Seducing Mr Remington (The Obsidian Club #1)

CHAPTER ONE

SEBASTIAN

––––––––

R ipping off my tie , I toss it on the hotel bed and walk over to the bar.

London.

I’m eager to get home to Manhattan, but I love this city. My grandparents brought me and my sister, Catherine, here on vacation when I was a young boy, so it’s always had a special spot in my heart. I still have the little red toy bus Grandad bought me.

Right now, it’s fucking cold. Then again, so is NYC. The holidays are over and spring feels like it’s far away instead of just in a month or two.

Perhaps that’s because I’ve been in Dubai where it’s a million degrees. Approximately.

I tug the top off the crystal decanter and pour myself a finger of whisky. Taking a sip, I let out a sigh.

Things are going well.

The Crown Plaza development is on track and Sheikh Khalid Al-Mansour, our biggest investor, is pleased.

I think. Spending a few days with him in the United Arab Emirates was a smart move.

Not that I could afford the time, but as CEO of Remington Obsidian Holdings—the leading luxury real estate development firm in the United States—networking is part of the job.

It's how I became so successful so quickly.

At thirty-four, I’m worth billions and have very happy shareholders. Some of them are the team who started with me from day one, over twelve years ago.

A couple were Harvard classmates. I couldn’t pay them the salary they were worth at the time, so they accepted the shares offered and took a chance on me.

Those who didn’t sell their shares early on are now sitting pretty. Along with their healthy multi-six-figure salaries, they have holiday homes, boats, and all the bells and whistles of a successful life.

The Remington name is now synonymous with luxury and success, and more importantly, profit. Which brings higher quality partners, easy financing of projects and...women.

A lot of women.

This is the part where you expect me to sit down with my whisky, lift my feet onto the coffee table, light a cigar, and smirk.

Right?

After all, I’m rich and can fuck whoever I choose while money drips from my Armani suits and Tom Ford shoes.

All of which is true.

I also have two loving parents who, for the most part, didn’t fuck me up too badly, a sister who isn’t all that annoying—she’s now divorced—and I’m six foot four, broad chested, and have a six-pack.

So, life doesn’t suck.

But you don’t know my whole story.

Let’s rewind to my Harvard days, where I met Mason, Drew, Colt, and Zander.

And...Jack.

I walk over to the window and gaze out at the London skyline. Fucking Jack. I toss back the whisky. I’d have poured two fingers if I knew I was going down memory lane.

Simply put, Jack fell in love.

With Sandy.

I never liked her, and she knew it. From the moment we met, I could sense she was a snake, but I never thought she’d commit murder.

Her attraction to my buddy seemed fake, and then one day she shot me a glance, challenging me to say something. Jack was so in love with her by that point, we all knew he wouldn’t listen to any of us.

At first, Mason and Drew pulled me aside, telling me to give her a break.

“He loves her, man,” Mason said, cornering me at our favorite bar.

“Loves her tits.” I sneered.

“Well”—Mason rubbed his jaw—“they are nice tits, but come on, she’s okay.”

“Drew, back me up here.”

“Oh, man. He’s happy. Look at him.” Drew shrugged, using his glass to point in their direction.

“That’s called cunt struck.” I shook my head. “Sandy never even looked at him until he inherited his fortune. Am I the only one who sees through her bullshit?”

“So, you don’t think Jack can pull a girl like Sandy?” Colt asked, joining us.

Asshole.

He put me on the spot.

Jack wasn’t in the same league as the rest of us, and we all knew it. Fuck, even Jack knew it. But that wasn’t what this was about. My instincts were screaming that Sandy was only in it for the money.

I was proved right when six months later she held up her hand and presented an enormous diamond ring.

Zander glanced my way, both of us thinking the same thing.

“There’s no hurry,” I said to Jack a week later.

“Life is short, Seb.” Jack slapped me on the back. “When you find the one, why wait? I want to live my life with the woman I love. That person is Sandy.”

Those words haunt me almost every day.

“So why not just take your time?” I was thinking of the quote, love is blind.

“Marriage is important to Sandy.”

I bet it is .

“Come on, she’s not a virgin,” I’d said before catching myself. I still don’t know if that comment cost me my place as his best man, but Drew ended up with that honor. It was probably for the best; I wouldn’t have kept my thoughts to myself if I were standing beside him on his big day.

The moment we graduated, they married.

Three months later, he was dead.

They were honeymooning in the Seychelles when we got the call.

He died of a cardiac arrest.

“He just collapsed!” Sandy sobbed against Drew’s chest when we next saw her. “My Jack. My darling Jack.”

Oh, please.

Drew patted her back and caught my eye. His unsaid words screamed, you were right.

Sandy might have fooled Jack, but her acting that night was terrible. When the coroner said he found a small needle-like mark behind Jack’s ear, we pushed for an investigation.

Sandy suddenly changed from a grieving new wife to a defensive victim. “It was his grooming tool. How dare you? Jack was the love of my life.”

And the academy award goes to...

“You mean the billionaire who never asked you to sign a prenup?” I crossed my arms, aware I now had nothing to lose.

My friend was dead.

I hated Sandy, and she could go fuck herself as far as I was concerned.

“Fuck you, Sebastian.”

“No. You won’t.” I’d ground out, wishing I was the sort of man who could punch a woman, just once. Just for one fucking second.

But I wasn’t.

A few days later, the five of us stood around Jack’s grave as he was lowered into the ground, grinding our teeth while Sandy wailed dramatically.

She wore a black pantsuit and stood clutching a black rose. Then tossed it onto his coffin.

When her eyes lifted, they locked with mine and I saw the glint within them as her lips curled up, knowing she’d gotten away with murder.

From that moment on, we referred to her as the Obsidian Viper.

Unable to prove that Sandy killed Jack, we made a pact to never forget our friend nor be blind to women sinking their claws into our fortunes.

His death left a mark on all of us.

All five of us come from wealthy families and are now billionaires in our own rights. None of us have married, and I’m almost certain we all won’t after what we witnessed.

Where she is now, I don’t know, but a part of me would love to see her suffer. Karma has a crazy way of taking its own time with revenge.

My phone buzzes and I reach into my Armani pocket to pull it out, seeing the office number.

“Hello,” I answer roughly.

“Mr. Remington, I have bad news,” my temporary PA, Jeremy, says nervously.

He’s been working for me for three months and thank fuck he finishes up today. If the guy could kiss my asshole, I’m pretty sure he would. It drives me crazy.

Whether he swings that way, I haven’t asked.

I know he’s trying to be efficient, but he’s not. I need someone who can get the job done and who has a few more brain cells than the average person.

Apparently HR has found someone.

We will see.

“What is it?”

If this is about the fucking photocopier again...

“Your jet is broken,” Jeremy tells me.

I freeze. Then my brows shoot up, unable to process what he’s saying.

“What do you mean, it’s broken?” My voice is a little pitchier than I’m comfortable with.

“Something about the fuel pump. I pushed to get a time frame, but it sounds like the parts won’t be in England for forty-eight hours.”

Fuck.

I need to get home.

I was planning to leave London around mid-morning on Saturday, arriving in New York later that day so I could have the entire Sunday to get my body back to local time. I have a busy week ahead.

“So,” Jeremy continues. “I booked you a first-class ticket on the red-eye to JFK tonight.”

My brows furrow.

“What?”

Commercial. I don’t fucking fly commercial.

I don’t do people and wanted to make some phone calls while I was flying for over nine hours.

“I hope that’s okay. I was going to book both seats in the aisle, but I didn’t know if you’d think that was going overboard.”

No.

But I can see why he would. Proving that Jeremy was definitely not the right assistant for me.

Goddamn it.

I need to get home. I can’t afford another day away from the office after traveling in the Middle East and stopping in London for a couple of other meetings.

Despite being able to work anywhere in the world, I need to get on the ground in Manhattan to ensure that the Crown Plaza project moves forward.

Attending the gala in Dubai that Khalid held in my honor on the last night of my visit was supposed to solidify our contract. I was expecting his signature and money transfer early next week.

Except he disappeared halfway through the evening.

His brother and close adviser, Rashid, told me to enjoy my night and that they would be in contact.

Since then, something has been bothering me.

I might not be an expert on their culture, but suddenly disappearing like that doesn’t feel like a good sign.

When I mentioned it to Victor, my chief financial officer, who traveled with me—and flew directly home from Dubai two days ago—he shrugged it off.

“He’s a sheikh. Probably had to go do sheikh business.” Victor brushed my concerns off.

I know what was nagging at me. The sheikh’s daughter shocked the fucking hell out of me by sliding her hand over my thigh during dinner and gripping a handful of my cock.

My soft cock, for the record.

I reacted fast. Taking her hand and removing it, I turned and gave her a stern glance. Slowly, I placed her hand back on her own lap.

I could only see her eyes, but they were full of the kind of mischief most men dreamed of.

Not this man.

I was after the half a billion dollars her father was investing in the Crown Plaza development, not her virginity. I assumed.

She played a dangerous game, and I wanted no part of it.

“Are you there, sir?”

“Yes.” I stride across the room and refill my glass. Taking a large sip, I let out a noisy gasp. “Red-eye. Tonight. Got it.” Goddamn it. “Send me the flight details. And Jeremy?”

“Yes, Mr. Remington?”

“Make sure you clear out your desk and leave instructions for your replacement before you leave tonight.”

Silence.

Then, “Yes sir. Um, thank you. It’s been a really great experience work—”

Jesus .

I press end, toss back the last of the whisky, and head into the bathroom for a shower.

Commercial.

Jesus.

What did I do to deserve this level of hell?