The Billionaire's Revenge (Tycoon Billionaires 3)

“But –”

His patience snapped. “How would you feel if I blocked your way every day and asked you stupid questions?”

A different reporter stuck a microphone in his face. “Joseph, you said recently that the music taste of your fans isn’t quite the same as yours – what did you mean by that?”

He shrugged. “Just what I said.”

“And what about the fan who you were seen with the other night?”

“What about her?”

“What about her taste?”

Joseph tried not to laugh, but it burst out of him. “I’m afraid I didn’t get the chance to taste her, so I couldn’t comment. Now, you really need to move. Excuse me.”

“Joseph, women have been saying you’re the best lover they’ve ever–”

“Move it!” He shoved his shoulder between two reporters and pried them apart to get to the door, which was now being held open by the security guard.

He stepped inside and relished the serene sanctuary that hit him like a summer vacation. “Thanks, Tony. Same time tomorrow?”

The guard chuckled. “Sure, Joseph. I’ll be here.”

As the door was closing, a reporter called out, “Joseph, how are you going to spend your money?”

He turned and raised a cocky eyebrow. “Good question. Ask me again when my manager gets round to giving me some.”

Chapter Two

The sound of tinny muzak in this plush reception area always soothed Joseph’s ears, because it signalled his safe passage past the fans and journalists. Contentment swept over him as he removed his shades. This – being here – this was his dream. Several of his favourite bands had recorded their most-influential albums here, and it was an honour for Joseph to soak up their vibes. The building was small, but it consisted of everything his band needed. All the magic happened in the studios upstairs: there was the ‘live’ room, where the music was played; the ‘control’ room, where the mixing desk was set up behind soundproof glass; and there were the two isolation booths, where the drummer could go and make a racket without his sound ‘leaking’. There was also a well-stocked break room, where the band could eat, drink, and unwind, but Joseph could usually be found in one of the isolation booths, jotting down lyrics or composing tablature for a new guitar solo.

His record-company producer often rejected his ideas, claiming they weren’t commercial enough, and this dismissiveness actually annoyed him more than the screaming girls and stupid journalists. He’d signed with this massive record company amid promises of artistic freedom, but now he realised all they wanted was his handsome face, his stage charisma, and his marketability. Instead of making music the way he’d always dreamed of, they simply wanted him to make lots of money. Money for them. His soul-filled songs were being turned into catchy over-produced ditties, and he felt more plasticated with each overdub and double-track he heard.

But there was nothing he could do to get off this carousel now. It was what he’d signed up for.

He grinned at the lady behind the music-note-shaped reception desk. “Morning, Marilyn. How’s it going?”

She was old enough to be his mother, but he enjoyed their daily exchange. He loved her strong New York accent and brash honesty. “Hassle from the press, Joe?”

“Hmm… Did I mention how much I hate journalists?”

She chuckled. “You might’ve mentioned it yesterday. And the day before.”

“They ask me such mundane questions – and then they twist whatever I say, so what’s the point in even asking? Anyway, you have a great day, okay.”

“You too.”

He jogged up the steps towards the studio, setting his expression to supercool, ready for battle to commence. And there she was, standing at the top of the stairs on the thick red carpet, leaning against the sparkling granite wall. Eleanor – the beautiful blonde who he was determined to possess. Over the last six months, he’d spent hours surreptitiously studying her delicate bone structure and desirable body, and he knew every contour by heart – at least, the bits that weren’t covered by her expensive clothes – but he hoped to change that soon. Sometimes, after she’d left the vicinity, her feminine scent would linger – soaking his brain with honeysuckle and jasmine – and driving his cock crazy with desire.

Today she’d tied her long hair back in a high ponytail, and she was wearing that navy pinstripe suit again – she obviously liked it because she’d worn it several times this month. Joseph liked it too – he wanted to hitch up that pencil skirt around her hips then strip off her chiffon shirt to find out what kind of lingerie a woman like that wore to make her body curve so perfectly. She was like a 1950s movie star with a face like a doll, a body like a goddess, and a bite like a tiger.

She was beautiful, feisty, and articulate, and Joseph knew she was perfect for him. Other than the fact that she was working for Satan… or rather, she was a journalist. But even that was forgivable because – the truth was – he loved her. The ruder she was to him, the more he wanted to bend her over and fuck her hard – giving her the best orgasm she’d ever experienced – making her think only of him.

He halted at the top of the steps and threw her his most charming smile. “Good morning, Eleanor.”

She glanced up from her newspaper. “Is it, Joseph? So nice of you to join us this lunchtime.”

“Checking my timekeeping?” He shrugged off his heavy coat, revealing his leather trousers and un-ironed shirt. “What are you, my mother?”