Plain Jane and the Billionaire (Plain Jane Series)

by Tmonique Stephens

  She was there, through every PET scan and MRI, pulmonologist treatment and exercise. She stayed. Snickered at him while he huffed and puffed into the spirometer, expanding his lung capacity. During every test, her presence calmed him in ways he’d never expected nor could explain, which turned into another week of him enjoying the hospital’s hospitality.

  While he wasn’t one hundred percent, he was ready to get the hell out of there. He didn’t know about medicine, but he did know overkill when he’d seen it and when someone was covering their ass.

  “There’s one more test I’d like to perform.”

  “Get my clothes.” He grabbed the IV to yank it out, but suddenly Calista was there. She put her hand over his, stopping the motion.

  “Don’t, Mr. Morgan.” A plea and a command all wrapped in one word. He listened, though he didn’t snatch his hand away. Call him stubborn but he didn’t want to give in, not yet. Plus, the heat from her palm felt good seeping into his skin.

  “Well, Ms. Coleman? Is that all you’re going to say, or do you have more to add than a single word?”

  She snatched her hand away as if it were on fire and folded her hands in front of her. The doctor and nurse eyed her as if she was the patient whisperer and could somehow wrangle him into behaving.

  “First, Mr. Morgan, you don’t have any clean clothes here at your disposal. It will take at least an hour to get you some, longer with rush hour traffic. Second, since you have to wait, unless you’re willing to wear clothing from the homeless bin, you may as well have the tests the doctor ordered and get a clean bill of health. Then, you can check out. That will also give your assistant some time to finish setting up your home for your arrival.”

  His gaze narrowed. All this time and no one had brought him clothing yet? Not even Meckler, who’d stopped by briefly for a quick update and explanation. Even though Julius was suspicious, he couldn’t fault her logic. “One more test and that’s it.”

  The doctor and nurse filed out leaving them alone. Straight-faced, she gave nothing away. All the emotions they shared were gone. Why? He wanted to know, though he already knew the answer. He was a client. She was paid to protect him. The concerned glances and soft touches were manufactured to lull him into a manageable state. The paycheck she collected, that was to keep him alive, not because she cared. He’d forgotten that important tidbit… Though, he didn’t quite buy it.

  He made his billions by quick reads of people and situations. Right now, she had him stumped. She was a puzzle, and he liked puzzles. It had been ages since someone intrigued him, since someone outside his small inner circle made him take a closer look.

  She pulled out her phone from her scrub pocket and dialed, completely ignoring him. Who the hell was she calling?

  “Hi, Meckler. You can bring Mr. Morgan a fresh set of clothing. And have you completed the changes I requested?”

  She requested? No. She was ordering Meckler around. Julius should be annoyed, again, he wasn’t. Seemed nothing she did bothered him.

  She paused listening to Meckler’s reply. “Thank you. I’m sure Mr. Morgan will be pleased.”

  Don’t count on it.

  “Thanks,” she said all chummy with his assistant. “See you in a few.” She ended the call and faced him. “Edwards, my associate, reports that a Mr. Rudolf Newsome stopped by when you were at your MRI scan. He didn’t wait.”

  Damn. Rudy was his CFO and business partner of the company Julius created six long years ago. He snatched his phone off the bedside table. “Privacy, please,” he asked when anyone else he would’ve told to leave.

  Calista nodded once and headed for the exit, then paused and pressed her hand to her earpiece. “Yeah. He’s awake.” She glanced over her shoulder with a smirk on her face. “I stand corrected. You have a visitor.” But her expression said, “Do you want that visitor?”

  He had no idea what was going on until an oh so familiar voice echoed through the glass door.

  Fuck. He could let her be the bad guy. That would be cruel for both women, though he was more concerned about the female in front of him than the one storming into his room.

  “My poor sweetheart!” Carolyn cooed as she entered the room, her heels clacking like gunshots. She tossed her silk wrap and Fendi purse onto the chair Calista vacated and rushed to his bedside, only to pull up short at the sight of the wires leading to the vast array of beeping machines surrounding him. Tears collected in her brown eyes and her pouty lips trembled. She made sure he saw, then threw herself on top of him. She hugged him tightly, engulfing him in the latest trendy perfume. “I was so worried about you.”

  “I’m fine. Just a scratch.” She didn’t need the gory details.

  Her brown eyes widened with fear. “It’s not a scratch! You got shot. I saw it on the news.”

  Fine. “Yeah, but it’s not bad.”

  “Who did this?” she asked.

  “Random shot from an unknown gunman. I wasn’t the target. Wrong place. Unlucky shot.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What does that mean? Wrong place. Unlucky shot,” she demanded.

  He had enough of this conversation. “You really didn’t need to come.”

  “Of course, I had to come to see my man.” She took his hand.

  Julius pulled away. “We are not a couple. We broke up months ago.”

  She shrugged one elegant shoulder. “So. If I was in the hospital, you wouldn’t come visit me?”

  “No,” he said to her startled expression. “I’d send you a lovely bouquet and wish you a speedy recovery.” He didn’t visit exes. Didn’t call them either. A clean break was the only way to deal with an ex-lover. Anything else was messy and tedious. Plus, there wasn’t an ex he ever wanted back. Too many women out there to get caught up with one.

  She reeled back. “Is that how you really feel about me?”

  He tried to make it work with her. Well… He gave it more effort than usual. On paper, she was perfect for him. Leggy, blond, blue-eyed, with a rich daddy. They ran in the same circles, rubbed elbows with the same people. That’s how they met, at a polo match in London. They were compatible in every way and the sex wasn’t half bad. She was very limber.

  She loved Harden’s notoriety, Davien’s extreme wealth. In the three months they were together, those were the only two friends she’d met. Neither cared for her. They didn’t come out and say it. Their dislike was written all over their faces.

  “I appreciate you being here. Now, it’s time for you to go home.”

  Carolyn shook her head. “I just got here, baby.”

  “And now you’re leaving.”

  “I don’t understand, Julius,” she snapped, frustrated.

  The door swished open and an orderly entered. “Mr. Morgan. I’m here to take you to your MRI.”

  Julius climbed out of bed on his own steam and sat in the offered wheelchair.

  “Julius.” That whiny note he hated entered her voice and he’d had enough.

  Some people didn’t understand because they didn’t want to understand. Some people couldn’t take the pleasant send off when it’s not their idea that it’s over. Some people you couldn’t be nice to.

  It wasn’t his intention to hurt her, but some things couldn’t be helped. “It’s over, Carolyn. Thanks for coming by.” He signaled to the orderly to get rolling. Calista was there on the phone with a smile on her face.

  Who the fuck is she talking to? The jealousy was swift and toxic.

  They locked eyes and she held up a finger, making him wait. Making him fucking wait!

  “I love you, Mom. Bye. Bye… Thanks for letting me talk to her, Laverne. Yeah, these good days are getting further apart. I’ll catch up with you soon.”

  Damn. He’d never felt like more of an ass.

  She ended the call and the smile was gone, replaced by her usual professionalism. He wanted the smile back. And he wanted it directed at him. But for now, he was immensely pleased when she joined the parade to radiology.

  Chapter 6


  Wheeled through the lobby like a damn invalid didn’t project strength. Yet, he couldn’t care less when the doors to his penthouse apartment were thrown open and he was suddenly home. Admittedly, the austere minimalist tone had worn thin over the past year. He’d given the decorator free rein because who had time for color swatches and patterns when money was to be made.

  At the time, he had no preference. A chair was something to plant your ass on. A table, a place to eat, food, or…something more delectable. A bed, a comfortable mattress to close your eyes for a few hours before grinding out another day making money.

  Rolling through the lobby with the eyes of his less wealthy neighbors gawking at his diminished state, he realized the penthouse wasn’t a home. It was a place to live. He hadn’t had a home since he turned fifteen.

  “Good morning, Mr. Morgan.” The private duty nurse greeted him at the entrance. She was a cute thing. Blonde and perky. Thirty-two, single, no kids, by her dossier. She’d been doing private duty nursing for three years and came with recommendations. Dressed in fitted slacks and a lightweight V-neck blue sweater that showed a hint of cleavage, she was exactly his type.

  So why was he annoyed?

  Hands on her thighs, she leaned down. Her smile bright and blinding. “I’m Brielle and I’m going to take good care of you.”

  He stared into her baby blue eyes and wanted her to leave, but not more than he wanted some pain meds and to lie down. Lying down would be the only one out of the three he would get. “I’m in pain and tired.” Five words and he was out of breath.

  “I can take care of both.” Brielle took over the wheelchair from Calista. She took him straight to his bedroom and pulled up next to his California king. The once spacious suite designed with a separate sitting area, office space, and alcove, was now filled with the same medical equipment that had surrounded him in the hospital. He’d replaced one hospital room for another. He looked around at the room, at all the equipment stacked. He’d given Meckler free rein on purchasing the medical equipment and the man hadn’t skimped. Surgery could be performed with all the machinery he’d purchased. Some lucky clinic was going to get an upgrade.

  “Alright, Mr. Morgan, let’s get you in bed,” Nurse Brielle said all chipper. She locked the wheelchair and came around to help. Truth be told, he could’ve used the aid, but he was tired of the helplessness. Before the shooting he was a man who needed no one. People needed him. Not the other way around.

  Angry at himself, at his weak lungs, the random bullets not meant for him, he pushed the helping hands away and climbed out of the wheelchair. Wincing at the stabbing pain in his side, he managed to breathe through it. Brielle gripped his elbow, and he hated to admit he needed the help. Feeling proud, he took a couple of steps and a wave of dizziness slowly crept over his senses. He had just enough time and energy to slide into bed and pretend nothing happened. His gaze met Calista’s as the nurse fussed over him.

  Calista didn’t offer assistance, though she was close. The scent of her perfume gave away her presence on his left. She rode with him in the ambulance, still dressed in scrubs. Her presence welcomed, his growing dependence on her made him antsy. He was taught to not need anyone. The grim line of her mouth and single raised eyebrow told him she knew. He’d fooled everyone but her. Damn if that didn’t please him.

  He struggled on the mattress to find that perfect spot until finally, his muscles went lax and he melted into the comfort of his bed. He sighed, his eyes heavy from exhaustion, he didn’t fight when they slid closed.

  “Pain meds first and then your chef has prepared a light meal for you,” Nurse Brielle said.

  “No pain meds. I’m fine,” he gritted between clinched teeth.

  “Are you sure, sir?” Nurse Brielle insisted.

  “If I said it, I’m sure,” he snapped, riding the edge of the pain.

  “Of course, Mr. Morgan,” she murmured politely.

  He had no regrets snapping at the nurse until he saw Calista’s disapproval. Now he felt like an ass. “Chef?” Changing the subject usually worked to get his ass out of the fire. “I have a drawer full of menus and a phone full of restaurant numbers. I don’t have a chef.”

  “Mr. Meckler hired him. He didn’t think your usual diet of takeout was good for your recovery. Doctor Frye agreed.” Nurse Brielle beat Calista to the punch.

  Now he couldn’t even pick his own fucking meals. Calista continued to stare at him with a frown tugging on her full lips. “What?” he croaked, gaining the perusal of the nurse and the other bodyguard, Rhodes.

  Calista paused, touched the earpiece attached to her ear, then said, “Nothing, Mr. Morgan.” She came closer, studied the IV, then glanced at Brielle. “Now that you’re settled, I’m going to leave you in the capable hands of the nurse.”

  Julius reared back, confused. “Leaving me?” It sounded permanent.

  “Yes. My replacement has arrived. The replacements for Rhodes and Scotts will be here within the hour.”

  In walked a man. Prerequisite black suit, white shirt, black tie. The guy was brawny, a bruiser, looked capable, but that wasn’t the damn point. He didn’t want a fucking replacement. “Are you quitting?” Because he damn well hadn’t fired her.

  Her brow furrowed. “No, sir. I—”

  “Then you’re not leaving,” he snarled.

  Her shoulders squared and her spine straightened. He hadn’t noticed she was relaxed because she always seemed tense and ready. Now he knew the difference. The difference was she was pissed.

  “I’ve been with you for nearly two weeks straight. No time off. Showering in your hospital bathroom. My clothes brought to me. I’m due some personal time and I’m taking it.”

  Personal Time? In other words, she had a life outside of him. A person—a man—waiting for her. The thought made him irrational. “Your personal time is more important than protecting me?”

  On the back end, he heard himself, heard the neediness, and winced. What the fuck is wrong with me? When did I turn into a whiny little bitch?

  “Get some rest, Mr. Morgan. I’ll be back—”

  “If you leave—”

  “I’m what? Fired?” she snapped. For a brief moment her shoulders slumped and exhaustion etched her face. “I told you I don’t work for you, Mr. Morgan. I work for Harden Gage. As do these gentlemen.”

  “What I was about to say was, there are plenty of rooms here. It is a penthouse.” Which was not what he was going to say at all. He was about to fire her, rashly striking out because she dared to leave when he wanted her to stay. Calista cut him off at the knees with her little statement. She didn’t work for him. That would change with one phone call to Harden.

  Her gaze narrowed and her chin lifted. “Thanks, but I live in Queens, it’s a quick train ride to the other side of the river.” She whipped out her wallet and placed a business card on his nightstand. “I’m taking forty-eight hours off. Call me if I’m to report to work on Tuesday. Otherwise, I’ll start job hunting.”

  She cut him off at the knees again and Julius admired her for it. Not many people said no to him and she’d done it twice.

  “Ted Artis, meet Mr. Julius Morgan. Have a good evening, gentlemen.” She nodded once to the nurse. In the crappy, baggy scrubs, she pivoted sharply and exited the room like she owned the building.

  Julius dismissed Ted and eyed the black and white business card waiting for his attention. He couldn’t reach it without help. “Pain meds. Now.” He ordered, putting his need ahead of his will, uncertain if the drugs were for his wounded, pain-riddled body, or his bruised pride.

  Chapter 7

  Calista took a cab all the way from Midtown to her home in Springfield Gardens, Queens. The price was exorbitant, but at least she could close her eyes, let her guard down, and let her mind drift in the backseat.

  The day had went as expected. The transfer of Julius to his penthouse went without a hitch. No outside threats and he seemed no worse for wear. He made it to his home in one pi
ece. She worried he wasn’t ready to leave the hospital, thought a few more days, even twenty-four hours more of medical care to make sure nothing else would crop up and threaten his health was a necessary precaution. Not that she had a medical license to make the recommendation. Even if she did, Julius wouldn’t have listened.

  Not that she didn’t see it coming. He wanted out of the hospital and she couldn’t blame him. She’d want the same thing too. Being there had been hard enough for her. She didn’t like hospitals, or any medical institutions. They all had the same smell and it sickened her.

  Her first impulse had been to decline the job. The last thing she needed was to be stuck babysitting a spoiled billionaire. She was on the scene seconds after he was shot, and amid the uproar, she dropped to her knees and pressed her hand to the wound on his shoulder. Their eyes met before his rolled up into his head and he went limp.

  She didn’t see fear in his copper colored eyes. Surprise, confusion, and anger. The anger, yeah, she understood that, fed off that. Shit, anger was her bread and butter for the better part of her thirty years. When Harden asked her to babysit, no was a just a single syllable. So was yes.

  Plus, the money offered was too good to turn away.

  She had the cab drop her off five blocks from her house, on the boulevard with all the restaurants. Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, and Japanese competed with Jamaican, Puerto Rican, Dominican, and Indian. Oh, and at least four pizzerias. All the aromas competed in a heady confluence of delectable cuisine. She loved this neighborhood. This was New York.

  Tonight, the choice was easy. Black beans and rice, stew chicken, and cabbage. Beer on ice at home. That’s if Laverne hadn’t drunk them all. Sometimes, her cousin used the house as a hideout from her four kids, ages twenty-two, twenty, seventeen, and fifteen, and her husband. Calista couldn’t blame her. Husband, kids, house, it was all too much and not anything Calista wanted.