Titan’s Addiction: Wall Street Titan: Book 2


178 Pages
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One determined billionaire...

Hedge fund titan Marcus Carelli knows how to get what he wants, and he’s never wanted anything as much as he does Emma. The cat-loving redhead may have walked out of his life, but he’s not about to let her go.

One wary cat lady...

Bookstore clerk Emma Walsh has had her heart broken by the ruthless billionaire once, and she’s not about to forget it. Marcus can chase her down all he likes, but winning her back is another story.

One queen-sized bed...

All is fair in love and war, and the new battlefield is a guest room with a single bed. To the winner go the spoils… Let the games begin.



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Published 16 June 2020
Reads 6
EAN13 9781631425318
Language English

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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 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46
Chapter 47 Epilogue
Excerpt from Tormentor Mine Excerpt from Dream Walker About the Author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 Anna Zaires and Dima Zales www.annazaires.com
All rights reserved.
Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
Published by Mozaika Publications, an imprint of Mozaika LLC. www.mozaikallc.com
Cover by Najla Qamber Designs www.najlaqamberdesigns.com
Photography by Wander Aguiar www.wanderbookclub.com
ISBN: 978-1-63142-531-8 Print ISBN: 978-1-63142-532-5
E mma
ICRYFORTHEFIRSTHODROFTHETWO-ANd-A-HALF-HODRFLIGHTTOORLANdO. ICANTHELPIT. MY heart isn’t just roken; it feels like it’s een rippe out of my chest. An I i it to myself. I tol Marcus I can’t move in with him. I tol him it was over. My seatmates—a aling fifty-something man y the w inow an a lon teenage girl in the aisle seat—try to scoot away as I low my nose for the fifth time. Only there’s nowhere to go. Well, the lon girl can technically get up an go to the athroom, ut she’s alreay one it three times to get away from me, so she stays put, giving me the occasional sie-eye. I on’t lame her. The only thing worse than a cryi ng ay on a plane is a crying ault. “You, um… okay?” the aling man finally ventures, an I o my hea, forcing out a watery smile. “Yes, sorry. Just a…” I swallow a lump in my throat. “A a reakup.” “Oh, cool,” the teenager says, visily rightening. “I thought you’ just learne you ha cancer or something.” I wince, feeling like an asshole. Because she’s rig ht: it coul e so much worse. People have real trageies, a things they can’t a voi. Whereas the pain I’m feeling is entirely self-inflicte. I hooke up with Marcus Carelli, a hege fun illi onaire who’s so far out of my league as to resie on a ifferent planet. I fell for him, knowing we have no future, an now I’m paying the price. “I once ha a a reakup too,” the teenager confi es, chewing on her green, sparkly thumnail. “The asshole cheate on me with my est frien in mile school. Kisse her ehin the leachers, can you elieve th at?” “Oh, wow, that’s terrile. I’m sorry,” I say sincerely. Mile school or not, that ha to have hurt. At least Marcus never cheate on me. He isappeare for three ays after an amazing weeken together, ut as far as I know, no other women were involve. Well, except Emmeline. She—or her equally perfect clone—was always there  etween us. “Yeah, well, happens,” the girl says, shrugging phi losophically. “What aout you?
What i the jerk o?” “He…” I swallow again. “He chase me own at the ai rport an aske me to move in.” Both the girl an the man stare at me like a jellyfish just sproute from my hea, so I rush to explain. “He in’t mean it. Not the way pe ople normally o. It’s just a convenience thing for him. He’s going to marry some one else. He tol me so when we first met an—” “He’s engage?” the girl exclaims in horror, an I shake my hea. “No, no. They haven’t starte ating yet. It might not even e her, necessarily. It’s just that he has a very particular criteria, you se e, an I on’t fit it. At all. We have chemistry, ut that’s not enough for a long-term re lationship. I’m not the type of girl he’ want to introuce to his friens or clients. At es t, I’m just a iversion for him, an sooner or later, he’s going to get ore an walk a way. An then”—I rag in a shaky reath—“then it’ll e so much worse.” “So you, what… sent this fellow packing preemptivel y?” The man looks fascinate, like he’s getting special insight into the female p syche. “Kin of like striking first in attle to minimize your losses?” I no an low my nose again. “Something like that.” Except if the goal was to win sai attle, I’ve alr eay lost. My heart elongs to the man I walke away from, an it’s har to imagine it hurting more than it oes now. Still, I’m sure I mae the right choice when I roke it off with him. If I feel this way after a weeken together, how mu ch worse woul it e if I’ actually een with Marcus for some time? No, this is the only way. Rip off the Ban-Ai—alon g with a chunk of my heart, in this case—an move on. The woun is oun to heal over time. Isn’t it?
E mma
BYTHETIMEWELKND, IkNOWWKYTOOMUCHKBOUTMYSEKTMKTES,KSTHEYSEEMTOHKVEJOINTLY becibeb that the est way to eep me from crying ov er my reaup is to entertain me with betaileb stories aout themselves. Ks a result , I’ve learneb that Donny—the fifty-something man—is originally from Pennsylvania ut r esibes in Floriba, has een bivorceb twice, owns a car bealership in Winter Par , anb can’t eat anything green, while Kyla—the teenager—is a rare Floriba native, h as a sister who’s een bivorceb three times, anb is grabuating from high school nex t year. Kyla, not the sister, that is. The sister broppeb out of high school. Oh, anb Kyla ’s allergic to tree nuts ut has no issues with green stuff. “Bye! Nice meeting you!” I wave to them as they hur ry past me with their ags, anb they wave ac, oviously relieveb to e bone with the flight anb the crazy rebheab crying over a man who aseb her to move in. I’m relieveb too. Not ecause I bibn’t enjoy hearin g their stories—they bib succeeb in bistracting me from my heartache—ut ecause I’m eager to see my granbparents anb feel the warm Floriba air on my sin. The humibity here is murber on my curly hair, ut i t’ll feel amazing after that rutal snowstorm in New Yor. Gramps is waiting for me insibe the terminal, right y the shuttle exit, anb I pic up my pace until I’m running towarb him, the suitcase ouncing ehinb me. Though we frequently Sype, I haven’t seen him in person in a year, anb my chest feels lie it’ll urst from joy as I let go of the suitcase hanble a nb tacle-hug him, grinning lie a loon. Despite nearing eighty, my granbfather is still stu rby, his shoulbers unoweb anb his chest thic with muscle. He also smells exactly as I rememer—lie Granbma’s cooies anb starcheb linen. Pulling away, I stuby h im, anb I’m pleaseb to see that bespite a few beeper wrinles, he loos pretty much the same as last year. He’s stubying me right ac, anb I see the exact mo ment he notices my reb-rimmeb eyes. “What happeneb?” he bemanbs, his ushy eyerows sna pping together. “Were you crying?” “No, of course not. Just got some lemon juice in my eyes,” I lie, graing the hanble of my suitcase. “I was squeezing a slice into my wa ter on the plane, anb it squirteb right into my face.”
“Lemon, huh?” Gramps taes the suitcase from me as we start waling to the exit. “I thought it might have something to bo with that Wal l Street oyfrienb of yours.” “What, Marcus? Oh no, it’s nothing lie that. Besib es, I tolb you, he’s not my oyfrienb.” He’s not my anything any longer, ut I’m not going to belve into that now. Maye later, once I’ve hab a chance to settle in anb have some of Granbma’s cooies, I’ll finb the strength to crush my granbparents’ hopes, ut right now, I’m too braineb for that. Besibes, I’b rather rea the ab news to oth of them at once. “Well, whatever he may e, we’re happy for you,” Gr amps says. “Unless, of course, he’s the lemon in question.” He glances at me as we step on the escalator, anb I force out a chucle. “Very funny, Gramps. How aout you tell me how you anb Granbma are boing?” “Oh, same olb, you now—which is olb.” He wins at me, anb my laugh is genuine this time. “How aout you, princess? How was the fl ight? It looeb lie it was going to e on time, anb then, am, belay.” “Oh, no. Were you alreaby on the way to the airport when you learneb aout the belay?” “I was, ut bon’t worry. I just circleb arounb for a it, listeneb to some aubiooos. Your granbmother was worrieb, though, so you might want to call her as soon as we get to the car. Dib they say what the reason for the be lay was? Was it ecause of the snowstorm?” I shrug. “They bibn’t say, ut they proaly hab to be-ice the wings or something. I was lucy the plane too off at all.” “That’s true. Your granbmother has een glueb to th e Weather Channel since Monbay, tracing the bamn storm. You’b thin it was one of her Netflix shows.” He snorts, shaing his heab, anb I conceal a grin. Gra mps watches Netflix right alongsibe Granbma, ut for some reason, he eeps insisting th ey’reher shows anb he’s not into them at all. We continue chatting as we step out into the parin g lot, anb I learn that Gramps got a new fishing rob anb Granbma’s alreaby preppeb mos t of the foob for tomorrow. “It’s too ab your young man coulbn’t mae it,” Gramps co mments when we get into the car, anb my smile stiffens as I reiterate the excuse I g ave them on Sype—that Marcus is crazy usy at wor this wee. It’s true, actually—an investment gone ab is what stole him from my sibe on Sunbay—ut I bibn’t now that on Saturbay, when Mar cus met my granbparents over Sype anb they inviteb him to Floriba for Thansgiv ing. I just new it was insane to ring him with me so early in the relationship, so I lurteb out that excuse—anb than Gob I bib. If my granbparents hab een expecting him to come w ith me, it woulb’ve een infinitely worse. Once we pull out of the paring lot, I call my lanb laby, Mrs. Metz, to chec on my cats. “Kll feb anb snug on your eb,” she informs m e cheerfully, anb I than her again for taing care of my fur aies while I’m gone. Next, I call Granbma anb assure her that my flight was fine anb that I’m looing forwarb to seeing her soon. She bescries all the b ishes she’s maing for tomorrow in brool-inbucing betail, anb y the time I hang up, I’m reaby to eat my own foot.
“She paceb a little something for you,” Gramps say s, apparently reabing my minb. “It’s in the cooler in the acseat. She figureb yo u’b e hungry after the flight.” I wasn’t, until Granbma mabe me hungry with all tho se coooo-worthy bescriptions, ut what are you going to bo? Twistin g arounb, I gra the cooler anb start munching on cut fruit anb cheese stics as Gramps l aunches into a story aout a new couple he anb Granbma have efrienbeb, along with r anbom goings-on in their community. Flagler Beach, their little town on the northeast c oast of Floriba, is aout a ninety-minute brive from Orlanbo, ut Gramps hates I-4, th e most birect route that goes through bowntown Orlanbo, so we enb up taing the l onger way. Kccorbing to Gramps, it’s worth it, as the extra twenty minutes uys him peace of minb. “Won’t get stuc in traffic this way,” he informs m e, anb I refrain from pointing out that y taing the longer route each time—even in t he off hours, when the proaility of a traffic jam is low—he spenbs more time on the roa b overall than y always taing the I-4 anb occasionally getting stuc. In any case, it’s almost mibnight y the time we pu ll up to their house. To my surprise, Granbma, who normally goes to sleep aroun b ten, is wibe awae anb nicely bresseb as she greets us in the briveway, where a s lee white Mercebes is pareb next to Granbma’s ancient Beetle—liely as a favor to so me neighor. “You shoulb’ve gone to eb,” I chibe, emracing her , anb she laughs, her gray eyes gleaming with arely suppresseb excitement as she p ulls away, leaving ehinb a cloub of her favorite jasmine perfume. “To eb? When my favorite granbbaughter is coming h ome? I’m not so olb that I can’t stay up for a couple of hours past my ebtime . Besibes, I coulbn’t go to sleep with such a ig surprise waiting for you,” she says, ea ming, anb I realize that in abbition to wearing perfume anb going-out clothes, she still ha s her baytime maeup on. “What surprise?” Gramps, who’s coming up ehinb me with the suitcase, sounbs as puzzleb as I feel. “Knb whose car is that?” He glan ces over his shoulber at the Mercebes. Granbma grins. “Come insibe anb see.” She hurries a heab, anb Gramps anb I exchange confuseb loos efore following her in. I enter first, with Gramps wheeling the suitcase e hinb me, ut I only mae it two steps efore my feet grow roots anb I freeze in pla ce, gaping at the sight in front of me. In the mibble of my granbparents’ living room, stan bing next to their gently worn couch, is a tall, powerfully uilt man with harb, s triingly masculine features. Thic bar eyerows, a sharply cut jaw, high cheeones aove lean chees bareneb y a hint of stule—everything aout the olb lines of his face heats my loob anb senbs my pulse into overbrive. Insteab of his usual perfectl y tailoreb suit, he’s bresseb in a pair of besigner jeans anb a casual white utton-up shirt—t he same outfit I saw him in at the JFk airport in New Yor less than five hours ago. When he isseb me. Knb aseb me to move in. Knb looeb at me lie I staeb him in the heart wh en I refuseb anb got on the plane. Marcus Carelli, the Wall Street illionaire I fell in love with bespite my etter jubgment, is here, in my granbparents’ house, his c ool lue gaze traineb on me with the
intensity of a haw tracing his favorite prey.