Running Hot : Tech Billionaires Book 4

  Running Hot

  Tech Billionaires book 4

  A Novel

  by:

  Ainsley St Claire

  Copyright 2020 Ainsley St Claire

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a production of the author’s imagination. Locations and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions or locations is completely coincidental.

  Tech Billionaires: Running Hot/Ainsley St Claire—1st edition

  Books By Ainsley St Claire

  The Venture Capitalist Series

  Forbidden Love (Emerson and Dillon)

  Promise (Sara and Trey)

  Desire (Cameron and Hadlee)

  Temptation (Greer and Andy)

  Obsession (Cynthia and Todd)

  Flawless (Constance and Parker)

  Longing (Bella and Christopher)

  Enchanted (Quinn and William)

  Fascination (CeCe and Mason)

  Clear Security Holiday Heartbreakers

  Gifted (Kate and Jim’s story)

  Unwrapped (Fiona & Bash) Release November 2020

  Tech Billionaires

  Tech Billionaire (Nate & Cecelia) via Bookfunnel only

  House of Cards (Maggie & Jonnie)

  Royally Flushed (Corrine & Jackson)

  Sleight of Hand (Tinsley & Landon)

  Running Hot (Marcella & Walker)

  Showdown (Nate & Lilly) Releases February 2021

  Dedication & thank you

  Mr. St Claire, you are my one and only, my inspiration, and soul mate. Thank you for your love and support.

  Thank you to my amazing editor Jessica Royer Ocken. You’re the Book Sage. Thank you for taking my stories and making them incredible.

  To my incredible typo hunting/beta reading team: Nancy, Linda, and Courtnay. Your eagle eyes are invaluable. Thank you!!!

  Thank you to my readers. For allowing me time in your busy schedule to share with you the crazy stories that are in my head. Without you, none of this would be possible.

  Get the Newsletter

  If you like to download a free copy of a prequel to the series, simply titled Tech Billionaire. It is only available through the newsletter so sign up for Ainsley’s Naughty Readers to receive the latest news on my upcoming novels, sign up for my free author newsletter at https://dl.bookfunnel.com/jluob93y32

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Marcella

  “Do we have any other options?” I look down at Raven Stewart, my legal associate, and she shakes her head.

  “Elena was all over Chirp last night, and the stock has bottomed out,” she says. “The US Attorney’s office wants her bad for stock manipulation.”

  “Who’s assigned to the case?” I ask for the third time, hoping the answer has changed.

  “Miguel Garcia.”

  “The man I beat out in law school for Order of the Coif. Great. Going over his head is going to have him gunning for my clients.” I stare up at my I love me wall—an array of accomplishments that indicate I’ve worked hard and am good at my job, but mean nothing when you have to go see your arch enemy and grovel. “Call Walker Clifton’s office and find out where he’s going for lunch today. I’ll stop by and sell a bit of my soul to him.”

  Raven slides a piece of paper across the desk. “He’s at the Union Club.”

  “Fuck. Really?”

  Raven Stewart is one of the best associates I’ve ever had. She is a master chess player and always thinking four steps ahead.

  “Is he there now?”

  She looks at her watch and nods.

  “Call me a rideshare. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  I sling my coat over my shoulders and grab my couture bag. Elena is going to pay for this.

  When I step out of the car onto the sidewalk a few minutes later, I look up at the concrete building and its giant columns. It’s close to city hall, and the architecture looks the same, but there’s one major distinction: no women are allowed inside the hallowed halls of this all-men’s private gathering place called the Union Club.

  The man I’m about to ask for a favor may very well end up president of the United States one day, but today he’s the United States Attorney for the Northern District of California, and his minion wants to screw one of my clients for having a heated moment on Chirp last night with a senior member of her team.

  I open the door, and the dark, wood-paneled walls and low lighting scream debauchery. It always smells like Pledge to me, but that would be too mundane a product for the employees to use at such a highly regarded club.

  The man behind the podium looks down at me in his tailored suit. “How may I help you?” He asks in such a monotone and distasteful way that I feel like gum stuck on the bottom of his shoe.

  I paint a smile on my face. “I’d like to see Walker Clifton, please.”

  “We don’t allow women on our premises.”

  I bet if I was a hooker, they’d allow me, but I’m not going to argue that with this guy who’s only doing his job—despite the fact that he’s condescending as hell.

  “Can you let him know Marci Peterson would like a moment of his time?” I hand him a copy of my engraved business card. It at least indicates that I’m of moderate importance and most likely not a woman threatening to sue Walker for paternity.

  He lifts the card and hands it to a large gentleman with an earpiece who takes it and disappears.

  A group of men enter behind me, and I step aside. Walker will make me wait. He always does. This is the little power game he plays. I pull my cell phone from my pocket and lean against the wall, my legs crossed at the ankles. I play a few rounds of Candy Crush.

  I’d love to take these hideous shoes off. Stilettos are the brainchild of a man. I wish comfortable shoes were in style.

  Groups of men continue to come through the entry, and the man at the front knows them all by name. It’s impressive as he clicks on his computer and checks them in. Most of them assess me as they walk by. I’m not interested in any man who belongs to an all-men’s club. It’s too sexist for me.

  They’re probably all missionary-type guys anyway—boring.

  “Well, well, well, look who’s darkened our doorstep.”

  I stand up and slip my phone into my coat pocket. “Good to see you, Walker. Do you have a moment?”

  He looks me up and down, and I’d swear his eyes become hooded, but I know better. These days he likes his women so thin they look like they’d break in half. I’ve got child-bearing hips, breasts that are more than a handful and have pointed down since I was twelve, not to mention wild, curly, blond hair that has a mind of its own.

  “Of course.” He looks over his shoulder. “Geoffrey, may we step into the parlor for a few moments?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Walker opens his arms, and I step three paces into a room I hadn’t noticed. “Thank you.”

  The space smells like old cigar smoke, and two leather chairs are turned toward a billiard table. Walker points to the seating.

  “No, thank you. I only want to ask a favor.” I push my hands into my pockets and bite the inside of my cheek. I hate this man and our long, sordid history, but I need to co ntrol myself.

  “You are always asking for favors,” he says slowly.

  I shrug. “Your little minions are always gunning for my clients, who we both know are your future donors.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Assistant US Attorney Miguel Garcia to step back from Elena Tuskan.”

  “Her stockholders are furious with her.” Walker knows precisely why I’m here.

  “That’s the only reason they’re selling off this morning,” I explain. “She’s the major stockholder and can take the financial hit.”

  Walker steps toward me, and I don’t realize I’m backing up until the billiard table hits my thighs. “Why are you the only one who seems to get favors from me?” He’s so close his breath warms my neck.

  It takes me a moment to collect myself. “Because I did you a favor and put your dick in my mouth.” I wince internally. That’s a bit of a low blow. If I’m honest, he broke my heart, and the favors are all payback.

  Walker smiles. “That’s true. Why are Elena and her head of manufacturing fighting on Chirp?”

  “Because he broke up with her, and her feelings are hurt.” I glance down at his long fingers and remember what he’s done to me with them. I clear my throat. “She’ll take a hit financially, but she’s stressed. Everything will be back to normal in a few days.”

  “And if they aren’t?”

  “Then she’ll be without money, and no one will fund her again since she’s too emotional.”

  Walker takes a few steps around the table and picks up one of the balls. “You know, you’ll owe me—again.”

  I nod and purse my lips, waiting for the day I’m the one he calls to cover his ass when he fucks up.

  He rolls the ball around in his hand and sends it across the table. “I will call in that favor one of these days.”

  “I’d expect nothing less.”

  He stares at me, and if it was anyone else, I’d swear he was thinking about my lips on his dick again. But he made it clear when we were fifteen that there would never be a repeat, and he always keeps his word.

  “I’ll talk to Mr. Garcia.”

  “Thank you.” I turn to leave, and as I cross the room, he follows, reaching around me to open the door.

  “One of these days I’m going to make you pay up,” he reminds me.

  “My checkbook will be ready.”

  My phone rings that evening, and I roll my eyes. It’s almost eight thirty, but I have a few more hours of work before I can go home and start all over again tomorrow. Elena has been a mess all day. Sometimes I’m part lawyer, part therapist for her. I also have another client dealing with an ex who bugged his phone and harassed him and his wife. I have a small list of clients, but when it rains, it always pours, and these days I’m drinking from a firehose.

  I reach for the phone, and the caller ID tells me it’s my mother. If I don’t answer, I know she’ll keep calling.

  “Hello, Mamma.” I run my hands through my hair. It makes the curls frizz, but it’s a habit.

  “Sweetheart, are you coming on Saturday to my party?” my mother asks in her rich Italian accent.

  “Yes, Mamma. I told you I’d be there.” She’s going to call every day to make sure. That’s probably three more calls.

  “I think you should wear that pretty pink dress that brings out the color in your cheeks.”

  I’m not sure it fits right now. I haven’t been good about working out recently, and I order takeout three meals a day.

  I roll my eyes. “Mamma, that’s a summer dress. It’s November. I’ll be cold.”

  “Nonsense. You have beautiful shoulders. It’s a great dress.”

  It has a full skirt and makes my waist look tiny, but my boobs fall out of the top. My mother is up to something. Someone is coming to the party, and she’s playing matchmaker.

  “Mamma? Who have you invited to the party?”

  “Family. Friends. You know, the usual suspects.”

  She’s trying to brush it off, but I know she’s up to something. For all I know, it could be her gynecologist. She does that.

  “Why do I think you’re forgetting someone?”

  “I promise you, there’s no set-up going on. Just come and look gorgeous.”

  “I may have a date. Can I bring a plus one?” I don’t have a date, but this will temper her expectations.

  “Of course, but warn him that your brothers will put him through the wringer.”

  I sigh. I have three brothers, and they’re all hyper-protective. They’re the reason I’m almost thirty-two years old and have no social life that isn’t a family event. When I graduated from Michigan Law School, I should have found a job in New York or someplace far away from my family. But no. I moved home, where my brothers still try to run my personal life. No one is good enough.

  It doesn’t matter. I spend all my time working anyway.

  “I’ll warn him,” I tell her. “He’s not easily intimidated.”

  In her eyes, I’m an old maid. By my age, she had all four of us and was a widow. She’s never remarried because my father was the love of her life.

  She tells me all about her party plans, and I’m a good daughter and make the appropriate noises as she explains. My three sisters in law have been busy planning, and because I’m so screaming busy, I’ve just written a lot of checks, which doesn’t bother me at all.

  Just a few more days, and this will be behind me.

  On Saturday, as promised, I arrive at my mother’s sixtieth birthday party in my brother’s backyard in the Sunset neighborhood of San Francisco. He’s two blocks from Golden Gate Park and twenty blocks from the beach. In most parts of California, that would spell expensive real estate—and it is expensive, relatively speaking—but Sunset is in the avenues and is the working-class part of San Francisco, because it sits under clouds of dense fog for more than ten months of the year.

  I’ve worn the pink dress, but covered up my overflowing chest with a sweater. I also wear a pair of heels that kill my feet. They always look so good in the store when I try them on. They make my legs look longer and stick my butt out a bit, but if I stand in them too long, my toes cramp and my back hurts. I promise myself I won’t be a slave to fashion forever.

  As soon as I’m able, I kick my shoes off and enjoy the grass between my toes. I walk up and down, evaluating all the great food—antipasto, salami and fig crostini from the figs in my mother’s backyard, rosemary-potato focaccia, bruschetta, meatballs that have simmered in my mother’s homemade sauce, cannelloni, and thousands of fried foods. I want to indulge, but if I do, I’ll have to spend hours I don’t have right now on the elliptical in my apartment.

  Breath warms my neck. “It’s so sexy when you’re barefoot.”

  I turn around. “Walker Clifton? Why are you here?”

  “Your mother was a second mother to me. She invited me.”

  He’s been handsome his whole life. His dark hair is short, but expensively cut, and if I had to bet, highlighted. He’s wearing a rolled-neck wool sweater that sets off his emerald green eyes and naturally tanned skin, jeans that hug his perfect ass, and a pair of leather half-boots that I’m sure cost more than my brothers make in a year.

  I roll my eyes. “You know, it’s bad enough that I have to deal with you at work all week and pretend I don’t know what an asshole you are, but this is my family time. You should leave.”

  “Hey, look who’s here!” my oldest brother, Tommy, announces, bringing Walker into a side hug. “If it isn’t the future governor of California gracing us with his presence.”

  My mother comes rushing over. “The whole family is here.” She hugs Walker and kisses both of his cheeks, not so subtly winking at me.

  My family loves Walker Clifton. They wouldn’t if they knew he’d deflowered me when we were fifteen years old and then dumped me. If I were to tell Tommy his precious Walker popped my cherry, he’d probably cut off his dick. The thought makes me smile.

  “You’re beautiful when yo u smile,” Walker whispers.

  “I was thinking about what would happen if I told my brothers what you did to me when we were fifteen.”

  “They’d still love me.” He smiles.

  “Shall we find out?”

  “I can take it, but can you?”

  I wish I could haul off and kick him in the balls. He knows my brothers and me well enough that he’s probably right. Damn it.

  Walker’s a pain in my ass.

  I take my overflowing plate to one of the plastic tables adorned with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, and Walker follows right behind and sits next to me.

  “Just because my family likes you doesn’t mean I have to,” I remind him.

  “This isn’t what you said when you came to beg me to ask my—what did you call him? minion?—to leave your precious, broken-hearted client alone.”

  I shake my head. It’s none of his business that Elena’s employee got her pregnant and broke up with her because of it. I hate men. I just smile and eat my dinner while my family files past to catch up with him.

  Walker is our family celebrity. As the night wears on, he talks to everyone, like the politician he is. He dances with my mom, and she laughs and blushes. He’s good to her when he doesn’t have to be. He does have some—albeit minimal—redeeming qualities.

  I want to sneak out, but I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t say goodbye, so I’m stuck until every last dish is washed and put away. Tomorrow morning will come early, but there’s nothing I can do. I need to work. I’ll sleep when I die.

  As the party begins to die down, I’m sitting with my sister in law Francie and my nine-month-old nephew, Tommy Junior, who’s eying my breasts like they might hold dessert.

  Suddenly a warm hand touches my shoulder, which sends an electric jolt to my core. “I need to go, princess.” The owner of the hand, Walker, nuzzles my neck and plants a kiss below my ear. “Can we have lunch this week?”