Bad Husband (Billionaire's Club Book 3) by Elise Faber

Author:Elise Faber [Faber, Elise]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Elise Faber
Published: 2019-01-24T18:30:00+00:00

Eighteen

Clay

Hours later, he walked Heather to her car. It was just after two and he tried to remember the last time he’d been up this late—escapades with Heather, aside—without a laptop in front of him as he actively crunched data.

College maybe?

But even then he’d been serious, focused on building Steele Technologies into a powerhouse.

His father’s company had limped on after the murders, doing fine, the board making safe but boring decisions. Clay wasn’t disappointed by that. In fact, he was grateful. Without them he wouldn’t have been able to go to college, wouldn’t have had money to fall back on when a few of his early business choices didn’t pan out.

The board was the reason why he didn’t end up in foster care—his father’s partner becoming his guardian because Clay didn’t have any other living relatives.

Rich had been a single man in his fifties, so Clay had been shipped off to boarding school, had stayed there in the summers and over the holidays.

But it was better that way.

He’d needed to get away from the sympathy, the pitying looks.

Rich had always told him he was only holding over Steele Technologies until Clay was ready, and that had motivated him like nothing else could. He’d used the time to grow stronger, more confident, and he’d worked his ass off studying business, the marketplace, statistics, everything and anything that might one day be helpful.

That was what having something to prove would do to a person.

And he’d had a hell of a lot to prove.

Rich had retired the day after Clay graduated with his master’s degree. He’d been a great listener when Clay needed to hash something out, a neutral third party when the board didn’t like one of Clay’s suggestions.

He’d been there and was probably the reason that Clay was semi-well-adjusted.

But Rich had died, too.

A year ago, just after the company went public.

And Clay had been alone again.

The lights on Heather’s car flashed as she unlocked it, and as he stared down at the sporty little number, the past faded as a grin spread across his face.

So, his girl had a need for speed, too.

“What?” she asked, and he ignored the blip in his mind at the possessive word. Part of him had already decided that this woman was worth whatever risk she might bring.

“Mine’s blue.”

Her lips curved. “Oh. I couldn’t decide”—she brushed a hand over the silver surface—“I loved the blue but couldn’t justify the extra money for the paint job, not when she was already so expensive, and I hardly ever drive as it is.”

“Don’t like it?” he asked, moving forward to cage her between the open door and the body of the car.

“No. Hate it. And traffic. And other drivers.” She lifted one shoulder. “But I do occasionally give my driver a day off.”

“What’s her name?”

Her brows furrowed. “My driver?”

“No, your car.” He took a step closer, loving that Heather’s breathing hitched. “You called her a she.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never actually come up with one. She’s so pretty that I guess I just always refer to her as a .

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