Their Soul Mate [The Hot Millionaires #5] Read online

  The Hot Millionaires #5

  Their Soul Mate

  Justine Trent, overweight and smarting from the breakup of an intense relationship, takes a job in the English countryside where she can hide away and nurse her broken heart. Employed by two Americans to trace Zac's estranged mother, Justine’s low self-esteem receives an unexpected boost when the guys make it plain that they like what they see.

  Playing bedroom games with Zac Wendell and Cody Stowell fixes Justine’s heart just fine, until her ex tracks her down and makes all sorts of wild promises. When the guys return home from a trip and find him all over her, they jump to the wrong conclusion.

  Furious with Zac and Cody for doubting her, Justine distances herself from them. Zac faces the trauma of confronting the mother he’s never met. More importantly, he and Cody must find a way to save Justine from the emotional blackmail being meted out by her ex and persuade her to come home to them. Forever.

  Genre: BDSM, Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre

  Length: 38,285 words

  THEIR SOUL MATE

  The Hot Millionaires #5

  Zara Chase

  MENAGE EVERLASTING

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting

  THEIR SOUL MATE

  Copyright © 2012 by Zara Chase

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62241-368-3

  First E-book Publication: September 2012

  Cover design by Les Byerley

  All art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

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  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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  THEIR SOUL MATE

  The Hot Millionaires #5

  ZARA CHASE

  Copyright © 2012

  Chapter One

  “Damn it!”

  Justine pulled over to the side of the road and cut the engine before it died of natural causes. She’d ignored the strange knocking sound for miles, hoping to get where she was supposed to be before it became terminal. Since steam now billowed from beneath the hood and the temperature gauge was off the chart, she figured she’d been over-optimistic in that respect.

  “Fuck it!” Justine thumped the steering wheel in frustration. “Come on, Malcolm,” she wheedled. “Don’t do this to me. I really need to get there this afternoon. Jobs like this one don’t come along every day.”

  Justine thought about the inventive résumé she’d submitted to get this far. Against all the odds it had worked, at least insofar as she’d gotten an interview. According to the agency, the guy was in a hurry to hire, so perhaps he hadn’t bothered to check her out properly. Not that she’d lied exactly, but well…it was more a case of being economical with the truth. Her mother would have said it served her right—cheats never prosper—because now she was going to be late or not get there at all. What small chance she’d had of landing this damned job had died along with Malcolm’s engine.

  Justine didn’t even bother to get out and have a look-see. She knew next to nothing about cars. Besides, the engine was still hissing away. The way her luck was running she’d probably get a face-full of steam. What to do?

  “There’s only one thing for it,” she said aloud. “If you won’t co-operate, Malcolm, then I’m just gonna have to ring my potential employer and beg for help.”

  How goofy would that look? She was applying for a job as a super-efficient researcher but couldn’t even get to the interview unaided. Shit, why hadn’t she renewed her membership of roadside assistance? Justine perked up when she recalled that the association in question promised to rescue lone women even if they weren’t current members. It would cost a fortune she didn’t have, to join after the fact, but what other choice was there? Besides, if she could wangle this job, then she’d have enough money to join the motoring organization and replace her unreliable car.

  “Sorry, Malcolm,” she said, feeling guilty and disloyal, even though he’d let her down. That was probably her fault, anyway. She’d kinda skimped on having him serviced, working on the if it ain’t broke don’t fix it code of practise. Justine pulled her cell phone from her bag. She’d ring her potential employer and claim she was stuck in traffic, which was kind of true, then call the cavalry.

  “Shit, that’s all I need!”

  She threw the useless phone onto the passenger seat. She was in a remote location and there was no signal. It now felt as though there was as much steam coming from her ears as there was from the cooling engine.

  “Well, Malcolm, any suggestions?” The car didn’t offer up any. “Okay, so I have no car, no phone, and I’m stuck on a narrow road in the middle of the English countryside. Oh, and it looks like it’s going to rain,” she added, peering through the windshield at the darkening sky. “Great, just great!”

  Justine glanced down at her ruinously expensive Jimmy Choos. She absolutely adored them, even if their purchase had accounted for the last of her meagre savings. If anything could swing this interview for her, it was the sight of her long legs showcased by these gorgeous four-inch heels. Justine wasn’t particularly vain, but she was always receiving compliments about her legs. The guy who was going to interview her was probably a bit reclusive, given that he was buried in the middle of the Surrey cou
ntryside. Even so, he had a pulse, so he’d definitely notice her legs. Well, he would if she could get there.

  Imbued with renewed determination, Justine decided she’d just have to hoof it the rest of the way. One tiny problem, though. Her destination was still five miles away, and she’d never walk fifty yards in her precious shoes without inflicting permanent damage on her toes. Worse still, she’d wreck her shoes. Not even a well-paid job was worth that sacrifice. In a rare fit of good car-keeping she’d also cleared all the junk out of Malcolm’s trunk, so she didn’t even have an old pair of shoes at hand.

  Okay then, she’d just have to wait until another car came along and risk hitching a lift. She had a can of pepper spray in her purse. Besides, this was Surrey, the bedrock of respectable middle England, not the playground for weirdoes with a penchant for girls in Jimmy Choos. Hitching wasn’t something she’d ordinarily do, but desperate situations called for desperate measures.

  The only problem with that plan was that no other cars appeared to be using this road. Nothing had passed her since she ground to a halt, over ten minutes ago now. She glanced at her watch and metaphorically waved good-bye to her dream job. In fifteen minutes’ time she would be officially late. She wouldn’t hire anyone who couldn’t arrive on time for an interview, so she very much doubted if this Zac Wendell person would either.

  Why the hell couldn’t he conduct his interviews in his London office like a normal tycoon? Because he was worth a fortune and could be as eccentric as he pleased, Justine supposed. She normally researched any potential employer to death, but this interview came out of the blue and she hadn’t had a chance to do any groundwork. She’d submitted a résumé two weeks ago—more in hope than expectation—but nothing came of it, so she forgot all about it. Then she got a call from the agency this morning, telling her the job hadn’t been filled yet and to get her ass down to Surrey, pronto.

  “Okay, Malcolm,” she said to her car. “I have to get there. I can’t walk in these shoes, and no one’s using this road. That leaves me with one option. I’ll just have to fix your wonky engine.” She spoke with considerably more confidence than she felt in her ability to deliver. “How hard can it be?”

  The clouds of billowing steam had settled into an occasional rebellious kiss. Cautiously, she opened the hood, stepping aside so she didn’t get sprayed with anything questionable. She peered down at the engine and sighed. No obvious clues as to the cause of the problem presented themselves. She might just as well be glancing at a book written in Swahili.

  “All that steam must be something to do with water,” she muttered, pleased with her reasoning. “Cars have radiators. There must be a leak. If I can find the damned radiator—”

  She cautiously touched a hose leading to what had to be the radiator. It was still red-hot. She burned her finger and jumped back, swearing as she sucked it into her mouth to cool it down. Water spurted from the hose she’d just touched, drenching the front of her white interview blouse.

  “Shit!” She pulled the fabric away from her body before the water scalded her. “Damn it to hell and back!” She stamped her foot, so angry that she even forgot about the welfare of her shoes. “Of all the days to do this to me. Malcolm, if you know what’s good for—”

  “Need any help?”

  Justine almost leapt out of her skin but made do with straightening up and bashing her head on the car’s open hood.

  “Ouch, shit!”

  She rubbed her scalp and glanced at the man who’d caused her to almost knock herself out. Then she glanced for a second time. Even with a dented head, aching feet, and dirty water splattered all over her, she still recognized a hunk when she saw one. How come she hadn’t heard him? She’d been looking out for approaching cars, but the moment she got distracted, one obviously came along. A shiny BMW sat just behind Malcolm, engine running smoothly and quietly, as though to highlight Malcolm’s shortcomings.

  “Sorry,” the man said. “Didn’t mean to creep up on you and scare you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  He could scare her any time he liked. She might have sworn off men whilst she nursed a broken heart, but there was nothing to say she couldn’t window-shop. Over six foot of hard muscle, wearing jeans that looked as though they’d been sculpted on, and an open-necked denim shirt, this guy had a smile that was as sexy as get-go. Sparkling blue eyes assessed her from beneath a thick fringe of brown hair, as though he found what he saw amusing. She could only imagine what she must look like, so she couldn’t really take exception.

  “Know what the problem is?”

  She wanted to say that the damned engine had conked out, but curbed her tongue. She needed his help, and sarcasm probably wouldn’t cut it.

  “Lots of steam,” she said vaguely, putting on the helpless female bit. Whatever it took. Besides, she was helpless. “I thought the radiator.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  His head disappeared beneath the hood, and Justine got treated to an up-close view of a very neat butt. Suddenly, her day had just gotten a whole lot better.

  “Yep,” he said, reemerging and catching her eyeing his ass. She was furious when she felt colour flood her cheeks. “It’s the radiator hose. Got any duct tape?”

  “Er…no, sorry.”

  “Not to worry.” He strode toward the Beemer. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said, flashing a grin over his shoulder.

  Like she could!

  He came back clutching a roll of tape and a bottle of water. He made the repair, filled the radiator with the water, and shut the hood.

  “Try it now,” he said.

  Justine slid behind the wheel, turned the key, and the engine sprang to life. She could have wept with gratitude. Now, if she really hurried, she would hardly be late at all.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said to her saviour.

  He treated her to another sexy smile. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of a way.”

  Justine froze. She’d been so uptight about the car that she only just realized the guy had an American accent.

  “Please tell me your name’s not Wendell.”

  He shot her a strange look. “No, actually it’s Cody. Cody Stowell.” He offered her his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Justine Trent,” she supplied. “And trust me, the pleasure’s all mine.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “A big house called Grantham Park. Apparently, it’s a bit further along this road and I can’t miss it. Do you know where it is?”

  “I’m passing that way myself. Shall I lead?”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  She was sorry he hadn’t wanted to take it further. He did say he’d think of a way for her to thank him, but he obviously didn’t mean it. He pulled out ahead of her and a short time later indicated right. She followed him and called yet again on her endless supply of swear words. He’d swung into the driveway of what looked like a mansion. Iron gates in need of a coat of paint stood open, and she followed Cody’s car up an unkempt gravel driveway. The house loomed in the distance like something out of a horror movie—all gables, windows in impossible places, peeling paintwork, and atmosphere.

  Yes, definitely atmosphere.

  All it needed was a bit of curling mist rising from the ground and it could have come straight from a Hollywood set. Even so, there was something strangely peaceful about its state of neglect. Justine was a city girl through and through, but even she could appreciate the serenity of this place.

  Cody needn’t have driven in. She could have found her own way from the gates, but he seemed to want to make sure that his temporary repair held. Well, at least he cared about Malcolm, she thought, trying not to feel too miffed that she didn’t qualify for the same level of concern.

  “Thanks so much,” she said, climbing out of the car at the front steps and buttoning her jacket so that it hid the worst of the stains on her blouse. “I really appreciate this.”

  “No problem. You need to ge
t that hose fixed properly soon, though. It won’t hold like that for long.”

  “Yes, I know. Malcolm’s a man, so he needs a lot of TLC.”

  “Malcolm?”

  “My Mini,” she said, indicating her ancient car with an affectionate wave, having forgiven him for blowing…well, whatever it was that he’d blown. She glanced at her watch. “Ten minutes late. It could have been worse.”

  “You here for an interview?”

  “Yes.” She was too preoccupied to wonder how he knew. “Wish me luck.”

  He leaned against his shiny car and flashed a slow, lazy grin. “Something tells me you won’t need it.” He levered himself off the hood and strolled toward her. “You might wanna clean up a bit, though.” He removed a handkerchief from his pocket—a man who still carried a handkerchief?—moistened the material with his tongue and gently rubbed it against her cheek and over her nose. She froze, reacting all the way to her pussy, which began to leak. His cocky grin told her that he knew it. “Engine dirt,” he said succinctly, returning the handkerchief to his pocket. “Knock ’em dead,” he added, blowing her a kiss.

  Justine waved to Cody, climbed the crumbling steps, and tugged her jacket into place. This was it—do or die.

  The first person she saw was a stunning woman who looked as though she’d stepped off the pages of Vogue. This paragon of style was perfectly made-up, wore a designer suit, exuded confidence and, unlike Justine, didn’t have a hair out of place. Justine self-consciously tucked a few errant strands of her own crowning glory behind her ears. She’d managed to persuade her rebellious hair to behave itself for once and had styled it in a simple yet elegant chignon. Well, it had been elegant until the hood of her car joined the party.