BILLIONAIRE BOYS CLUB

  SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS

  Feel-Good Romance

  © 2014 ATLAS (Billionaire Boys Club) Book 1 by Suzanne D. Williams

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Scenes in this story may contain graphic and/or sexual situations not suitable for younger readers, but are framed by Christian morals and solutions.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Mr. Bellamy, the doctor’s in.”

  Lowering a popular entertainment magazine to the coffee table, Atlas gazed the short distance across the room, a curious look on his face. “Thank you, Powell. Show him in.” He rose to his feet and walked to the end of the loveseat.

  Powell made no move from his stiff stance in the entrance. “Her, sir.”

  Her? Dappled sunlight cast strange shapes through the floor to ceiling windows of the main room, making it appear even more tropical indoors than the lush garden outside.

  “I thought I sent for Dr. Barnes like before?” he asked.

  Powell gave a stiff nod, his hands poised perfectly at his sides. He was always efficient, Navy Powell, never flinching or shirking his duties. “Yes, sir, and Dr. Barnes sent Dr. Moralez. He’s apparently busy today.”

  “Busy.” Atlas said the word flatly. “I pay him to be un-busy.” Expelling a breath, he waved one hand outward. “Forget it. Send her in, then.”

  “Very good, sir.” Powell rotated on a polished heel and disappeared through the arched doorway. He returned moments later with a very attractive young woman in tow.

  Attractive. Slim. And wearing an extraordinarily tight skirt.

  “Dr. Moralez,” Powell began, motioning Atlas’ direction. “Atlas Bellamy.”

  “Thank you, Navy. Don’t forget to call Mom sometimes,” she said.

  Navy Powell’s lips twitched, the first sign of any life in him. “I’ll do that,” he returned.

  She flashed him a bright smile then brought her gaze across the room. Blonde hair framed an oval face and two dazzling blue eyes. Atlas blinked, temporarily stunned.

  “Mr. Bellamy, Dr. Barnes sends his apologies. It seems he overbooked himself today, and I offered to fill in.” Heels clicking on the orange Mexican tiles, she walked crisply toward him, stopping at the side of the loveseat and extending her hand. “Meghan Moralez. So what’s the concern?”

  Atlas took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Right now, that you aren’t Dr. Barnes.”

  She curled her lip between her teeth, her cheeks coloring, and he released her fingers. However, he made no motion to hide his admiration. “That wasn’t a complaint.”

  She either couldn’t speak or chose not to, instead, standing in front of him, silent, her hand held aloft halfway between them.

  “Tell me how your mother knows Powell,” he said, to break the tension.

  She released a breath, the movement loosening the taut fabric of her blouse. “Navy? He’s like a father to me.”

  “He’s worked here for over thirty years, since the night I was born,” Atlas returned. “I wasn’t aware he had any children.”

  He was teasing her, but she silenced again. This time she appeared to be thinking.

  “I knew that. Of course,” she said. She shifted her shoulders and seemed to awaken. “Anyhow, back to the reason for this visit.”

  He glanced downward. “There’s a mole on my leg. I hadn’t noticed it before but the other evening had it pointed out to me.”

  “On your leg? Well, I’ll need you to show me, and perhaps out here is too open.”

  “There’s a bathroom through there,” he replied, jerking his chin toward an opening just behind her. “I’ll change, and you knock.”

  She motioned him on, and he went through the doorway, taking a left down a short hall. Inside the bathroom, he shed his pants, tossing them over the glass shower wall and took a seat on the toilet in his boxers.

  A quiet knock came at the door. “It’s me.”

  “Come in.”

  The door cracked, and her face peered around the edge. She knelt, unspeaking, at his side and ran her fingers along his calf and over his knee. “Where?”

  “Right leg. Higher,” he said.

  She curled the hem of his boxers up and pressed her fingertip to the spot in question. Tilting her head back, she met his gaze. “Someone pointed it out to you?”

  Her tone was obvious, as was the answer. The only person who’d ever see that would be someone close and during something intimate. She was right, yet at the same time, she was wrong. That was the one and only time he and that particular female had ever been together. There wouldn’t be another. All it took for him to end things was the name Humphrey yelled about midway. His enthusiasm had died immediately, both for the act and the girl.

  He’d never liked her that much anyway. If he was to tell the truth, she was an amusement, nothing more, a female face to talk to and bide his time like all the others.

  His mother always complained. I wish you’d find someone serious, and not another one of those gold diggers.

  But gold diggers were who he was always introduced to, and, therefore, who he ended up with. Good girls didn’t come to fancy soirees, charity balls, or sportsman’s functions.

  Meghan Moralez bent her head again and ran her finger around the mark. After a minute had passed, she tapped it and stood. “You can put your pants on. It’s an ingrown hair.” She laughed once after she said it. “Never thought I’d say that to you.”

  He rose to his full height, standing over her, one hand on the wall. “Why is that? There’s something wrong with me?” He didn’t mean it spiteful at all, but she apparently took it that way.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, an action which accentuated her full curves. “No, you look healthy.”

  “But?” Aware he was standing there in his boxers, he reached past her for his pants and shook them out. She didn’t move as he dressed, nor when he buttoned his waistband.

  “Go ahead, tell me what you think of the pretentious, spoiled brat, son.”

  “I think your life is none of my business,” she replied.

  “But you don’t like me.”

  “I don’t know you. I’m here solely to look at your skin. Which brings me to ask, if you’d like anything else checked while I’m here? Or is that all she noticed?”

  A spark lit in her eyes, and he paused. This was a dare. For who though? Him? She wanted to see how he’d react, but perhaps, how she’d react as well. Fine. He’d find out. Taking hold of his shirt, he shed it and dropped it in the sink. “Go ahead. Take a look,” he said. “To your heart’s content.”

  She froze, her nostrils flaring. She was angry. But then, he’d caused it. Whatever her issue was with him, he hadn’t helped things with that maneuver.

  She pulled in a breath and, unfolding her arms, laid one palm flat on his chest. Her hand was warm, her fingertips dancing across his skin. She gave a slight tug on his side and the command to “turn around,” then began an almost sensuous massage on his back.

  “I’m a jerk,” she said, at last.

  He cast a glance behind. She wasn’t looking at him, but her reflection in the mirror. He revolved to face her and perched on the corner of the counter.

  She shut her eyes. “I apologize for my unprofessional behavior. It won’t happen again. You look clean.”

  “Clean?”

  Her eyelids flickered and those brilliant blues reappeared. “Clean. If you have any further questions, I’m sure Dr. Barnes can address them.” She turned her back and headed for the door. “I can see myself out.”

  Her footsteps faded in the hallway, and he stood in place while they receded. Then, his conscience niggling at him, he donned his shirt and followed. Whatever had happened just now, he ought to apologize. She shouldn’t leave, feeling angry or offended.

  There was no sign of her in the living area, nor in the hall. He heard her speaking from the foyer and quickened his pace. Stepping into the cavernous, two-story space, he met her gaze.

  She silenced, one hand on Navy Powell’s sleeve. “I said I’d let myself out.” With that, she released Powell and moved to the door.

  Atlas beat her there, laying one hand over the crack. “I know what you said, but I wanted to apologize.”

  Powell made a discreet retreat, disappearing instantly.

  “Not necessary,” she replied. “You paid for a medical opinion, not that of a twenty-seven year-old girl.”

  Twenty-seven and beautiful and under his skin. “I want the opinion of the girl,” he said.

  “About your skin?”

  “About me as a person. Tell me what you think of me. I can handle it.”

  She hesitated, leaning on one shapely hip. “I shouldn’t.”

  “You should because I asked.”

  And maybe it would help. Maybe if she got it off her chest, put it out in the open, they could part on even terms.

  She gazed up at him, some indecision warring on her features, then hooking one hand behind his head, dragged his face down to hers. Their mouths met, moist, eager, and parted just as quick. Yet her hand remained behind his head, a flowery fragrance from her wrist filling his nostrils and seizing hold of his mind.

  She withdrew slowl

y. “I wanted to know what it was like.”

  “And?” He coughed, clearing his throat.

  “I’m not sure. I’ll think on it and let you know.” She withdrew her hand and reached for the knob.

  He backed away, squinting in the sudden rush of sunlight, then draping a hand over his eyes. Her silhouette crossed the broad front stoop and moved down the steps to a red convertible parked in the drive.

  He stood there long after she’d left, his head still spinning from their contact.

  Powell spoke from behind. “She likes you, sir.”

  Atlas glanced at him, one hand clutching the door frame. “She has a funny way of showing it.” With a kiss and a lack of words.

  “She’s intimidated—the name, the house, the money—you understand. If you ask me …” Powell paused, seeming to sense his place, but Atlas motioned him on.

  “I’m asking.” He trusted Powell, had grown up following him around.

  “If you ask me,” Powell continued. “She’s exactly what you need.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  Powell grew quiet then, and slightly nervous. It was barely perceptible, but it was there, a certain tremor in his hands caused by the rapid fire of his pulse.

  “She has morals, sir,” Powell finished. “You will never cause her to compromise.”

  Atlas winced. Morals. Meaning every other girl he’d brought in here didn’t. Powell was right. So far, he’d been lucky. He hadn’t gotten hung up with any of them – no stalkers, no law suits, no claims of pregnancy.

  Maybe it was time to clean up his act, but just exactly how did he do that? How did he un-do all the damage he’d spent the last ten years creating?

  Meghan took the curve on State Route 64 way too fast, and her tires skidded, sending her zigzagging along the embankment. The car came to a halt an inch from the guard rail, a dust cloud coating the sides. She coughed and waved her hand in front of her face.

  He’d gotten to her. Sexy, incredibly rich, playboy, Atlas Bellamy.

  Slumping back in the seat, she blew out a loud breath.

  His reputation was all over the entertainment news. He’d been seen with how many women? Dozens. And for him to admit to her one of them had spotted the discoloration on his skin—

  “Which flustered you more?” she asked herself. “It being Atlas Bellamy’s upper thigh, or it being something seen by one of his conquests?”

  Both. Was she really as susceptible to him as every other wealthy ditz out there?

  “You know better.”

  “Knowing better” hadn’t stopped her from staring. Or touching. Or kissing. Her cheeks heated again, and she slapped her palms over them. “What is wrong with you?”

  What was wrong was she’d enjoyed it, and she’d been attracted to him, and he was in incredibly good shape. Rowing competitions, or so she’d read. His hours and hours of training showed.

  But then, someone with his cash could afford to do nothing but train. I mean, why work a real job? Why earn your way through college and medical school?

  “Some people don’t have things handed to them. Some people can’t call a doctor to come to them, but have to go to the doctor.”

  She gave an angry grunt. That galled her as bad as everything else. How dare he be so attractive, so rich, so arrogant, to think they were at his beck and call? He could have waited a day, and Dr. Barnes would have seen him.

  “But, no …” She drew the word out. “You had to insist on going in his place. You wanted to see the great Atlas Bellamy with his pants off.”

  The words struck her and a giggle escaped. Cupping one hand over her mouth, she gave into it, laughing until tears leaked from her eyes. And a groan.

  “You fool. You stupid, stupid female,” she said to herself. “You had to go and kiss him. And now, what? You know you’ll never forget it.”

  Never. Because if he didn’t feel that, then he was numb. A dark room, a late night, and the two of them alone, and maybe she’d have done what every other girl spending time with him seemed to do.

  “No.” No, she wouldn’t have. Nor would she continue to sit here on the side of the road, living a pipe dream. She cranked her car and pulled gingerly out onto the road. “Hi ho, hi ho,” she said. Back to work. Back to being normal again. And employed.

  She snorted. He wouldn’t understand that either.

  “Meghan, sweetheart.” Aunt Joyce floated across the pool deck, her wide, floral sleeves spreading outward like wings. Embracing her, she backed up an arm’s length and clasped her palms to either cheek. “What’s this? Who is he?”

  Meghan made a face, or tried to. “There is no ‘he.’ Why would you assume there was?”

  “Because I know the look in a girl’s eye when she’s met someone amazing. I was a girl once, you know.” She released Meghan’s face and, one arm around her shoulders, led her around the pool toward the back of the house.

  Aunt Joyce had had it redone recently, building one of those outdoor living rooms in place of what used to be a screened porch. Brick columns held up an a-frame roof overtop a fireplace, a rather expensive set of indoor-outdoor furniture, and even a television.

  It was expensive, she’d said at the time, but so worth it. I’ll be lucky to pay off the debt before I die.

  Aunt Joyce deposited her on the green cushions of a love seat and patted her knee. “So was he handsome?” she asked.

  Meghan sighed. Try as she might, all afternoon she couldn’t get Atlas Bellamy out of her head, and come four o’clock, it’d begun to affect her behavior. She’d forgotten things, important things, and looked like a complete fool. As a result, she’d become depressed.

  Not only was she vain enough to be attracted to Atlas Bellamy, but one encounter and she wanted to see him again. Which was not going to happen. She wouldn’t allow it.

  “Very,” she said.

  Aunt Joyce gave a knowing smile, her orange-red lipstick making slight smacking noises as her lips parted. “And?”

  “Out of my league.”

  Who was she next to him? He’d grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth, while she’d had to work her backside off to get to where she was.

  “I suspect it’s the other way around,” Aunt Joyce said.

  Meghan eyed her. The other way around?

  “You, my dear, are a beautiful, desirable woman with brains.” She emphasized the word brains. “That’s what sets you apart, and whoever he is, he’ll be lucky to realize that.”

  But she wouldn’t see him again. She’d specifically told Dr. Barnes to never ask her to return. So what did that matter?

  Meghan shook her head, determined to send the image of Atlas to the back of her mind.

  “That’s not why I’m here anyway,” she said. “I came by about the Cancer Research Fund dinner. I’m not sure I can make it.”

  Aunt Joyce’s happy demeanor took a distinct dive. Mouth downturned, eyes reflective, she gathered Meghan’s hand in hers. “Oh, darling, you just can’t back out on me. This is huge. Huge, big, huge. I’ve been able to get some special guests to attend that will put us on the map. Please, please say you’ll come. Think of your mother …”

  Her mother was the reason Aunt Joyce went through so much trouble each year, and she knew it was appreciated. Her mom had survived this long, embracing each year to its fullest.

  “I simply can’t function without your help. I have jobs for you to do.” Aunt Joyce squeezed her fingers as if that settled it.

  Meghan inhaled, the heady fragrance of the line of gardenias nearby filling her sinuses. “Okay. I guess stress had me wanting to curl up in a ball with a bowl of ice cream,” she replied.

  Stress and Atlas Bellamy. How could one hour with one man have so screwed up her thinking that she would back out of something this important? She wouldn’t let him win. She’d go, mix and mingle, and maybe flirt. There were usually several eligible bachelors there.

  “Nothing wrong with wanting ice cream,” Aunt Joyce replied. “In fact, I think I have a carton of black cherry vanilla in the freezer. What do you say me and you go indulge?”

  She stood to her feet and wriggled her fingers. Meghan placed her hand in her aunt’s palm.

  If only black cherry vanilla would solve anything. World peace. The end of cancer. Loneliness. Could be she was expecting too much from a bowl of sugar.