Heartless Bastard (Rich Ruthless Bastards, #1) Read online

  "Meet me at Opulent," she replied and yes, dammit, there was more than a hint of desperation in her voice.

  An hour later, Soraya looked at their surroundings in awe and it wasn't because of the richly appointed décor. "Are you sure we're supposed to be here?" She whispered.

  "I'm a member," Callie admitted as she followed the maître d' to a private dining alcove. She had known that the lounge would be practically empty at this time of day and the staff was well paid for their discretion. Not to mention they had to sign non-disclosure agreements stating that they could never repeat anything either seen or heard inside the club.

  "You are? I mean holy shit," the other woman said reverently. "This is the Bastard's Club."

  "Technically it's called Club Envy," she pointed out as they slid into the plush leather half-moon banquette from opposite sides. "Some of the members jokingly refer to it as the Bastard's Club since we're all bastards in one form or another."

  Since Baines Luxury Resorts and Casinos catered to the rich and famous, all of the resorts were luxurious in the extreme. Each resort featured a different theme but they all had an uber private Club Envy for a select group of members, the financial one-percent. It was as elite as it was exclusive.

  Bastion issued personal invitations to people who met specific criteria. Only bastards by right of birth or natural disposition were admitted. Their numbers were few and it was an eclectic blend of rich, nasty tempered people for the most part. Callie normally avoided the place, but it was the perfect venue for a private conversation.

  "I've heard rumors about this place, but I didn't realize there were female members," her friend imparted.

  "There are only a few of us," she admitted. "Victoria Landers being the most notable."

  "Shut up," the other woman exclaimed and slapped her hand atop the table. "The Ice Queen is a bastard?"

  "More like a cold-hearted bitch," she admitted with a nod. "But I like her."

  Soraya stared at her with rounded eyes. "One of these days you're going to tell me about all those famous people that the rest of us mere mortals only read about in the scandal rags."

  "Says the woman married to Graham Morgan," she derided. "Your husband could be a member if he was a bastard."

  "Oh, he was when I met him," she easily agreed. "A bastard that is. Prying the stick out of his ass and getting him to loosen up wasn't easy."

  "Now there's a mental image I do not need," Callie grimaced and nodded to the waiter patiently waiting a discreet distance away. Once their drink order had been placed, she launched into her dilemma. "I need some advice."

  "Then you'd better be prepared for a dose of hard-core reality," her friend opined as she perused the menu. "I don't do sappy bullshit."

  "You did while responding to Ask Ida queries," she replied in amusement because her friend had hated the politically correct advice she was forced to dispense for the columnist.

  Soraya gave her a dirty look and commanded, "Ask."

  Callie took a deep breath and did just that. "Bastion didn't bid on me at the auction last night and I need to figure out how to get out of a date with the winner."

  Frowning at her over the top of the menu, she said, "Don't tell me you got stuck with some doddering old letch."

  "Worse," she admitted. "Ford Hammersmith."

  Soraya's eyes widened before she dropped the menu on top of the table. "Cal, he's gorgeous and sexy as hell. Why would you want to ditch him?"

  "Because the heartless bastard broke my heart years ago and he doesn't even remember me," she gave the cliff notes version bitterly. "He only bid on me because he wants to fuck me."

  It was damn near impossible to stun Soraya, but the look of shocked outrage on her face was priceless. "Cut the motherfucker's balls off," she commanded loud enough to startle the waiter who had appeared with their drinks. "I'm a writer. We're plotting a book. Lots of blood and gore," she told him with a patently fake smile that he obviously didn't buy since he beat a hasty retreat.

  As always, her best friend had managed to lighten her mood with effortless ease, so she teased, "Writer my ass. Is that what they're calling gossip column assistants these days?"

  "Ask Ida is an advice column," she corrected and gave her the stink eye. "And I'll have you know that I wrote some of the best pieces."

  "You said Ida hated your advice," she said in amusement.

  "Only because my practicality makes more sense than the politically correct bullshit she doles out," Soraya opined and shoved her pink-tipped hair over her shoulder. "I don't know about you, but I'm going to need alcohol for this conversation. We'll either get wasted or figure out how to get you out of this mess."

  "Bastion didn't have any success, and if he can't convince Ford to back off no one can," she complained.

  "Pfft. He probably threatened to kill him," she derided with an airy wave of her hand as if a death threat from a man reputed to have underworld mob ties meant nothing. "The possibility of losing his balls will make him change his mind. Men are very protective of their boys."

  Callie waved the waiter over again. "Paul, I'd like a bottle of my usual Chardonnay, and please ask the sommelier to choose a Sauvignon blanc from Bastion's private stock for Mrs. Morgan."

  "Certainly, Ms. Rose," he agreed deferentially and scurried away after a nervous glance at her companion.

  "Private stock, huh?" Soraya asked with raised eyebrows. "I take it this is payback for Bastion leaving you hanging last night."

  "Damn right," she agreed. "Besides, he'd have a fit if I ordered anything he considered plebian."

  A few minutes later, the sommelier appeared at the table with two bottles of ridiculously overpriced wine. After his artful presentation, the waiter returned with a tray bearing a variety of fruit, cheese, and crackers and explained which pairing would best complement each wine.

  Alone again, the ladies drank their respective wines and nibbled on the finger food while discussing the best way to deal with Ford Hammersmith. Sadly, none of their ideas were plausible and the threat of removing his balls really did seem to be the most viable option. The more she drank; the better Callie liked the idea.

  Bastion

  "I'll deal with it," Bastion said before dropping the phone back into its cradle atop his desk. "Fucking hell."

  "Problems?" His best friend queried, the cloud of smoke billowing around his head lending a demonic cast to his dark angel appearance.

  "That was the manager at Envy," he bit out. "Callie and a friend are steadily drinking their way through the wine cellar."

  Malachi Black glanced at the expensive gold watch on his wrist before commenting knowingly, "For her to be drinking this early in the day, I'd say Hammersmith is to blame."

  "Should have killed that fucker a long time ago," he complained in a menacing growl.

  "Don't get any ideas about doing it now. I don't have the time to deal with a murder charge and neither do you," the attorney replied seriously and crushed out the cigarette he'd been smoking. "The whole situation is damned odd when you consider it."

  "How?"

  "You said Callie claimed he didn't recognize her, which is baffling because she's not the kind of woman a man forgets," he pointed out. "But if he's got half a working brain cell, he should have been able to put two and two together because you've warned him off twice."

  "And both times he's ignored it," Bastion admitted grimly. He was not used to being ignored yet Hammersmith had made a habit of it. A habit that would eventually prove fatal. "If I don't stop him he'll wind up hurting her again."

  "Bastion Baines, guardian angel," the other man laughed at the incongruity and shifted position to cross an ankle over his knee. "Are you ever going to tell her?"

  "Tell her what?"

  "About her connection to you," Malachi clarified and sipped his coffee.

  "And how do you suggest I do that without revealing everything?" He derided harshly. "Do you think she needs to know that her father was the heir apparent to the Tagl
ia crime family? Or that being locked in a closet while he beat and raped her mother regularly is the reason for her anxiety attacks?"

  "No, but she'd be thrilled to learn that you're her half-brother," he pointed out.

  "She knows all she needs to," he stated flatly. There was too much blood staining his hands to admit their familial ties. If shit went sideways there was no way that he'd risk dragging her down with him. Besides, the last thing Callie needed was to get drawn into the Taglia's tangled web of lies and deceit.

  They didn't know about her and she didn't need to know about them. He'd be damned if they touched the only family he had left after killing his mother and destroying his marriage. Star may have divorced him twenty years ago, but Bastion had made a vow to her before God and he would always consider her his wife.

  And he'd always love her.

  "Have it your way. You always do," Malachi said in acquiescence as he rose to leave. "You know where I'll be if you need me."

  Putting the entire conversation out of his mind, Bastion dealt with the situation at hand; two intoxicated women. Envy's hidden security cameras were only fed to his office to protect the members' desire for privacy so he pulled up the footage on his computer. His manager had been right. The women did indeed appear to be drinking heavily.

  After placing a call to Soraya's husband, he kept a close eye on them until his secretary announced the other man had arrived. Bastion didn't like very many people, but he did respect Graham Morgan for his business acumen and financial savvy. "Graham," he greeted with a handshake.

  "Thanks for the call, Bastion," the younger man replied and looked as harried as only a man who had been called away from the office to deal with a drunken spouse could. "Where is she?"

  A hint of a smile curved the hard line of his lips as Bastion replied, "The Bastard Club."

  "Of course she is," Morgan sighed in resignation and was obviously used to such antics from his unpredictable and headstrong wife.

  It didn't take long to lead him into the hallowed halls that only a select few were privileged to inhabit. If the giggling hadn't been testament enough to their drunken state, Callie removed all doubt when she blinked up at Bastion owlishly and announced, "We're going to de-nut Ford."

  "Are you now?" He asked in amusement since he'd considered doing the same thing on more than one occasion.

  "Yep. Gonna cut the motherfucker's balls off," Soraya confirmed and made a snipping motion with her fingers that had both men grimacing. Then she grabbed the empty bottle in front of her and announced, "I love this wine, Graham. I want a case of it."

  "Whatever you want, baby," her doting husband patiently agreed.

  Bastion recognized the label as vintage from his private stock and said dryly, "At twelve thousand a bottle I'd suggest sipping them."

  Soraya's eyes rounded as she turned to Callie to accuse, "You let me drink a twelve-thousand-dollar bottle of wine?"

  "Nope. I let you drink two of 'em," the designer said with a shrug and a hiccup.

  "I drank over twenty thousand dollars," Soraya moaned and turned an interesting shade of green. "Hope it tastes as good coming up as it did going down."

  "Party's over, ladies," Graham said decisively and gently lifted his intoxicated wife to her feet, his arm locking protectively around her waist.

  "There was a party?" Soraya queried in confusion.

  "I guess we missed it," Callie said nonchalantly and rested her chin in her palm.

  "Graham, you have to start behaving like a stuck-up suit again so you can become a member," the woman insisted as she leaned heavily against her husband. "I like this place."

  "I'll take it under advisement," he agreed blandly and gave Bastion a nod of thanks before leading her away.

  Bastion slid into the booth beside Callie and asked, "What brought this foray into drunken debauchery on?"

  "He sent me roses, Bad. White roses. With purple tips," she explained in a slurred tone and the use of her childhood pet name for him assured Bastion just how vulnerable she was feeling. "The same ones he sent me before. Why would he do that if he doesn't remember me?"

  Other than the fact that he was a first-rate bastard, Bastion had never been able to figure out what possessed Hammersmith to do the dumb as fuck things he did. "Bad coincidence?" He suggested and slid a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  Callie laid her head on his chest and confessed, "Why does it still hurt so much Bastion?"

  "The heart wants what the heart wants," he said sagely, speaking from experience, but Callie didn't hear. A soft snore assured him that she had fallen asleep. Bastion placed a kiss on top of her head and whispered, "It hurts because you still love him, kiddo. That's the only reason I haven't killed the bastard yet."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ford

  "If I understand correctly," Dr. Richard Wilkes intoned after Ford had explained his problem. "You believe that you're obsessed with this woman because you find her sexually attractive."

  "No," Ford corrected impatiently. "I'm obsessed with fucking her."

  "Are they not the same thing?"

  "Not even close," he denied and slouched lower in the ridiculously comfortable beanbag chair. The crazy doc's office hadn't changed a bit since his first visit a decade ago, right down to the beaded curtains covering the windows instead of drapes. It was still circa 1960s from the wood-paneled walls to the green shag rug.

  "Explain the difference to me."

  "Sexual attraction is nothing compared to this. I dream about fucking this woman while I sleep. Fantasize about it when I'm awake," he elaborated as his gaze roved over the collection of vintage and modern Matchbox cars that filled an entire wall of shelving. "I don't know any other way to explain it other than I'm obsessed with fucking her."

  "So, you believe that you're fixated on the intercourse and not the woman."

  "Yes," Ford agreed as his gaze returned to the shrink seated across from him on a matching beanbag.

  Wilkes hadn't changed much either in the intervening years. An old hippie with long grey hair and John Lennon glasses, he could easily be mistaken for Dr. Okun from the movie Independence Day. The good doctor was still a dichotomy. His rapier sharp intellect and precise articulation were at odds with his bohemian style.

  His attire of choice was a loose linen tunic unbuttoned to mid-chest, chinos, an assortment of beaded leather necklaces and bracelets, and of course, Birkenstock sandals with socks. Stylish, he was not, but Ford wasn't paying the man's exorbitant fees for fashion advice. Eccentric or not, Wilkes was still the best damn shrink around.

  "Interesting. Have you ever obsessed about another woman?"

  "No."

  "When did it begin?"

  "When I met her a year ago."

  "Have you had intercourse with other women since then?"

  "No."

  If the admission that an infamous playboy like Ford had been celibate for a year surprised the good doctor, he didn't let it show. The man merely asked, "Why not?"

  "Tried a couple of times. Couldn't go through with it," he admitted. The woman he'd been dating was as curvaceous as a mountain road, but from the moment he'd laid eyes on Callie, she'd left him cold. So had everyone else he'd dated in the interim. "It just felt wrong to fuck a woman while wishing she was someone else."

  "Have you had intercourse with... I don't believe you mentioned her name."

  Ford was hesitant to reveal her identity. It was one thing to discuss an anonymous person with the doctor, but mentioning Callie by name felt like a violation of sorts. His protective instincts had him replying, "Nor do I intend to."

  "We have to call her something."

  "Feathers," he suggested as a wicked smile curved his lips. "We'll call her Feathers."

  "Your smile suggests there is a reason for that moniker."

  "Because she's a sexy as fuck peacock."

  There was a prolonged silence before the doctor responded. "Ford, are you telling me that you want to have intercourse w
ith a bird?"

  "Fuck no," he denied emphatically. "She was wearing a peacock costume the first time I saw her."

  "Getting back on topic," the doctor began and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Have you had intercourse with Feathers?"

  "I wish," he complained and stretched his legs out to cross them at the ankles. "I'm hoping that when I do the obsession will end."

  "Interesting," the doctor said again. "Why do you think it would?"

  "I'm banking on the get-it-out-of-your-system theory."

  "What if that doesn't work?"

  "Why wouldn't it?"

  "I don't believe that intercourse is the source of your obsession," the doctor opined. "I believe it is Feathers."

  "What makes you think that?" He demanded and sat up straight.

  "If it was just intercourse then the dreams and fantasies could be about anyone, but you stated that Feathers is the only woman in them, the only woman you desire," he imparted. "You need to determine what it is about this woman that makes her special enough to warrant your obsession."

  "How the hell am I supposed to do that?"

  "How well do you know her?" He asked instead of answering, which was typical and annoying as fuck.

  "We're basically strangers."

  "I suggest you get to know her. Find out what it is about her that captured your attention enough to form an obsession," he suggested.

  Ford scowled at the doctor and complained, "That may prove difficult to accomplish."

  "How so?"

  "It cost me thirty grand just to get a date with her."

  The doctor blinked twice before replying, "Are you saying that Feathers is a paid companion?"

  "Fuck no," he denied defensively, pissed that the shrink would even suggest such a thing about her. "It was a charity bachelorette auction. I won a date that she refuses to go on."

  "Why did she refuse?"

  "Because she hates me."

  "I thought you said you were strangers."

  "We are, which is why I'm so fucking confused."