The Boss Vol. 6: a Hot Billionaire Romance

by Cari Quinn

  “New York.”

  I scooped up one of Blake’s fountain pens. Ignoring his frown, I fiddled with the cap as I glanced at the information on the desk screens. Columns of numbers and websites were stacked in some pattern that only made sense to Blake.

  Blake came over to me and closed his big hands around mine. He took his pen. I lifted an eyebrow and laughed when he handed me a disposable Bic.

  “Not allowed to play with your toys?”

  He hooked his glasses into the small pocket of his vest. “I prefer to keep your blouse white.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think I’m going to make your precious pen explode?”

  “You have a habit of chewing on pens.”

  My lips twitched as I glanced down at his lips, then lower to the edge of his vest and belt. “Are you saying I have an oral fixation?”

  That jaw thingie was back. Man, I had a deep and abiding love for that muscle. I really hoped he didn’t figure out that was his tell. I did love to exploit it.

  “Save it for the chopsticks.”

  “Damn.”

  He brushed by me. “For now,” he said low against my ear as he moved beside Jack.

  I swallowed and glanced at Jack. Luckily he seemed engrossed in the screen. Like I should be. I dropped into Blake’s chair, which of course was not set for someone my size—you know, normal.

  I could feel him staring a few holes into my back for daring to touch his set-up, but scrolled through a few of the different sites anyway.

  Instead of sitting down to lunch, we all brainstormed over the data and ate from cartons near the worktable. Not on the worktable, of course—Blake would have a mild coronary if there was food near his computers—but I was allowed to hover from three feet away.

  Jack was quiet most of the lunch hour, but eventually seemed to get over his snit. A reminder alarm beeped from the corner of the screen and I stuck my chopsticks back into my carton of noodles.

  “Jack, we have that conference call in thirty minutes.”

  He scooped the last of his carton into his mouth and pitched it into the garbage in the corner of the room. “Right. If I look at any more of this, my eyes are going to cross anyway.” Jack glanced at Blake. “You hiding out the rest of the day down here?”

  Blake glanced from Jack to me. “Unless you need me?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. All is copacetic upstairs.”

  “Then, yes. I’ve only dug into the surface of the data. I’ll need all the time I can manage.”

  Jack nodded. “We’ll make sure you get it.” He nodded at me. “I’ll head up and meet you in his office in twenty.”

  He still seemed stiff, so I clasped my fingers around his wrist before he could pass us by. “Thank you, Jack. We really appreciate all your help.”

  He sighed. “Anything for you, Blondie.”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  He nodded.

  When we were alone, I grasped Blake’s collar and dragged him down to me. “What was that all about?”

  He tried to pull back, but I pushed him into his chair instead and pressed my knee between his legs, grazing his precious manhood. His dark brows beetled. “Grace.”

  Ah, so he could say it when I wasn’t naked. “Since when don’t you trust Jack?”

  “I believe that I mentioned it wasn’t personal.”

  “Bullshit.” His lips thinned. Taking that as an answer I tilted my head. “There’s a reason for it. And I want to know.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Dammit, Blake.”

  “I don’t trust anyone with you. No one.” His voice was nearly a growl. “Not even my best friend.”

  I lowered my forehead to his. The reassuring citrus and spice scent of him soothed me. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

  His fingers curled over my hip to cup my ass. His other hand teased the lock of hair that had fallen forward before he tucked it behind my ear. Instead of answering me, he sealed his lips over mine and kissed me breathless.

  He tasted of peanuts and warmth, of all the things I’d come to cherish and long for. I wanted to curl into his lap and fall into this rare bit of easy affection, but I was on a schedule.

  Always a schedule when it came to this man.

  Wrong time, wrong place.

  I gripped his wrist, then trailed my fingers down the swirls of ink to the rolled cuff of his shirt. I leaned back before he could deepen the kiss even more.

  I’d be toast.

  Was he wearing an extra layer of hormones or something today? What the hell was going on with me?

  “You need to work.” I swallowed down a moan and braced myself on his shoulders. I scooped his glasses out of his pocket and set them on his nose. “Work hard, I have plans for you tonight.”

  He searched my face, then nodded. “I could be amenable to that.”

  I laughed. “Good to know.” I brushed my knee against his hardness before setting my foot back on the floor.

  “I’ll remember this little maneuver, Ms. Copeland.”

  I brushed my thumb across his lower lip to get the last of my lipstick smear.

  He grasped my wrist to scrape his teeth along the sensitive heel of my hand before leaving a wisp of a kiss at my wrist. “I’ll check in this afternoon.”

  He so wasn’t playing fair.

  Like I should be surprised. “Sounds good.”

  There, my voice didn’t sound too much like Demi Moore’s.

  Maybe.

  I gathered my containers and his, dropping them in the trash before I left. There was no way I could look back at him.

  Not right now.

  Vest, ink, hard-on, and glasses? I was only human.

  Work, Grace. I had a multi-million dollar deal to smooth out with an old guy who required my sweet side, not the hormonally driven, lusty Grace that wanted to drop to my knees and take Blake’s impressive cock into my mouth.

  Nope.

  Not that Grace.

  It was going to be a very long day.

  Seven

  Blake

  I stared at the photos on my screen, pulled from more diary pages on the thumb drive. These had been scanned so the original text was in Annabelle’s looping script, with notes in the margins flowing around the photos.

  This particular one contained Annabelle, Philomena and my father.

  They were laughing, arms around each other’s waists. Clearly it had been taken some time ago, as they were all much younger. But even with their smiles, tension lurked in their eyes. In Annabelle’s, especially. The undercurrents in the photo were much stronger than the feigned friendship.

  Coincidentally, the diary pages in this section had a symbol sprinkled every few lines. There was talk about investments “overseas” so maybe someone with an untrained eye might not be aware of the deeper meaning of that cute little dolphin drawn in the margins. Except it wasn’t a dolphin, it was a whale, and that meant they likely had a very big one on the hook.

  My father had used the same term in some of his dealings. I’d paid attention to the wisps of conversation I’d overheard during our infrequent outings during my childhood when he was talking to one of his associates, because at first I’d been naïve enough to think a mammal was just a mammal. Whales in their parlance weren’t just something to save. They indicated someone, usually a very wealthy someone, who’d been earmarked to either take the fall for a crime or who would soon be their cash cow. Whether or not the “whale” was willing mattered very little to those who set the marks.

  Another small drawing in the corner of the page caught my eye. Just a doodle or was it more? A tall building. Nothing stood out about it. Just a high-rise, lots of windows. The typical steel and chrome empire—

  The word clicked in my brain, and I crosschecked against the list of shell companies and tax shelters we’d unearthed in Brooklyn. Empire Design Company. Coincidentally, it had an address both in Brooklyn and an equally phony
address in Marblehead, listed on the same street as the gallery. Except the block’s numbers didn’t go that high.

  So many coincidences. Too bad I didn’t believe in them. Ever.

  Before I could question the impulse, I called someone I’d never thought I would—Silas, my father’s right hand man.

  The conversation was about as terse as expected. As was the admission that Vincente Costas, my father’s best friend, had been killed not long ago. Shot by his own son.

  I should’ve been horrified, and yet in the world I’d lived in, it wasn’t all that surprising. The breech of loyalty was, of course. But that a son would go that far—not so much. That he’d killed his own father to protect his brother’s woman intrigued me, however. Perhaps it was time I meet with Dante Costas again. It had been so long since I’d seen that watchful, mistrustful-eyed boy. I’d never wanted to see any of them again, but now there were things happening in Brooklyn, things that had involved by father and potentially the mob—because where Robert went, his cronies were never far behind. I needed intel.

  So it looked like I might need Dante as well.

  Silas gave me Dante’s number, albeit not willingly, and I called to make an appointment to see him through his personal assistant. Made men had more layers between them and the public than I had layers of glass surrounding me, and that was saying plenty.

  When the assistant asked my relationship to Dante and I mentioned my father’s name, I was immediately put on hold. Darlene sounded a lot friendlier when she returned.

  “Mr. Costas is available to see you in Brooklyn this evening, if you are able to meet him at his place of business. He’s traveling back to the west coast tomorrow, so time is of the essence.”

  My eyebrow rose. Dante’s family had sidelines in commerce and casinos and more recently, in mixed martial arts fighting. I had no desire to meet him at a gym or worse, some warehouse.

  “What exactly is his place of business?”

  I didn’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what Darlene offered. “He would like to book you a private table for two at La Cucina. Are you familiar with his restaurant?”

  My eyebrow was in danger of vaulting up my forehead at this rate. “No, I am not. Is this a new thing?”

  “Just the past few months. It’s been getting rave reviews. You will enjoy your meal.” She clucked and named a few times, and I took the latest reservation offered, then thanked her and hung up.

  Only afterward did I realize that I couldn’t just up and go to New York, not anymore. I had to tell Grace what was going on.

  Yeah, tell her your father was hooked up with the mob, and you’re beginning to think her grandmother and possibly Philomena are too. She’ll love that.

  I flipped a pen through my fingers and contemplated the rows of screens before me. Some running financials, some searching for certain words and codes in the text on the thumb drive. Still others contained maps, as I tried to peg connections where all I could see were more dead ends. A lot of roads to nowhere.

  Mostly, I was running on a bunch of wild goose chases, led by a woman with a flair from the dramatic who just happened to be dead.

  I pulled up my instant messaging window.

  BC: Busy tonight?

  She took an inordinately long time to reply. In the meantime, I made arrangements for my helicopter. We’d need fast, discreet transportation to the city, and Grace loved to fly. Assuming I convinced her to join me.

  Assuming she ever answered.

  At the same time, I didn’t want to have the helicopter arrive until the building was nearly cleared out. The last thing I wanted was attention on us. She was still my assistant and I was still her employer. Just because more people knew about us now wasn’t a reason to get sloppy. There were still protocols and boundaries, even if it was my own company.

  I’d arranged the appropriate flight clearances and ascertained where I’d be touching down in Brooklyn when Grace finally deigned to respond.

  GC: Depends. I’m waiting to hear if Chris Evans will buy me that pizza he promised.

  The fist of anger that seized my gut was instantaneous. The jealousy twined within it was so much worse.

  BC: Who exactly is Chris Evans? Is he one of our clients? And why is he offering you Italian food?

  Again with the slow response. I tapped my pen on the keys until I pitched it aside and gave in to the need to demand more answers.

  BC: Furthermore, perhaps I was under the mistaken impression that this was an exclusive relationship, but pizza dates should be cleared first.

  Nothing.

  I was about to send another likely-to-be unanswered message when a picture formed on my screen of a guy in a tight blue and silver super hero outfit, brandishing a red, blue and white shield. What the hell? Did she think this was the time for jokes?

  GC: Meet Chris Evans. No, he’s not one of our clients. You wish. This fine sir is Captain America, and he’s far beyond your paygrade, Mr. Carson.

  Irritation had me snapping back before logic descended.

  BC: No one is beyond my paygrade, Ms. Copeland.

  Some movie actor, for God’s sake. She thought she was funny, and I was—

  Not funny at all. Actually a little pathetic.

  Clearly I needed to bone up on pop culture, once I finished with all this cloak and dagger nonsense.

  GC: To return to your original question, my plans tonight may be subject to change.

  BC: May be?

  GC: Depends what you’re offering.

  I debated the best way to phrase my request. Of course I could’ve been one hundred percent honest, and I did have a momentary qualm that I should take that route. But the part of me that wasn’t sure what puzzle pieces I even had on the table warned me to tread carefully.

  Not because I couldn’t trust Grace, but because I didn’t want her to be hurt. Not by what I might discover about myself…or about her and her grandmother.

  BC: I’d like to take you on a date.

  I rolled my chair closer to the screen of names and addresses in a quarter mile area of the suspect ones in Brooklyn. I fully expected a deluge of IMs the likes I’d never seen. If you waved the promise of romance in front of a woman, she nearly always swooned and offered you whatever you want. At least that’s what Jack had always insisted, that romance was the way to a woman’s heart.

  A path to Grace’s heart would be nice, but tonight I also wanted a roadmap to her brain. She knew more than she was letting on, perhaps even more than she realized. Somewhere along the way Annabelle had let something slip or Grace had seen an unusual visitor or an odd piece of art. Something.

  One way or another I needed to trigger those lost memories without her discovering that I’d been digging into her as much as her grandmother’s files.

  So…romance. That it would be taking place in a restaurant owned by a man in the mob was incidental.

  I would never let any of that touch her. I’d vowed to protect her, and I would. No cost would be too steep.

  Too bad she wasn’t responding to me again. So much for that flurry of messages.

  Clearly she was working too hard. I would’ve been tempted to fire her for that, but she’d definitely have a worker’s comp case for that one. Besides, I needed her far too much.

  Professionally and personally. The damn woman.

  Tired of playing message tag, I picked up the phone and dialed her extension. She answered on the fourth ring.

  “Carson Covenant Inc. This is Grace Copeland, taking your call from the afterlife.”

  Despite my irritation, I laughed. “Dare I ask why?”

  “You should know. You said the words ‘date’ and ‘you’ aka me in the same sentence. I figured this must be what heaven was like, assuming I believed what I was reading.”

  “What do you mean if you believed it? I asked you on a date.”

  “No, you did not. You said you’d like to take me on one. There was no question. But that’s okay, since I immediately slid t
o the floor. Right now I’m wearing Jack’s giant footprint on my cheek since I faceplanted right on the dirty floor.”

  “His feet aren’t any bigger than mine,” I muttered. “Fine. Will you go out with me on a date?”

  “Where?”

  I shook my head, though I was well aware she couldn’t see me. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. I don’t want to go to a museum or on a walking historical tour or something equally significant and cold. A date should be a date, Blake.”

  “How about dinner at an Italian restaurant and a movie?” As soon as the question was out, my guilt reared its head again.

  Tell her the truth. She’ll still accompany you. You know she loves her Nancy Drew stuff.

  But that was just the thing. I was campaigning to take her on a date, but I was lying about my true motivations. I always was.

  Lying for what I saw as her own good didn’t make it the truth.

  “And a cupcake,” I added, well aware the guilt now had control of both my wallet and my evening. “There’s a shop near the Italian restaurant I have in mind that has great ones. Killer Cupcakes.”

  “Hmm. You’re getting warmer. What movie?”

  “I don’t know. What’s playing? And don’t say Captain America, Ms. Copeland.”

  “Not for a few months yet, unfortunately.” Her giggle made my shoulders relax. We’d have a date and I’d talk to Dante and we’d get closer to some answers.

  “Our reservations are at nine-thirty. So we’ll take off about eight.”

  “Nine-thirty? What are we, in Europe?”

  “I’d like not to advertise our personal relationship. Taking off from the roof in the helicopter with my assistant before the building is sufficiently empty is advertising.”

  “Wait, what? Helicopter? Why?”

  “The restaurant is in Brooklyn. Work up an appetite for me, Ms. Copeland.”

  I hung up on her sputtering and went back to my tedious data collection. That I rolled up my sleeves even more before I dug in was only to keep the material clean.