Table of Contents
Free Book
Note from the author
Sine
Alix
Bonus: Married A Stripper
Also by M. S. Parker
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Bound
The Billionaire’s Muse 2
M. S. Parker
Belmonte Publishing, LLC
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Belmonte Publishing LLC
Published by Belmonte Publishing LLC
Contents
Free Book
Note from the author
1. Sine
2. Alix
3. Sine
4. Alix
5. Sine
6. Sine
7. Alix
8. Sine
9. Alix
10. Sine
11. Alix
12. Sine
13. Alix
14. Sine
15. Alix
16. Sine
17. Sine
18. Alix
19. Sine
20. Alix
21. Sine
22. Alix
23. Sine
24. Alix
25. Sine
26. Alix
27. Sine
28. Alix
29. Sine
30. Sine
Bonus: Married A Stripper
Also by M. S. Parker
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Free Book
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Note from the author
Thank you so much for picking up Bound, the second book in the Billionaire’s Muse series. This book can be read standalone, but if you’d like to read the first book in the series, you can find it here: The Billionaire’s Muse 1.
Happy reading,
M.S. Parker.
1
Sine
“You’ll miss the sea.”
When I had told my family I was leaving Ireland to go to DeVry University in America, that was the first thing my dad said. He was right. I did miss it, but as much as I loved my seaside place of birth, I’d found a home here in New York City. A permanent home, I hoped.
I could only hope this new job would allow me to stay here. I had no more desire to live in Ireland and join my family’s whiskey business than I did when I’d left five years ago. While I loved my family, I couldn’t deny that it was freeing not being known as the baby of the McNiven eight.
The problem was, I needed a full-time job to be able to transfer from a temporary visa to a permanent, but I didn’t have any better idea of what I wanted to do with my business administration degree than I did the day I had declared my major. It seemed like a solid choice at the time, the sort of thing that would provide for me financially while I found my passion. Instead, I’d spent the last year working as a temp at a variety of jobs around Manhattan.
I had done well as a temp. I worked hard, gave a hundred percent, and it rarely took me long to learn the various tasks. On top of that, I was easy to get along with. More or less. I wasn’t the type of woman who intimidated other women or sparked jealousy. Most looked at me as a little sister, especially since I barely looked eighteen, much less twenty-three. That meant I could navigate through the petty spats that often dragged down newcomers. I made sure I was polite and added to small talk when appropriate, but I never did inane chatting that interfered with my work.
More than one employer had told me they wished they were able to hire me permanently. I’d always appreciated the compliment as I walked out the door for the last time.
I’d never mind moving from place to place, but after a year of bouncing around, I was looking forward to a change of pace.
And today was the day. Everything could change for the better.
As I stood outside the Chelsea studio of my new employer, I said a quick prayer to St. Cajetan and took a deep breath. I didn’t consider myself a religious person, but Mam was devout, so all us kids had been baptized into the church. I hoped that carried some weight with the patron saint of jobs, even if I didn’t completely believe in all that.
I needed all the help I could get.
I knocked on the door and ran through everything I knew about my new job while I waited. It wasn’t much.
On Friday, I’d been called into the agency for an interview with a woman named Jean Holloman. She was an agent looking for an assistant to a photographer she represented, and I’d been recommended for the position. Ms. Holloman hadn’t said why or by who, but I knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. After a brief chat, she’d given me this address and ordered me to be there at nine o’clock sharp. I'd be working for Alix Wexler.
The way she said his name made me think that she assumed I knew who he was. I hadn’t bothered to tell her otherwise. If this position meant I didn’t have to start looking for another roommate – or another apartment – or a plane ticket back to Ireland – Mr. Wexler could be an abhartach, and I would still have accepted the job.
The door opened, and I heard a voice telling me to come inside, but whoever it was had already moved back into the shadows. I followed, blinking as my eyes adjusted from the bright June sun to the dimmer interior of the studio. I could see the outline of a man, over a foot taller than my own barely five-foot frame, but wasn’t able to make out the details until I followed him into a large, open space filled with natural light.
Messy dark brown hair, and a chiseled jaw any sculpture would have loved. When he turned to face me, my stomach did a flip. His features and build were attractive enough that I was sure he turned heads wherever he went, but it was those eyes that made me catch my breath. I’d never seen irises quite that color before. They were gray, but not a washed out blue, but rather the thicker, darker color I associated with smoke curling up from a chimney on a cold day.
“You’re my new assistant, right?” His voice was clipped, but he didn’t seem to be angry as much as distracted.
I tried not to be offended. I wasn’t here for a date or for a business meeting. He was my new boss. He could be as distracted as he wanted. I’d get paid either way.
“Yes, sir. I’m Sine McNiven.”
That got his attention, though I wasn’t sure if it was my accent or my name. His gaze swept over me, and I got the impression that it was the first time he actually saw me. I did my best not to fidget.
“You want to give me that one again?”
I tempered my grin. Wouldn’t want the boss thinking I was laughing at him. “S-I-N-E, but it’s pronounced SHEE-na. Rhymes with Tina.”
“And you’re old enough to be my assistant?”
Not the first time I’d heard that question in some form or another. “Don’t you know it’s not polite to ask a woman her age?” I smiled as I added, “But I’m twenty-three.”
“Are you now?” He raised an eyebrow. “Where are you from?”
I was tempted to say Queens, but I knew what he meant. “Balbriggan.” When he raised the second eyebrow, I added, “Ireland.”
He looked like he was debating whether or not to ask anything else, then he shrugged. “Follow me.”
I looked around as he started walking toward the back of the studio. Mrs. Holloman had told me that he was a photographer, but not how tal
ented he was. If he was the one who'd taken the pictures hanging on the walls, he had talent. I wasn’t an expert, but even I could tell these were good. I didn’t offer my opinion though, not knowing Mr. Wexler well enough to know how he’d take it. Artists could be mercurial.
“This is your office.” He pushed open the door and stepped out of the way to let me inside. “Feel free to spend today getting it organized.”
“Is there anything you need me to do today?” I asked.
“Jean’s the one who thinks I need an assistant,” he said, and I could almost feel him roll his eyes. “I just didn’t feel like arguing.”
I watched as he walked away and reminded myself again that artists were often temperamental, and that indifferent was far better than angry. Besides, I’d grown up with six brothers. I could handle one moody man.
2
Alix
I’d known Jean Holloman all my life. She’d been a friend of my mother’s since they were teenagers, so she was a staple at holidays and birthday parties over the years. When I told my parents I wanted to be a photographer, they’d told me I needed an agent. And then my mom called Jean. She’d been my agent ever since.
I was used to Jean doing whatever she thought was best for me, often without telling me first, and it usually didn’t bother me, but this time, she’d gone too far.
I wasn’t a morning person, never had been, and she knew it, so when I saw her number on my caller ID at seven in the morning, I’d assumed it was something important.
“I hired an assistant.”
I frowned. Not important. Certainly not important enough to wake me up this fucking early. Jean said something that could have been a name, but I didn’t really care. “Good for you. Enjoy.”
“She’ll be at your studio at nine. Don’t be an ass.”
And then she hung up.
What the hell? I mentally cursed her for a couple more minutes, then got up to make myself some coffee since I knew I’d never get back to sleep, not when I was trying to figure out how to politely get out of the mess Jean had gotten me into. I didn’t need an assistant. I didn’t want one.
I’d been having a hard-enough time with my art lately. I didn’t need someone watching me fail.
When I heard the knock at the door at five minutes before nine, I knew it was her. Jean had told me her name, but I hadn’t been awake enough to register it. Not that it mattered. I’d give her a couple days, and then let Jean know that I was fine on my own.
I probably sounded like an ass when I told her to come in, but it wasn’t until she said her name that I really looked at her.
And wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me, because there was no way Jean had hired a kid, and this girl didn’t look old enough to be out of high school. She was short, first off, barely five feet tall, and she had this mass of orange-red curls that went with her freckles. But then she grinned at me, and I found myself wanting to smile back. Her eyes were impossibly green, and they sparkled.
Like seriously fucking sparkled.
So I talked to her. Only a couple questions, but it was more than I’d planned on asking. There was something about her that piqued my interest. I didn’t let it take over though. Sine could be the best assistant in the world, and it wouldn’t change anything. I didn’t need her help. I liked my privacy as much as possible.
I left her in her office but kept thinking about her as I went back to the main room of my studio. I’d just finished up a series of landscape and nature photos, so they were up on my walls now, but I’d only shot them because I felt the need to take a break from my usual subjects. I’d been feeling burned out and had hoped that the change of pace would get me back on track.
It hadn’t.
I walked to the table where I kept all my equipment. I had a model coming in shortly, and I needed to start preparing, but I couldn’t focus.
I needed to decide on a theme, set up the appropriate props and backlighting...but the only thing I could picture in my mind’s eye was the redhead I could hear moving around a few yards away. She was pretty enough that most men would probably give her a smile if she walked by, but she wasn’t the sort of beautiful that would turn heads.
Still, the lines of her face had fascinated me, and I found myself thinking about the way shadows would play across her cheeks, her lips. How I’d position her so that the light would hit her. The way the sun would shine against her curls.
I frowned.
Sine wasn’t a model. She was too short, for one thing.
She’d dressed nice, but I got the feeling it was just because she wanted to appear proper, not because she was trying to impress me.
Which I found odd.
Women always wanted to impress me. I wasn’t bragging. There were the women who wanted me for my name and my family’s money, and then the women who were into me because of the whole artsy thing. They wanted me to hire them as models. But Sine had smiled without flirting and had showed no interest in anything beyond her tasks.
Okay, she’s only been here less than an hour, but I’d once had a pizza delivery girl give me her phone number after telling me that she’d been trying to break into modeling forever.
I appreciated it though, even if I didn’t understand it. If Sine had come in, hinting around to model or been flirty, I probably would’ve sent her away immediately, and had a firmer word with Jean about not needing an assistant. Since she’d been professional so far, maybe I should at least give Sine a chance before I told Jean I was right.
Sine.
I shook my head. How in the world did S-I-N-E rhyme with Tina?
“Alix, darling, so sorry I’m late.”
I didn’t have to look to know that my model had just walked in. Giselle Lucan had been posing for me for two weeks, but I hadn’t been satisfied with any of the shots. She was gorgeous, of course, with perfect skin and features to go with ebony hair and china blue eyes. She was a woman who didn’t merely turn heads. At twenty-two, she’d already been engaged three times to rich men who’d lavished her with gifts until she’d gotten bored with them. The fact that this was her reputation should have been my warning to steer clear of her, but I was doing a line of erotic photography, and Giselle oozed the sexuality I thought would sell.
If I could find my footing again.
3
Sine
Mr. Wexler might not have thought he needed an assistant, but one look at the office he said was mine told me that his agent had a clearer view of things than he did.
I put my hands on my hips and tried to figure out where to start. I’d always been an organized person. Da said it came from me needing to prove my capability for independence. Mam said it was because none of the men in our family had an organized bone in their body and needed us women to keep the business from falling apart.
A familiar twinge went through my heart. Seven siblings, and I was the only one who’d chosen to leave. Mam and Aileen took care of the books while the boys and Da did the heavy lifting and the marketing. The whiskey business had been in Da’s family for generations, and all of us kids knew that Mam’s family had encouraged the match because of it. A part of me still wished I’d been able to find happiness there like my siblings had.
I took a deep breath and set my jaw. This wasn’t the time or place to be thinking maudlin thoughts. I had a job to do.
Trash would be the first to go, I decided. Things that were obvious. Then I’d work through each of the numerous piles of papers and letters one by one, throwing away the junk and separating the rest into categories.
I’d need to get a calendar, work on writing down Mr. Wexler’s schedule, but I needed to sort through the important things first so that I could make sure he didn’t miss anything.
I’d worked as a temp for more than one executive who knew the things they wanted to do but forgot bills that needed to be paid, or their mother-in-law’s birthdays. I didn’t know if Mr. Wexler had a mother-in-law, but I knew there were plenty of other things he could be
forgetting, and it was my job to make sure that didn’t happen.
I found a trash can next to the desk and got to work.
I had to admit, when I was told my new boss was a photographer, I was a little worried that he’d be the stereotypical artist. Back home, my one and only sister had dated an artist for six months her freshman year of college. Aileen was fifteen years older than me, so I didn’t remember the guy, but he’d been enough of a bastard that when I was in high school, my entire family had warned me against ever dating an artist. Fortunately, Aileen met Roger a few months later, and they’d been together ever since.
Still, I’d always been wary of finding another Eugene. Artists were moody, often using drugs and alcohol to self-medicate. They slept around. Fickle. Volatile. All words Mam had used to describe Eugene.
So, as I went around the room looking for trash, I prepared myself to find beer cans, empty bottles of hard liquor, bags of drugs, pills.
Except I didn’t find any of that.
A few fast food wrappers had missed the trashcan – probably because it was overflowing – and there were a couple empty bottles labeled with the name of some energy drink, but most of the junk I found was exactly that. Junk. Advertisements, credit card offers, that sort of thing.