Hero

by Samantha Young

  I opened the Tupperware box and stuck a finger in. Licking the sweet cream off it, I smiled and settled back in my chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Flanagan.”

  And not just for the pie.

  CHAPTER 5

  I left the conference room as an intern rolled in a tray decked out with pastries I’d bought. It was Friday morning and I’d survived almost an entire week working as Caine’s PA. He had a conference in fifteen minutes and he wanted me to make sure that the room was set up.

  I smiled at Caine’s CFO’s secretary, Verity, as I passed. His CFO¸ a Ms. Fenton, was scary. She was a little robotic—all cold and efficient and superintelligent. There was nothing motherly about her and that was why I was surprised to discover that the reason she was one of the busiest people I’d ever met was that she was also a wife and mother to two kids. Suffice to say we’d spoken fewer than five words to each other. I knew Verity a little better. She was friendly and we’d managed to chat for a brief few minutes when I was at the photocopier, but Caine had me running one errand after another, so I still hadn’t gotten to know any of my colleagues at all well.

  For half of yesterday I’d spent the day running around Boston trying to find a doll from a Disney movie for the daughter of some judge Caine rubbed elbows with. The guy was in the middle of a big case and didn’t have time to buy his kid a birthday present, so Caine had offered up my services. The doll the kid wanted was not easy to find. In fact, it was so not easy I found it in this little independent toy store that should probably have been killed by the economy by now. By the time I got back to the office, I was a sweaty mess and Caine was pissed I’d taken so long.

  I wanted to tell him that perhaps he shouldn’t loan his PA out, but somehow I bit back my attitude. I wasn’t so sure yet that Caine wouldn’t fire me at the slightest provocation. He was not a man you trifled with.

  Four and a half days I’d been working for him.

  It felt longer.

  As I returned to my desk my phone started ringing. It was in-house. Caine. “Sir?” I asked upon switching on the speakerphone.

  “I need you to make a reservation for two at Menton for this evening at eight. Also, have a dozen red roses delivered to Phoebe Billingham, Harvard University Press, Cambridge. I want them delivered this afternoon.”

  Phoebe Billingham. Smart. Beautiful. Sophisticated. Wealthy. She was a copy editor for Harvard University Press and a society darling. She really was perfect for him.

  I ignored the burn in my chest. “Of course. What would you like the card to say?”

  “The card?”

  “On the flowers.”

  “From Caine.”

  I wrinkled my nose, the romantic in me wailing in outrage. “That’s it?”

  Caine had apparently been dating Phoebe for eight weeks, which was a long time in Caine’s world. I wasn’t surprised, though. Phoebe had it all, and she had the potential to make him happy. At the end of the day, Caine deserved nothing less.

  He needed to step it up to keep her interested.

  “Yes,” he replied, the word edged with impatience.

  “Don’t you think you could be a little more romantic?”

  “I’m sending her a dozen red roses and taking her to dinner at a nice restaurant. That’s not romantic?”

  “It’s fine.” It was a little generic, but whatever. “But the card could be a little more personal.”

  “I don’t do personal.” He hung up.

  Exhaling, I put the phone down and contemplated the note I’d made for the roses. I knew it would be obnoxious of me to meddle, but sometimes you had to be a little obnoxious to do a lot of good. I smiled to myself and picked up the phone to order the flowers.

  I gritted my teeth, channeling the most patient me possible as I tried to discuss the changes to the list of costs the interior designer Caine had hired had sent him. He’d hired her to revamp the summerhouse he’d just bought in Nantucket. The week was almost over and it would have been so much better if I could have ended it on a high note—not arguing with a cocky she-witch of a designer.

  “I don’t see what the problem is,” she said in this nasally voice that, along with her bad attitude, made me want to punch her.

  I refrained from verbally punching her. “The problem is you’ve sent over a new list of costs for this refurbishment and it’s fifteen thousand dollars more than the original that Mr. Carraway signed off on.”

  “Style takes cash, darling.”

  “That’s the thing. I’m going over the lists and I can’t see where that extra fifteen thousand is going …” I suddenly became aware I wasn’t alone and glanced to my right to see that Caine had come out of his office and was standing over me, eyes blazing in annoyance.

  I cast him a wary look but continued to haggle with the irritant on the other end of the line.

  Suddenly Caine’s large hand appeared and he pressed the mute button on the phone. The jerky movement suggested I was right about him being annoyed, and I looked up at him wondering what the hell I’d done. “I can afford an extra fifteen g. Get off the phone. Now.”

  I tsked. “Just because you’re loaded doesn’t mean you should let people take advantage.” I hit the mute button. “No, I’m still here,” I responded to her frantic twittering. “Where was I …? Oh yes, unless you want it getting around that you’re an incompetent idiot trying to screw over your clients, I suggest you stick to the original budget.”

  “Well, I … How … I never—”

  “Okeydokey, then.” I hung up and looked up at my irate boss. “Why is there a vein popping out on your forehead?”

  “What the hell did you put on that card?”

  “Card?” I said innocently.

  Caine’s angry countenance ramped up to murderous. “I just got a call from Phoebe. She thanked me for the flowers, said my card was so sweet, and that she was looking forward to seeing me soon too.”

  So I’d known changing the message on the card with the flowers was forward of me, but I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal. Apparently it was. Caine appeared to be excessively irritated and I had to admit that made me more than a little nervous. “Well … I just thought … Well, I thought it was more appropriate to sign the card with a greeting of some kind.” I smiled up at him hopefully.

  “Alexa,” he warned.

  “You know you can call me Lexie.”

  Caine actually growled.

  “Okay,” I hurried to explain, “I had them write ‘Phoebe, I look forward to seeing you tonight, Caine.’ And”—I almost closed my eyes in preparation for his reaction—“I may have put a little kiss at the end.”

  The air around him seemed to swell with annoyance. “What?”

  “An X. You know … a kiss …” I trailed off, wishing I was back in Hawaii with a mojito.

  Quite abruptly Caine put his hands on the armrests of my chair and shoved it against the desk as he bent down to level his face with mine. He was so close I could actually see the chocolate coloring in his eyes that stopped them from being entirely black, and his mouth … his mouth was but an inch from mine.

  I held my breath from the shock of his sudden movement and his closeness.

  “First of all,” he said through clenched teeth, his hard stare holding mine in its grip, “do I look like a man who would ever put a kiss at the end of a message?”

  I didn’t have to contemplate the question long. “Not really.”

  “Not really.” He nodded, and pushed in closer, his breath fanning my lips and causing me to swallow a gasp. “Second of all, if you ever meddle in my personal life again I will annihilate you. Understood?”

  “W-well, annihilate is—it’s pretty final,” I stammered, “So—so yeah.”

  His eyes flashed. “Alexa.”

  I fought past my physical reaction to him in order to attempt an explanation. “I was just trying to help. I thought it would be more romantic. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  “You weren’t helping,” Cai
ne hissed. “Contrary to popular belief, I give a shit about the women I date. That means I don’t want to hurt them. And one way I avoid that is by never making a woman feel like she has more of me than she actually has, because inevitably it won’t work out and I don’t want to be the bastard that led her on. What you did with Phoebe will make me that bastard.”

  That was kind of honorable in a fucked-up way.

  “But why will things end?” I whispered, confused. “Phoebe Billingham is perfect for you.”

  Something flickered across his face and then he grew scarily still. I held my breath as we stared into each other’s eyes. He was so close.

  The sexy jackass smelled delicious.

  For a moment I forgot where I was and who I was. Who I was to him. My eyes dropped to his mouth. It was right there. Right there.

  Arousal shot through me and I glanced up quickly, afraid he’d catch sight of my desire, but to my surprise I found his eyes trained on my lips.

  They parted under his stare.

  Caine’s gaze returned to mine. The tingling between my legs increased at the heat in his.

  “Don’t do it again,” he said softly, his voice hoarse.

  “New bully tactics, Caine?”

  Caine jerked away from me at the interruption and I sucked in some much-needed air.

  Standing beyond us was Henry Lexington. He looked back and forth between us, smirking.

  “Henry.” Caine nodded at him, seeming perfectly composed.

  I was not.

  I crossed my legs, willing the heat in my body away. I just knew if I touched my cheeks I’d burn my knuckles.

  “I thought we had lunch plans,” Henry mused, and his eyes darted past Caine to me.

  “We do. Let me just grab my jacket.” He disappeared into his office and Henry approached my desk.

  He grinned down at me. “We meet again.”

  I smiled, still trying to shake off the intense moment with Caine. “I think technically I have you to thank for the job. If you hadn’t gotten me in to see Mr. Carraway, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “That’s right.” Henry’s blue eyes twinkled with good humor as he leaned on my desk with flirtation written all over him. “So in a way you owe me. I do so like to have a beautiful woman in my debt.”

  “Do you have a lot of those?”

  “Only one of them is interesting.” He cocked his head, curious. “You are a mystery. Caine won’t tell me where you came from or how he knows you. Naturally I’m intrigued.”

  I was sure he was, and I was also sure the last thing I’d ever do was reveal a part of Caine’s tragic history, and frankly I was tied up in that in a way that depressed me. “We met in Hollywood.”

  Henry raised an eyebrow. “Hollywood?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Boulevard.” I sighed in exaggeration, leaning my chin on my palm in dreamy retrospection. “Oh, those were the days. I was a lowly hooker looking for a white knight, and he was a rich billionaire who didn’t know how to drive a stick. I showed him how and the rest is history.”

  Henry frowned. “What?”

  “It’s the plot to Pretty Woman,” Caine said dryly. He leaned against the door to his office with something akin to amusement on his face. He pushed off the jamb and gestured to Henry to follow him. “Did I mention my new PA is a smart-ass?”

  Henry chuckled and I couldn’t help grinning at him as he took my good-natured teasing on the chin. He shot me an appreciative look over his shoulder as they walked away. “Until we meet again.”

  I nodded and gave him a little wave, a gesture Caine caught as he looked back at me.

  He scowled. “Remember what I said. No meddling.”

  Just like that, the positive vibe of the moment evaporated. “Of course.” I threw him what I hoped seemed like a genuine smile, but it still made him shake his head in annoyance.

  “How do you know the plot to Pretty Woman?” I heard Henry ask in amusement.

  “Remember Sarah Byrne?” Caine replied.

  “The record-breaking five-month relationship. Of course.”

  “She had a thing for Richard Gere. I paid the price.”

  They disappeared around the corner as Henry laughed. I was smiling right along with him. Sometimes, when Caine remembered to be a normal guy, he was more attractive than ever.

  “Carraway Financial Holdings, Mr. Carraway’s Office,” I answered, hopefully for the last time that day. It was almost five thirty. Caine didn’t usually let me leave until seven, but I was hoping since it was Friday and he had a dinner reservation that I’d get to haul my ass out of there early.

  “Oh, good, I caught someone,” a pleasant voice said down the line. “I’m Barbara Kenilworth of the O’Keefe Foundation. I’m calling for Mr. Carraway.”

  “Mr. Carraway is unavailable at the moment,” I said, which was what I was supposed to say to everyone unless Caine told me he was expecting a call from someone specific. “May I take a message?”

  “Oh. Well, yes. I wanted to make Mr. Carraway aware that a few ladies on other charity committees, myself included, have noted his generosity and have nominated him for an award at the Boston Philanthropic Society Gala that takes place this coming fall.” Her voice lowered as if she was confessing something to me. “Two of my friends and I were at lunch a few weeks ago and, well, we discovered quite by chance just how generous Mr. Carraway has been, and he’s never asked for any acknowledgment. Well, we think such humanitarian efforts should be brought to light.”

  “Indeed,” I murmured, absolutely spinning at this news.

  Caine was that generous to charity organizations?

  “So you’ll inform him for me?”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, you’re such a dear. Ta-ta.”

  I hung up, confused. I hadn’t read anywhere that Caine was a philanthropist. What was that all about?

  I rang his office.

  “Yes?” he answered almost immediately.

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “Is it important?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then by all means interrupt me when I’m busy over an ‘I think so.’ ” He hung up and I hurried into his office despite the unwelcoming go-ahead.

  Caine sat behind his desk, watching me. Usually he had some kind of blank or pissed-off look on his face when he stared at me. To my consternation, it seemed he was wary of me.

  My only guess was that his sudden weirdness had to do with the heated moment we’d had earlier that afternoon. Not needing a reminder of that when I was around him, I threw the thought away and forged on. I told him all about Barbara Kenilworth.

  His reaction was to let out a stream of expletives.

  “Why are you annoyed?” I huffed. “This is wonderful. What you do is wonderful.”

  “Alexa,” he huffed back. “I have a reputation for being a hard-ass, a ruthless bastard. And you know what? I get a lot further in business because of it. My donations are always based on the condition of anonymity. I make the foundations sign a goddamn nondisclosure agreement.” He stood up now, and pointed toward the door. “So you phone Ms. Kenilworth back and inform her that if she doesn’t retract that nomination and stop spreading rumors of my philanthropy all over fucking Boston, I will rip her a new asshole via lawsuit.”

  I blinked in surprise at his tirade. “Wow. That actually makes me feel better.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “How?”

  “Well, in comparison to what poor Ms. Kenilworth is facing if she upsets you, you’re an absolute prince to me. I have had no such threats of asshole ripping.”

  And then the impossible happened.

  Caine’s lips twitched and that lip twitch was followed by a low huff of laughter as he shook his head, relaxed, and sat back down. Mirth glittered in his eyes as he looked at me. “Just make the call, Alexa,” he murmured, his tone actually soft for once.

  I struggled not to smile in utter elation. “I’m on it.”

  I spun around and walked back out of th
e office, a triumphant grin on my face.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sun streamed into the bookshop/coffeehouse in Brighton, and the heat of the sun on my face and the delicious coffee in my hand and the fact that I wasn’t at work meant I was feeling pretty great.

  That was until my grandfather started airing his concerns, again, about Caine and how it was a supremely bad idea for me to be working for him.

  This was our place. The coffeehouse/bookshop, I mean. It was this quiet little place I found when my friend Viv was renting an apartment in Brighton and I suggested it as the place Grandpa and I could meet without worrying about running into anyone who’d know him and let leak that he was meeting a pretty young thing in secret. If that happened, his family, aka his wife (the grandmother I’d never met), and his grandson, Matthew, and his wife, Celia (my half brother, and my sister-in-law, whom I’d also never met), would ask questions and then they’d find out that Grandpa was in touch with the black sheep of the family’s illegitimate daughter and all hell would break loose. Or at least that was the way he made it sound.

  Honestly his family sounded high maintenance, and having lived with my father for nine years, I knew that my assessment was probably right.

  I didn’t really want to meet them.

  I sighed and relaxed back into my seat. “Grandpa, the job is not that bad, I promise. It could be worse. Caine made it out like it was going to be hell on earth. But here I am, enjoying some free time with my grandfather.”

  Grandpa smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his lovely light gray eyes. They were the same eyes as my dad’s. Everything about my father was like Grandpa. They were both classically handsome and distinguished-looking. They were also very tall and broad-shouldered. They were the kind of men you paid attention to when they walked into a room. Once you started to get to know my father, that sense of power around him slowly dissipated. But not with Grandpa. I had a feeling you did not want to get on my grandpa’s bad side. He was like the Clint Eastwood of high society—no matter how old he got, you still wouldn’t want to mess with him.