The Billionaire and The Virgin

by Bella Love-Wins

  It’s my space, but this can’t happen. I hurry to get the hell out of there, taking a seat in Jace’s office without shutting the door. Finally, I can think straight and focus on the reason I’m here.

  8

  Dahlia

  Jackson’s limousine driver is about to pull up to the sidewalk in front of the condo building when my cell phone buzzes from my bundle of wet, muddy clothes. I scramble to get it in time, and see that the call coming in is from Emily, one of my roommates.

  “Hey Em,” I answer. “I’m just getting in. Can I call you back in a bit?”

  “Sure, but I need your taste buds. Do you mind if I come by?”

  “That works too,” I tell her as the driver opens the door for us to get out. “Thanks, Mr. Sterling.”

  “Who are you talking to?” she asks. “Is he cute?”

  “It’s my neighbor’s chauffeur. Long story, but I’ll fill you in.” I step out and guide Bailey and Daisy onto the sidewalk, keeping Sheba in my arms as I’m not ready for a repeat of a few hours ago. “How soon will you be here?”

  “Around two? I’m still prepping some of these hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll be here. Just text me when you’re close, and I’ll come down.”

  “Awesome. See you soon, Dahl.”

  Hanging up, I head into the lobby. All I want now is a cleansing shower and some rest, but I make sure the dogs are fed first, and take them out back to the enclosed dog parkette so they can empty their bowels and bladders. When we get back up to Vivian’s unit, they quickly settle down in their doggie room for some much-needed napping.

  Shortly after I’ve showered and had some time to relax, Emily sends me a text message to let me know that she just got top-side from the subway entrance a few blocks away. I meet her outside the lobby’s revolving doors. Emily is loaded down with armfuls of shopping bags, and the duffel bag she uses to transport her favorite kitchen preparation and cooking utensils.

  “Hey Em,” I greet her. “Wait, you’re better off not using the revolving doors with all those bags.”

  “Holy crap this place is amazing!” she remarks as I hold the glass side door open, nodding at the concierge bellman as I beat him to it. “I can so get used to this. God, I love this lobby. All these luxurious gold and red decor trimmings would be such a great combination for a dining area.”

  I look around, trying to take it in through her eyes, as though it’s my first time.

  “Snap a few shots for your restaurant vision board,” I tell her. Emily has been dreaming about carving out her own fine dining piece of the pie long before I met her. Judging from her vision board, which takes up an entire wall of her bedroom, it’s all she wants in the world.

  “My hands are full,” she reminds me, eyes still darting around. “I’ll get some later. Where’s the elevator? Let’s see what kind of kitchen I’m working with for this taste-testing session.”

  I point at the elevator bays to the left and look over at her, slightly surprised. “You didn’t make everything beforehand?”

  “Of course not. That would defeat the purpose. I need you to give me your take on the dishes when they’re at their ideal serving temperature. We can’t do that if I have to package them up and cart them across the city through all the vehicle pollution, and subway air, and people. Your boss lady won’t mind if I use her kitchen, will she?”

  An elevator arrives, and we step on. “No, she won’t,” I say, pressing the button to the penthouse level. “But be ready for the dogs to be hovering and begging for scraps at every turn.”

  “A small price to pay for luxury,” she coos in a fake British accent, giving me a wink as she flips back her long blonde locks from one side of her face.

  “Oh, and beware. Daisy opens the stove top pots herself, FYI.”

  “Shit. Really?”

  I nod. “She’s large enough…and sufficiently skilled to pull it off. Just don’t ask me if or when she’s liable to try it. From what I’ve seen, Sheba’s the ringleader. I still can’t figure out his patterns. Honestly, it’s a mystery to me whether he just gets in a mood and encourages Daisy to do his bidding.”

  Emily smiles and cocks her head to one side. “I can’t picture that little thing being a bad influence.”

  “You should see what he put me through this morning.”

  “What did he do?”

  The shame of Sheba leading me right to Jackson cause my cheeks to burn again. “No biggie. He just got me head to toe in mud, then face-to-face with the broody billionaire next door who happens to hate dogs.”

  “What? That bad, huh?” she asks as the elevator opens at the penthouse level.

  “Long story. I motion for her to get off first, and follow behind. “I’ll fill you in while you make me some comfort food.”

  Bailey, Daisy, and Sheba are in the foyer waiting for us as we walk in. “Y’all smelled the food, didn’t you?” I ask. “If you behave, I may let you have a taste. Are you gonna be good girls? And a good boy, Sheba?”

  Sheba leaps up on my leg, wagging his tail and stretching out his tongue to lick my hand.

  “You’d better be good today, boy,” I say, patting the top of his head. “The kitchen’s this way, Em.”

  “This apartment is fabulous,” she says, sighing and gasping for breath with every turn as we make our way through the wide hallways to the custom kitchen. She puts her bags on the kitchen counter and notices the view from the sitting area on one side of the large space. “And I get to top off preparing these tasty bites with a view overlooking the Upper West Side! I’ve died and gone to celebrity chef heaven!”

  “I’m glad you like it,” I tell her, flopping down into the cushioned back bar stools in the kitchen’s main seating area, surrounded by my three doggie musketeers. “But make it quick with the tasty bites, will you? I’m starving.”

  “Hang tight. It’ll be ready soon.”

  “Do you need any help?”

  “No, I’ve got it all covered. Maybe you should tell me what happened with the hot neighbor.”

  While Emily spreads her various freezer bags, bowls, chopping blocks, baking trays, knives and other containers on the kitchen center island to get started, I fill her in on Sheba’s misbehavior, from day one when Vivian was leaving, right up to his stunt this morning.

  “Jesus, it sounds like Sheba’s trying to hook you up with Mr. Money Bags,” Em says.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know. It appears to me that he only goes out on the terrace if your neighbor’s around. And that little joyride he had Daisy take you on this morning…maybe Sheba was running through the park to see him.” She opens the fridge to put a few items inside. “Oooh, a double door stainless steel fridge with an icemaker, lower lever freezer compartment, and a crisper too? And there’s room! You’re so fucking lucky, Dahl.”

  “This is temporary for me, remember? If anything, it’ll make me jaded and depressed when I have to go back to Brooklyn,” I whine.

  “Enjoy it while you can, honey.” She hangs on to the fridge door and turns to look at me. “Oh. That reminds me. Can I come back tomorrow for a repeat?”

  I shrug. “Uh, sure. You want to fatten me up or something?”

  “Well sure, there’s that. But didn’t I tell you? I’m one of only three students from the culinary program who were selected to assist the Blair Rasmus at a fundraising gala for some of New York’s elite, no less.”

  “Wow. No, you didn’t tell me…but I’ve been here all week, so it’s all good. Congrats, Em!”

  She nods proudly, placing some sour cream and other containers in the free spaces of the moderately packed fridge, then moves over to the oven and fiddles with the heat settings to turn it on. “Thanks! Guess where it’s being held?”

  “You’re so excited, you should just tell me,” I say with a grin.

  “The Six-Twenty Loft! It’s the rooftop gardens at the Rockefeller Center.”

  “That’s awesome, Em. That
event space is gorgeous! Even if it is as a chef’s assistant, you’re one of the rare few to grace the place.”

  “Thanks, Dahl.” She opens one of the containers she brought, and begins to spoon out what looks like scone batter on a nonstick baking tray. “So, can we go back to the hot neighbor?”

  “There isn’t much more to share,” I tell her without admitting anything more than I need to. Not that there’s much more at all.

  “Has he asked you out?”

  “What? No. Why would he?”

  “Because, well, it sounds like he might be into you.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “You’re at least on his radar.”

  “No, Sheba annoyed him, and if he keeps it up, it’ll be my ass on the line.” I look down at Sheba, Bailey, and Daisy resting on the floor beside me. Sheba whimpers and lifts his head off the floor. “You heard that, didn’t you, Sheba?”

  He whimpers again and returns his head to his front paws, wagging his tail as he patiently waits to sample Emily’s hors d’oeuvres.

  “I don’t think that’s all there is,” Emily says, placing the baking tray in the oven. “What wealthy, busy Manhattan native would ever take time out of their day to invite you up to their office like that? And don’t tell me he was just being neighborly.”

  “I don’t know, hun.” Letting out a sigh, I shake my head and get to my feet. I’m not going to add fuel to the fire by admitting to the attraction I feel for Jackson. “I have a ton of readings, and three lab write-ups to finish this weekend. Give me a minute. I’ll grab my school stuff upstairs.”

  She smiles and starts working on some mini sausages. “Take your time. I’m just getting warmed up.”

  It takes me a few minutes to grab my backpack and notebooks from my room upstairs, and when I return downstairs, the terrace door is wide open.

  “Emily? Are you out on the balcony?” I call out, hurrying down the hallway to check the door.

  “I’m still working on these appetizers,” she shouts from somewhere in the direction of the kitchen. “Bailey and Daisy are with me. Well, Daisy left for a minute and came back. I don’t see Sheba in here.”

  Alarm bells go off in my head and panic sets in. Crap. “Sheba, I swear! There won’t be any treats tonight if you snuck out again!”

  I stick my head out through the open sliding door. Sheba sees me from his spot at the glass partition to Jackson’s section, barks wildly for a second, and as soon as I’m within arms-length of him, he ducks through the opening.

  “No, Sheba! Get back here,” I call him, and start mumbling under my breath.

  I don’t expect Jackson to be home. I thought he was dealing with something important at his office. Past tense. Was dealing. Because at the moment, he’s standing on the other side of the partition, and Sheba’s at his feet.

  “You owe me now, doll,” Jackson says with a cocky half-smile.

  “Mr. Knight, I’m…I was just upstairs for a minute. I didn’t think Daisy would let Sheba out. Please, he hasn’t done any damage. Can I just come to the front door for him?”

  He shakes his head. “You can come get your mutt,” he barks. “But your apology won’t cut it. Not this time.”

  “But he just got there.”

  “And I told you if he does this again, you’ll have to pay. I wasn’t making idle conversation when I said you’ll be punished.”

  I anxiously fold my arms across my chest as he steps up to the terrace railing. He can’t possibly be talking about pressing charges against me because of Sheba. Can he?

  “How much?” I ask. “What do I owe you? And I hope you realize I don’t have much.”

  “You’ve got plenty, doll,” he says, dragging his gaze as far down my body as he can see from his spot.

  “Actually, I don’t,” I disagree. “I’m on student loans for college, and the money Vivian’s paying me to be here for these few weeks is already spoken for.”

  Jackson’s brother shows up at his door and steps outside, but doesn’t see me right away. “Why the fuck are you out here when we have things to dis—” he says, then stops short when our eyes meet. “Oh. Hi.”

  “Hello,” I answer. “I’m Dahlia.”

  “Hey.” He returns his gaze to his brother. “So uh, I have to leave soon,” he tells Jackson with a smirk. “I’ll be in the study.”

  “On my way.” Jackson turns to me. “Come to the front door for your puppy. I’ll think about your payment and get back to you.”

  I walk through the condo unit and make it to the front door. Jackson’s already waiting for me. Sheba’s bouncing up and down around his feet as they wait.

  He pulls his phone out of his pocket, unlocks the screen, and hands it over to me. “Put your number in there,” he instructs me.

  I take it and silently add my number, then pass the phone back to him. “Can you please reconsider, Mr. Knight?” I plead. “I can’t afford to pay much, and I don’t own anything, so there’s no point trying to sue me.”

  “You’ll pay what I tell you to pay,” he says confidently, turning back to his front door to go inside. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Aww hell. I’m so screwed.

  9

  Jackson

  Jace is a bull in a china shop when he gets an idea into his head. It’s early on Sunday morning, and instead of sleeping in on account of the crazy ass week we’ve had with this set of negotiations, we’re heading to the country club in separate cars to share a round of golf with Dad. This is all Jace’s brainchild. He wants to drop a few hints about these Mont Blanc irregularities, in the broadest of generalities, and see how our father reacts.

  It’s not a bad idea at all, except I prefer to spend my Sunday mornings not wearing plaid or freezing my ass off. Jace knows we can just as easily meet up with Dad for breakfast later, although he’s less likely to be in a welcoming mood by then. He’s always wanted to have Jace and me at his side, partaking in his favorite sport, rather than passing the eggs Benedict. Showing up while he’s playing will help to ensure our conversation is well received if Gerald’s name ends up in the mix.

  Dad’s been at the golf course for over an hour already, so when we arrive, his caddy is driving him back in the golf cart to kick off a second round of nine holes. I’m at a loss on how he managed not to lose a limb from hypothermia out here. There are patches of ice and snow drifts everywhere. Fuck, the turf crunches under my feet as we start walking to the golf cart. There’s no way I’ll make it through a full round, nor do I want to.

  “Pops,” I call to him. “Any chance we can make this a driving range visit instead?”

  Dad gives me a hard look. “It’s not that cold, son. See, this kind of weather will toughen you up for winter rounds.” I’m hardened enough, but I keep my commentary to myself and wait for him to mull it over. He looks over at Jace. “What about you? Did I raise one wuss, or two?”

  Jace knows not to play into Dad’s ribbing. He raises his eyebrows and presses his lips into a thin line. “None, Pops. Can you feel that wind? It’s like the Arctic out here. I’d actually prefer racquetball right about now. Or a hot breakfast inside. And coffee. The driving range sounds like a happy medium. How about it?”

  “That would be two wusses,” Dad deadpans. “Driving range it is, then.”

  Jace and I don’t agree on everything, but we stick together without exception when it comes to facing off with Dad. Not that our old man is the enemy, but he’s old school, a self-made billionaire who made his mark on the cutthroat oil business in Texas. He’s as tough as they come, and won’t hesitate to bust our balls to get a point across.

  His caddy sets us up at one end of the driving range, giving each of us a tee-off spot and a large bucket of balls. Dad is positioned between us, and he doesn’t waste a second. We watch as he picks his favorite club, sets himself on the patch of frost-covered turf, and makes the swing, hitting his first golf ball.

  “Nice one,” Jace tells him.

  Dad sets himself for anot
her swing, but stops to glance over at each of us. “Cut the crap, boys. Which one of you is planning to tell me why you’re here?”

  “We have a few questions,” I shout through the biting wind.

  He makes his swing and hits a perfect drive. “About what?”

  “Pretty general stuff. I’m curious, Dad, have you seen a lot of hedge fund firms that have a hundred percent stake in privately run companies?”

  “Is this about Mont Blanc?” he asks with more interest.

  “This is hypothetical for now, so let’s say, maybe. Are there a lot of cases like these that you’ve run into?” I repeat, if only to redirect him from the connection to Mont Blanc.

  He switches clubs in favor of a nine-iron, and resets. “Only if the subsidiary has an IPO in the works, but the parent company would have to divest itself of all ownership at least a couple of years before the subsidiary goes public. Otherwise, the SEC will get involved, and once they crawl up your ass, don’t expect them to leave empty handed.”

  “Nice visual, Pop, but that does make sense. What if they aren’t going public?”

  “Then you can bet your last dollar the hedge fund firm has plans to chop up the subsidiary and sell it for parts. Think about it, kid. Firms like ours have no business sticking our noses in the day to day operations of assets in our ledger. It’s counterproductive.”

  I nod over at Jace who, like me, hasn’t hit a single drive yet. “Got it. IPO or liquidation.”

  Dad stops practicing his swing and turns squarely to me. “Do you boys need to tell me something?” I don’t say a word, so he turns to Jace. “Anything?”

  “No,” Jace lies, setting his golf club back in the case.

  “Do you take me for a fool, boy? You two haven’t been up this early in years, let alone come to the golf course to see your old man. What the hell’s going on?”

  “It’s way too early in the game to tell, Pops, but you’ll be the first person we talk to once we verify some information.”