Stingray Billionaire: The Complete Series (An Alpha Billionaire Romance)

by Alexa Davis

  Naturally, there are times when it does get in the way.

  For instance, right now. I’m sitting in the restaurant, working on my third round of free chips and salsa and people are starting to stare.

  I suspect this afternoon would have gone quite a bit differently if nobody had ever bothered to take my picture or write down my name. If nothing else, I’m sure Ellie wouldn’t have fainted and then stood me up at this restaurant.

  The waiter comes over and compliments me on my cell phone. When I tell him, “Oh, it’s great. Believe it or not, I can order a cruise missile strike with the touch of a button,” he just stands there a minute.

  People sometimes tell me I’ve got a dark sense of humor, but that line tickles me.

  “Don’t worry,” I say to the young man with the rather pale face and the pitcher of ice water, “I’m pretty excited about the free chips. I think I’ll spare the restaurant.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

  His nametag says Daryl.

  “Daryl, I wonder if you could help me with something,” I say.

  “Anything, sir,” he says. His voice is quivering almost as much as his hands. If he makes it back to the kitchen with half the water that used to be in the pitcher, it’ll be a hell of a feat.

  I glance around and lean toward the young man. He leans forward to match me, and in a slow, even tone, I ask, “Could I get some more salsa?”

  It takes a few seconds for Daryl the waiter to process that I’m not going to threaten to blow up anything. I think the reason that particular gag amuses me to the extent it does is that people are so quick to believe I’ve got missile codes just because I have a multi-billion dollar corporation under me.

  As I think about it; I do have the phone numbers of more than a few senators and congresspeople in the phone sitting so calmly on the Formica table in front of me. There are a couple of governors in there as well, but they only call when they want something, and I’m pretty sure they have little to do with offensive strikes.

  I guess if I wanted to, though, I could make it happen.

  That’s a realization I’m not likely to forget.

  “Oh, sir,” Daryl the waiter says. “Yes, sir.”

  He scampers off, and I allow myself the slightest of smiles. Even with the recognition of my almost frightening and disproportionate amount of power, however, I’m still a guy sitting alone in a restaurant.

  Daryl comes back to the table, and I’m pretty sure he stole the salsa he’s now putting in front of me from that older couple’s table in the corner. “Here you go, sir,” Daryl says and tries to make a quick escape.

  I don’t let him. “Hey, Daryl,” I say. He freezes midstep, walking away from me.

  “Yeah?” he asks, turning around.

  If I couldn’t see all the eyes set on me right now, I bet I’d still be able to feel them.

  “Would you mind coming over here a second?” I ask. “I prefer not to shout.”

  Too quick for dignity, Daryl’s at my table, and I think if there is a next time, I’ll offer to take Ellie somewhere a bit less public. If this is uncomfortable for me, I can only imagine it must be that much more painful to watch. When it’s happening to someone else, you don’t have the illusion you can do anything about it.

  Then again, she lucked out by not coming. It was a brilliant move. I’m starting to believe I should have done the same.

  “Did you need something?” Daryl asks.

  “Yeah, could I have the check?” I ask.

  Daryl shakes his head but doesn’t say anything.

  “Daryl, if you’re trying to communicate something to me, I don’t follow,” I say.

  He keeps shaking his head. “The chips and salsa are free,” he says.

  “The water?” I ask.

  “Free,” Daryl answers.

  “Well then, I suppose all that’s left is to say good evening,” I tell Daryl. I’m almost sure I hear a few scattered voices echoing my final two words.

  When people want to impress you or make themselves out to be a kindred spirit, the first thing they’ll do is learn how to agree with everything you say. When you’re not giving them any opinions, the more ardent will just repeat the last few words you say while mirroring your gestures and nodding while you talk.

  What I’ve never understood is how these people assume I’m a decent person. Most of the billionaires I’ve met are the most callous, craven bastards with whom I’ve ever had the misfortune to share a room.

  With millionaires, it’s more of a mixed bag.

  “Good evening,” Daryl says, and I finally feel like I can get up without committing some crime, though my eyes are on Daryl as I grab my cell phone off the table.

  When I’m on the spot like this, I always feel like I’m supposed to say something even when logic clearly shows otherwise. “You stay out of trouble,” I tell Daryl. “Stay in school and don’t do drugs, unless they’re legal, or you have a prescription, but even then, you know,” I say, “go easy.”

  Sometimes I forget how much I hated this town.

  Finally leaving the table—and a generous tip—I endure a few autographs before I make it to the door. It’s not that I’m stuck up: I’d just like to leave this restaurant as quickly as possible.

  After I’ve finally signed almost everything offered me—I draw the metaphorical line at underwear—I walk out the door, almost running into Ellie.

  “You’re here,” she says, her face a certain shade of embarrassed. “I thought you’d have left by now.”

  “I didn’t believe you were coming,” I answer. “We can head inside if you want, but I’m assuming you wouldn’t be out here right now if there weren't some conflicting feelings. Can I tell you something that might take the pressure off, though?” I ask.

  She’s crossing her arms, turned partially away from me. “What?” she asks.

  “I just want dinner,” I tell her. “Me being who I am—I’m assuming that’s what’s bothering you?”

  She nods. “It’s a little weird having a big-time CEO walk into your nothing shop in the middle of nowhere and ask you out for dinner at the middling of three restaurants in the village,” she says. “It makes me wonder what it is you actually want.”

  Ellie’s elbow-length, straight, auburn hair catches a little in the breeze, and now she’s brushing it out of her almost turquoise eyes. Sure, the romantic lighting is provided by the flashing green and red neon sign in the window next to us, but she’s enough to leave me searching for words.

  “It’s dinner,” I tell her. “Well, dinner and your company during that dinner are what I was hoping for, if you want to get specific, but that’s the end of the plot.”

  “You sound like someone who’s used to people distrusting you,” she says.

  I smile, but I hold back my chuckle. “Nobody owns a company and doesn’t have enemies,” I tell her.

  “But out here, where the richest family in town is the one that runs the gas station and has a two-level house and a basement instead of a two-level house including the basement, it’s different, right?” she asks. “You don’t have any enemies out here because the only thing people know about you is the money. Because of that, you’re supposed to be able just to walk into a shop, pick a girl, and then that’s that until you get sick of her, but that’s not me. You walked into the wrong store and picked the wrong woman if you think I’m going to throw myself at you because you’re in the newspaper.”

  “You guys get newspapers out here?” I ask. If they ever replace me as CEO, it’ll be because I find the worst moments to tell jokes.

  Her eyes narrow and she shakes her head at me. I just want to have dinner and a conversation with Ellie, but there’s a real and growing risk of me getting punched in the neck.

  “I make jokes when I’m on the spot,” I tell her. “It’s a character flaw. It’s pretty universally despised, and I apologize.”

  “Hey, look,” she says, “it’s magically all better now even though you st
ill haven’t answered my original question.”

  I’m looking up and to the left for my memory, but I don’t find it. “I’m sorry,” I say, “to which question are you referring?”

  “Listen, Nikolai—Nick,” she says, reaching her hand out to shake mine, “it’s been real interesting getting to know you. And I’m sure the people in town will be telling their great-grandchildren about way back when, but I don’t think this was such a good idea.”

  I take a deep breath and blow it out. “Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry that’s the way you feel, but I’m not going to press the issue. I am going to be in town for a while, but I can give you my card if you change your mind. That’s up to you.”

  It’s unclear whether it’s because she wants a souvenir of that time she told me off or if she might change her mind. She doesn’t say. Regardless, when I pull the card out of the inside pocket of my suit coat, she takes it.

  Walking away now, I don’t know how this is going to end, only that it hasn’t yet. It’s hard to convince someone you’re a regular person who just got on board with an excellent idea and that idea happened to make a lot of money, but that’s what happened. That’s what and who I am.

  She has to be the one to make the decision if she’s going to get invested enough to find that out, though. I can’t force her into believing I’m a good man.

  At this point, I’d love to be the hard one who’s going to tell this part of the story to his friends as, “You gotta show ‘em you’re willing to walk away: It’s business 101,” or something like that. If that were the kind of nonsense going through my head, I wouldn’t have this all-encompassing insecurity that I honestly haven’t felt in a very, very long time.

  Of course, then I’d also be a callous jerk, and from what I hear, that comes with its own set of problems. I’m most of the way down the block before I give in to my curiosity and look back toward the restaurant.

  Ellie’s still in front of Carne Celeste. She’s not watching me go, though. She has a cell phone in her hand, and it appears that she’s referencing a business card, undoubtedly mine.

  There’s still no way to know whether she’s considering calling me at some point or if she just wants to have something to show her friends when she’s talking about how pompous I am. As I turn back to face the street ahead, though, I can’t help feeling I’ve succeeded in a rather profound way.

  There’s nothing left for me to do tonight—in town, anyway. Back at the Plimpington Hotel, though, there’s a lot that still needs to get done.

  When the owner of the hotel said that we could rent out the whole place, I answered that wouldn’t be necessary. He said, “Okay,” and we moved on with the specifics.

  When he offered again later in the conversation, I was curious, but still rejected the idea. He didn’t know I was considering making Mulholland Stingray’s new base of operations, and even if he did, he would have also learned there are only about two dozen people out here with me. The bulk of Stingray and all of its non-me higher ups are still back in Manhattan, and even if I do find what I’m looking for in Mulholland, a lot of those people are going to stay right where they are.

  Of course, the board will have to relocate, or I’ll be the one who has to travel to every morning meeting out of state. That part’s unavoidable, but I’m not looking to abandon New York.

  When the owner of the hotel insisted that we have the place to ourselves, but that the only way to do that would be to rent out the whole place, I finally got the message.

  I offered to rent out every room that was not currently occupied, but the line got silent about that time. Eventually, I relented. Until we get something more permanent, the temporary corporate headquarters of one of the biggest companies to come out of the last decade is the Plimpington Hotel.

  When I finally turn the corner, I pull out my cell phone and call my driver. He picks me up as I’m walking and we head back to the hotel. I’m barely out of the car before I have staff dropping files in my hand and giving me cell phones, two at a time so I can figure out whatever doom has befallen the world since I left for Carne Celeste.

  Even as I’m signing documents like they’re autographs and giving one-word answers to very complex questions that don’t get a chance to get fully asked, my mind is on that sidewalk, looking back and seeing Ellie put my number into her phone.

  I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself here, and I can’t say for certain that I even saw it, but I could almost swear Ellie had a smile on her face.

  Chapter Three

  Naomi and the Dog

  Ellie

  “You know what else would be awesome about you and Nikolai marrying each other?” Naomi asks. This game stopped being fun before it started.

  “I’m not listening,” I tell her and try to focus on the dishes she’s supposed to be drying.

  “We’d never have to go bargain shopping again,” Naomi says as she bends down to give Max, my yellow lab, a scratch behind the ears. “And you could have the best dog food all the time.”

  Max wags his tail at the mention of the word food.

  “You know you have to give him something now, or else he’s just going to follow you around until you do,” I tell Naomi. “Are you going to help me with these or what?” I ask.

  “I don’t get you,” she says. “You’re always talking about how you want to break out of this rut you’ve been in, and then a freaking CEO comes into your store and asks you on a date. Honestly, karmically I mean,” she says, “if you don’t jump him, you’re slapping the universe in the face.”

  “With you as my roommate, I think I owe it a few,” I tell her. “I think it’ll get over it.”

  I took the card. I even added the number to my phone, but after three weeks, I still haven’t called. To be honest, I don’t even know if he’s still in town. If he is, I doubt he’d still be interested.

  “You say that now,” Naomi says, “but this isn’t the kind of thing that just happens to people. Everyone you ever tell the story to is going to think you’re an idiot if you don’t at least give him a call and see where it goes.”

  “How often do you imagine I’m going to tell the story?” I ask. “Some guy thought I might be an easy target, but I didn’t let myself get caught. That sounds like every story a woman has ever told after going to a club. I’m not joking about Max,” I add. “You dropped the f-bomb. Treats are on top of the refrigerator, in case you forgot.”

  “Just give me one good reason why you won’t call him and I’ll leave you alone,” she says.

  She’s lying.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask.

  Just because Naomi is the most frustratingly lucky person I know doesn’t mean she’s any good with money. She’s not so great about responsibility, either. It’s fifty-fifty she’s supposed to be at work right now.

  “The boss gave me a day,” she says.

  “What’d you do?” I ask.

  The one breed of human Naomi’s luck doesn’t seem to affect are her employers. They tend not to appreciate the constant lateness, overbearing personality, and more than a few have made the mistake of bringing up Naomi’s nose, lip, and eyebrow rings as a bad thing. Those conversations never end well.

  “I didn’t do anything,” she says. “I’m being rewarded.”

  “Oh,” I say, and in a slightly different tone, I ask again, “What’d you do?”

  “Well,” she says, “it’s not so much what I did.”

  I’m going to hate this story; I know it.

  “I was out at lunch with Kim, and she got into a little fender bender with a mailbox,” she says.

  “Uh huh,” I respond, unimpressed. “So what did you tell your boss happened?”

  “That’s not the point,” she says. “The point is that I have been through a traumatic experience, and I just need a day to clear my head so I can come back to work with, you know …”

  “A clear head?” I ask. “I’ve looked through your ears. I’d say it’s p
retty vacant up there as it is.”

  “Kim’s fine, by the way,” Naomi says, “not that you care or anything.”

  “You just said it was a minor fender bender with a mailbox? How injured could she possibly have been?” I ask.

  Naomi’s about to answer, but her eyes go wide, and she pitches forward as Max head-butts her directly in the posterior. I would catch her, but it’s more rewarding if I don’t.

  “I told you,” I say. “If you mention food around Max, you’ve got to follow through. He doesn’t take being teased lightly.”

  “You’ve got to teach your dog about personal space,” Naomi says, rubbing her butt before leaning back against the counter as Max stares up at her with a beautiful, canine smile.

  “Top of the fridge,” I tell her. “It’s your only way out of this mess you’ve caused.”

  “I love how everything’s my mess,” Naomi snarks.

  I smile. “Me too,” I tell her. “It’s always made me feel like the responsible one.”

  “You’re a peach,” she says.

  Peach doesn’t mean peach.

  “You know, it’s funny,” she says.

  “I bet it’s not,” I answer.

  She scoffs and says, “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

  “Don’t need to,” I tell her, shutting off the water. “Dry the dishes or don’t,” I say. “I’m done.”

  She says, “It’s funny that you chastise me for accidentally teasing Max by saying the word—”

  “Oh, I really wouldn’t repeat it,” I tell her as Max’s lips come together in anticipation of the treat he is rightfully owed.

  “You chastise me for teasing Max with … that, but aren’t doing the same thing to Nikolai?” she asks.

  “I’m not even speaking to him,” I tell her. “How is that teasing?”

  “You took the card,” she says. “If you weren’t going to call, why’d you take the card?”

  “Someone hands you a card, you take it,” I answer. “Besides, you’ve been bugging me so much about it that I tore the card up days ago.”