“I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Father. If you need revisions on the report—”
“This is not about one silly report,” snapped his father, “any more than the eight before that you supposedly produced. This is about revisions in your life.”
Malloy leaned over the desk and stared straight into his son’s eyes.
“It’s time you grow up. You've had the best education money could buy. I’ve given you a position in this office that you could make something of. I’ve watched and waited for you to become the man you should be. But you continue to waste one opportunity after another until it has had a deleterious effect on the company. Calvin, don’t you understand that after that shameful news report about you our stocks dropped five points this morning? I may have to buy some of our own stock to prevent it from sliding further and that won’t be good.”
Crash winced, not just because his father called him Calvin, which he rarely did, but also because he did understand about stocks. He felt a twinge of regret that his father might have to buy stocks to shore up the price even if it signaled a weakness in the company. This could cause the stock to drop even more.
“I’m very sorry.” And this time Crash did mean it. He only wanted to have a good time. Crash did not want to jeopardize his family’s financial holdings.
“Are you, Calvin? I wonder. But things have gone past apologies. It is time for action.”
Crash’s throat went dry even though he returned his father’s steely gaze. When his father geared up into “the time for action” speech, things were extremely dire. At times like this, his father’s mind was an incalculable mystery. To Crash's horror, Malloy Abrams' plan went far beyond the scope of what Crash would guess the man would do.
“It is time, son, for you to marry. I would like you to have someone by Labor Day weekend this year. It’s a few months away. It should be enough time for you to find someone you would like to settle down with. Am I clear?”
“But Fathe…”
“I have heard enough, Calvin. You may leave now.”
“Yes, Father,” said Crash as he got up to leave. He knew there was absolutely no point in arguing any further. At the same time, he was glad the long and awkward conversation was finally over.
***
Crash woke and scrubbed his face with his hands and ran them through his hair. There was a dull thump behind his eyes that worsened when he moved. Slowly, half memories of the previous night seeped through his brain, and he got the impression he was forgetting something. Where was he? This place didn’t look familiar. Focusing, he recognized he was in a hotel. Good. At least he had the sense to check into a hotel rather than drive back to town in whatever state he was in. He glanced to the right-hand side of his bed and didn’t see anyone there. He thought he brought someone with him but no one was there. She probably left.
He picked up his wallet on the nightstand and checked the cash. Yep. Gone. So she did leave, whoever she was and took money for a cab. Or whatever. No matter. He’d get more cash on his way out.
Crash’s phone blipped and he stared at the reminder notice on the screen. No doubt, his administrative assistant put it there. When did the summer get away from him? It was quarterly report day again, but worse yet, it was only three days from his father’s Labor Day party, an Abrams family tradition. He had not done the one thing his father demanded of him.
He did not find a fiancé.
Crash’s father was quite firm on that spring day just before Memorial Day. Crash was to find a girl to marry and present her on the Labor Day Bash. But Crash shrugged his shoulders. Sometimes his father got like that, full of fire and billowing smoke, but he’d let the matter drop over time. This is what Crash counted on when he heard his father’s ridiculous proposal. The old man would come around. Malloy Abrams wasn’t the poster boy for marital bliss. After Crash’s mother died, the old man didn’t seem to have the heart to keep any one woman around for long.
The phone on the nightstand rang. The trilling was a foreign sound, and it made Crash’s head pound.
“Yes,” he said.
“Mr. Abrams, I’m sorry. You’ll have to come to the desk.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Please come to the desk, Sir.”
He threw on the clothes he found on the floor - black jeans and a white sports shirt. Crash would take a shower at his apartment before he went into the office. Unable to find his socks, he pushed his feet into his loafers without them and ran his fingers through his hair to give it some semblance of order. Under the clothes lay an opened condom wrapper, more evidence of his nocturnal activities. At least he was careful. He picked it up and pitched into the wastebasket.
At the desk, the clerk looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Mr. Abrams. Your credit card was declined.”
“What? No. That can’t be right,” said Crash.
“Yes, Sir. It comes up as a code sixty-five, your account limit has been reached.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s a black card. I have no limit.”
“Sir, I’m sorry. You’ll have to call the number on the back and discuss it with them. Do you have another method of payment?”
Crash offered up one card, then another, and those cards declined as well.
“Mr. Abrams, we need payment on this room.”
“Look, I’ll send the money to you. I just need to get to my bank and straighten this out.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Abrams. But if you leave before you pay for the room, we will have to call the police.”
“What?” said Crash, now getting upset. This was an unfamiliar feeling - not having the money to pay for something. Hurriedly he called his father though it was frightfully early. But the old man was always up early to catch the action on the Asian markets.
“Yes?” asked Malloy coldly from the other end of the line.
“Dad, there’s a problem with my credit cards and I have to get this hotel bill paid. Do you know what the problem is?”
“Yes,” said Malloy.
“Well, good lord, what is it?”
“You,” Malloy retorted. The line clicked off.
“Fuck!” said Crash. What was the old man up to now? This was a new development and entirely unforeseen.
He dialed the number again.
“Dad. Sorry. We were cut off.”
“I know. I ended the call.”
“Dad, tell me what’s going on.”
There was a frosty silence over the line where Crash heard his father breathing. Oh god, the man has gone off his rocker, thought Crash. Who can I call to help him? Crash realized there wasn’t a single person he could call to check on his father.
“Son, I told you what I expected at the beginning of the summer, and to date you’ve done nothing about it. In fact, you haven’t changed your life one bit. You’ve ignored me, and I won’t have it. So as long as you do that, I’ve decided not to fund your lifestyle.” Malloy hung up the phone, leaving Crash in the middle of the lobby of the hotel dazed and confused.
What was he supposed to do now? He considered making a dash out of the door, which was a foolish idea, but he patted his jacket pockets and found he didn’t have his car keys. Maybe he left them in his room. In any case, he needed to make some phone calls and he didn't like the idea of doing that in the middle of the lobby.
“I’m just going to make some calls from my room. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll have this misunderstanding cleared up.”
“I’m afraid I’ve deactivated your key, Sir.”
Crash shook his head with a strange feeling of being stripped naked in front of this stranger. It was a horrible thought that he didn’t have the means to pay for this room.
“The breakfast nook is over in the corner, sir. You can make your calls there.”
A notification of an incoming email flashed across Ginger’s screen. Her eyes widened when she saw it was from Crash.
Ms. Williams,
Call my personal number immediately
.
CA
Hurriedly she called up his number, pre-programmed for a contingency like this, and waited as the phone rang several times before Crash answered.
“Ms. Williams, I need you to bring five hundred dollars to the Harrington Hotel in, where am I?” He sounded like he was speaking to someone else. “Lodi? Oh for— Yes, Lodi, New Jersey.”
Lodi? What the heck was he doing in Lodi? The middle class town was not his kind of neighborhood.
“Sir? Should I draw petty cash for that?”
“Can you do that?”
She looked at her watch. “If I catch Ellen in accounting before lunch, I should be able to, but, Sir, I’ll have to put in your signature, if you know what I mean.”
“Whatever you need, do it.”
“Can I wire the money over? I don’t have my own car and—”
“Do you take wire transfers? No? Sorry, Ms. Williams, you’ll need to bring it yourself. Sign a voucher for a company car, too, one of the limos, and get down here as fast as you can.”
“Yes, Sir.”
It took her an hour to fill out the necessary forms and get them processed through the various departments. She had to wheedle her way to get the limo by smiling a little too much at the transportation manager and showing him a little leg. She didn’t like doing it, but Crash had already texted her five times asking her if she was on her way. At this moment she was gaining a firm dislike of the billionaire playboy. But finally she had the five hundred dollars in cash in her purse and stepped into the limo giving the driver the address.
“Lodi, Miss?” the driver, whose name was Moz, said incredulously.
“Yes. And please hurry. Mr. Abrams is waiting.”
“Is that the young Mr. Abrams, miss?”
“Yes,” said Ginger.
Moz chuckled. “I’ve driven him before, Miss. Leave it to Mr. Crash to end up in a place like the butt end of New Jersey. Don’t you worry, we’ll go rescue Mr. Crash from whatever trouble he’s gotten into.”
They pulled up to the front door of hotel where Crash stood, an impatient look on his face. In a few steps he was at the limo and pulled open the door.
“Do you have the money?”
“Yes, of course.” Ginger handed him the envelope. “Please make sure you get the receipt. I have to file it with accounting.”
“Yes, Ms. Williams. Thank you.”
“Wilmot.”
“What?”
“My name is Wilmot. Ginger Wilmot.”
“Yes, of course,” said Crash. “I’ll be right back.”
Ginger fidgeted in the back seat. She thought about the report that needed to be filed today. In her rush she didn’t think to bring the copies with her. The time stretched on and she looked at her watch. How much longer was it going to take?
The limo door opened and Crash stepped in. His face had a harried look which was unusual for him.
“Where we going, Mr. Crash?” said Moz through the open privacy window.
“Hello, Moz. My apartment.”
“Yes, Mr. Crash. We’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”
“Thanks, Moz.”
Crash pulled out his phone, and stared it for long time, swiping through several apps. Eventually he put it back in his pocket. He sat looking out of the window for a long time.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Abrams?” she ventured.
He turned his head toward her. “Nothing for you to worry about.” Then he cocked his head and studied her as if figuring something out.
“What are you doing this weekend?” he asked.
“Me? Not much.”
“Hmmm,” he said. “If I needed you this weekend, could you be available?”
“Well, it is a holiday weekend, Sir.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll give you a week off, with pay, if you can help me out.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Let’s have some lunch and talk about it.”
When they reached his apartment he found, to his disgust, that the doorman stopped him at the door.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Abrams. Your father told me to confiscate your key.”
This was entirely enough. Crash was at the limit of his patience. It took all the effort he had not to snap at the man.
“Let me, at least me get some clothes.”
The man hesitated.
“Come on. At least that.”
“Okay, Sir.”
Crash waved his assistant out of the limo. “Would you mind? I need a hand here.”
Ginger followed Crash into the Manhattan condo. The marble walls and floor of the atrium gleamed brightly from the light streaming into the high glass windows of the building’s entrance. She’d never seen a place like this outside of magazines and thought she probably made a fool of herself staring at everything.
Crash stood next to her in the elevator, every muscle in his body tense. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing him so stressed, but then again, he did seem to be having a bad day.
When the door opened it revealed a huge living room filled with massive pieces of furniture. To the left was a staircase with silver metal railings and what looked like frosted glass steps.
“Come upstairs,” said Crash.
She followed him up the stairs, filled with trepidation. What was he doing? Obviously he was leading her to his bedroom. At the top of the stairs she found him pulling out luggage out of a closet on one side of the room. On the other he had another closet open, a walk-in that was the size of her apartment.
“I’m going to need the usual,” he said, “underwear, shoes, socks, shirts, a couple suits and some casual wear.”
“Excuse me?” she said.
He pulled off his shirt.
“I’m going to take a shower, and I’d appreciate it if you pack a few things for me.”
She stared at his broad, muscular chest, and swallowed hard when her eyes wandered to his six pack abs honed to perfection. No wonder so many women chased him. But Ginger’s mouth must have hung open stupidly because he gave her a really surprised look.
“You want me…to pack for you?”
“Is it a problem?” he asked.
“I, well, uh,” Ginger stammered.
“Look, I realize this is not in your usual job description, but you’d be helping me out here.”
“Of course, Sir,” she squeaked. Her mouth was as dry as if it were stuffed with cotton. “What should I pack?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just something of everything.”
He disappeared behind another door and Ginger heard the shower start. This is too much, she thought. There he is naked in the next room and I’m standing out here and he wants me to pack his clothes? And what does he want to talk to me about at lunch?
Within an hour, she found the answers. Crash was dressed in one of his Italian suits looking more composed than she had seen him all day. He gave Moz an address in Soho and soon they were sitting in a very upscale restaurant. The hostess greeted Crash by name and, despite the line of people waiting to be seated, escorted them to a private dining room. The maitre’d entered and immediately poured Crash a small amount of white wine. Crash sniffed it, and then gave it a little taste.
“Perfect, Indo.” The maitre’d poured both of them generous glasses of wine.
“Chef is preparing his special for you today. We’ll start with a pear and prosciutto salad, and for the main dish, grilled salmon with a Tomato-Vinaigrette reduction.”
“Sounds perfect, Indo.”
“Very good, Sir.”
Indo left the room.
“You certainly get good service here.”
“I should. I own the place.”
“You do? I didn’t know you have other business interests.”
He half snorted, half chuckled. “This place is the one thing that is truly my own. I used my graduation present to buy it.”
“So it’s not part of Abrams’ International.”
“No. My father thought I was
quite foolish to invest in the restaurant business and I think he’s forgotten it by now. But while it’s not bringing in tons of money, it’s in the black after only two years, so I think we did okay here.”
Ginger looked at him with new appreciation. Building a new restaurant in New York City and have it profitable within two years was quite an accomplishment. Sixty percent of all new restaurants failed.
“Yes,” she said. “You certainly have.”
***
Her green eyes sparkled when she looked at him, and despite the difficult day, the calm in her look made him feel like he could take on any situation in the world. And maybe he could. All he needed was some breathing room from his father’s ridiculous idea of him getting married and could work things out. Maybe he’d cut down on the partying and put some more time in at the office. He hated it there, but if it made his father happy, maybe that’s what he had to do.
“Ms. Williams--”
“Wilmot,” she said.
“Wilmot. Well, I can’t keep calling you that, can I? What’s your first name?”
“Ginger.”
He smiled. That was a name he couldn’t forget, especially because of her fiery red hair. Crash wondered if it was true what they said about redheads being fiery in bed. He’d never known a true red headed woman.
“Ginger, you really do have beautiful eyes.”
She looked down at her glass.
“Mr. Abrams—”
“Crash.”
“Why do they call you that anyway?”
He smiled. “It’s not a story I tell.”
“Why? Is that your way of being mysterious?”
“No. It’s just a very silly story that a grown man wouldn’t tell to anyone.”
“Would I laugh?”
“Probably,” he admitted.
Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “Tell me.”
“When I was a little boy, I had a tricycle I crashed into everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes. If it was a solid object, I’d run right into it.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Because it was fun.”
“You’re right. It is a silly story. And probably not true.”
“God’s honest, I swear.”
The Billionaire's Fake Marriage (A Romance Collection Boxed Set) Page 22
