PERSONAL ESCORT
A BILLIONAIRE SECRETS STORY
AINSLEY BOOTH
WWW.AINSLEYBOOTH.COM
For all my readers who have ridden the TTC and just went, hey, is that Toronto’s St. George Station? Yes, dear reader, it is!
SHE NEEDS A FAKE FIANCÉ.
HE'S SECRETLY FALLING IN LOVE.
Cara Russo needs to get married. Or at least, make it look like she got married.
Toby Hunt can't let his best friend's little sister rush into anything foolish. So when she needs to hire an escort, he says he'll take care of it.
Now he's waiting for her at St. George Station.
BILLIONAIRE SECRETS
Personal Escort is the second book in a sexy new rom com series! Look for excerpts from the next in the series at the end of this book!
READING LIST
Personal Delivery - Jake & Jana
Personal Escort - Toby & Cara
Personal Disaster - Marcus & Poppy
Personal Interest - Ben & Skye
Personal Proposal - Astrid & Brianne
www.ainsleybooth.com
CONTENTS
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Other Books by Ainsley Booth
This modern-day fairy tale first appeared in the Love in Transit anthology. This single title edition has additional chapters and a bonus epilogue.
The LiT anthology has now been retired, but paperback copies are available at book signings from the authors who participated: Jana Aston, Raine Miller, Liv Morris, BJ Harvey, Kitty French, and myself. If you pick up a copy at some point, I hope we get a chance to meet in person so I can sign the story that was originally titled St. George Station, and is now Personal Escort.
Happy reading!
~ Ainsley
CHAPTER ONE
TOBY
Toronto
St. George Station
End of June
I SEE her before she sees me, and I’m glad to have a second to process how stunning she is before she realizes I’m the man she’s here to meet.
The dress is perfect, the skirt flowing around her legs as she gets off the subway, the rest of the chiffon molded to her slim, delicate frame. Her hair is swept up off her face, but she’s left it long in the back, and her golden waves catch the overhead light in the underground station.
People are looking at her, but she doesn’t care, and that changes how they look at her—with awe, and whispers. Do you know who that is? She must be someone…
And she is.
Cara Russo. Grad student, secret badass, and a billionaire whisperer to boot.
My best friend’s little sister, too.
And for the next hour, my pretend bride.
Or more accurately…I’m her pretend groom.
I adjust the boutonnière on my lapel. That’s what she’s looking for. I was in charge of the flowers.
You’ll be wearing an orchid on your suit jacket, and you’ll have a small bouquet for me, too. That’s how I’ll know you’re my fiancé. I’ll look for the flowers.
She’s turning in a slow circle now, scanning the crowded platform. Her eyes are on the guy in the suit five bodies away from me. No, not him.
He doesn’t know how special you are.
Keep searching.
She glances in the other direction, then stops. Her back straightens and her head tilts to the side.
Turn around.
I should be nervous about this. She’s not going to understand.
Come on, Cara. Turn around and see me.
Anticipation zings through me as she turns slowly. Somehow, I’ll find a way to explain what I’ve done.
I’ve got the flowers, after all.
I’m the escort she’s hired for the afternoon. She just doesn’t know it yet.
CHAPTER TWO
CARA
New York City
Upper West Side
Beginning of May
ONCE A MONTH, I fly home to New York City to have lunch with my Nana.
The rest of the time, I’m a data nerd studying at The University of Toronto. A coffee addict with no social life to speak of, and no complaints about that fact.
My monthly trips may seem excessive to most people, but most people haven’t met my Nana.
She’s a battle-axe. She turned her husband’s failing business around, and then after he died at the age of thirty-five, married four more times. Each new relationship was a strategic business move. Mergers and acquisitions.
For forty years, she ruled as the CEO of Gladiator, Inc. Now that dubious honor falls to my brother, Ben. But she’s still on the board of directors, and as we discuss on a monthly basis, she wants me to take her seat.
I definitely do not want to do that.
But I love my Nana, so I tolerate that discussion, if only because it distracts her from her other serious concern about my life—that I haven’t gotten started on my own merger and acquisition with an acceptable male specimen.
“I’m not even dating anyone, Nana,” I remind her as I reach for the sandwiches.
She snatches the tray away from me. “Maybe because you keep stuffing your face.”
I roll my eyes. “Pretty sure you can’t get fat on watercress sandwiches.”
She pins me with a hawkish glare. “Men don’t like women who are lippy, either.”
“Their loss.” I’m going to have to run these rules past Toby. No sandwich padding, no lippy-ness… They don’t sound right, but on the other hand, I’m not dating anyone.
And when you’re twenty-four and not dating, there are some needs that start to make themselves apparent.
Not merger and acquisition level, though. More like…small scale experiments. A pilot study to determine feasibility of…I’m not sure what.
Having sex with a guy without making a fool of myself. Yeah. That would be a good place to start.
My grandmother keeps talking as if I hadn’t taken a weird detour in my thoughts to Perv-town.
“What do I need to do to sweeten the deal, young lady?”
I laugh. “Nana, I don’t want to sit on the board.”
“Have you looked at the stock options?”
“I don’t care about stock options.” I hold up my hand. “And don’t tell me men care about that, too. I don’t want to date a tycoon, or a banker, or…anyone like anyone in our family.”
“You want us to leave you alone to that laboratory at the university in that country.” She sniffs in the general direction of Canada, like the country stole me away from her.
The truth is, I jumped at the chance to put an international border between me and my family.
“Is that really so awful? Ben and Elena are happy to carry on the family business. I’m the baby. Nobody cares about what I do.”
Nana gasps. “I care.”
“You have a funny way of showing it,” I mutter, lunging for the sandwiches.
She doesn’t stop me this time and I take two, just to show her who’s the boss of me. Me. That’s who.
“I understand your grants for next year hav
e not yet been approved,” she says silkily.
Noooo. I drop the sandwich I was about to take a big bite out of. I give her a horrified look, terror streaking through me. “You wouldn’t.”
Seventy-five years old. A matriarch of a New York establishment family. And pure evil. She shrugs. “I would.”
“Nana!”
“I want you married, and I want you on the board. It only meets quarterly. The rest of the time you can play scientist.” She lifts her teacup into the air. “We’ll discuss this again next month.”
Okay, I’m not the boss of me. Nana is, and she knows it. That’s…not ideal.
I glare at my tea, wishing I could turn it into a triple shot latte. “No, let’s discuss it now. You can’t…how did you even…please don’t mess with my academic life!”
“Please get married.” She gives me a bland, unwavering look.
“I could get other grants.” I could use my trust fund. I could quit my program and run away with the circus.
I have options, but that’s not really the point here. The point is that my Nana—crazy, bossy, bitchy, but still my grandmother, for better or worse—has decided I need to be married.
So I let her think she’s won. I nod slowly. “Okay. Look. I’ll be open to the idea. How’s that?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “No funny stuff.”
“Of course not. But you must understand, these things take time.”
“Never took me any time.”
“Well, I’m not nearly as cute as you were. Please don’t mess with my funding, and I’ll say yes to anyone who asks me out on a date. I’ll drop broad hints about my love of peonies and white lace. Make sure to dress to accentuate my birthing hips.”
“Don’t be crude, Cara.”
I’m pretty sure anyone who would be willing to marry me might like a bit of crude, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not actually going to be asked out. I’m not actually going to do any of that.
Despite what Nana said, I’m totally, one hundred percent going to resort to funny stuff.
CHAPTER THREE
TOBY
GENERALLY SPEAKING, I’m a good guy to work for. I like my staff, treat them well, and respect their intellect.
Except for when they’re being total idiots.
I swallow my curse, because I don’t want to horrify the grandmother sitting across from me on the first-class flight from Los Angeles to New York. Then I take three stabs at composing the message I really want to write. Get your fucking acts together, or there will be hell to pay when I get back from this trip.
But that wouldn’t be productive, so instead I find diplomatic, but clear words to convey my frustration that once again we’ve hit a snag in the development of our new Bluetooth solid state memory device.
Our annual shareholders meeting is three weeks away.
Getting this right is not optional. If we don’t have something new to announce, the forecast for the next two quarters will tank, and that will be fucking bullshit.
I don’t like bullshit.
In the long run, I’ll ride it out—and actually, I’d make bank on that slump, because I’d buy up stock released by people that don’t have vision.
But it would be a distraction.
I don’t like distractions, either.
I’ve never been one to play fast and loose with my business just to make money. I have more money than I’ll ever need. Last year, I permanently endowed a national math camp for kids, eight to twelve.
No, I don’t need money. I need stability and calm so I can focus on what really matters—making kick-ass products that change the tech industry. That’s all that matters, and—
“Sir? We’re in the final descent. You’ll need to put away your laptop.”
I can feel the flight attendant hovering beside me as I furiously finish typing. As soon as I hit send on a second email, this one to my chief engineer, I close my laptop and flip her a grateful smile. “All done.”
She points to my utilitarian canvas messenger bag. “If you don’t mind stowing it under the seat in front of you…”
“Of course not.” I put it away and pull out my phone, which is already connected to the wireless network. The signal will cutout at ten thousand feet, which means I’ve still got a couple minutes.
I don’t bother to look out the window. I’ve seen this approach into New York a hundred times at least. My best friends live here. I have constant business dealings here.
But ten years ago, I headed west and found my fortune in Silicon Valley.
Plus, I have the Pacific Ocean on my doorstep. It’s hard to beat that.
I open the secure messenger app I use with Jake and Ben.
Toby: In town. Dinner?
Ben’s name immediately pops up in a bubble.
Ben: You know what I appreciate? How much notice you always give us.
Toby: You aren’t a woman I’m trying to impress.
Ben: I’m not even going to touch that.
Ben: Okay, I will. Jesus, I feel sorry for the women you date.
Ben: But yeah, I’m free for dinner. Wait… No, I’m maybe not. Hang on, Cara’s messaging me, too. She’s in town.
Toby: Invite her along.
Ben: Obviously I’m having dinner with my sister. The question is, does she want to extend the invite to your miserable, anti-social, ghosting ass?
The wi-fi cuts out before I can point out that Cara has more in common with me than she does with her brother.
When we land and my phone reconnects to the network, a dozen messages spill in. Jake excusing himself from dinner because he has plans. Ben making fun of my skills with women—which are perfectly acceptable, thank you very much.
Just because I choose not to use them that often, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to leave a woman with a sex-drunk smile on her face at the end of a very long night.
I just have other priorities most of the time. Saving the world, saving my parents, building an empire.
And tonight, dinner with two of my favorite people in the world, because Ben’s also sent the name and address of the restaurant Cara has picked out.
Ben: She’s fine with you tagging along.
It wasn’t that long ago Cara was the one tagging along, not that I ever minded. Even as a teenager, Ben’s youngest sister was sharply curious, a clever girl who had no time for ridiculous drama or hormone-driven conflict.
Toby: Of course she is. You’ll be the one left out.
Six years ago, Cara moved from New York to California to attend Stanford University. For four years, she was literally down the road from me, and across the continent from her over-protective brother and sister, her controlling grandmother, and her self-absorbed parents.
So when she was picked up by campus police in her sophomore year, she called me to bail her out. That was the first secret that bonded us.
Then she applied to Masters programs around the country, and only got into Columbia. Instead of accepting it and moving back home for two years, she begged me for a job so she could buy another year of applying to programs further afield.
I gave her an internship. Secret number two.
For a bunch of reasons, I gave her a position on a different campus from where I work.
Reasons like how she grew the hell up over her four years at Stanford, her body blooming to finally match her very grown-up mind. If I wasn’t careful, Cara could be a dangerous temptation to do something stupid.
Extra-stupid, because she persists in calling me her brother-from-another-mother.
Plus there were other reasons, like wanting to avoid a nepotism charge Cara didn’t deserve. She was as qualified to be a Starfish Instrumentation intern as any other Stanford grad.
And there was never any risk of her trying to work her way up through the company. All Cara has ever wanted is to be free as a bird, and I will always do anything in my power to protect that for her.
Keep her out of New York City? Check. Be an understanding ear when she need
s to vent? Check.
I’ll be the not-quite-a-brother she’s always wanted. The one who gets her. The one who supports her, no matter what.
CHAPTER FOUR
CARA
I MAY FLY home to New York to visit my Nana way too often, but I know better than to stay with her.
Instead I alternate between staying with my brother and my sister. Ben’s place has the advantage of being quiet, so I stay there if I’ve brought work with me, or I need to study.
This weekend there’s no such need, so I stay at my sister’s townhouse just a few blocks away from my grandmother’s. My entire family lives in a six-block area on the Upper West Side. Even my parents have stayed in here, which means my mother has spent the last twenty years bumping into a non-stop parade of my various stepmothers.
I swear my parents are the most fucked-up people in the world, and any credit for me and my siblings turning out to be normal human beings is full credit to Nana.
I put the finishing touches on my makeup—well, lip balm and mascara over a touch of Elana’s crazy BB cream that’s all the rage, because it’s just Ben and Toby for dinner.
But when your sister is the CEO of a cosmetics company, leaving her house with a bare face is just a non-starter.
I slip my feet into sandals and open my bedroom door just in time to see one of my nephews go sailing down the bannister to the second floor. A shriek follows, then cackling little boy laughter.
Staying at my sister’s is also excellent birth control, as much as I adore all four of my nephews.
Four boys under the age of ten.
Elana is crazy, and I’m pretty sure she’s pregnant again. It stopped being a big exciting announcement two boys ago, but I didn’t miss that she begged off dinner tonight, opting to stay in with her family instead.
With four boys and a husband who encourages roughhousing? The only way she’s skipping sushi with Ben and Toby is if she can’t eat the sushi.
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