Saving the Billionaire
Jane Harvey-Berrick
Copyright © 2019 Jane Harvey-Berrick
Editing by Kirsten Olsen
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Jane Harvey-Berrick has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Lee Ching / Under Cover Designs
Formatting by Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs
ISBN 978-1-912015-51-1
Harvey Berrick Publishing
Dedication
To Justin, still inspiring. Still nuts.
Table of Contents
Dedication
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Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1 – Pretty Woman
Chapter 2 – Mommie Dearest
Chapter 3 – Dazed and Confused
Chapter 4 – Nine-and-a-half Minutes
Chapter 5 – Love, Actually
Chapter 6 – Carousel
Chapter 7 – La Cage Aux Folles
Chapter 8 – Fright Night
Chapter 9 – The Fast and the Furious
Chapter 10 – Happy Families
Chapter 11 – Bridesmaids
Chapter 12 – Games People Play
Chapter 13 – Endgame
Chapter 14 – The Well of Loneliness
Chapter 15 – The Cat Who Walks Alone
Chapter 16 – Miss Congeniality
Chapter 17 – The Invisible Man
Chapter 18 – A Woman of Substance
Chapter 19 – The Long Weekend
Chapter 20 – Groundhog Day
Chapter 21 – Indecent Proposal
Chapter 22 – Little Miss Sunshine
Chapter 23 – Near Dark
Chapter 24 – Three Go Camping
Chapter 25 – It’s a Wonderful Life
Chapter 26 – Johnny English
Chapter 27 – Backdraft
Chapter 28 – The Bride of Frankenstein
Chapter 29 – Reality Bites
Chapter 30 – Running on Empty
Chapter 31 – Bad Day at Black Rock
Chapter 32 – Heat
Chapter 33 – The Omen
Epilogue
Reviews
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MORE ABOUT JHB
Acknowledgements
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Author’s Note
Prologue
HOPE.
Small word. Big meaning.
When I started working for reclusive billionaire Devon Miguel Anderson, I had no idea what a screwed up son-of-a-bitch he was, but live and learn.
He has more money than just about anyone on the planet, except maybe Bill Gates and God, and I’m not sure about God. That doesn’t mean he’s happy though. As a matter of fact, Anderson is not a happy guy: just miserable in Armani suits.
I’m not his friend, I’m not his drinking buddy, but I am the guy who knows him better than just about anyone else, and that includes his shrink.
I’m a close protection officer: that’s ‘bodyguard’ to you. And when the shit goes down—which it will—I’m the one who’ll take a bullet for the billionaire. I really hope that doesn’t happen, because I’ve kind of got a thing for living. Who knew?
But Anderson? He has a lot to learn.
So if you want to know why this fucked up dude in Tom Ford shoes gives me hope, well, read on.
Chapter 1
Pretty Woman
THIS HAS BEEN one of the longest weeks of my life, and that includes the winter tour I did in Afghan, up to my balls in mud in a shit-hole of a town called Now Zad. A place that put the hell in Helmand Province.
The boss is in a vile mood. So what’s new? It’s a good thing the hanging of employees has been banned, otherwise several who breathed out of turn would be dangling from the yardarm right now.
Everyone is tiptoeing past his office, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see some of them on their hands and knees to stay out of sight. We’re all waiting for the dam to burst and everyone is praying they’re not in the firing line when it happens. Do I care that I’m mixing my metaphors? Not this week. Although the boss hasn’t actually fired anyone today—that I know of—it’s come close.
And when I say ‘fired’, the only reason that’s not literal is because Anderson doesn’t believe in the right to bear arms. Luckily for him, I do. My Smith & Wesson M&P never leaves my side.
Tessa, the assistant to Anderson’s assistant and a woman who’s been making her mascara run on a daily basis since I met her, nearly got her marching orders when she dropped a cup of coffee on the boss’s Bauhaus table, her hands were shaking so much. Although with Tessa, I can never tell if it’s nerves around the boss or the fact that she’s panting for him. He should have chosen her as his new submissive.
Huh, guess I should explain that.
The boss is into a load of kink: threesomes, foursomes, orgies, whips, canes, belts, voyeurism, sadism, masochism, and a ton of other ‘isms’ that I can’t even spell. His weekend home in the Hamptons, the Farm, is a den of inick … inikwit … inquity … vice. It’s also the play pen for the well-connected and unashamed of Manhattan. I’ve seen politicians getting it on with judges while the wife masturbates in the corner; I’ve seen a state attorney (Democrat) jacking off while a lobbyist fucks him in the ass (Republican). The breaking down of political barriers—it’s almost heartwarming.
Anderson is more of a mystery. I thought he was gay, then I thought he was bisexual, now he’s playing it straight. So I’m not sure, and he’s undecided.
Today, there are two reasons that the boss isn’t his usual sunny, happy-go-fucky self. First, there’s the threat of blackmail that will bring his orgy-shaped secrets to public knowledge. So far, his IT geek, Howard, has out-nerded the blackmailer and hacked his way through cyberspace ending the blackmailer’s plans for now.
Howard is enjoying the “epic battle”, his words, but with a potential three hundred million dollar price tag, the boss is putting a lot of faith in a man MENSA can’t categorize.
But there is a second reason that the boss ain’t a happy dude.
/> He’s interested in a woman.
Yep, I’ll have to say that twice just to make sure I believe it. A female woman.
This is new. I’ve never seen him date, his family have never seen him date: all he does is BDSM shit to people he knows from a distance. He’s never wanted anything approaching a relationship.
Until now.
He’s interested in a woman who is separate to all the nasty shit that goes down at the Farm. The object of his undying lust is a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl from the Bronx: Maria Alvarez. How this will play out is anyone’s guess. The boss doesn’t do waiting: that he’s left it ten days before taking further action or heading to the Bronx to see the object of his obsession is the only surprise. Well, Ms. Alvarez, you’re over twenty-one, so the choice is yours. Will a black-hearted billionaire make you an offer you can’t refuse?
Have I ever been tempted by any of the offers I’ve gotten from the boss’s fuck farm buddies? That would be a HELL NO! Besides, I have a thing with the very intriguing and delectable Mrs. Smith, whose name I’m working on changing to Trainer.
She’s the boss’s housekeeper at his Tribeca mausoleum mansion.
And she cooks.
I’m blessed.
But back to this long-ass day.
Both Tearful Tessa and the table survive, thanks to Ryan, PA extraordinaire, saving the day with a handful of paper towels for the table and a bottle of Valium for Tessa. The man deserves a medal, although I think this week has aged him. Maybe he needs a vacation. Tessa spent most of the day in the ladies’ room crying, so she wasn’t doing much assisting.
Pam is the boss’s right-hand, the most senior exec, and a double-hard I’m-calling-the-shots-and-you’re-gonna-like-it kind of woman. She rolls with the punches and Anderson is smart enough not to yell at her. She’d probably lay him out cold if he tried. One punch. Plus, she’s the Yoda of the thousand-yard stare, and as a former Marine, I know what I’m talking about.
By Thursday, I’m not the only one at DMA Tower desperate for the weekend. When a senior exec screws up a deal in South Korea and the bellows can be heard all the way to Pyongyang.
Stability in a CEO is so important, doncha think?
SATURDAY MORNING AND this weekend already sucks ass.
First, Rachel, the love of my life and woman who will one day be persuaded to change her surname to match mine, has gone to stay with her sister. I only met Allison that one time at Thanksgiving, and that was more than enough. She doesn’t approve of me: divorced, a kid, no home of my own, ex-military with the temperament to match. I don’t know what Rachel sees in me either, but when I look into her sister’s eyes, I know exactly what’s there—and it’s not good.
And second, the boss has turned into a stalker.
Let me recap—and I’ll put this in words that even I can understand:
- The boss interviews for an intern
- He meets aforementioned brown-eyed girl (cue Van Morrison)
- He doesn’t give her the job and blows her off, but weeks later tracks her down on a Tuesday evening to a club in the Village where she does a (really bad) standup comedy routine
- He decides it’s a good idea to go visit her at her part-time job with Value Carpets & More on a Saturday morning.
Like I said: stalker.
Or maybe Anderson has decided that he needs to buy new carpets. Maybe a nice Paisley for his meditation room; something that says ‘dungeon, but homey’.
At 8:15AM, I drive Anderson to the dismal carpet warehouse, a flea on the backside of New York in a dead-end industrial estate at the edge of the Bronx. I thank God that I hated my hometown so much I joined the Marines, because otherwise I could have ended up working somewhere like this.
Anderson is edgy, anxious, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say excited, maybe even nervous. Nervous?
Ms. Alvarez is hovering at the entrance to the store, waiting for the manager to open for the staff. Her face shuts down when she sees Anderson. Poor kid. Poor, poor kid. The boss isn’t a bad guy, but this is wrong.
“Wait in the car, Trainer.”
Yup, wasn’t planning on watching this disaster movie.
But just in case the boss needs a witness, I crack the window an inch.
“Good morning, Ms. Alvarez.”
“What are you doing here? First the club, now where I work!”
He blinks, surprised by her hostility.
“I don’t want to interrupt you.”
“I don’t want to break my back hauling carpet swatches all day,” she snips out, “but we don’t always get what we want.”
Anderson folds his hands across his chest.
“What do you want?”
“For real?”
“Yes, tell me what you want.”
She stands up straight.
“Fine. I’ll tell you. I want to get a job where I can use my degree in business and environmental science and earn enough money to get my family out of the shitty apartment we live in and move somewhere decent. I want to enjoy my work and spend my time meaningfully; I want to contribute to the world somehow. I want to conquer my fears, I want to travel the world. And…”
“That’s quite a long list, now there’s more?”
He glances at her and he’s got that look: you see it on wildlife shows when the lion is about to pounce on the little baby zebra who got separated from the herd.
She thrusts her chin out.
“I want to make people laugh at the comedy club because I’m funny, not just pity-applause because my routine is pathetic.”
“I didn’t think it was pathetic, Ms. Alvarez. I actually found it rather incisive wit.”
She smiles for the first time.
“You like my routine about going for a job interview with a famously reclusive billionaire?”
Anderson almost smiles.
“It had a certain ring of authenticity.”
She laughs out loud.
“I like a guy who can take a joke.” Then her cheeks flush as she realizes what she’s said. “I don’t mean you. Not that you’re awful or anything…”
Her words trail off and I gotta tell you, I really feel for the boss. He’s getting shot down big time.
He takes a step back.
“I’d like to offer you an internship with my company.”
The girl gapes, then her jaw shuts with a click and she crosses her arms.
“Why?”
“Because having reviewed your résumé,” he says slowly, “I believe you’d be a good fit for my company.”
“And it’s taken you this long to figure that out?”
Anderson doesn’t reply.
“I’m not going to sleep with you,” she says quickly.
Anderson’s expression becomes glacial, and I see Ms. Alvarez inch away from him.
“That would be most inappropriate. I have no desire to … sleep … with you.”
The boss is telling the truth. He’d like to fuck her, probably beat her or have her watch him beating himself, but sleeping wouldn’t be part of the trifecta of delights.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just weird, you coming out to the club, then out here.”
“I’m not like other employers,” he says starkly.
I can definitely vouch for that.
“So … if I say yes, I mean if, it would be just like a regular job? No funny stuff?”
Ms. Alvarez has balls.
Anderson leans toward her, his dark eyes glittering.
“Ms. Alvarez, if you come to work for me, I can guarantee that there will be nothing regular about it.”
“Show me a contract and I’ll think about it.”
“You can read the contract in my home office now.”
“Email it to me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Confidentiality. My last offer, Ms. Alvarez. Take it or leave it.”
She sucks her teeth, thinking about that. She’s talking tough but her eyes are sayin
g something else. She’s wary, excited, nervous, and yeah, flattered. The GQ billionaire has followed her to the Bronx—of course she’s flattered. She’s also right to be wary.
“Fine, but I’m bringing someone with me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Dude, I’m not getting into your car with you and the Rock, and going to your home without having someone with me!”
She’s comparing me to a guy who’s known for his limited facial expressions while pretending to act? I’m wounded.
“Come back when I finish work. Six o’clock. My last offer.”
She turns her back to Anderson as the lights go on in the carpet warehouse and the door opens. She walks away without a second glance.
Anderson watches her, bemused, and as far as I can tell, impressed as hell.
She’s nothing like the scared, mousy woman that he interviewed two months ago.
Nope.
The rest of the day is spent with the boss’s attempts to ignore the seconds and minutes ticking by. We go for a longer run than usual, twice around Central Park and back to Wolf Point. I’m ready to kick my feet up and watch a ball game on TV, but the boss heads to his pool, swimming laps until his arms fall off.
Yep, the boss is suffering from a lil ole slice of sexual tension. I’m waiting for the slam of the door to his meditation room, but the mausoleum is silent as the grave.
The traffic report says it will take 34 minutes to drive the 14 miles to the Bronx, but at 1700 hours, the boss is wearing a hole in his Italian marble flooring as he paces up and down.
It’s weird to see him in jeans and a leather jacket. Maybe he thinks that will help him fit in at Value Carpets. I don’t know, can you get designer nylon? ‘Cause that’s what Ms. Alvarez’s uniform is made from.
At least the Rover will fit in with the drug dealers’ rides of choice.
The drive to the Bronx is tense, and when the lights go off in the warehouse at six, the boss is on his last nerve, although you wouldn’t know it unless you were me.
Jane Harvey-Berrick Saving The Billionaire Page 1
