Hard Limits

HARD LIMITS BLACKSTONE HOUSE BOOK 3 ELISE NOBLE Published by Undercover Publishing Limited Copyright © 2023 Elise Noble v2 ISBN: 978-1-912888-64-1 This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. Edited by Nikki Mentges, NAM Editorial Cover design by Abigail Sins www.undercover-publishing.com www.elise-noble.com Don’t limit your challenges. Challenge your limits. CONTENTS 1. The Assistant 2. Brax 3. The Assistant 4. The Assistant 5. Brax 6. The Assistant 7. Brax 8. The Assistant 9. Brax 10. The Assistant 11. The Assistant 12. Brax 13. The Assistant 14. Brax 15. The Assistant 16. Brax 17. The Assistant 18. Brax 19. The Assistant 20. Brax 21. The Assistant 22. Brax 23. The Assistant 24. Brax 25. The Assistant 26. Brax 27. Brax 28. The Assistant 29. Brax 30. Brax 31. The Assistant 32. Brax 33. The Assistant 34. The Assistant 35. Brax 36. The Assistant 37. Brax 38. The Assistant 39. Brax 40. The Assistant 41. Brax 42. The Assistant 43. Brax 44. The Assistant 45. The Assistant 46. Brax 47. The Assistant 48. The Assistant What’s Next? Want to Stalk Me? Also by Elise Noble CHAPTER 1 THE ASSISTANT “Hey! Watch out!” Too late. The side mirror of the SUV clipped my hand, and the coffee I was holding flew through the air. A second later, my cappuccino with caramel syrup splattered over a candy wrapper, a crinkled flyer advertising Dr. Jo’s Therapy Services, and the sorry remains of a fancy beaded shoe. If that wasn’t a metaphor for my life on this gloomy January day in Los Angeles, I didn’t know what was. At least the cup wasn’t broken. The insulated travel mug had been a gift from my best friend, and although the lid bounced off, it had survived the fall with only a small dent. But the coffee… I’d needed that coffee, and I couldn’t afford a refill. The driver’s tinted window rolled down smoothly. At first, I only saw dark hair, and my insides seized because my older brother drove the same vehicle—a dark-grey Porsche Cayenne—and I feared that my family had finally caught up with me. But the window continued its downward journey to reveal intense blue eyes, smooth white skin, high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a well-defined jaw that definitely didn’t belong to any of the men I was related to. “Maybe if you’d looked where you were going, you wouldn’t have walked into my car.” Okay, he and Raj did have one thing in common—they were both assholes. And you know what? I’d had enough of jerks like them. They thought that having money gave them a licence to do as they pleased. “And maybe if you hadn’t been driving your gas-guzzling penis extension so fast in a parking lot, you would have seen me before you hit me.” “You just appeared from nowhere.” “What if I’d been a child, huh? Would you still be using that excuse?” “I’d like to think a child’s parents would have taught them to look both ways before crossing the road. And for the record, I don’t need a penis extension.” “Screw you.” “Not an option, my darling.” He held out a hundred-dollar bill between thumb and forefinger. “Here—get yourself another coffee and a pair of glasses.” “You can’t just buy me off like that.” He let the bill fall to the damp asphalt. “Suit yourself.” A second later, he roared away in his dick-mobile, leaving me fuming. Were arrogance and condescension coded into the Y chromosome? If I’d been allowed to continue my medical career, I could have done a study on it. The hundred-dollar bill fluttered in the breeze, and I trapped it under my foot. Much as I didn’t want to take the stranger’s money, a hundred bucks was a hundred bucks, and I really needed caffeine. These days, I was too poor to be proud. My pride had gone the same way as my designer shoe collection, my top-of-the-line Mercedes coupe, and my gold jewellery—I’d left it behind when I escaped Massachusetts. I picked up the bill and clutched the cup Meera had given me tightly as I hurried back to the coffee bar. The cup said “Not today, Satan,” but nobody down there seemed to be listening. What was the time? Ten thirty-seven. Which gave me twenty-three minutes to refuel and walk the half mile to Dunnvale Holdings for my job interview. And I needed the job almost as much as I needed the caffeine. My Toyota’s fuel pump had stopped working, the tyres needed replacing, and last week, my landlord had announced he was putting up the rent on my shared apartment by twenty percent. Twenty percent! Even with the amount split four ways, I’d still have to find an extra two hundred bucks each month. When we’d questioned the increase, the landlord had merely shrugged and told us we were free to leave if we wanted to because there were plenty more people waiting to take our place, and he was right. The cost of living in LA was skyrocketing. If I couldn’t find a good-paying job, my only option would be to move somewhere cheaper, but I liked the anonymity of a big city. The neighbours didn’t know my name, and nobody cared about my business as long as I coughed up my share of the rent money. The line for coffee took forever, and I scalded my tongue as I headed out into the parking lot for the second time this morning. I’d have to hustle to get to Dunnvale on time. The job was a personal assistant position, hardly my dream career, but it was better than tending to the