The Billionaire's Illicit Passion

The Billionaire's Illicit Passion Olivia Cruise Copyright Copyright © 2023 Olivia Cruise All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. Contents 1. Chapter One 2. Chapter Two 3. Chapter Three 4. Chapter Four 5. Chapter Five 6. Chapter Six 7. Chapter Seven 8. Chapter Eight 9. Chapter Nine 10. Chapter Ten 11. Chapter Eleven 12. Chapter Twelve 13. Chapter Thirteen 14. Chapter Fourteen 15. Chapter Fifteen 16. Chapter Sixteen 17. Chapter Seventeen 18. Chapter Eighteen 19. Chapter Nineteen 20. Chapter Twenty 21. Chapter Twenty-one 22. Chapter Twenty-two 23. Chapter Twenty-three 24. Chapter Twenty-four 25. Chapter Twenty-five Also By Chapter One Logan "I hear you're searching for a new assistant again, Dad. What happened? You've fired three assistants in six months," Casey teased. "They were amateurs," I responded. Attempting to find a new personal assistant just before a large-scale project was the worst. I had fired my last assistant because she could never show up to work on time, and the three before her had been completely incompetent. As one of the most sought-out architects in New York City, I was a very busy man and had little time in my life for sluggards. "No," Casey, my daughter and VP, scolded me, "you're just being too picky. Dad, you have to have someone here to help you keep track of clients, payments, run errands, and whatever other annoying tasks you make up. I can't do everything around here." "Oh," I chuckled. "You're the one doing everything around here? Please, explain." "Alright." She plopped down in the chair opposite my desk. "Let's see. I remind you to eat breakfast. Make sure your cars come on time, and your flights are set. Take care of inventory. Go out to visit sites. Promote the company. Do you want me to keep going? Because we can sit here all morning." I couldn't help but laugh at the bossy woman I’d had a hand in creating. Powerhouse Luxury Designs might have crumbled years before if it hadn’t been for Casey. When she was just eighteen years old, she started business school and simultaneously helped me run the books for my company. She was a big help to me then and still is, and my staff and I couldn't thank her enough. That’s why I made her vice president. "I think I get the point," I laughed. "Thank you, we appreciate you around here. But let's leave my personal assistant picking to me." As pedant as I was, I wanted to hire only the best. “It would help if you had someone stable and long-term. You've been waiting on this deal with Paris for a long time, and you don't want too much on your plate while trying to use your brain for a brilliant design." Casey was right. My head had to be clear for my trial run with the magistrate of Paris, France. Of course, I had traveled the world and designed buildings and homes in many places, but France was different. And so was the timing. Though some would say I’d become a grumpy, bitter old man after my divorce, I felt otherwise. I felt creatively romantic, and what better place to set a structure built from passion than Paris? "I'll find someone by the end of the night. Don't worry. All of our focus has to go to Paris. Jean Claude is a very important man." I nodded. "He has a great eye for art, and I really wanna show him my skill. That's my main focus." "Good. I laid out a few resumes you should look at. These people have a lot of experience with big names under their belts, so you shouldn't have too much trouble finding someone." There were five file folders on my desk. I hated looking through resumes. It was always the same mumbo jumbo—people doctoring up their work experience to fit the job they wanted the most but not able to follow through with those expectations. "You know that’s the job of our hiring manager, Annette Larson, right? That's why we have her. I don't know why you’re being so picky, Dad." "Casey, if you want the job done right, you got to do it yourself.” I chuckled. "I'll give them a pass-through a little later today. I have a conference call in a few. There's no telling how I'll feel after that, so I should look through these resumes while I have a stiff drink." When the day ended, I felt the same way I did any other day—tired, annoyed with clients, and exhausted with my work life. I couldn't complain too much, though. I lived the life I’d always dreamed of while trying to provide the best for my children, even though my son and I weren't seeing eye to eye. I took the resumes home after work that evening and picked them up again once I was ready to wind down for the night. I knew right away that the first three weren't a good fit for me. But the last two I felt had a lot of potential—especially Ariane Pratts. I couldn't help the feeling that I knew her from somewhere other than my work life. Most of the assistants I encountered had already worked with either entertainers or other high-end folk who thought they were too important to run their own errands. Still, I couldn't place her by face. It was just a feeling I got when I looked at her. She was of mixed race. Half black and half Caucasian, maybe, a perfect blend. She had these beautiful hazel eyes that matched her full perky cheeks, pouty lips, and symmetric nose. In addition, she had an angelic oval-shaped face that perfectly showcased her delicate features. After going back and forth between her and another guy I was impressed with, I followed up with her. I sent an email to Annette,