The Beast
The Beast
A Forbidden Billionaire-Nanny Romance
Ruined Castle
Book 2
Vivian Wood
Edited by
Honey Palomino
Contents
Author’s Copyright
The Sinner
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
The Beast
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
About Vivian Wood
Author’s Copyright
Copyright Vivian Wood 2022
May not be replicated or reproduced in any manner without express and written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The Sinner
The Scottish Billionaire is a steamy billionaire novella that serves as a lead-in to The Beast. If you have already read it, you can skip ahead and start The Beast! If not, turn the page and start this white-hot suspenseful story at the beginning…
Chapter One
Looking out the window of our chauffeured SUV, I drum my fingers against the fine leather of the back seat. It’s currently gray and drizzling here in New York City, the abysmal rain not any different than what I’m used to in Scotland.
“Sir?” A young man with dark, slicked back hair leans forward from the SUV’s cramped back row.
I grunt, disinterested. Right now, I’m jet-lagged and home sick, acutely aware that I’m missing my six year old’s bedtime. So I’m not extremely interested in whatever the young man in his rumpled gray suit has to say.
He tries again. “Sir, I have the market analysis comps—”
Waving my hand, I silence him. “Not right now.”
The middle aged woman next to him coughs.
Christ. I look out my window, rolling it down to let in some fresh air. That’s just what I need right now, some peon’s god damn secondhand flu bug.
“Roll your fucking windows down! I need air!” I bark.
Everyone jumps to do as I say, everyone but my brother James. He rolls his eyes and looks at his phone, his face an expressionless mask. He’s all big bones under that expensive Brioni suit.
The SUV is packed full of people. Three men in suits are crammed into the back row. My brother James and I share the middle, with barely enough room between us for our big frames. In the front seat, the driver and a blonde young woman sit, both busy and not paying us any mind.
“We should’ve taken separate cars,” I say. “Natasha, can you make sure we have a second SUV after we leave NewsCorp?”
The blonde smiles at me. Natasha is used to my moods. She’s been my personal assistant for two and a half years and as such, she has seen far, far worse behavior from me.
“Of course, Lord Grayrose. I’ll sort that out right now.”
I crane my head to look at the buildings, watching for the bright, airy design of the NewsCorp offices here in New York City. I own a large multimedia empire that spans the globe, but only New York City has these brand spanking new offices.
Beside me, my brother James peers out his own window. “Jesus. This weather is following us around like a curse, Keir. I thought that America would be nothing but blue skies when we were visiting.”
“Aye,” I agree. “I thought the same. But apparently we’ve just had good luck the last few times we visited.”
James straightens his tie as he looks at me, his lip curling in the suggestion of a sneer. “Listen to you, you heathen. If mum and dad heard your little Scottish accent slipping back in after all those years at the best English schools, they would be in fits.”
I keep my face expressionless. James is always looking to provoke a reaction from everyone, at all times. So it’s better if I just ignore his actual criticism, which seems to be that I am too Scottish.
Never mind the fact that as the sons of the Duke of Grayrose, we are the highest ranking Scots apart from our father and the Duke of Montlake.
I favor James with a long look. “Fuck off. You sound like a whiny teenage boy, but you’re thirty years old.”
He responds by looking away, sucking at his teeth and raising his middle finger in the air.
“Need I remind you that we are here in New York City to garner support for your campaign?”
“Oh, Keiran.” He slides me a sly, secretive smile. “I know that, big brother. It’s not as if you or our parents would ever for a second let me forget.”
I snort. “Right. No one is making you run for prime minister.”
James gives his head a shake as if he disagrees, but he doesn’t argue.
There is pressure building in my temples. I rub the bridge of my nose for a second but there is no relief.
The car turns a corner and suddenly, I see the press. They are caged in, held back behind a pair of neon orange barricades. The press here might be annoying, but at least they are meek.
In London or Glasgow, they’d have slipped the barricades and beat on the windows of the SUV as it slowed to a stop. I lean forward, glancing past the press to the sleek, reflective skyscraper just behind them. At the very top, I can just make out the NewsCorp logo scrawled in bright red.
I may not be running for prime minister, but at least we are about to enter a building where everyone will know my name.
Lord Keiran, future Duke of Grayrose. Or as the people inside probably think of me, that fucking prick who’s in charge.
I can’t help the slight smirk that tilts my lips up as I open the door. Instantly, the press falls upon me, ravenous for the barest scrap of news about myself or my brother.
“Lord Grayrose! Lord Grayrose! Over here! How does your ownership of NewsCorp affect your younger brother’s chances of winning—”
A young man jostles the young woman screaming into her microphone aside, interrupting the flow of her question. He sticks his microphone under his face, preparing to rapidly fire questions at me.
“Lord Grayrose, where is your wife? No one has seen her for years—”
Plastering a bland smile over my face, I turn away. Inside, my stomach tenses. I hate when the press mentions my ex, Kinsley. She’s off the grid, doing whatever she wants… as long as the circling sharks in the media don’t get a whiff of her partying or living separately from me.
I plan on keeping it that way.
I shade my eyes and look over the crowd that’s gathered. Reporters scuffle with each other in their attempts to reach the microphones toward my face.
“Lord Grayrose, how does the Queen feel about your brother’s run for prime m
inister? He’s the youngest man who’s ever had a serious shot—”
James gets out of the SUV after me, buttoning his suit. He gives the press his million dollar smile, trying to look suitably demure. The journalists fight over the right to wave their microphones his way. He waves, their shouted questions not phasing him in the least.
“Hello.” He stops to sign an autograph, but his eyes never really stop roving over the crowd. “Yes, it’s not a very nice day, is it?”
After another half a minute of him basking in the glow of their attention, I motion to the security team. They make a path and open up the door, forcefully pushing journalists and well-wishers back a few steps. I grab James by the elbow and steer him past the press, not releasing my grip until we are past the doors and several steps inside. When the doors close with an automatic whoosh, I finally let him go.
Now, I’m staring down at least thirty nervous-looking guys in suits. My employees, although I can’t say that I know a single one of their faces or names.
They all know me, though. From a glance, I would bet that they have all been briefed on my temperamental personality.
“Lord Grayrose!”
Natasha, my personal assistant, steps out from behind one of the suited men. She rushes up to me, all but ignoring my brother. “Lord Grayrose. We have the studio all set up for you.”
Clasping my hands behind my back, I give her the smallest smile. “Lead the way.”
She takes off toward the elevators. I glance at James, raising a brow. His expression tightens. He likes it when he is in control. He likes it even more when there are positive stories about him in the press. Those are things that will not happen at NewsCorp without my express say so.
We step into the elevator, Natasha pressing the buttons.
“Chin up,” I tell him. “Look like you really want to be here, not home in your favorite chair with a fire crackling at your feet.”
“I am rather jet lagged right now.” He pulls a face and fusses with the knot in his tie.
“Well, don’t let all of America know that. Remember, you are just trying to drum up some support before we announce your official run next week.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but I’m already turning my attention to Natasha.
“Do you have the poll numbers?”
She pulls a sheet of paper out of the stack of folders under her arm, double checks it, and then hands it to me.
I glance over it and show the colorful chart to James; it currently has his opponent, Mr. Lewis, winning in the runoff for the Conservative seat by quite a large margin.
“Lewis wishes he had that kind of pull,” James mutters. “He only has the old geezers’ vote, by my reckoning.”
Clearing my throat, I prepare myself for what’s about to happen. The elevator stops, the doors open. To my surprise, there are only three people waiting for us.
With her sleek gray bob and her stylish black pantsuit, Grace Chapman turns her head toward us, beaming brightly. She’s the news anchor that does serious opinion pieces for NewsCorp, and the very first person I thought of when I found out we were coming to New York. She could sell ice to an Aleutian if she smiled a little and spoke in that soft, serious voice.
“Lord Grayrose.” She bows her head. “What a pleasure to have you both in the studio this evening.”
“Grace.” I incline my head. “I trust you will make James look good.”
Her cheeks color very slightly but she just nods, her smile never faltering.
“If you’ll just follow me, we can get you settled in your dressing room. We will get the hair and makeup people in and out and then start taping…”
I clap James on the shoulder as he starts to follow her. “Stick to the talking points. Jobs, immigration, small businesses.”
“I think I’ve got it by now.” He shoots me a tiny glare as he is hurried down a hallway, disappearing into darkness.
I’m left with Natasha and a young man whose color is approximately that of a bag of flour. I look at him, fold my arms across my chest, and cock my head.
“Well?”
He swallows, blinking rapidly.
“Grace wanted me to stay with you and make sure—”
“Do us both a favor and stop talking. I’m only here to make sure that your boss Grace does her job and makes my brother look like an inspiring presence and not the actual clod he is.”
His eyebrows rise with alarm. He begins to say something else, which is not a good look for him.
“Fuck off,” I say, jerking my head toward the hallway. “I don’t require a babysitter. I’m the owner of this company, not a wide eyed little girl. Get lost.”
He nods, wincing. Perhaps I only imagined that he mutters, “fucking billionaires.” But I wouldn’t be surprised.
Everyone that doesn’t have my wealth and privilege always has some snarky comment. It comes with the territory.
In two shakes of a lamb’s tail he has disappeared down the long hallway, leaving Natasha and I alone. Natasha looks around the small seating area and goes over to the floor to ceiling window, glancing out. I look at the elegant glass statues sitting on the low table in the middle of the expensive white metal chairs. The statues resemble oversized chess pieces, each one approximately a foot tall and quite hefty. Tilting my head to one side, I tip one of the pieces, weighing it.
In an emergency, you could do some serious damage armed with one of those.
“Sir, I should tell you.”
I glance up. Natasha is careful not to look at me when she’s speaking, which means whatever she has to say, it’s bad.
“I’ve received a call from Drumman Castle.”
My ancestral home in Scotland, where I have been living for several years. I am usually unshakable, but just hearing the words makes my heart begin pounding.
“About Isla?”
She nods. “Yes. She is all right, of course, but—”
My hands curl into fists.
“Don’t tell me. She’s gotten into trouble?”
Natasha hesitates. “Yes, sir. She’s been expelled from school.”
“Expelled?” I ask. My tone is unsurprised though. “God damn it. This is the third school that she’s been expelled from in the last twelve months.” I pause, squinting at the darkened Manhattan skyline and the bright lights that sparkle within it. “Is this just because I left her with Lennox?”
Natasha chooses her words very carefully.
“Your daughter says she likes it when your sister stays with her. And the school said her expulsion is based on multiple violations of school code.”
“Those bloody idiots never know what to do with a bright girl like Isla.” My frown deepens. “Is that the entire story?”
“Apparently she also made her latest nanny quit.” She winces. “The service says that they are not going to send out any more replacements.”
“Those bastards. You’d think she was a bloody terrorist instead of a damned six year old.” My eyebrows rise. “They’re throwing in the towel, too, are they?”
Natasha pulls out her phone and reads out loud. “Eight nannies in five months is a sign that a child is seriously troubled. They recommend she see a child psychologist to help with her anger and attitude problems.”
Fury flashes through my veins, white hot and undiluted. How dare anyone talk about Isla that way?
Without even thinking about it, I pick up one of the chess pieces and hurl it across the room. It hits a wall and smashes into a million shards, making quite a racket.
I blink and screw up my face.
I should feel bad about it… Not about the property damage, of course, but about creating more work for others. I definitely didn’t exactly think it through.
Like father, like daughter, I suppose.
Then again, I am a job creator. Everything in this whole bloody building is owned by my family, built up over generations. I refuse to feel guilty for giving everyone, including my brother, a fucking job to do.
I grimace.
Two people come running into the room, but Natasha throws her hands up, warding them off. “Don’t come over here. There is broken glass everywhere! Watch your feet.”
She throws a look over her shoulder at me.
“Don’t even start,” I warn her. “Seriously.”
“Can I get a broom, a dustpan, and a rubbish bin?” she calls out.
While Natasha is busy cleaning up the fragments of the chess piece, I turn toward the window. The fury is still washing through me, lapping at me like the ocean at its shore. I try to focus my mind, looking out at the inky blackness as the last rays of sun are leached from the sky.
Chapter Two
I’m sitting on the sofa, watching the fourth hour of recorded dress rehearsals. It’s a regular thing in our household, watching the videos and commenting on every single movement, scrutinizing our past mistakes so that we don’t make them again.
Two of my roommates are watching with rapt attention as they sit on the bare concrete floor, doing the splits.
“The New York Ballet company is not going to be the same if you quit,” intones Patrice. She looks at me as she lowers her upper body toward the floor, stretching her already-limber quads even more. “Seriously, don’t leave us.”
Twitching a shoulder, I pull a face. “It’s not me that wants to leave. It’s the company’s doctor. He won’t even let me practice. He makes it sound as if I’m basically walking around on a death trap instead of a knee.”