Billionaire's Seduction: BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE (Alpha Billionaire Romance Collection) (BBW Pregnancy Marriage of Convenience) by Betsy Poole Page A

drops would just evaporate in the heat. Even inside my terminal while waiting for my luggage and standing in the cool confines of the air conditioned nightmare that is Sky Harbor International Airport, I was dripping sweat like Dom DeLuise after playing two games of racquetball.
    And it only got worse once I was outside trying to hail a cab so I could get out to the hotel Junior was putting me up in out in Scottsdale. Virtually every cab stand was vacant and I stood out on the concrete and asphalt turning into a stinky puddle. After thirty minutes, a cab finally showed up and took me to a swank hotel Junior booked me in called the Valley Ho in Scottsdale. It was retro in all the annoying ways you think of retro, except for the pool are which was pack to the gills with hard bodies dancing waist deep in the water. Not a bad way to cool and sport a hard-on while you gyrated to techno beats pressed against a wannabe stripper with a spray tan in a thong. I would definitely be checking it out later, but for the moment I needed to get out of the heat and get myself into the proper mindset to work.
    Ever since I started “working” for Junior, I hadn’t been taking on much work as a PI. In fact, I hadn’t taken a single job since falling into the service of the Vecchio family and mostly kept a roof over my head from hand outs and skimming a bit here and there from my unaccompanied pick-ups. But when you’ve been at the PI game for as long as I’ve been, digging and discovering information is as easy to slip back into as slipping into a warm bath.
    Junior hadn’t sent me out to the desert entirely empty handed as far as information was concerned. The first thing he’d been able to provide me with was the rental application of the lick and grab twins. Neither of them was on the lease other than the basic information that they would be the ones occupying the apartment, but their folks were the ones footing the bills. Despite being a complete dirtbag, Junior was also a fairly shrewd and thorough business man. The rental agreements he gave me were, to say the least, comprehensive. Of course, when you’re renting a 900 square foot, two bedroom apartment for $3000 a month, you wanted to make sure whoever was doing the renting could actually afford to live there. Combine that with the fact that the said same apartment building was also a combination drug lab/porn set/trick pad, you also wanted to make sure that who you were renting to had nothing to do with law enforcement.
    The lick twins were named Nicolas Stills and Patrick Myers, both of them originated from a town called Carefree. A quick Google search on my laptop brought the city’s website up, and it was a mere thirty miles from where I was currently sitting. According to the website, Carefree had started out as an artist community, but over the years had transformed into an oasis of the insanely rich of Arizona, and was the home of a few former movie and rockstars I didn’t know anything about, and a couple of politicians I knew even less about, except for that Dan Quail guy, and who could forget that dumb ass excuse for a vice president.
    I dug into the Stills and the Meyers a little bit, which was easy enough to do considering the amount of information the families had to provide for Junior’s rental agreement, including home and business addresses, telephone numbers, email addresses and social security numbers. All the vitals someone would need to steal your identity and bleed you dry, and chances were that’s exactly what Junior planned on doing once his tenants vacated their high priced luxury apartments.
    I think that’s what drives me the battiest about the idle rich. Hell, about the middle class in general, they’re so damn trusting. They fill out applications and input information into websites without the slightest clue of who’s actually operating things behind the scenes and what, exactly they’re doing with all that precious information. Don’t get me