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  My Ex-Boyfriend’s Billionaire Daddy

  An Older Man Younger Woman Romance

  Ella Brooke

  Copyright © 2020 by Ella Brooke

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This story is a work of fiction and any portrayal of any person living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended.

  Contents

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  1. The Deep End

  2. Not Right

  3. Future Plans

  4. Don’t Look a Gift Horse in His Sexy Mouth

  5. Ulterior Motives

  6. A Whole New Level

  7. Don’t Stop the Music

  8. The Fallen One

  9. No Turning Back

  10. The Morning After

  11. Wolf in Wall Street Clothing

  12. For the Best

  13. Fall from Grace

  14. Exhibit A

  15. Hostile Takeover

  16. What a Girl Wants

  17. Heaven Can Wait

  18. Ya Gotta Own It

  Epilogue

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  The Deep End

  Brent

  Funny how some things never change.

  Waves lapping at the shore, breezes off the lake rustling the leaves on the trees, the exuberance and recklessness of youth in full display on the beach below. Everything I see here is timeless and enduring.

  Yet, I know all too well there are other things that can change quickly and irrevocably; in a heartbeat. Things such as losing the best thing that ever came into my life.

  Diana.

  It’s been three years. I should be over her death by now, but I’m not. Not completely. I think it’s because some part of me says that forgetting the past and moving on will finally acknowledge that she’s gone; and that’s something I can’t bear to do. Not yet.

  From my position on the wraparound deck of our lake house, I suck in a healing breath and watch the scene unfolding on the beach less than a hundred yards away. A dozen bronzed young bodies are frolicking in the sand or in the cool waters of the lake. Among them is my son Ryan, who is readying our ski boat that’s moored to the nearby dock. I remind myself that Diana is never really lost from me; she lives on in our son. He’s the best parts of both of us.

  I smile at the antics of his friends and schoolmates who we’ve invited up here for two weeks: a celebratory getaway for his graduating class. Summer is just beginning and these kids deserve a little vacation time after four years of intense study. I’m happy to offer them the use of the lake house for the duration, with the caveat they don’t trash anything or bring illegal substances onto the property.

  I call them kids, but they’re in their twenties. My God, twenty seems so long ago. Was I ever that young? Sure, I was. And just like Ryan, I had my wild time. In campus bars and frat houses, in the backs of cars in deserted parking lots or here at the lake, making out with an endless string of pretty young ingenues who summered here; the privileged progeny of wealthy parents like mine.

  Like me.

  With a mirthless chuckle, I realize I have become my father—a middle-aged executive presiding over the Baxter investment fortune; lavishing affection and money over my only child. At forty-two I’m hardly ancient, yet deep down I know I’d give a good portion of my assets to be young again, like Ryan and his friends. No real cares or responsibilities. No crushing weight of loss and personal tragedy. They don’t know how lucky they are.

  Maybe I’m just a bit jealous of them, my own carefree youth cut short as it were. I may have been a teenage Casanova, but I grew up pretty fast. Diana and I met when we were just eighteen, and by age twenty we were married and Ryan already on his way. Ironic that when he was born, I was younger than he is right now. But I can’t complain. Life was good back then, and still is. I have my work, all the money I’ll ever need, and the ability to provide for the next generation of Baxters. My only regret is that Diana isn’t here to share in it.

  The idea of grandkids strikes both fear and excitement in my heart. I can’t picture myself as old enough to be a grandfather. I’m still considered a ladies’ man, a player, as my younger associates describe me—never without a pretty piece of ass hanging on my arm at social occasions. Would they still be lining up to get close to Grandpa, I wonder?

  Not that it matters. My heart is still a prisoner of the past; none of the women I’ve dated have been able to unlock it. Diana would have loved grandchildren. I know Ryan seems quite enamoured with his current girlfriend, Cassidy. Perhaps a wedding and grandkids aren’t that far off in the future.

  I see Ryan down at the dock. He’s already cast off and maneuvering our huge MasterCraft wakeboard boat away from the dock and toward the open water, four wakeboards strapped to the tower and a handful of his friends seated in the back. He’s an expert wakeboarder, having had the benefit of learning very young. He’s even won a few competitions, but didn’t pursue the sport professionally once he started university. Girls and his studies became his main focus then, not necessarily in that order.

  I watch the remaining kids horsing around on the beach until I start feeling like a voyeur with all the skin being flashed around. I need a drink. I rise from my chair to go mix myself a tall, cool Long Island iced tea. I lean against the railing for a minute, taking in my surroundings, thinking of all the years Diana and I enjoyed this place. The full greenness of the trees all around, the warmth of the sun and the happy sounds from the waters edge all serve to kick me in the ass and remind me I’m still a lucky bastard, in spite of everything. I imagine I even hear Diana whispering to me: It’s okay, Brent, my love. Go on and enjoy your life. I loved every minute of mine.

  As the ghostly words echo in my brain, a flash of color catches my eye. A figure rises from the water and makes her way into the shallows and onto the sandy beach. The material of her skimpy bikini is bright red, unmissable against the light gold of the sand and the blue water beyond. She’s gorgeous . . . acres of tanned skin barely covered by the crimson swimwear. Her long blonde hair, soaking wet, curls about her neck and shoulders. As shapely legs stride onto the warm sand, she reaches up and gathers her hair, squeezing the wetness from it. With her arms raised and her back arched, her amazing breasts are thrust into full view.

  Unbidden, my cock twitches at the sight. Droplets of water sparkle on the rounded mounds of her breasts, and the shifting, soft sand beneath her feet makes her hips sway with each step. I lick my lips, knowing I should look away, but my eyes seem to have other ideas. I can’t tear my vision away from the incredible nymph walking toward the house. Toward me.

  Her body is pure perfection; slim waist, finely sculpted arms and shoulders, firm thighs, and an ass as round and tight as two honeydew melons. Not to mention the delicious grapefruit-sized tits that are now pressing together as she wraps her arms around herself. As she nears the house, my hardening cock sends an uncomfortable wave of shame up my torso. This isn’t any random sunbather. It’s Cassidy—Ryan’s girlfriend. Potentially the mother of my grandchildren. The thought shrivels my erection to a limp sausage.

  She looks up at me with eyes as blue as the lake before us, her gaze pinning me to the railing in its intensity. I’m paralyzed like helpless prey in the sights of a predator. She smiles and I grip the railing even more tightly. “Hi, Mr. Baxter.”

  I may be crazy, but I can�
�t help feeling there’s more in that glance and in those friendly words than a polite acknowledgment. “Hello, Cassidy. How’s the water?”

  She comes to a stop at the foot of the steps up to the deck and tilts her wet head. Fucking adorable. “It’s great, but I’m afraid I’m all swum out for today. Thought I’d come in for a shower and freshen up. If that’s alright?”

  “Yes, yes of course,” I say, forcing my mouth to snap out of its lock-jawed state. The girl’s suddenly got me tongue-tied, for Christ’s sake. When has that ever happened to Brent Baxter in the presence of a pretty lady? It’s not like I haven’t met her before. But seeing her like this, nearly naked and glistening from the lake, puts a very different picture in my head—one I should erase immediately. “Up the stairs and to the left. Towels are in there, too.”

  Her arms still wrapped tightly around herself, she mounts the stairs, inching closer to me with each step. She blinks those incredible blue eyes, framed by long lashes spiky with beads of moisture. “Thanks. I know the way. And call me Cassie.”

  I nod in acknowledgment. “Brent,” I say. She smiles again before turning away and disappearing into the house. I release a breath, allowing my lungs to activate again. Jesus, she’s a knockout. No wonder Ryan is attracted to her. If I were twenty years younger . . .

  I slap the miscreant thought from my brain. Well, you ain’t twenty no more, you dirty old fucker, I snap back in retort. I’ve got no business ogling the likes of her, but it doesn’t stop me. A fella can look, can’t he? I’m widowed, but not fucking dead. Shit, even a corpse would be aroused at the sight of Cassidy Keaton. Correction. Cassie Keaton. We’re on a first-name basis now—and something dark and mischievous in my head tells me things won’t end there.

  Not Right

  Cassidy

  I shouldn’t have come here.

  The place is beautiful, yes, and it’s been nice hanging with Ryan’s friends and classmates, but I feel like I’m an intruder, an interloper. I don’t belong here, and I don’t deserve to enjoy this luxury. I’m only here because Ryan and I have been dating for the last six months, and though I’m not sure I feel the same about him as I did when we first met, I didn’t have the heart to ruin this year-end clambake he had planned.

  When I saw him getting ready to take the boat out, I can’t deny I felt relieved. He’d asked me to come along, but I said no. “I’m waterlogged enough,” I told him. “I’m going to go up to the house and take a shower.” He gave me that look, the one with the pouty lips, but thankfully let me off the hook. I think he was really just trying to impress the guys with his flashy watercraft. The conversation would have been about horsepower and rpms and other mechanical nonsense, so it’s just as well I didn’t join them.

  I don’t mean to string him along, but I’m just not sure how he’ll react when I tell him I want to break things off. At least I’ll have an hour or so to myself while he’s out on the lake, and the fact that this pleases me is one more indication that we’re just not right for each other. My girlfriends tell me I’m crazy. Who wouldn’t want to date the rich boy, the one with all kinds of prospects for the future and the old-money family pedigree? “I could fake it forever for the chance to hitch my wagon to that,” my roommate Candice said.

  But that’s Candice. She may be able to fake it, but I can’t. It’s not that Ryan isn’t handsome, but . . . I just can’t see myself being with him for the long term. He’s really just a spoiled rich brat, and I can see why. All I have to do is look around. Fancy beach house on prime real estate, hot cars in the driveway, his tuition fees barely a drop in the bucket for his family . . . he’s never had to work for any of it, and that bothers me. He also plays the pity card a little too often. I’m sure it was difficult losing his mother, and I’m sorry for that, but if he’s looking for a girl to fill that hole in his life, he’s barking up the wrong tree with me.

  I’ve got plans of my own. Fine Arts majors like me aren’t exactly pointed in the direction of a well-paying career path. The phrase ‘starving artist’ is all too close to the truth. But I’ve been an artist all my life. I eat, sleep, and breathe painting and sculpting. I can’t imagine doing anything else, even though I have to wait tables part-time to get by. It’s only temporary, I tell myself. I can’t help feeling I’m on the verge of something big, something amazing. The small art gallery I did my work experience with this term is featuring four of my sculptures next month, and I’m beyond thrilled. This could be my big break as an artist, and I can’t be worried about hurting my immature, entitled boyfriend’s feelings.

  As I see the boat cast off, I slosh my way to shore, wringing out my hair as I walk, feeling the sand shifting beneath my feet. I shiver as the cool breeze passes over my skin. Damn, I’ve forgotten to bring a towel. I wonder what to do for a moment, then I remember there’s a ton of towels in the house, all four bathrooms stocked to the hilt with linens and toiletries of every description. We hardly had to bring any of our own things with us, except for clothes.

  I hurry toward the house. Goosebumps are forming on my arms and legs, and I wrap my arms around myself to hide my nipples, which are turning to rigid spikes from the chill. As I near the wraparound verandah of the—let’s face it, mansion, I nearly stop mid-step, a burn of embarrassment creeping up my spine. Oh my God. Ryan’s father is standing there, leaning on the railing. Ryan had said his dad would be at his office all week. What the hell is he doing here?

  I swallow hard and keep walking. I can’t exactly run and hide. Just act casual. I reach the bottom of the verandah steps before I say anything. “Hi, Mr. Baxter.” I flash a polite smile; after all, he’s been very gracious in letting us have the run of the place for the last two weeks.

  “Hello, Cassidy. How’s the water?” Something in his voice makes me stop in my tracks. I’ve only ever seen him dressed in a suit; but not today. He’s wearing a short-sleeved Tommy Bahama shirt and cargo shorts, and his tone is not businesslike at all. It’s warm and . . . personal. I like the sound of it. I tilt my head, waiting to hear it again.

  “It’s great, but I’m afraid I’m all swum out for today,” I say. “Thought I’d come in for a shower and freshen up. If that’s alright?” So much for ‘just hello.’ Why am I telling him all this? Shut up and get your ass to the bathroom.

  “Yes, yes of course,” he says. From here I can see the fine stubble on his upper lip. That would be some sexy scruff if he let it grow out just a bit. The bit of gray action he’s got going at his temples is attractive too, and suits him. Ryan’s hair is a much lighter shade of blond than his father’s, and he has trouble even sporting a decent moustache. Somehow that strikes me funny; clearly the beard gene didn’t get passed down from his dad. “Up the stairs and to the left. Towels are in there, too,” Mr. Baxter says.

  I realize I’ve been staring. How impolite. It’s just so different seeing him here, out of context like this. It’s like I’m meeting him for the first time. What the heck is his first name? I can’t remember. “Thanks. I know the way. And call me Cassie.”

  He nods, his little grin widening into a full-on smile, and it takes my breath away. His hazel eyes glitter in competition with the gleam of his brilliant white teeth. I guess that’s what Cadillac health coverage buys you. “Brent,” he responds.

  Yes. That’s it. Brent Baxter. Billionaire investment banker. I knew that. But hearing it from his lips is an entirely new experience. Something comes alive in my stomach, like a bird fluttering its wings, frantically trying to get out. What is happening here? I don’t feel cold anymore. In fact, I feel like a fire is starting under my feet. My eyes wander over him from head to toe, from perfectly-shaped feet, up tanned muscular calves and, oh my, a conspicuous bulge in the crotch area of his expensive shorts. Strong muscled forearms—always a turn on for me—broad chest with a field of dark hair peeking out from his unbuttoned shirt, and a strong jaw with deep dimples carved on either side of a drop-dead smile.

  This is no college boy. This is what a man looks l
ike. And I want to keep looking, until I remember—this is my boyfriend’s father. I have to move, and fast. I smile again and turn away. Up the stairs and to the left. I need a shower more than ever.

  I step into the spacious, spa-like bathroom and peel my wet bikini from my body. I close the door and lock it on reflex. Totally unnecessary; everyone’s still down at the lake and Mr. Baxter—Brent—wouldn’t be coming up knowing I’m in here. The thought hangs in my brain, and suddenly my fingers are flipping the lock open again. I dare you, a voice whispers from somewhere deep within me. I double dare you. I step away from the door and turn the shower taps on.

  I slide the glass doors open and step inside. Deliciously hot water spews from a beautiful chrome rain-head above. It flows through my hair and cascades down around my shoulders and between my breasts. My giggle echoes in the luxurious, tiled enclosure. What if? What if he actually came up here, tried the door, and found it open? Would he come in? Would he join me?

  What would that be like? I wonder. With a handful of heavenly-smelling shower gel from a dispenser on the wall, I glide my hands over my wet skin, across my belly and up under my breasts. My tits are still cold from the outdoors. I roll my nipples between my fingers and instantly feel a jolt of arousal shoot straight to my pussy. I pinch the tips harder. I smile and close my eyes, letting a mental movie reel start to roll.

  The bathroom door opens noiselessly, and a tall figure, obscured by clouds of steam from the shower, enters. I pretend not to notice and continue slathering suds over my body in slow, sexy passes. The shower door opens, and he’s there, completely naked. Billionaire Brent Baxter. “You shouldn’t be up here,” I say, deliberately fondling my tits with soap for him to see. I find myself mimicking every motion, stroking my breasts as the hot water caresses every inch of me. My pussy thrums with excitement.