Monroe: The Dynastic Collection: An Alpha Billionaire Romance Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Keep Up

  STAINED

  Prologue

  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

  TRAINED

  Prologue

  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

  REIGNED

  Prologue

  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

  FIVE WEEKS LATER

  Thanks And Connect

  Also Available

  MONROE

  THE DYNASTIC COLLECTION

  Cynthia Dane

  BARACHOU PRESS

  MONROE

  The Dynastic Collection

  Copyright: Cynthia Dane

  Published: September 7th, 2016

  Publisher: Barachou Press

  This is a work of fiction. Any and all similarities to any characters, settings, or situations are purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  Keep up with Cynthia’s latest releases by joining her mailing list! Behind the scenes, first looks, and even some free snippets!

  STAINED

  Prologue

  Damon Monroe was not a fan of his father’s private parties. When they weren’t stuffed with old, boring men who could only talk in code, they were the over-patronizing weirdos who wormed their way in when Russell Monroe was drunk on enough brandy or high on enough dust to not give a fuck about who he associated with behind closed doors.

  In truth, Damon avoided these parties. Yet his gut told him to come home for a week that summer, a week in which he, for once, had no other plans booked. Princeton was his current mistress, having been admitted before he reached the age of majority and already working on two concurrent majors that made his advisor fan himself in exhaustion. That summer was dedicated to an internship at one of his father’s friend’s companies. Until then, however, Damon was free to do as he pleased. After returning from a sojourn to London – a man might want to study abroad at Oxford, after all – Damon wandered home. Or as much as he could call his father’s three story penthouse in the middle of a bustling regional city home, anyway.

  He wasn’t old enough to rent a car, but he was old enough to know premium whisky when he saw it. A scantily clad server carrying a tray full of shots wandered by, enticing the young master Monroe with more than a shot. Maybe later. He waved the woman off after having his shot. Nice. Both the shot and the girl.

  The lounge was full of the types Russell Monroe didn’t usually consort with. Either the master of the house was gone for the weekend, or he was in one of his two-day hazes in which he recreated Victorian opium dens. Probably. A fortune-teller looked up from a sofa and grinned in Damon’s direction. He knew she was such a person from the trinkets on her flowing, gauzy robes.

  “I knew you were coming, Mr. Monroe,” she said with a French accent. “Gabriella at your service. Care for a reading?”

  The man she had been speaking with excused himself to join a game of billiards. Acrobats who lost bets had to perform tricks upon a priceless Persian rug. Animal tamers traded bawdy stories at the open bar, each one more grotesque than the last. Women in nothing more than their underwear came and went from an adjacent study. My father’s study. Damon looked away. None of his business.

  “I’m not much for parlor tricks, sorry.” Damon looked for the exit. At this rate he would stay the night in his old room and be out of there after breakfast. With any luck, he would trade some greetings with his father.

  The woman clicked her tongue. “I assure you I do more than parlor tricks, Mr. Monroe. I am a teller of genuine fortunes. I don’t claim to consort with spirits, but I am able to read what is in the air, and tell your future from your aura and how it interacts with my mediums.” She drank from a flute of champagne. “So! What’s your fancy? I’ve got tea leaves and Tarot cards at my disposal.” When Damon didn’t bite, she continued, “You like art, yes? My cards are one of a kind. At the very least, allow me to show them to you. Drawn by a master artist from the south of France.” She smiled. “My brother.”

  Damon sat on the couch across from her, an antique coffee table between them. “Fine. I’ll take a look.”

  Smiling, the fortune teller pulled a leather satchel out of her large bag. Inside was a deck of Tarot cards. That certainly is unique. Not that Damon had seen many Tarot decks in his life. The only time his father let such deviances into his home was when he was in a stupor.

  The art was classically Dutch, with references to Rembrandt and Vermeer. Every card contained an illustration of the subject matter, acted out by a myriad of men, women, and cherubs in various stages of undress. Damon perused them, making the occasional comment. He was about to lose interest when Gabriella snatched them up to shuffle.

  “Let me give you a complimentary reading, Mr. Monroe. What’s your poison? Wealth?” she chuckled. “No, you don’t need any help with that, do you?”

  Damon was unresponsive.

  “Health? Those are the two things people ask me about me the most.” She paused. “Those and love.”

  He didn’t want to admit that his ears perked, but they did. Love, huh? Thus far in his short life, Damon had been unlucky in such things. Oh, he could sleep with most women he fancied, but it wasn’t the same as having his heart plucked like a well-used lute. It wasn’t cool or gentlemanly in his circles to admit a lust for love. Just lust. It didn’t help that his father was always shoving would-be marriages of convenience in his direction. “Don’t have to make any decisions until you’re finished with your schooling,” Russell had reassured his son more than once. “Just make sure that if you find the one, she’s of the right breeding.” His father was always going on about “the one.” Damon would know her when she saw her, of course.

  “Ah. Love it is, then.” Gabriella made no other comments as she handed Damon the deck of cards. “Shuffle these whilst thinking of your heart’s innermost desires. They will then tell us all we need to know about your romantic future.”

  Against his better judgment, a
slightly tipsy Damon shuffled the cards. However, he didn’t think of anything at all. Besides Gabriella’s breasts spilling from their casements, anyway.

  She took the cards back and pulled the first seven off the top. She flipped the first one. Upside-down for her. Upside-right for Damon.

  Breath snatched from the air. That’s… the most beautifully painted woman in the world? Yes. Yes it was.

  Golden blond locks fell across the pale woman’s milky white shoulders. Her button nose rode high on her face, tiny eyes staring right back at Damon. He had seen a lot of beautiful women before, especially blondes. This one? She may have only been a painting, but there was something about that delightful demeanor that made him wish for one second that she was real. Dangerous. Such a wish was dangerous.

  “My, my.” Gabriella uncovered the other six cards, but Damon didn’t care to look at the men and dowdy women on them. The blond woman was too enticing. Too enrapturing. Too… enchanting. She spoke to every cynical chamber of his heart. There was still that one, however, that stole looks at fairy tales and even recited a couple of Disney movies as if he were an eight-year-old girl. (He never unleashed this talent on his male friends, however.) “This is quite the spread, Mr. Monroe.”

  He finally tore his eyes off the painting. “Hm?”

  Gabriella tapped her long fingernails against her chin. “Yes. You are lucky. The fates are describing the perfect woman for you to call your own one day.” She smiled. “Not many people get this, but the universe seems determined to match you with a lucky woman. No other will compare to her… they will all fall. Do you want to know more about her?”

  Before, Damon would have said no. Who believed in such so-called art? Except telling Gabriella no meant no longer looking at the picture on the first card. Couldn’t they wait a bit longer? “Sure. Lay it on me.”

  Gabriella chuckled. “You will not meet your fated intended until the eve of her thirtieth birthday. How old she is now, I cannot gleam. She may be your age. Perhaps she is older than you, and this event isn’t so far away. Or she could yet to be born. I cannot tell you.”

  How convenient.

  “She will have been waiting for a man like you, just as you have been waiting for a woman like her. She is intelligent and capable. Fertile enough to give you many children if you do not interfere with nature. In fact, if you’re not careful, she may take over all aspects of your life.” Gabriella said this with a smile, as if that was a good thing.

  Damon, however, could not stop looking at the card before him. “Don’t suppose you could tell me what she looks like? It would help to know who it is when I see her.”

  The fortune teller caught him staring at the card. “Imagine your dream woman, in appearances only. There she is. Waiting for you.”

  Damon never had a dream woman, so to speak. He was attracted to a large array of women. Weren’t most men? Sometimes he lusted after a busty brunette. Other times he fancied a petite redhead who giggled more than she spoke. His first real girlfriend drew him a lot of scandalous ire at his boarding school before he went off to Princeton – she was, for lack of a better term, fat. Or at least according to the ridiculous standards of teenage boys.

  So Damon never had a type he went after above others. Until now.

  Her. If the woman on the card existed, she would be it. His love. His glory. His wife.

  What was wrong with him? This was ignorant. Scoffing, Damon moved away from the coffee table, even though that portrait still called to him. “What else do you have, seer? So far you’ve given me a lot of non-answers I could get from a Sunday horoscope.”

  The woman drank more champagne before continuing. “You want more concrete details? I will try to oblige.” Gabriella concentrated on the cards, not once looking at Damon. “She is pure in body but not of mind. The fates have decided that your intended is yours to possess alone. You will be her first in the bedroom, and the last.”

  “So she’s a virgin.” Woo-hoo. Damon didn’t get excited about that, unlike some of his brainless contemporaries.

  “It’s a bit murky, but that is the image I get. She is wholly aware of the carnal delights of the world, but luck has not bestowed pleasurable touch upon her.”

  “A thirty-year-old virgin. Lovely.”

  “I caution you, Mr. Monroe.” Gabriella sat up with a start. “You will not acquire her easily. Even if you offer her everything up front, and even if she agrees from the start to be yours, outside influences will attempt to drive you apart.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “That’s all I get.”

  “Well.” Damon stood up. “It was a pleasure, Ms. Gabriella. Thank you for the free reading.”

  “It was my pleasure.” She began picking up the cards, the pretty one last. “Good luck in your pursuits of love.” She grinned. “You may need it.”

  Damon excused himself from the party. The last thing he heard was his father’s roaring from his study. He only laughed like that when under the influence. All the more reason to stay away from him.

  Sighing, Damon retreated into his boyhood chambers, guarded by one of the many bodyguards his family employed. Once he was in the quiet of his room, however, he found himself unable to settle down. Restlessness forced him to get one last shot of liquor for the night. As he poured, he saw a full-size image of that blond woman on the nearby couch, playing with the thin strands of her hair and glancing at him with come-hither bedroom eyes full of love.

  He dropped the empty glass onto the carpet. Cursing his buttery grip, Damon bent down and picked it up. The image of the woman was gone, but both she and the fortune teller who conjured her had left their mark on Damon’s soul. For the next ten years he would search for this woman. While he dallied with other lesser women who could never hope to hold onto his heart – and money – and while he eschewed his father’s proposals for an arranged marriage. This was the man who once told his son that he would “just know” when he found the one. He dared to interfere?

  For ten years Damon Monroe would live in a haze of endless money, growing influence and power, and the pursuit of the one thing he could never tell anyone else about: the perfect woman, who was destined to have his heart and body as if they weren’t the trifle things they truly were. All he asked for in turn was the same thing.

  One day he would have that woman, fit to be queen of his growing empire. Whatever her class, background, or even marital status, she would be his, wholly and unconditionally. Once he found her? He would move the Heavens. The earth. He would go down to Hell and move that too if it meant having that damsel in his bed and coffers.

  However their meeting finally came to be, one thing was for sure: Damon Monroe would not be able to stop himself from becoming a changed man. For better or worse.

  Chapter 1

  Alice Culver had worked her share of strange jobs. Nothing, however, compared to her first night working as a hostess at a sex club.

  No, not that kind of hostess. Her trainer Susan made it clear that Alice was not there to do more than minimal flirting with guests while she showed them to VIP rooms and relegated the other spaces. Her job was simple: greet the guests after they emerged from the coat check, find out their seating preferences or if they’d rather be left alone, and see them to a secluded space if that’s what they required. When she wasn’t doing this, she was to make sure everyone was comfortable and getting the service they expected. (No, not that kind of service.) Were the drinks to their liking? Did they need a private room? Did guests know that reservations could be made in advance? Alice would take care of it.

  “Rule #1,” Susan reiterated as she ran through everything before the club doors opened. “No. Fraternizing.”

  Alice had been told this no fewer than ten times since she walked in for her first shift. The contract and massive NDA she signed two days ago also made sure to mention this a million times. There was little tolerated at The Dark Hour. Stealing was obviously out of the question. Being rude to guests? Kiss your job goodb
ye. Another great way to make sure one did not work in this circle ever again? Sleep with a guest.

  Flirting was to be expected. After all, men and women came in hoping for a dreamy good time. A standoffish or robotic hostess did not set a good impression. What Alice would learn, Susan assured, was how to strike a good balance between flirting and professionalism.

  “If any guest makes you feel unsafe at any time,” Susan said, gesturing to a bright white button on the ring of keys issued to every hostess, “Hit this button. Security will find you.”

  Alice tried not to think about that. I’ve worked my fair share of lounges. Each one more exclusive and high-end than the last. Someone always got handsy. She could only imagine what a mess working at The Dark Hour could be.

  She hadn’t even heard of this place until her roommate Candice, who also worked in the nighttime entertainment industry, mentioned that the biggest gig in town was looking for a new hostess. Alice didn’t think twice about putting in an application as soon as Candice told her who to email it to. Seemed odd that they had asked for a picture – was that even legal? – but…

  When Alice studied the servers, bartenders, coat checkers, performers, and the other hostesses who came in for the weekly meeting, she realized they all had something in common: beautiful.

  There were different shades of beautiful, of course. Susan was shorter and a bit curvier than most of the other women there, but she was gorgeous. Fluffy auburn hair. Perfect skin and an asymmetrical face. Breasts bigger than Alice’s head.

  No surprise. Alice had often been told that she was conventionally attractive. All the good it did the lanky blonde who tripped over her own broad feet and stuffed her bra so she could compete with all the D cups in the house. Her mother may have bemoaned Alice’s ability to eat and stay thin, but her doctor often hounded her to gain weight. There was no winning. Especially when she compared herself to the perfect beauties busting ass in The Dark Hour, each one representing some fantasy for the largely male clientele that came in. Tall women. Short women. Curvy women. Skinny women. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, girls with bright blue hair. Most of the women left after the staff meeting since it was supposed to be a slow Thursday night, but Alice was awestruck nonetheless. I must be replacing the last all-limbs blonde. She noticed there wasn’t anyone else there who looked like her.