MASON (Billionaire Bastards, Book One) Read online

  MASON

  (Billionaire Bastards, Book One)

  Ivy Carter

  Favor Ford Publishing

  Contents

  NOTE

  Want To Be In The Know?

  MASON (Billionaire Bastards, Book One) by Ivy Carter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Bonus Content: SMITH (The Beckett Boys, Book One) by Olivia Chase

  1. Aubrey

  2. Smith

  3. Aubrey

  4. Smith

  5. Aubrey

  6. Smith

  7. Aubrey

  8. Smith

  9. Aubrey

  10. Smith

  11. Aubrey

  12. Smith

  13. Aubrey

  Copyright © 2017 by Favor Ford Publishing

  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.

  NOTE

  This edition of MASON contains the following free bonus content: SMITH (The Beckett Boys, Book One) by Olivia Chase.

  Want To Be In The Know?

  If you want to know when the next book in this series is released, and get alerted to more of the hottest deals in romance—sign up now to the Favor Ford Romance newsletter!

  MASON (Billionaire Bastards, Book One) by Ivy Carter

  Chapter 1

  I’ve memorized every detail of Mason Wood’s face even though I’ve never met him in person.

  But I’ve studied photographs in magazines, looked at YouTube videos, and I feel like I must know every inch of him by now.

  The dimple in his left cheek when he smiles. That dirty blond lock of hair that curls over his forehead when it’s wet. His high cheekbones and rugged jaw peppered with close-cropped scruff. The cool depths of his ice blue eyes.

  And into those famously sexy blue eyes, that’s where I plan to stare when I boldly tell him why I deserve a spot as a junior trader for his Fortune 500 company, Daylight Holdings.

  I clutch the folder of my careful research about the firm to my chest, watching the floor numbers drop as the elevator makes its slow descent from the penthouse suite at the top of the office tower to the luxurious lobby where I stand, heart lodged in my throat. My palms go clammy. This is the most important interview of my life—I have to nail it.

  The elevator opens with a soft ping. Inside, I’m surrounded by mirrors, which makes me second guess everything—the way my hair falls over my shoulder on the left side, whether my lip gloss is too shiny, too pink, or if I’ve paired the right heels with the tight pencil skirt that lands mid-calve and splits half-way up my thigh.

  I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and swallow. Blow out a slow breath.

  Pull it together, Olivia.

  Business tycoon and hedge renowned fund manager, Mason Wood values organization and meticulous attention to detail. Someone who can think fast on their feet and not crack under pressure. Yeah, I’ve researched all his employee preferences, too.

  In fact, I’ve studied every public detail of Mason Wood’s life, which is why I know the exact second he enters the elevator. The air shifts, electric with tension. There’s a pause, then a measured, near-silent tread on the checkered tile floor. A potent presence fills every corner of the cramped space. The door swooshes closed.

  I glance up and my breath hitches.

  Fuck me. No amount of research could have prepared me for this.

  For him. Being here, in the elevator before my interview.

  I never prepared for this.

  He acknowledges me with a polite nod, and then turns to face the door.

  Mason Wood is tall, lean, with broad shoulders that taper into a muscular back and a round, tight ass. Heat crawls up the side of my neck. Sweet Jesus. A girl could bounce quarters off those butt cheeks. Not that it would be appropriate.

  In fact, none of my thoughts are.

  Cool it, Liv.

  Our eyes catch in the mirror and a shock reverberates up my spine. It’s like I’m diving into a cool blue ocean, and I drink it up. My lips part. A soft purr hums from the back of my throat. Holy fuck.

  Humiliated, I drop my gaze and stare at the floor. My distorted silhouette reflects off the polished tile—I’m an anxious hot mess. I can almost feel my nerves crackling, and a cold sweat breaks out between my shoulder blades. I reach back and rub the base of my neck, loosening the collar on a crisp blouse that I’m sure must be responsible for the tightening in my chest.

  “What floor?” he says in that low, almost melodic tone I’ve heard only through the computer screen.

  I jerk my head up at the low vibration of his voice and lick my lips. “Thirteen, please.”

  He presses the button and then leans up against the side wall of the elevator, hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks. A black cotton shirt stretches across his broad chest, three buttons undone to reveal a soft thatch of hair the color of burnt wheat. His sleeves are short, capping mid-way across thick biceps, thinly corded with veins. I imagine his strong arms wrapped around me and my cheeks grow warm.

  He clears his throat. “Are you interviewing for a position today?”

  My mouth goes dry. “Yes, as a junior trader,” I somehow manage to say without stammering. A much savvier business woman might launch into a discussion of her qualifications here but the truth is, a nervous flutter has begun to creep along my throat, and it’s all I can do not to throw up. My reflection is so pale, I’m basically a ghost, and if I don’t switch gears and say something intelligent, I may as well be invisible.

  “Mason Wood,” he says, offering his hand. I stare at his outstretched hand a beat before realizing it’s my turn to make a move. I’m too slow.

  I swallow anxiously.

  The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. “And you are?”

  I wipe my sweaty palm on the side of my skirt and attempt a smile. “Olivia Landers,” I smile, and just as I reach out to shake his hand, my wrist jostles the folder and its contents spill onto the floor.

  My cheeks flush. “Fuck.” I crouch and begin gathering the items fanned out at his feet—copies of my resume, pictures of Mason from magazines and trade journals, articles about the company’s humble beginnings through to its current stature as one of the most reputable hedge funds not only in The Big Apple, but around the world.

  The weight of his stare burns through my shirt and into my skin. Jesus. It’s as if my entire body has burst into flames, and no matter how fast I grab at my paperwork, an oppressive heat continues to penetrate the air. It’s stifling. Claustrophobic.

  I stretch across the floor to retrieve the last newspaper clipping, but Mason’s foot shifts and pins it in place.
The energy shifts. My pulse quickens. He bends to pick the clipping off the ground. I hold my breath while he stares at it, his pale eyes turning to ice.

  “I can explain,” I say, voice trembling.

  He doesn’t give me the chance. The elevator pings, the door opens. Mason stiffly hands me the article and exits, without so much as a backward glance.

  Damn it. Thirty seconds in an elevator and I’ve already blown it.

  Fuck my life.

  Chapter 2

  I settle into a plush white chair appointed to me by the blonde receptionist who sits straight and perfect behind her desk, doing some elaborate task I couldn’t begin to guess. Still rattled by my brief encounter with Mason, I study her profile, looking for some flaw that will make me stop judging myself. There’s nothing, which makes me feel even more like a catty little bitch.

  But come on! Has she plucked that look right from the pages of ForbesWoman?

  The girl is so immaculate, she might as well be air brushed. I’m practically a slob next to her, which is probably the reason she regarded me with such cool disdain before pointing me to a small seating area with about as much personality as a gnat. Behind a glass wall to my left, a dozen or more cubicles bustle with silent commotion. I imagine phones ringing, competing with the white noise of animated chatter about stock markets, mergers, and trade opportunities. My pulse thrums with anticipation. I need this job. Any job. Two months out of college and I’m still on the hunt.

  Unacceptable. I graduated top of my class.

  And after that pathetic stunt in the elevator, this looks like the beginning of another underwhelming result in my increasingly frantic job search.

  Why, why, why did I bring along that article about his personal fucking tragedy?

  Sure, I didn’t think he’d be reading my stash of research and articles, but still…it was a needless oversight and I am paying dearly for it.

  I smooth out a wrinkle from my skirt and begin to worry about the freshness of my blouse. I flare my nostrils, trying to detect the musky odor of sweat, but instead I smell only the sweet mix of lavender and vanilla bean. Not quite fresh as a daisy, but it will have to do.

  My gaze flits back to the receptionist. Her ear is pressed to her shoulder, telephone tucked under her chin, while she taps at the keyboard of her tablet. Her eyes are almost as big as her breasts—and that’s saying a lot. I glance down at my own chest, which although voluptuous, does not have the teeny tiny waist too go along with it that the gorgeous receptionist possesses. Quickly dismissing thoughts of inadequacy with a subtle headshake. Christ. This isn’t a casting call for a porn flick.

  I set the folder of research on my lap and grab one of the investment magazines from the side table. Mason Wood stares at me from the cover, flanked by his childhood friends and business partners, Lucas Hammer and Holden Quinn. No question all three could pose for GQ, but there’s something primal about Mason that makes my stomach twist into knots.

  “Mr. Wood will see you now,” the receptionist says, pulling my attention. Her gaze lands on the magazine and a knowing smirk crosses her ruby-glossed lips. “You’re smart to be nervous.”

  I set the magazine on the table. “Oh, I’m not.” But my lie is betrayed by the sweat stain on the glossy paper, transferred from my clammy palms. Truthfully, I’m scared shitless.

  That anxiety intensifies as I stand at the threshold of Mason Wood’s office—a stark cool expanse of white, silver, and shades of gray. No color, no character. Correction. Upon further inspection, I spot the items that have been placed on several shelves with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things. A polished silver bust from the Terminator movies, the infamous mask from V is for Vendetta, gold shillings that appear plucked from the set of Pirates of the Caribbean.

  “It’s all real,” Mason says, without bothering to look up. He takes a sip of coffee and gestures at a gray high-back chair in front of his glass desk. Behind him, skyscrapers rise up in the floor-to-ceiling windows, and stretch into a cloud-covered sky. “Everyone asks.”

  Restless, I take a seat at the appointed chair and cross my legs, cringing at the unnaturally loud rasp of one stocking against another. Nervousness shakes through me. The last time I felt such trepidation was almost eighteen years ago, standing in the lobby of my childhood home, watching as my father lugged the last of his belongings into the moving van idling out front. A sense of numbness had washed over me as my mother explained that Dad was leaving us—had left us—for another woman, a whole other family.

  My skin prickles with a similar kind of unease now.

  Mason lifts his gaze and fuck if I don’t lose myself in those baby blues.

  “I collect rare and expensive movie props,” he says. A small smirk forms in the corner of his heart-shaped mouth. “Though, I suppose you already know that.”

  Damn the elephant in the room. I clear my throat. “About that—”

  “I’m not interested in explanations,” he says, effectively cutting off my sentence with the sharpness of an axe.

  I recoil at his tone, momentarily unable to respond. True, I didn’t necessarily make a solid first impression, but surely a smart businessman like Mason Wood wouldn’t make a rash assessment based on an unexpected two-minute interaction in the elevator? I exhale a deep breath. “Then what are you interested in, Mr. Wood?”

  His eyebrow lifts. “Seems to me that’s also something you’d already know.”

  My spine stiffens. “As my resume indicates—”

  “I don’t need your resume,” Mason interrupts. “I already know you’re not a fit for Daylight Holdings. You lack…” His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, serpent-like. “Killer instinct.”

  Heat flushes to my cheeks. What a crock of shit. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this, but at least the other companies had the decency to review my resume before sucker punching me with cold rejection. “You haven’t even heard my qualifications or asked me about previous experience.”

  Limited, at best, but he doesn’t know that.

  “We’ve established you’re clumsy,” he says.

  “It was an accident,” I say, voice leaden with frustration. An accident he won’t allow me to explain or apologize for. “Perhaps your job advertisement should be re-written to reflect your impossible standards.”

  A low blow, perhaps. But I know his cool demeanor has nothing to do with my lack of grace—it’s that among the documents of research about his business acumen and the company’s success, I also printed off an article recounting the very public, very tragic incident from his past.

  More than a decade ago, Mason and his business partners—then close friends at a small high school in rural Maine—became the lone survivors of a random shooting that resulted in the grisly massacre of their entire student class, as well as a respected and much admired teacher.

  The partners have remained quiet about the details of that dark period in their lives, but the story surfaces whenever Daylight Holdings surpasses a new corporate record or makes the news somehow. It’s almost as though those three young boys channeled their grief into building one of the most successful businesses in the world.

  But even I know that no amount of zeroes in your bank account can ease the sharp pain of heartache.

  I bite into my lower lip, assessing just how to approach this. “I’m really sorry if that article brought up feelings—” Mason’s head whips around so fast it could rival that chick from The Exorcist. I swallow hard and keep going. “I wanted to be as prepared as possible for the interview, and I printed off anything that seemed relevant…”

  His eyes harden.

  “I didn’t intend for you to see it,” I say, lamely.

  Mason runs his tongue along the top of his teeth. His jaw twitches. “My decision not to hire you has nothing to do with the article,” he says, gruffly. “It’s the fact that you needed to bring that research with you at all.”

  He stands, towering over me, and walks around his desk, eyes searing t
hrough my clothes; a hungry predator sizing up his prey. My stomach summersaults.

  “You think you’re demonstrating preparedness?” he says, circling me. The question is rhetorical so I don’t bother answering. My blood pounds in the ensuing silence. “It shows that you don’t trust yourself.”

  I struggle to sit upright when all I want to do is shrink under his admonishment. His assessment isn’t all wrong.

  “And in this business,” he says, scowling. “You’ll be eaten alive.”

  A lump of nervousness swells in my throat.

  “If you were truly prepared, and had wanted to make a good impression on me, you would have memorized your research, instead of bringing it along for back up.”

  My breath releases slowly, like a leaking tire. I want to look away but the truth is, he’s struck a chord. I’ve studied the materials, and can recite facts and statistics without prompt, but at the last minute, I decided to take the paperwork with me. Just in case. A precautionary measure that backfired miserably. “It’s true, I’ve always been considered an over planner.”

  The confession does nothing to soften Mason’s expression. “You’re too careful,” he says.

  I nod.

  “And careful isn’t what we need here, Miss Landers.” He leans up against his desk and folds his arms across his broad chest. The gesture makes his biceps flex, darkening the veins that highlight his muscle tone. “I expect my team to be prepared to do things that are outside the boundaries of convention. Our employees are decisive, bold. They don’t need someone to tell them they’re doing a good job. They believe it.”

  My mouth goes dry. “That isn’t why I had my notes.”

  “Oh?” he says, sounding somehow bored.

  Fuck, I despise the weakness in my voice, the desperation that’s just further proving his point. “I have memorized everything,” I say, careful not to expose how my investigation comes precariously close to obsessive. “I probably know more about Daylight Holdings than half the employees here.” His jaw tenses, and still I push forward. “I brought my materials for comfort, to have something tangible to hold on to, to refer to. How does that make me a liability?”