The Billionaire's Command (The Silver Cross Club)

by Bec Linder

  “You didn’t have Coke the last time I was here,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “I bought some.” His tone said, obviously.

  “Who told you I like Coke?” I asked, suspicious.

  “Nobody,” he said. “It’s a common soda product. Most people enjoy it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Well. Thanks.”

  “The food should be here in about fifteen minutes,” he said, and sat down and focused on his laptop again.

  “Why don’t you have a secretary?” I asked.

  He glanced up at me and sighed. “I take it you aren’t going to sit quietly and let me work.”

  “Nope,” I said. “I’m too hungry. And this isn’t in my job description, anyway. I’ll highlight some more stuff for you after we eat, but first you have to answer my questions.”

  He closed his laptop and pushed it away. “I thought I was paying you to be quiet, docile, and scantily clothed.”

  “You should have put it in the contract,” I said. “So why don’t you have some underling to go through all this paperwork for you?”

  He sighed again, but I got the feeling he was more amused than annoyed. If he really didn’t want to answer me, he would just tell me to shut up or order me to go home. “My mother thinks that having my own secretary would make me lazy.”

  It was strange to think of him having a mother. He seemed like he sprang directly from someone’s head, like a Greek god. I said, “My mother thinks that you catch a cold from going outside with wet hair, but that doesn’t mean I listen to her.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have that luxury,” he said, “seeing as how my mother is my boss.”

  “Your what?” I asked. That was basically the last thing I had expected him to say. “You mean your mother owns a strip club?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Sassy, the club is only a small component of our larger real estate and business holdings. You have very strange ideas about how corporations operate.”

  “I didn’t know you were a corporation,” I said. “I thought you were just some rich guy who owned the club for kicks.”

  “For kicks,” he repeated, with a look on his face like he had just smelled something bad. “Hardly. The club was my mother’s idea, actually.”

  I tried to imagine his mother: a woman who wouldn’t let her son have a secretary, and who bought strip clubs as—what, as investment properties? She probably made grown men cry in the board room every day of the week. “So you have a company,” I said.

  “A private equity firm. Yes,” he said. “Leveraged buyouts, primarily.”

  I didn’t know what that meant. Yolanda could explain it to me. “And your mother runs it,” I said. “The firm.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s a family business. My father’s family, actually, but he has little interest in finance. He was happy to turn operations over to my mother after they married.”

  Christ, a mother and a father? Next he would tell me he had eight siblings and a love-child stashed away somewhere. “So you’re like, old money,” I said.

  “Something like that,” he said. “Yes. My mother intends to retire soon and transition me into a leadership role. That’s why she won’t let me have a secretary. She thinks it’s important for me to know how to do everything myself.”

  “Your mother sounds like a smart lady,” I said.

  His face creased into a wide, genuine smile. It made him look younger than he was, and somehow innocent. Like he was just a regular person underneath the suits and the cold demeanor. “She is,” he said.

  As long as he was in a chatty mood, I was determined to keep him talking. I wanted to know everything about him: all of his childhood memories, all of his secret dreams. “Do you get along with your parents?” I asked.

  “Yes, very well,” he said. “They’re both terrific people.”

  That was sort of surprising—I could imagine Turner having distant and strained relations with his parents, but a warm family life was harder to summon up. “You grew up in the city?” I asked, and he nodded. “What was it like?”

  He thought for a moment. “I don’t imagine it was very different than growing up anywhere else,” he said. “Where did you grow up?”

  My heart stuttered. I really didn’t want to talk about my past with him. His life was so glamorous, and my family was—well, we were hicks. I’d been a pretty happy kid, and my parents had loved me very much, but I knew that our life—a double-wide trailer in backwoods Appalachia—would sound pitiful and grim to someone like Turner, who had probably grown up with every luxury imaginable. So I said, “It’s not very interesting. Where did you go to school?”

  “Oh no you don’t,” he said. “If you’re going to interrogate me, I should get a turn as well. Let’s see. I can tell from the way you talk that you aren’t from New York.”

  “I don’t have an accent,” I said, feeling defensive. I knew I didn’t: I’d worked hard to get rid of it.

  “Hmm, but you used to,” he said, fixing me with the laser-like intensity of his gaze. “Or you wouldn’t feel the need to deny it. No, you don’t have an accent. But there are certain things you say. Certain turns of phrase. Somewhere in the South, I think.”

  I didn’t like where this was going. “Well, that was a long time ago.”

  He laughed. “How old are you, Sassy? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Nothing in your life was a long time ago.”

  I frowned at him. “Yeah, because you’re so old and wise. You’re such a condescending jerk!”

  “I’m twenty-eight,” he says, “which means I’m slightly older and wiser than you. Don’t provoke me; I’ll void our contract and make an offer to someone more biddable. That Poppy seems like a pleasant girl.”

  I stared at him. His mouth was twitching. “You aren’t funny,” I said. “Actually, you know what, go for it. I’m sure Poppy will make you very, very, very happy.”

  “There isn’t a chance in the world that I’ll fall for that,” he said. “I walked in on her arguing with Germaine once. She could peel paint off the walls with that high-pitched shriek.”

  I grinned. “That’s Poppy,” I said.

  “Repellent,” he said. “Tell me where you’re from, Sasha.”

  Hearing him say my name, my real name, made something warm and glowing settle in my belly, right behind my navel. I wanted him to say it again and again. He was manipulating me, and I knew it, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. “Fine,” I said. “I’m from southwestern Virginia. Coal-mining country.”

  “That explains it,” he said. He leaned back in his seat and gazed at me. “How did you end up here?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said firmly.

  He must have heard the finality in my voice, because he nodded and said, “That’s usually the way of things.” He looked at me for a moment longer, and then he picked up a pen and returned his attention to the stack of papers in front of him.

  Okay, conversation over. I sighed and folded my arms across my chest. I still wanted to know more about him, but I didn’t want to have to talk about myself, and it didn’t seem like he was willing to spill the beans unless I did the same. And we were both too stubborn to give in.

  A buzzing sound jolted me out of my thoughts.

  “That’s the Chinese,” Turner said, without looking up.

  “Okay,” I said.

  He fished his wallet out of his trousers and tossed it across the table to me. “Go pay,” he said.

  I rifled through his wallet as I walked to the front door. How could I possibly resist that kind of temptation? But there wasn’t anything interesting. Just his driver’s license, a few credit cards, and a few crisp twenties. I was sort of disappointed that he didn’t have any hundreds, but it made sense: Turner was too practical to carry large bills.

  The delivery guy was waiting for me in the foyer, looking bored. He was probably in buildings like this every day and had stopped being impressed by the fancy architecture. I paid him and gave him a big tip, because Tu
rner could afford it, and then I went back inside with the food.

  Turner had stacked all of the papers neatly at one end of the table, but if I had been hoping for flatware and actual cutlery made out of metal, I would have been disappointed. Either he didn’t own any of that stuff, or he just didn’t see the point in setting the table for takeout.

  “I guess we’re going to eat out of the cartons, like animals,” I said, and tossed his wallet back to him.

  “That’s right,” he said, very bland in the face of my disapproval.

  Well, okay. I set the plastic bag on the table and unpacked the cardboard containers and fortune cookies and chopsticks and plastic forks and napkins and endless packets of duck sauce. Turner sat and waited for me to finish, his expression totally neutral. I wanted him to tease me some more and smile with his eyes crinkled up, but it was like me leaving the room had broken the spell. We were back to square one, and he was a stranger again.

  We ate in silence. The food was good, but the Chinese place down the street from my apartment was better. I wondered why Turner hadn’t ordered the very best. Maybe he was going for convenience over quality. That seemed like the sort of thing he might do.

  After dinner, we went back to work. I lost track of time as I skimmed through pages and highlighted and moved on to the next stack of papers. My neck got stiff, and my back started hurting. After a while, I set down the marker and stretched my arms above my head, feeling something in my spine crackle. Better. I rubbed my eyes and looked at Turner. He was staring intently at his computer, but he glanced up as I watched him, like he could tell I was looking.

  “What time is it?” I asked. My voice sounded ragged.

  “Almost midnight,” he said. His expression softened a bit, barely noticeable. “You’re tired.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s just kind of, you know.”

  “Tedious?” he asked. “Soul-crushing? I know. You can sleep here. There’s a toothbrush for you in the bathroom.”

  “You aren’t coming to bed now?” I asked, a little disappointed.

  He shook his head. “I can’t. This needs to get finished tonight.” He tilted his chin at me, beckoning me over. I crossed to his side of the table, and he squeezed the back of my thigh and slid his hand beneath my dress to cup my ass. “I’m grateful for your help tonight,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I said, “Hey, you’re paying me.”

  He chuckled and let me go.

  I woke in the night when he climbed into bed behind me. I half-turned toward him, making a sleepy questioning noise. He kissed me behind the ear and said, “Go back to sleep.” He slid one arm around my waist and tugged me back against his body, holding me close. I slept.

  He was gone when I woke up in the morning, and I didn’t see him again for a week.

  10

  The first few days were great. I hadn’t had a vacation, or even two days off in a row, since I had arrived in New York. It was nice to laze around my apartment and make dinner with Yolanda when she got home from work. I did a lot of yoga and spent some time lying in the park. Nothing too exciting, but I didn’t need any extra excitement in my life.

  But by Saturday I was starting to get worried. I hadn’t heard anything from Turner, and when I texted him—just a casual “how’s it going”—he didn’t respond. I felt silly for worrying. It wasn’t like we were dating or anything, and if he wanted to pay me to lounge around in my pajamas and read makeup reviews online, that was fine with me. But I was afraid I had offended him, or annoyed him by talking too much, and now he had lost interest and I wouldn’t ever see him again.

  I tried not to think about it. After all, if Turner really was sick of me, he could just void the contract. He hadn’t done it yet, so I was probably okay.

  I still worried.

  And then, on Wednesday, everything changed.

  I was watching some stupid talk show and flipping through a magazine when I heard the doorbell ring. Teddy, who hated the sound of the doorbell, promptly waddled underneath the couch to hide. I sat up and frowned. It was too late in the day to be the UPS guy, and nobody else ever came by. Nobody knew where I lived, and all of Yolanda’s friends knew she was at work for another half hour.

  Probably the lady downstairs had locked herself out again. I got off the sofa and went down the three flights of stairs to the front door.

  When I opened the door, I wasn’t entirely surprised to see Turner standing there.

  I was, however, pretty surprised to see a second man on my front stoop.

  “Uh, hi,” I said, feeling my eyebrows crawl up my forehead.

  Turner pushed past me without saying a word. I automatically stepped back, and the strange man followed Turner into the building, holding a small duffel bag.

  “You can’t just let yourself in,” I said, annoyed that I had given way instead of slamming the door in his face, but Turner was already climbing the stairs.

  The other guy looked at me and shrugged, and then started climbing after Turner.

  “Where are you going?” I asked. “What’s going on? Didn’t you get my text message? I haven’t heard from you in a week. You can’t just show up at my apartment and barge in—”

  Turner stopped, one hand on the railing, and turned to look down at me, as regal and aloof as he had ever been. “I can and will do exactly that,” he said. “Which one is your apartment?”

  I swallowed. I didn’t want to get into a fight with him in the stairwell; one of my neighbors would hear and come out to investigate, which was the last thing I wanted. “Top floor.”

  He turned and started climbing again.

  There was nothing I could do but trail after.

  When the three of us finally reached the top of the stairs, Turner opened my apartment door and held it, waiting for me and the strange guy to go through. I tried to meet Turner’s eyes as I passed, but he was staring straight ahead, pretending he didn’t see me.

  Okay. Fine.

  Once we were all inside, and the door was firmly shut, I scowled at Turner and said, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “This is my brother,” Turner said. “He’s going to stay here for a few days.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I asked. My face felt hot—adrenaline kicking in. I was angry, and confused, and that was never a good combination. I wanted to punch Turner and fuck him at the same time.

  “Only until Friday evening,” Turner said. “He won’t cause any trouble.”

  “Look, this is batshit insane,” I said. “You can’t bring some strange dude to my apartment and tell me he’s going to stay here for two days. I don’t know who the fuck this guy is! And this is my apartment and you can’t just show up and order me around like—”

  “He’s not ‘some strange dude,’” Turner said. “I already told you who he is. Consider this part of your services rendered.”

  “No,” I snapped. “And how the fuck do you even know where I live? You’re a fucking stalker.”

  “It’s in your file,” he said, still maddeningly calm in the face of my growing fury.

  Christ. That stupid file. I’d forgotten. “Okay, but that doesn’t mean you get to barge in to my house,” I said. My voice was getting louder and louder, and I hoped the guy who lived below me wasn’t home to hear me yelling. He would definitely call the cops.

  “Alex, this is a terrible idea,” the strange guy said. Allegedly Turner’s brother. It was the first thing he’d said, and his voice sounded exactly like Turner’s: same pitch, same elegant way of rounding his vowels.

  “Okay, yes, thank you, random dude,” I said, turning to him. I could see the family resemblance, now that I was paying attention. He was a little shorter than Turner, and stocky where Turner was lean, but he had the same dark eyes and the same nose. “I’m glad we’re in agreement. Can you please try to talk some sense into your idiotic brother?”

  The guy shrugged. “I’ve already tried. He doesn’t listen to me.”

  “Funny,
he doesn’t listen to me either,” I said. “Turner, get the fuck out of my apartment. This isn’t what I signed up for.”

  Turner gave me a dark look and opened his mouth, but I never found out what he was going to say, because just then I heard a key scraping in the lock, and the door swung open.

  “Sasha? You home?”

  Fuck. Yolanda was home early.

  There wasn’t time to do anything, so I just stood there and watched as she came through the door, busily rummaging through her purse, and as she looked up and realized there were two strange men standing in her entryway. Her eyes widened. She took a step back, and the hand in her purse moved more quickly, searching for something.

  “Yolanda, it’s okay,” I said, because she was definitely going for her mace, and I could just imagine Turner’s reaction if I let my roommate mace him. “They’re, um. Friends.”

  “Friends,” Yolanda said, her voice dripping with disbelief and suspicion. “Right.”

  “They’re just leaving,” I said, and looked at Turner. “Aren’t you?”

  “My apologies,” Turner said, very stiffly. He was looking at Yolanda. “I didn’t realize you had a roommate.”

  I wanted to tell him that’s what he got for appearing at my house unannounced, but Yolanda would have a field day with that, and I needed to defuse the situation, not make things worse. I didn’t know what to do, though. Yolanda looked so suspicious and uncomfortable, and I didn’t blame her. I would be pretty unsettled if I came home and there were two total strangers in my apartment.

  Turner solved the problem for me. He smiled at Yolanda and said, “Yolanda, is that right?” She nodded, and he said, “I apologize for the intrusion. Sasha and I have some business to take care of—”

  “Business,” Yolanda said. She glanced at me, and I saw the pieces fall into place in her brain. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide and round, and then she grinned. “Oh, I know exactly who you are.”

  Turner frowned at me.