Bad Boy of Wall Street: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

by Samantha Westlake

  Business had been especially slow, as of late, and I'd been spending more time on the auction sites than usual. After an hour of scrolling through page after page of blurry, out-of-focus pictures of old bits of someone else's life, I groaned and pushed my laptop away. I reached up to rub my eyes, although I still saw old roll-top desks and bits of tarnished silverware when I pressed my palms against my face.

  I needed a job, a real one, something bigger than just driving out to some farmer's barn to look at the old chairs he'd found underneath the stacked bales of hay. I needed something that had a contract, that could pay me for multiple full days of work.

  Also, despite the clock barely having rolled over from AM to PM, I needed a drink, something with more than caffeine in it.

  Fortunately, although I didn't know where to find a decently paying job in my field, I did have a line on that drink situation. And best of all, I knew that my drink would also come with a comforting shoulder to lean on, and free advice thrown in, courtesy of Della.

  Besides, I told myself as I packed up my laptop, sliding it into its fuzzy carrying case and then sliding that into my shoulder bag, Della's wine bar had wifi, so I could do work there at the same time as I enjoyed my drink. I could probably even write off the alcohol as a business expense, assuming that I ever sat down and figured out exactly how to track all of these itemized deduction things on my taxes.

  In my driveway, my little two-door Mazda started up on the second try, and I breathed out a little sigh of relief. "Good job," I told the car, reaching forward and patting the dashboard, trying not to feel at all silly about talking to the vehicle.

  I took my time in weaving my way out of the little residential development, into downtown. Of course, given how it was only slightly after noon, I didn't have any trouble finding a parking spot outside my destination. I climbed out of my car and looked up at Della's storefront.

  VINI WINE BAR, the top line of text read, in big, reassuringly clear letters. Just below this, in curving cursive script, was the second line: DOLORES RUTHERS, PROPRIETOR.

  I smiled, checked the handle of my car to make sure that the doors were locked (I'd somehow managed to break the automatic locks almost two years ago, and three different mechanics hadn't been able to figure out the root cause of the issue. Resulting to practicality over paying more men to frown at my car's innards, I just got in the habit of making sure that I locked the doors whenever I got out, and using my key to get in.), and then headed up to the wine bar's front door, tugging it open and slipping inside.

  The little bell over the door jangled at my arrival, and I saw my best friend glance up from her spot behind the counter on the far side, her big, expressive features spreading into a genuine smile. "Elaine!" she called out, like she was announcing my arrival to the empty room.

  I smiled back. "Hi, Della. Glass, please?"

  Chapter Four

  *

  Della's wine bar was, as I'd told her many times, a technological marvel.

  All along two of the sides of the interior, large machines were set into the walls, rows of thin spigots extending out from the wall over narrow drip trays. Just below these spigots, a glass panel revealed rows of wine bottles tucked inside these machines, a straw sliding into the neck of each bottle and down to its base. Little placards above each spigot revealed details about the wine flavors, origins, and types, and at the push of a single button above each spigot, that spigot would dispense a perfect three-ounce pour from the wine bottle behind the glass panel.

  Whenever I wanted a drink, I'd meander along the wall, running my eyes hungrily over the labels and the rows of displayed bottles until I found my chosen variety of wine. I'd then slide a little plastic card into a slot above that section of machine, press the button above the spigot, and wine would be dispensed out into my waiting glass. The cost of that glass of wine was automatically deducted from the cash balance on the card, which I could withdraw and take with me.

  Until someone worked out a machine that would literally dispense wine at the swipe of a credit card, this was the next best thing, and I never got tired of watching the wine come flowing out of the thin little spigot I chose.

  Della had seen a similar setup in another bar out on the west coast, in California, and immediately wanted to try it for herself. She'd contacted the manufacturer, gotten him to bemusedly agree to ship some of these machines out to Illinois, and opened up her own wine bar. The place was an immediate hit, and she loved how she largely just had to swap out empty bottles and keep a supply of fresh wine glasses flowing, and the rest of the bar practically ran itself.

  Now, as I dropped my computer on one of the empty little cafe tables scattered around the interior, Della snagged two clean wine glasses from beneath the counter and bustled over to me, setting one of them on the table beside me so that I could choose my first glass when I was ready. With a flourish, she reached into her incredible, expansive bosom and produced a plastic card of her own, making it twist and bounce around her fingers before catching it out of the air and turning to the row of wine choices.

  After I'd withdrawn my computer from its protective case, I grabbed my own glass, my own wine card out of my wallet, and stood up to join her. "So, what's good today?" I asked, my eyes greedily running over the rows of wine bottles.

  "How do you feel about white?" she replied, nodding towards one end of the spigots. "I just got a bunch of fresh riesling in. No oak, lots of fresh berries, very forward and bright. Good for a midday wine to sip."

  I grinned at her, already moving forward. "Either I'm an easy mark, or you're a heck of a saleswoman, Della," I said, finding the new bottle (Della put little orange stickers above new additions, making them easy to spot) and dispensing a serving into my glass.

  After a moment, Della chose a light, bubbly red and settled down into the seat across from me at my little table. "I think you just know how amazing my palate is, that's all," she chuckled, beaming at me over the lip of her glass before taking a sip. "Although you do seem to get me drinking far more of my own product than I ought to consume."

  "At least you've got business," I said after taking a sip of my own choice of beverage. "Want to send some of those good vibes my way?"

  She regarded me sympathetically, and I knew that she was fighting the urge to lunge across the table and pull me into one of her soft, plushy, comforting hugs. "Not getting much business in the furniture appraisal world, these days?"

  "Little jobs, here and there. But if I want to get all of my bills out of the way, make some headway on actually building up some savings, I need a big job. And those don't come along too often." I sighed, pushing my computer back shut. I wasn't going to get any work done here, no matter my original intentions. "And it's been a while."

  "Aww. I'm sorry, honey." Della reached up and brushed her waves of almond brown hair back behind her ears. The effort was useless, of course, because it all immediately sprang back out into waves falling all around her head, but she still looked amazing. Somehow, in the years since high school, Della had blossomed from a chubby and self-conscious little girl into an outgoing and confident woman who wore her curves like a badge of honor. Instead of hiding the round lines of her hips and bosom, she embraced them, and she drew the eyes of every single man who walked into her wine bar like a magnet.

  We both sipped wine for a moment, and then Della clapped her hands. I glanced up, trying to not feel envy at how that clap made ripples run through her bosom, her deep cleavage quivering in a way that would probably melt the brains of every man within a ten foot radius. My curves tended to reside more around my butt, no matter how many half-hour sessions I spent on the stair climber in my little basement.

  "I know what can cheer you up," she exclaimed to me. "I've got a great new bit of gossip!"

  I didn't bother protesting that Della was the one who truly loved gossip, not me. I mostly just enjoyed watching her wide-eyed reactions whenever she found out some little secret about anyone else in Truckee - and bes
ides, Della never passed judgment, or spread any cruel rumors. She just liked knowing everything, and was sometimes almost childishly eager to tell others about her discoveries.

  "Okay - let's hear it," I replied, lifting up my wine glass for another sip.

  She set down her glass and leaned forward, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. "Remember those rumors about Sanford Welles, how he's moved back? Well, guess what?" She didn't give me a chance to guess. "He's really here! And you'll never believe where he's living!"

  "The Winterhearst mansion," I said.

  Della's mouth opened up into a perfect little circle of surprise. Her eyes widened too, and she looked almost like a child's cartoon. "How did you know that?"

  "Because I ran into him there," I answered, and my best friend nearly had a heart attack as she gasped in mingled surprise, amazement, and anger that I hadn't called her the very second that I saw Sanford and told her everything.

  Quickly, before Della collapsed down onto the floor, I walked her through the events of my busy morning - how Admiral Whiskers escaped, how I found him in the backyard of the mansion next door, how I climbed over the wall in a wild attempt to get him back, and how I opened my eyes to find Sanford standing over me on the other side, annoyed that I'd dared to trespass on his property. I saw Della bubbling over with questions as I talked, but she somehow managed to contain them, at least until I paused for breath.

  "Oh my god. I can't believe you waited this long to tell me. This is so much better than my secret - I just talked to old Mrs. Henders at the grocery, and she'd talked with some old man who did the shopping for Winterhearst-"

  "Probably Winston," I guessed.

  "-and he told her that he was working for Master Welles, who has to be Sanford, since I think his dad died, like, twenty years ago. But you actually met him! What's he like?" Della propped her wide-eyed face up on her elbows and leaned across the table at me.

  I shrugged. "I dunno. He's kind of an ass, I think-"

  "Yeah, but is he still hot?"

  I raised my eyebrows at Della, and she grinned without a single ounce of shame. "Come on, don't you remember him from high school? He was totally the hottest guy there! God, if he'd ever noticed me, he could have melted my panties with just a single smile."

  "Whoa, way too much information!" I protested, although I knew that it wouldn't stop Della from over-sharing.

  Indeed, she was already frowning introspectively down at her cleavage. "Heck, he hasn't seen me since then. I bet he'll be impressed with how I've matured. You should invite him to come out for a night at the wine bar."

  "I'm not inviting him to anything," I said firmly, putting my metaphorical foot down. "Didn't you hear me? The guy's a total ass, and you don't want anything to do with him." Even if he actually was still quite fine, I added in the privacy of my head. I thought back, remembering Sanford's curly black hair and broad shoulders, his toned and tall body.

  But all the muscles in the world couldn't hide his rude attitude.

  On the other side of the table, Della was frowning at me. "You know, maybe you should get to know him better," she said, considering. "How long has it been since you've had a date, anyway?"

  I didn't want to answer that question, mainly because the answer would just make me gulp down the rest of my glass of wine. "Trust me, I don't want to break a dry streak with a total jerk like Sanford Welles," I answered. "And from the sound of things, he doesn't want anything to do with me, or anyone else. It sounded like he just wanted to be left alone in his big, old house, and have his stupid butler wait on him."

  Della probably wanted to ask more, but she sensed that I was fed up with the topic, and reluctantly let it go. Of course, she'd be telling all the other women who regularly drank here in the evenings about her new discovery, how Sanford was definitely back in town and how he was totally still hot, but at least she wouldn't try and stir the pot with me. Despite her love of gossip, I knew that she always had my back.

  "Okay, okay," she sighed. "So, jobs? You need to find someplace with a whole bunch of old stuff that needs to be appraised."

  "Not just that, but it would really help if any of the stuff is actually valuable," I pointed out. "Since I get a commission on anything I sell, finding a couple of valuable items and selling them will definitely help me out."

  She nodded, and we both sipped at our wine for a moment. "I hate to say it, but..." Della began, but then paused.

  "What? Just say it." I knew that she'd end up spitting her thoughts out, no matter what I said. No reason to drag it out.

  "I bet that the Winterhearst mansion has a lot of old stuff stowed away in it." I glared daggers across the table at her, and Della threw up her hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm just pointing it out! If you can get into the place again, maybe you can convince Sanford that he should hire you."

  Working for Sanford? The idea seemed fraught with danger. I could think of a dozen different ways that things could go pear-shaped, but I didn't want to dash Della's idea to bits right away. "I'll think about it," I allowed.

  "Great." Della looked relieved that I hadn't blown up at her for her suggestion. "Now, have you heard the news about old Mrs. Anderson, the one owns the general store just up the road? Someone went in for a diet soda just as she was about to close, and they stumbled into the back room when they couldn't find a clerk to check them out for some lotto tickets, and you'll never believe what they saw!"

  I smiled, feeling a sudden rush of gratitude towards Della. She always knew just how to distract me. "No, but let me guess. Mrs. Anderson was testing out some of the new intimate massaging equipment?"

  "Not alone," Della answered, and we both burst into giggles.

  Chapter Five

  *

  Several hours, just as the sun descended down towards the horizon, I packed up my computer and turned my wine glass back over to Della. I'd stopped drinking a good hour before leaving, giving myself some time to sober up, but I still felt the warmth from the wine lingering in my stomach and body.

  I'd left the wine bar just as most of Della's regulars had started streaming in, their own little shops and boutiques along Main Street closed for the day. Della no longer had the time to sit and chat with me, instead dashing around to make sure that everyone got fresh glasses and that none of the bottles ran dry, and I decided that I ought to go home and help calm the growing growling coming from my stomach. I certainly didn't have the discretionary budget to afford to eat out on a regular basis.

  Besides, Whiskers would get grumpy if I wasn't home to give him his can of wet food for dinner.

  Just as I unlocked my front door and headed into my house, I heard my phone start ringing in my bag. I paused for a moment, starting to reach for it, but then realized that the door still stood ajar. Remembering Whiskers' earlier escape, I took another step forward and firmly shut the front door before searching for my ringing cell phone.

  When I saw the caller ID displayed on the screen, I groaned. Just who I didn't want to speak with, I thought to myself. I knew, however, that if I declined the call, they'd just keep on calling back, growing more and more frantic that they couldn't reach me. Once, when my phone died after I accidentally left the flashlight function turned on in my purse, they went as far as calling the police and sending a squad car over to my cottage.

  "Hello," I said without much enthusiasm after swiping across the phone's screen to answer the call.

  "Oh good, you're around. Hi, dear, it's your parents," my mom said at the other end, as if I didn't know exactly who was calling me. Somehow, my parents had never quite grasped the concept of caller ID, and they always prefaced any phone conversation by announcing who they were.

  "Hi Mom," I replied, rolling my eyes but not bothering to try and explain caller ID to her for the umpteenth time. I crouched down to pet Whiskers, who had emerged from wherever he'd been dozing and now wove between my legs, meowing his greetings to me. "What's going on?"

  "Oh, we just wanted to
call and check in, see how things are going for you," my mother replied blithely. "Your father is on the other line, so he can listen in. Are you there, honey?"

  "I'm here," my father piped up with a grunt. He sounded distracted, and I suspected that he had some sports game turned on and muted, and that his attention was focused elsewhere.

  "Anyway, you haven't talked to us in a little while, or really said anything, and so we wanted to know if there were any new developments in your life," my mother continued, sounding concerned and warm and coming across as totally smothering. "After all, it's not like you call us much."

  I rolled my eyes as I scratched Whiskers under the chin, making him squeeze his eyes shut into slits as he purred a little louder. My mom called me at least once a week, and they always tried to guilt me into coming over to visit them. Sure, they lived just about twenty minutes away, in the next town over, but I still did my best to fight off those guilt trips.

  I knew, from experience, that showing up would be a mistake. My mom tried to get information out of me over the phone, but she was even more insistent in person, trying to guide me in every little area where she felt that my life was possibly less than perfect. One time, I showed up at my parents' house for what she claimed was a "family dinner", only to find that she'd invited over not one, not two, but three different men as potential dates for me.

  Just the memory of that disastrous night left me shuddering. One of those men had been my mother's doctor, nearly twenty years older than me, and he'd seen me for checkups as a little child! I definitely didn't want to even think about dating anyone who'd seen me naked as a small child. The other men had been just as bad, with their own issues that I didn't even want to consider trying to fix.