Determined Billionaire Read online

  Determined Billionaire

  Sierra Cartwright

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  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

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Billionaire Matchmaker

  Also by Sierra Cartwright

  DETERMINED BILLIONAIRE

  Copyright @ 2019 Sierra Cartwright

  First E-book Publication: July 2019

  Line Editing by Jennifer Barker

  Proofing by Bev Albin and Cassie Hess-Dean

  Layout Design by Once Upon An Alpha, Shannon Hunt

  Cover Design by Rachel Connolly

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar

  Cover Model: Quin Bruce

  Photo provided by ©Wander Book Club

  Promotion by Once Upon An Alpha, Shannon Hunt

  All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Adult Reading Material

  Disclaimer: This work of fiction is for mature (18+) audiences only and contains strong sexual content and situations.

  It is a standalone with my guarantee of satisfying, happily ever after.

  All rights reserved.

  Author’s Note

  A horrible scream tore the night air.

  My mother looked out the back window of the house before exchanging nervous glances with her two sisters, Catherine and Johanna. Then my mom laughed nervously. “You know, if Mam dies tonight, we’ll say that was the Banshee.”

  My mom and aunts all laughed uncomfortably. After all, the Banshee doesn’t exist. She’s a myth, and her story has been long told in the land of the Kells.

  The legend says she follows certain families. The O’Malleys are one of them. Before her marriage, my grandmother was Bridget O’Malley.

  That night, after a long, brave battle with cancer, my grandmother did, indeed, pass peacefully.

  One night, my cousin Mary Angela in rural Ireland heard a knock on her front door. The family frowned. That shouldn’t have been possible. Their entire front yard was covered with rocks, and no person could navigate the path without someone in the house hearing their approach.

  They answered the door.

  No one was there.

  My cousin froze in horror, knowing the house had been visited by the Angel of Death.

  That night, her mother slipped from this world.

  My mother, Bridget, was born in County Mayo, and I thought all children grew up hearing stories of the Banshee, of the Angel of Death. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I realized it was nothing more than a legend. But the older I’ve gotten, the inexplicable things I’ve encountered, the more I’ve wondered…

  In crafting Jack and Sinead’s romance, I dipped into my childhood memories. Once again, I traipsed through castles in England and Wales and visited Mum and Dad’s relatives in Ireland.

  A number of years ago, my nieces were Irish step dancers. They were very accomplished, fabulous enough to compete at the world competition each year. One of my nieces opened an Irish dance studio. The other went on to play drums in a pipe and drum corps. Much of my family’s time was spent at festivals, parades, feises, and, of course, pubs. It was on a St. Patrick’s Day in the past that the inspiration for Sinead was born. And Jack—oh, he’s pure Irish fantasy. A Dominant of my dreams—and, I hope, yours.

  Slàinte!

  Dedication

  For Victoria Heaney for brightening my day, every day, twice a day! And…that smile! You are appreciated more than you will ever know. Also, thanks for the “minx” help! (And your fella’s help, too!)

  For my Mom, my first-ever editor and the person who encouraged my imagination. Thank you for keeping our heritage alive.

  For BAB, for every step of the way!

  For the beautiful tribe who made it safe to be vulnerable and offered love and support in return. Thank you for being the vault and for helping me find my way back. Margarita, Shayla, Lexi, Jillian, Liz, Kim, Jenn, Melissa, Lila, Elle, Sidney, Katana, Skye, Erin, Erin, Mari, Angel, Avery, Carly, Erika, Julie, Laurelin, Isabella, Darcy, and Kayti.

  Chapter One

  Bollocks.

  Jack Quinn propped his elbow on the polished wood bar of the lower downtown Denver pub and drank deeply from the pint of stout as he watched the petite and smoking-hot Sinead O’Malley move into action for a solo on the bagpipes.

  A month ago, he’d hired his friend and fellow Titan, Celeste Fallon, to do a deep background check on his sworn enemy. Two weeks ago, the Fallon Group had sent through a dossier rich in detail.

  He’d learned Sinead was a world-champion Irish step dancer. In addition to the bagpipes, she played three different types of drums and had written a song that had done respectably well on the charts.

  Every once in a while, she toured with the Celtic World Nations as a way to pick up a little extra money to help the family. Jack hadn’t taken the time to listen to the audio file provided of her music, and he was surprised by how much he enjoyed the sound of their unique rock band. Or maybe he was just intrigued by the lass and wasn’t really hearing the music.

  She was single, after a relationship ended on a particularly sour note. The Fallon people had managed to talk to her ex—a piece of rubbish in Jack’s opinion. Donal hadn’t had much nice to say about her. Funny, he’d been prepared to marry her until she dumped him.

  But it was what her friends said about her that intrigued him most. She was known for her fierce loyalty and her love of family. She’d do anything for anyone.

  Those were the qualities that would make her an excellent wife.

  The problem was capturing his elusive quarry.

  She’d spent the past fortnight refusing to take his calls. In frustration, he’d packed his bags and jumped on a plane to fetch her.

  During the never-ending transatlantic flight, he’d studied the provided images. Most were curated from social media, and they were grainy, unremarkable since they were taken in dark bars. But her formal headshot, for the promotion of an album, was spectacular. She was at once innocent and simultaneously a vixen with a come-hither smile that promised nothing more than heartbreak.

  Even though he’d looked at her for hours on end, he’d been staggeringly unprepared for his first in-person sight of her.

  Sure, he’d known she was beautiful, but when he swept his gaze over her athletic body, he’d been gutted by an immediate, raw, and fucking unwanted reaction.

  Her cutoff white T-shirt was too tight across the swell of her breasts and left part of her toned midriff bare. If she was wearing a bra, it wasn’t very serviceable. Was it just his imagination, or could he see her nipples all the way from here?

  Her kilt was
way too damn short for his future bride. It barely covered her well-shaped arse. And when she danced he saw a flash of sexy black underwear, trimmed with tantalizing lace. In his experience, most Irish step dancers wore some sort of shorts, material that covered everything and preserved modesty. Jack supposed he should thank Christ she wasn’t commando beneath the skirt. No part of him could deal with that.

  Her muscular legs were bare, and her white socks had pooled around her ankles.

  Noise in the room continued to diminish, and more gazes turned toward the stage. Every man in the place was likely sporting an erection—including him. Lust was palpable. If she were his woman, he wouldn’t stand for her being dressed that way in public. At the same time, he’d want her wearing a whole lot less in private.

  He took another long drink from the glass. No doubt he’d be ready for another pint in less than a minute. A man needed fortification to manage the likes of a headstrong woman such as Sinead O’Malley. But manage her he would.

  He wouldn’t be leaving Denver without her in tow. He intended to possess her. Ride her. Claim her. Dominate her. Make her his submissive. And damn it to hell, marry her.

  The eight-hundred-year feud between their clans ended now even if he had to tie her to his bed and spank the sass out of her.

  Since it wouldn’t be seemly to drag her off the stage, bend her over, yank down her panties, make her call him Sir as he fucked her senseless on top of a table, he shook his head and resigned himself to be patient.

  A spotlight hit her. He recognized the Kelly tartan—from her mother’s side of the family. The Kellys were one of the few Irish clans entitled to wear a tartan—the same as the royal house of Stewart.

  Because of the distance and the way she held the bagpipes, he couldn’t quite read the writing on her white T-shirt. The dim lighting made it impossible to see her eyes, even though the information he had on her said they were green.

  Then again, the file said she had blonde hair. It hadn’t mentioned the fiery highlights that seemed to ignite in the overhead lighting. It hadn’t mentioned that the lengths fell in bedroom-mussed disarray across her forehead and around her face and shoulders.

  It looked the way it might after a good, long, hard screw.

  “Got your eye on that one, have you, mate?” the barkeep asked, pocketing the tip Jack had left on the bar. “She’s been in here half a dozen times in the past year. A right handful, she is. Won’t be having none of the likes of you.” He glanced at her, then back at Jack. “She won’t be having any of us for that matter.”

  “We’ll be seeing about that.”

  “Ah. That’s how it is, is it?” He wiped his hands on a rag. “She vanishes after the show and doesn’t stay at the same place the rest of the band does. Sinead is talented, all right. But she ain’t interested in any socializing. She’ll cut any man to the quick.”

  Jack nodded, considering himself warned. “Be a good man and fetch me another pint.”

  The bartender nodded and moved off.

  Glad to see the back of the man, Jack returned to watching the woman. It could be worse, he supposed. She was passionate, if her music was anything to go by. In need of taming, if the bartender’s words were anything to go by.

  Her passion turned Jack on.

  He’d want Sinead, no matter what his máthair chríona, grandmother, said. The way Sinead moved her hips fired his need to dominate her. He could almost imagine the way she smelled, of musk and desire.

  He joined the applause as she ended her solo, and she moved to the back of the stage.

  He drank his second stout and enjoyed the rest of the set. Part of him wished she would dance again. Another part of him was relieved she didn’t. He wasn’t sure his libido could take seeing her underwear and bare midriff.

  At the end of the set, the gathered crowd roared with applause. Sinead placed the pipes on the wooden planks, then plopped herself down on an amplifier.

  Her skirt rode even higher, and she didn’t sit like a lady. Now he knew why Yanks drank their beer so damn cold. ’Twas to cool the flames of ardor.

  He watched—or stared, more like it—as she uncapped a bottle of water, tipped her head back, and drank deeply.

  The band’s lead singer said a few words to Sinead, then nodded and moved off, leaving her alone.

  Jack seized the opportunity.

  In a few steps, he was on the stage. A couple more brought them face-to-face, or, in this case, her face to his crotch. And wasn’t this his lucky day? It wouldn’t be long before he’d have her on her knees, hands secured behind her as she submitted to him. “Great show.”

  She smiled. It wasn’t a warm and welcoming smile. It was more the smile of a princess. It was polite enough, required, even. But it sure as hell wasn’t inviting.

  The houselights came up a little more.

  This close to her, he saw a few beads of sweat on her brow and across the sweet curve of her upper lip. And he was also close enough to read the writing on her in-your-face T-shirt: You’re not rich enough. Smart enough. Or man enough. Don’t even try.

  They’d be seeing about that as well. “Do you intimidate most men, Sinead?”

  “Most? No. All of them.” She recapped her water bottle. “I don’t have time for men.” She leveled a gaze at him. “Even if I wanted a quick toss, it wouldn’t be with an anonymous man. You groupies are all the same.”

  The way she talked about sex, with her brogue and feminine sensuality that nothing could disguise, made his cock throb. He wasn’t just hard now. Not at all. He was ready. “Although I wouldn’t mind bedding you, I’m not in the market for a quick toss, Ms. O’Malley.”

  “An autograph? Do you have a pen? Then perhaps you’ll leave me the hell alone?”

  Polite, wasn’t she? “I’m not looking for an autograph.”

  “In that case, then, if you’ll excuse me?” She stood and turned away. By the time she took two steps, he’d caught her shoulder and applied enough pressure that she stopped.

  Slowly she turned back to face him again. Since he stood nearly a foot taller than her, she had to tip her head back in order to meet his gaze. “Take your damn hand off me. I’ve another set to prepare for.”

  Her eyes were green. Not an ordinary shade, but that of newborn spring on the Emerald Isle’s coast. “I’ve traveled halfway round the world to meet you.”

  “You should have bought the music, streamed it or something. You’d have saved yourself several hundred pounds in plane tickets at the very least.” Her smile was chilling. “You’ve met me.” She reached up to pry his fingers off her shoulder. “Release me before I call security.”

  He was aware of the way she felt beneath him—womanly, but with unaccountable strength. He wanted her. “We’ve important things to discuss, Sinead O’Malley.”

  “You are beginning to annoy me.” She exhaled. “I’m thinking maybe you’re a bit off your rocker, Mr.…”

  Because it was the right thing to do, and he wasn’t accustomed to manhandling any woman, he slowly released her.

  “Jack.” He extended a hand.

  She raised an eyebrow but nevertheless ignored him.

  Smart lass. “Jack Quinn.”

  “Jack Quinn?” Her mouth dropped.

  A very perfect, very pink tongue sneaked out. Good God, didn’t that cause another fantasy?

  “The Jack Quinn? My hated adversary. Mad as a hatter? Descendant of kidnappers and heathens?”

  He didn’t quite know what to say to that. Perhaps a man who chased a woman halfway around the world because of a comb didn’t seem to be all there.

  “Hiding the horns and forked tail, are you?”

  His response was quieter, more restrained than he wanted it to be. “I’m far from the devil, Sinead.”

  “Couldn’t prove that by my family.” She took her time looking him over from his head to his dusty shoes.

  Judging by her sneer, she found him wanting.

  As a man of means, and perhaps some charm and
a smattering of good looks, this was not the usual reaction he received from the ladies.

  “In addition to everything else, you’re a stalker?”

  “Hardly.” Recoiling from her offense, he curled his hands into fists. “I’ve been trying to get an audience with Your Highness for a while now.” Emails, letters, phone calls, messages at venues along the way. Trouble was, she didn’t always show up with the band. On one occasion, he’d learned she’d filled in for an ill member of a pipe band in national competition while Celtic World Nations was in another city. “You’re a difficult woman to reach.”

  “Not at all—if I want to be reached.” She drew a breath. “You’ve traveled all this way to have me reject you and your”—she sputtered—“ill-conceived, ridiculous, asinine, offensive marriage proposal in person.” She moved an electrical cord out of the way with her toes. “Since you’re apparently thick or stubborn or both, the answer to your proposal, Mr. Quinn, is not just no. It’s oh hell to the fuck no. I don’t care if it would make your grandmother happy or secure your family line. I will never lie with the likes of a Quinn man. Not now. Not ever.”

  She gave him a sunny smile that really, he knew, meant fuck you.

  “You are blunt.”

  “I need to be, as you’re apparently a gimp.”

  ‘Twasn’t often people called him an idiot and got away with it.

  “Now I’ll thank you to get the hell off the stage and out of my life.” She glanced toward the barkeep. “I will call the police on you.”