bought hers out. Okay, so it’s not exactly a secret, but the point is, she came prepared. She doesn’t look the least bit disturbed to find me in the head chair at the boardroom table, ready to talk about the future.

  Zoe: 1. Me: Fucking nothing.

  The door shuts silently behind her, and Zoe floats to the only empty chair—the chair at the other end of the table, directly across from me.

  She sets the notebook and pen she was holding down on the table. It’s an oval-shaped, hideously cheap monstrosity that I plan to get rid of as soon as fucking possible. Burning it came to mind, but I’m sure that would release too many toxic chemicals, and the world has enough toxicity and pollution as it is.

  I realize when Zoe lifts her head and stares straight at me, she’s challenging me. Oh yes, she came ready to battle. She came ready for me. She planned to be the last one entering the room so she could watch every single millisecond of my reaction.

  And yes, it’s kind of hot.

  Fuck.

  I’m that guy who thinks his ex-stepsister is hot. What. The. Actual. Fuck?

  I swallow hard, trying to push the lump of disgust, amazement, and my freaking balls—which have just jumped into my throat—back down. I rip open my laptop so that I can hide my face behind it. Even though I’m not looking at her, all I can see is Zoe’s gorgeous face. The heart-shaped beauty I never noticed before. Her dainty chin, perfect lips, cheekbones that aren’t very sharp but somehow don’t need to be, and eyes so green, they’d put an emerald of the Caribbean Sea to shame. Her honey-hued hair, which used to be a mousy brown, is pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head with a few wisps left down to dance around her angelic face.

  Lord. She might as well have been formed with angel dust and pink magical unicorn shit.

  “I appreciate you all for making time to attend this meeting,” I start, my voice rough. As if anyone here even had a choice. They either get with the program, or they ship out. It’s pretty simple, but people generally don’t like to hear that first thing in the morning, so I dumb it down and make it gentle, so it’s easier to swallow. “As you already know, there are going to be some changes, but we’ll take it slow and make it as painless as possible.” I really do hope so because I like productivity. I like smart people making smart technology, which makes lots of money.

  I roll along with the speech I’ve given quite a few times already. So many times, in fact, that I can do it on autopilot, which I do. Of course. And not because I’m distracted while thinking about other things.

  No, I’m not thinking about Zoe’s finer, surprising assets.

  Well, okay, yes, maybe I am.

  I know I’m a male pig and an egotistical asshole, blah, blah, blah. But maybe I’m not really. Just sometimes. I’m actually a rather fair employer who has never, not once, and would never dip my dick in the workplace. Those shit do not mix at any time. Instead, I’ve dated models, a few actresses, and some artists. Right, so I’ve dated at least two dozen more women from all walks of life.

  The thing about money and having people know you have it is that there is never any shortage of women lining up to date you, mostly because they want things—things and no strings. I’ve been okay with that, for the most part. Most people also just assume that when you have lots of money, you have no soul. But I think I do have a shred of it left somewhere that I haven’t sold to the devil.

  I’m called Ruthless Raiden for a reason, and I kind of like it. It has a nice alliterative ring to it. Better than being called Rectal Raiden, Ridiculous Raiden, or worst of all, Rectal Raiding Raiden. And no, I didn’t earn that nickname because I treat people badly.

  I’m actually quite nice. At least, I like to think so. I’m not the guy who you “have to get to know”. I don’t “grow on people”. I’m fair if people are fair in return, and I’ve had zero complaints from the women I’ve dated, or well, “hung out with”.

  No, my reputation is completely business. When it comes to business, I’m every bit as ruthless as people say. I’ll admit it straight up. I’m a bossy devil. I have to be if I want to make it. I’ve earned every syllable and letter of my reputation. I built a tech empire from the ground up, or should I say, from my mom’s garage up. After I burned down half of it, she became serious about sending me to computer camp to learn how to do things the right way. I got a job when I was fifteen and paid for everything after that.

  Now my mom lives in a two-million-dollar log shack just outside of Denver because she’s crazy and said she never did like the heat and didn’t want to stick around Florida. She prefers the mountains to the ocean, which I’ll admit has its draw. She has two sports cars, a brand-new truck, and an SUV. Not like she wanted any of it, but I like to spoil her, although she still has and prefers the fifteen-year-old minivan she bought for like two grand all those years back. It hasn’t improved with age, and I’m hoping that one day soon, it will die a hard van death and go to van heaven. By this, of course, I mean the scrap yard.

  Bringing my mind back to the present, I wrap up the speech I’ve perfected. I answer all the anxious questions and give reassurance to the people seated around me. Fortunately, there aren’t many questions at all because almost everyone in the room has probably figured out that this takeover is a good thing, I’m not here to crush them to dust, and if they’re honest and hardworking, I’m fair and pay well. There are still a few anxious stares and trembling hands that shake mine at the end of it all, but I’m known for making believers out of the worst doubters, so it doesn’t bother me.

  The room empties out.

  Except for one. One person who gets a few dubious looks and raised brows from the crowd shuffling out of the room in an orderly line.

  Zoe Scarlet Anderson stays firmly rooted in her seat. I’m standing at the other end of the room, but she’s not looking at me. She’s just staring down at her hands, which are folded over the notebook she never once opened. She’s going to make me clear my throat and make the first move. She’s not going to be the one to break the oppressive and incredibly awkward silence. She’s the one who wants to be in control, and I can read that from her rigid posture and body language. If this were a pissing contest, she would have soaked the room already before turning around to ask me how in the fricking-frack—because Zoe probably still doesn’t swear—I could top that.

  She wins.

  I clear my throat.

  But she still doesn’t look up at me.

  My stomach cramps up, and a cold sweat breaks out all over my skin, soaking into my three-thousand-dollar custom-tailored suit. My shoes even start to pinch because my feet are getting sweaty.

  “Do you have a question for me?” My voice comes out throaty and ragged, and I hate myself for it. I hate how I’m suddenly reduced back to a fourteen-year-old kid in her presence, except the fourteen-year-old version of myself would never have been intimidated by Zoey Zo Zo.

  Then, her face tilts up, one slow degree at a time. She makes me wait for it. How in the ever living nine realms of special corporate hell did eighteen years transform this woman into the most practiced frigid ice queen, and why in the ever-living hell is it so hot?

  Suddenly, I’m more worried about popping a hard-on, which is going to be very obvious in a suit, than anything else. The room closes in around me, and the air becomes thick as soup. Boner action is happening. Slowly. No matter how much I try to tell my dick to behave.

  I think fast, which I’ve always been good at, and frantically pull out my chair. I slam back into it so hard, the thing creaks and barely supports me. I’m a big guy—over six feet and built like what my mom likes to refer to as a “bloody dang mountain”—so that’s a real testament to whoever manufactured this burgundy faux leather thing they call a chair.

  “I do have a question.” Zoe’s voice is cool and smooth. It falls like cold rain all over me, but instead of dousing my overheated skin, I find myself engulfed in an
other round of flames. My cock is now raging underneath the table—the kind of rage that could tear through clothes.

  I’m fully aware this makes me a disgusting human being. This is the girl I once took a blood brother sort of oath with. We cut ourselves with a razor blade and pressed our palms together. We promised to be friends forever, a real brother and sister. Because we were that close. Once. A million years ago.

  What can I say? I was a stupid kid.

  “Yes?” I attempt a shred of composure and probably fail miserably.

  My face is probably betraying the fact that right now, I’m about three seconds away from exploding. As in, not spontaneous combustion. No, I’m talking more of a dick snort. I know I do not have any issue with premature ejaculation, and I certainly have never come outside of an actual induced sex act—hand, pussy, mouth. And most definitely never from just a glance and a few wayward thoughts.

  Zoe’s knock-you-out-with-a-single-glance eyes narrow menacingly, and my dick throbs. My balls turn another shade of red. Or blue. Or purple. Whatever. They’re seriously hurting, and it’s not like I can actually dive under the table and inspect their hue, so I’m just guessing.

  “Are you always such an asshole?”

  CHAPTER 2

  Zoe

  Raiden did always have a good poker face, and I used to envy that about him. He was just so freaking calm and cool under pressure. Like a pickled cucumber, which I happen to know he doesn’t like. I mean, who doesn’t like pickles? That should have been my first tip-off that there was something seriously wrong with Raiden Vanstone. That really is his real name. He and his mom never took my family’s last name when his mom and my dad got married, which was good because then, they didn’t have to un-take it when the marriage ended in a divorce.

  Rotten Raiden, as I’ve come to think of him, looks anything but rotten. I already knew that, though. Even before I found out his shit tech company was taking over the even shittier one I worked for, I was well aware of what he looked like. It’s not like I could actually forget.