After a moment, she chose a croissant and strawberry preserves, and three strips of bacon. Carefully, she broke off a piece of the croissant and smeared preserves over it. The entire bit went into her mouth and she chewed slowly.
“Coffee? Juice? Ma’am?” James asked.
“Coffee, creamer, two sugars,” she replied.
They ate in awkward silence after James excused himself and left them alone. Her hair was different, pulled into a loose ponytail, leaving a mass of dark curls trailing down her back. A light trace of makeup graced her face. A hint of nude lipstick and eyeshadow highlighted her natural beauty.
“So…” She picked up her coffee and glared at him over the rim.
He sat back and locked onto her dark eyes. She gave nothing away, not that he expected she would. “Meckler handles the business side of my life and he’s damn good at it. I need another assistant for my personal life. Since the Forbes list my social calendar has exploded.” His under the radar life was over.
She set down her cup. “I have no idea how to do that.”
“It’s not that hard. You’ll learn.” He took a sip from his cup.
“This is ridiculous.” She pushed back from the table and stormed to the French doors. “I’m a bodyguard. That’s what I know how to do.”
“Two hundred thousand.” He tossed the number out, his gut tightening in panic at her departure. If she didn’t accept, he’d use her mother as leverage. He’d get her into the best assisted living facility in the country if that’s what it took.
She froze, exactly what he wanted her to do. A sharp pivot and she returned to her seat. She lowered back to the edge of her chair, priorities intact. Was it wrong that a part of him was disappointed she didn’t tell him to shove the money up his ass? Mood soured, he reached for the dossier at his elbow.
“You did your undergraduate degree at City College, though you were accepted at Columbia University. Why?” A handful of city blocks separated both schools. After going through the hastily assembled information provided by a researcher he used, Julius had a good idea of the answer. However, he wanted to hear it from her voice.
“Cost. City College isn’t an Ivy League school, but it has an excellent reputation. It is a jewel in the state funded public education system. I am a proud alumni member with an associate degree.”
“You went back for your bachelor’s, then dropped out.”
“Again. Lack of funds,” she stated as if it were a no brainer.
“Plan on going back?”
Something wistful crossed her face, but it was gone as fast as it appeared. A quick glance at her finances told the story. She was broke.
A broke bodyguard could be bribed. Julius studied her. Did he know her well enough to put his life into her hands? That would be no, he didn’t. They’d known each other two weeks, met under the worst circumstances when he was at his lowest. Few had ever seen him like that. If he could help it, few ever would.
Bottom line, he trusted her.
“No Facebook, no Instagram. No Twitter.” He kept the interview going.
“I’m on all three under an assumed name. You like your privacy and so do I.”
His eyes narrowed. “The name, what is it?”
She hesitated, but he knew she’d have to give it up, and she had nothing to be ashamed of. “Calico Cole.”
His lips curled. The pseudonym sounded like something he’d fine in porn. “An alter ego?” Why? Please tell me it’s something kinky.
“Anonymity.”
Disappointing. “Understandable.” He glanced through the paperwork, searching for anything he may have missed as if he’d hadn’t already memorized it.
“You know my backstory. Well, I know yours too.” She sat back and crossed her legs, got comfortable. “You’re the oldest son of a man who took his father’s small textile company international, then got out before the industry went belly up. With the money he made, your father invested in land and coastal properties all over California and Florida. Purchasing a construction company gave him the building foundation he needed. An early investment in Google and some seed money in Silicon Valley put your father’s company on the Forbes list of 100 most profitable until it slipped off five years ago.” Her head cocked to the side and her gaze narrowed, flipping the interview. “Other than a small inheritance rumored to be no more than five million dollars at the time of your father’s death ten years ago, that was all you received. Yet, you turned that money into ten billion and spare change.” Toneless, yet with a cocky undertone he adored, she spoke as if reading from an imaginary dossier.
“You get that from Google?” he asked.
“Wikipedia.”
He snorted at her know-it-all micro grin, loving the one-upmanship.
Their gazes locked across their cups of coffee and tray of baked goods. “Precisely what do you expect for two hundred K a year?” Her voice was hard as nails.
What he wanted was above board. “Nothing nefarious. You’re capable and being my personal assistant is nothing you can’t handle. You’ll have access to my appointment calendar, email accounts. I need you to keep me on schedule.”
“For two hundred thousand, you want me to keep you on time?” Her gaze dipped to the Apple watch on his wrist. An eyebrow arched.
“The job is twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You will live with me—”
“The hell I will,” she blurted.
“—when staying at my homes in L.A. or Miami.”
Stubborn, she snapped. “I can access your accounts from my home, in Queens.”
No. That’s not what he wanted. “I have a few homes around the world, and I travel extensively. When abroad, you will stay in my home. In New York, you can stay in your residence. You’ll have an expense account for travel, etcetera. I have several upcoming events you need to be aware of…” He trailed off at her continued obstinance. This was an opportunity any sane person would jump at, except her. “Is there a reason why you don’t want to travel? A man, perhaps, holding you down, making you give up this opportunity?” She’d had to be deaf to not catch the hard note in his voice.
Her lips thinned and her eyes went flinty. “Happily single. No children.”
Relief flooded his chest. “Then the living arrangements are a requirement. As I said, it’s a twenty-four-hour job. I call. You come.” Yeah, he meant to put some heat on the last word.
Her gaze narrowed. Her lips puckered. Yet, she kept silent, so he continued.
“The job also comes with 401K, medical, dental…” He waved his hand, unsure about all the details of employment since he farmed out the hiring of his fifty employees and benefits to a private company. “Do you accept the position?” He held his breath, slightly disturbed by how much he wanted her to say yes. Needed her to say the words.
Her gaze dropped to her half-eaten croissant and bacon. She seemed to inhale a deep breath, then said, “No. I don’t.” Her Cheshire grin was sexy as hell.
“What?” That was not what he expected to hear, and she knew it.
“I’m not a fucking assistant. I’m a bodyguard. That’s what I’m good at and that’s what I’ll continue to do while I pretend to be your personal assistant.”
She didn’t tack on take it or leave it, but she may as well have. And she wasn’t bluffing. Her mind was made up. Broke or not, she’d walk, and he couldn’t let her do that.
“When do you need me to start?”
Her question broke through his musings and whatever qualms he had were gone. They both knew what page they were on. No more quibbling. She made her decision and he’d made his.
“Take the day. Expect an email from HR in an hour with all the appropriate forms. I’ll have a company spending account opened for you. Report to the downtown office tomorrow morning at eight.”
She pushed away from the table and rose. Without another glance, Calista walked away, determination in every step.
Short-lived relief flowed through him. Until this moment he wasn�
��t certain she’d accept. And he needed her to accept. For whatever reason, he wasn’t ready to let her go. He required her presence. She made him feel something. What that something was, he wasn’t ready to explore. Especially with his strict no fraternization policy. He didn’t screw his employees.
Ever.
Horny, that’s what she made him feel. He shifted, making room for his erection. So why the fuck did he just hire her?
On the opposite side of the sliding glass door, he caught Meckler’s approach and frowned. The man preferred phone calls over personal visits. Especially unannounced visits.
Something was wrong.
Meckler strolled onto the balcony all business in his midnight-blue fitted Armani suit, crisp white shirt, and striped tie. Julius waited as Meckler pulled back the chair Calista vacated, and sat. They eyed each other over the table. “We have a problem. Which do you want first? Good news or bad.”
“Spit it out.” He didn’t need the preamble.
“Fine. Good news first. Janus agreed to the purchase. He’s selling us his twenty percent share and he’s agreed to your terms.”
A shit eating grin Julius couldn’t contain, even if he were inclined to try, broke over his face. Finally, he was one step closer to his goal and just in the nick of time. “The bad news?”
“The Siedel purchase is off the table and Bertram Siedel wouldn’t say why.”
Damn. Two steps forward. One step backward. Well, he’d deal with Siedel later. “When and where is the next stockholders meeting?”
“Not for another few weeks.” Meckler disappointed Julius. “But I know where Siedel will be in twenty hours.”
Julius arched an eyebrow, urging him to continue.
“The charity auction Lynda Morgan funds. This time it’s in London. Do you think you’re up to it?”
The last thing he wanted was to deal with Lynda. The timing was wrong. But if he could get to Siedel before the auction… “Call my pilot. Tell him to get the jet ready.”
Chapter 13
Calista hated running. She was top heavy and required two sports bras to keep the girls strapped down. However, nothing got her focused like the feel of her feet pounding the pavement and her body moving forward toward a goal, even if that goal was one more block. Running was better than doing what she really wanted—packing a suitcase, grabbing her passport, and running far, far away.
Instead, she ran into her favorite Chinese takeout and ordered the house special lo mein to be delivered in ninety minutes after a long therapeutic soak, with bubbles and scented oils. Two hours later, propped on the sofa, chopsticks shoveling food into her mouth, Netflix surfing, she’d succeeded in avoiding all her problems.
The doorbell rang. “What the—ugh!” She didn’t want to get up to answer the door, especially when she wasn’t expecting anyone. Plus, she was comfortable and filling her belly. Her lo mein was perched on a plate on her lap and still piping hot, the way she liked it. She didn’t want to move just to tell the person on the other side to move along. She wasn’t buying whatever they were selling. No one visited her and she liked it that way.
Calista ignored her visitor, twirled her fork around the noodles, shoved a forkful into her mouth, and kept scrolling through Netflix. Oh, Stranger Things has a new season!
The doorbell rang and a few sharp raps on the door echoed through the house.
Damn it! Go. Away. Mouth full, she chewed slowly and glared at her locked door. I am not home. A full minute passed with no further knocking, yet she hadn’t heard any retreating footsteps. Whoever had knocked was still there. Waiting.
Lo mein on the coffee table, she unfurled from her spot, and tiptoed to the front door, careful not to step on weak spots on the floor that squeaked with the slightest pressure. She sidled up to the peephole.
Julius Morgan—his face in profile—waited on the other side of the door.
Calista gasped, what the hell was he doing at her house? She stumbled back, right onto the squeaky spot on the floor. Did he hear that? He didn’t hear that. She eased back to the peephole and came eyeball to eyeball with the man. Shit!
The doorbell rang again.
Why was he here? What the hell did he want? Tomorrow was her first day on the new job. Another peek through the peephole and there he was, arms folded, glaring at the door, not going anywhere. Shit in a handbag!
She unlocked the two deadbolt locks but kept the chain in place as she opened the door a fraction and stared at the billionaire on her doorstep. He looked like a billionaire in his suit even though he’d skipped the tie. The crisp white shirt was open at the collar, showing the strong column of his throat and enough of his chest to make a woman want to see more. Was this his version of slummin’? Did a visit to her not warrant a tie? Furthermore, shouldn’t he be in bed, recovering? Not stalking her.
“What are you doing here?” Surprised at his presence, she snapped, unintentionally. Then she remembered he was her boss.
“Good evening, Ms. Coleman.”
Warily she replied, “How did you find me?” She realized how dumb the question was the second it slipped out her mouth.
Full of indulgent irony, he said, “From your resume. How do you think I found you?”
Great. “What can I do for you, Mr. Morgan?” she demanded, standing in the slice of space allowed by the security chain. “My official employment as your assistant begins tomorrow.”
She expected a reply. What she got was a grimace and a raised eyebrow. “Can we not do this in your doorway?”
She could be obstinate, but it wouldn’t get her anywhere. Fact was, she needed the job. Especially after paying the first of many bills.
Her addict next-door neighbor exited his house. The guy was in his forties and still living with his mother and nine times out of ten, he was at his door whenever she came home. He was a small-time thug, full-time meth head that never learned any better. She caught him breaking into her house, once. Her Glock to his temple dissuaded him from ever trying it again. Addicts disgusted her.
His gaze locked on the limo parked at the curb, shifted to Julius, then shifted to her, then shifted back to Julius. Shorter than her, her neighbor reached Julius’ chest, but that didn’t stop the skinny guy from eyeballing him. The hair on the back of her neck stood on edge. Not for her. She could kick his ass with a broken arm and an amputated leg. Her concern stretched to Julius.
A billionaire in Queens. Maybe she should let him inside before he got his ass killed. Wouldn’t that make Page Six have an orgasm. “Billionaire Stabbed in a Queens Hovel.” Though he gave off the impression he could more than handle himself, she knew better. The man just got out of the hospital. He should be in bed recuperating, but far be it from her to tell him. She was only the glorified personal assistant.
She freed the chain and stepped aside. The idiot waited for her neighbor to shuffle past before stepping across her threshold. Testosterone should be labeled a poison.
He entered the house, already small at nineteen hundred square feet, shrunk around him. Her spine stiffened as he took in the dated furniture in the living room to the left and the worn staircase against the wall to his right. The carpet needed replacing and a shelf was missing in the built-in bookcase, but everything was clean. She had a roof over her head and a sanctuary from the chaos of the world. It shouldn’t matter what he thought as his gaze touched on all her things, the living room, the hallway with a straight shot to the dining room and large eat-in kitchen. The place was a far stretch from his penthouse in SoHo, but it was hers. She grew up here and refused to be ashamed. No one judged her life. No. One.
She pointed to the high back chair with her grandmother’s color afghan draped over the back while she reclaimed her spot on the sofa.
He sat and damn if he didn’t look like he owned the place. Even in a suit surrounded by eighties furniture, he was completely at ease. Except for those burnished colored eyes of his coasting from her face, down to her comfy, ratty tank top, boy shorts she had since h
igh school, and ending on her bare legs before coasting back up her body. They latched onto her and wouldn’t let go. She was dressed, all the important bits covered, so why did she feel exposed, stripped, and vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with her clothing?
It would be a lie if she denied her visceral reaction—nipples tightening, pussy throbbing. Not that anything was ever going to happen between her and Julius Morgan. She had a strict code when it came to sex. The boss employee relationship was sacrosanct. No trading of bodily fluids. The product of an affair between her mother and her employer, Calista refused to have history repeat itself and end up like her mother—broken, miserable, and unemployed.
She got her head back in the game because this wasn’t a social visit. “Spill. Why are you here?” Firing her he could do by text message. There was another reason.
“Your employment starts now. Go pack, the Lear’s waiting at JFK. We’re heading to London.”
She swallowed her irritation at being ordered, and asked, “What’s in London? And how long will we be there?”
“A company worth three billion on paper, but worth a lot more in terms of power, and not long. Probably less than a day. Now, go pack. We have a slot at JFK in two hours. Next opening isn’t until tomorrow.”
She stood. “Too good to fly commercial?”
A single eyebrow rose as if insulted at the very notion of a commercial flight. “When you have your own jet, yes.”
Ain’t that the truth.
“You couldn’t have told me this earlier today?” She hated last minute things. Last minute meant sloppy. Last minute increased the possibility of someone being injured or worse.
“I was distracted,” he said in an imperious tone she didn’t appreciate.
Protesting the trip would get her nowhere. What did it matter if she started the job a few hours early? Still, she didn’t like it as she eyed him before heading upstairs to pack light. “You were in the hospital a few days ago.”
Plain Jane and the Billionaire (Plain Jane Series) Page 8
