Five Minutes Late: A Billionaire Romance

by Sonora Seldon

  From there, it was on to a jewelry store that was far too upscale to bother with putting actual prices on their gleaming offerings – although I did get the general impression that the amounts being asked ranged from ‘down payment on a house’ to ‘down payment on an ocean liner.’

  The staff’s serene disinterest in mere customers made it clear this place was way out of any normal person’s league. I tried to persuade my boss that dinner would be just as stimulating without a fortune in diamonds and whatever around my neck – but since he was nothing like a normal person, he insisted on a necklace featuring interlacing strands of diamonds supporting a single scarily huge ruby that nestled against my skin just above my fashion-enhanced breasts.

  Once we were out the door, I made the mistake of saying that the necklace was way too much for one night out; Mr. K responded by marching us back inside the store to get earrings to match the necklace.

  Back at the hotel, I had to take a minute to sit on the edge of my rented bed and think this thing over.

  A designer dress that flattered my curves instead of hiding them, that made me look like an elegant sex machine instead of an overstuffed sausage, and that accomplished all this to the tune of about a year’s worth of rent money?

  Jewelry that glowed with wealth as it accented my cleavage, jewelry that would have gone into giggling fits at the mere mention of my rent money?

  Why would even a crazy guy go to such lengths to doll me up for public display? One of the dressier business outfits I’d picked up on our first day in town would have served perfectly well for an evening at even a four-star restaurant, so what was the deal with draping me in an explosion of high-end fashion?

  “Ashley, are you quite all right? Or are you perhaps entertaining the thought of going to dinner naked? I personally wouldn’t mind that at all, but I rather imagine even restaurants here in the wild west expect at least a minimal amount of your lovely glowing skin to be covered, if only to keep jealousy from spoiling the digestion of the other diners.”

  I looked up to see Mr. Killane standing in the open doorway of my bedroom, leaning against the doorframe as he cocked his head to one side and questioned me with a single raised eyebrow.

  “This is all just a bit much for me to take in on short notice, Mr. K – I mean, I barely know you.”

  “We may only have been acquainted for a few days, but you already know me better than 99.9 percent of everyone else on the planet, Ashley. Indeed, you understand me far better than people who’ve known me for years.”

  It didn’t make any sense, but it was true, somehow. Just how lonely could this man be, to feel that from someone he’d first spoken to less than a week ago?

  “And besides, my lovely and uncertain Ashley, how short a time we’ve known each other isn’t the real issue, is it? It’s something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on, that’s making you huddle in here by yourself. What is it?”

  I looked over at the dress, laid out next to me on the bed and gleaming in the light from the hallway. I ran my hand over the rich fabric, and I thought about how rarely I went out on actual dinner dates, even when I was still with my last boyfriend, all those months ago.

  Sure, my head knew I was as worthy of a splashy dinner at a high-end restaurant as any other girl – but between what my toxic ex-boyfriend and years of being the lonely big girl had done to my self-esteem, my heart wasn’t convinced.

  “I guess I doubt myself, big guy – I mean, the last time I went out on an actual dinner date was about seven months ago, when my asshole ex took me to a sports bar and ended up watching the game and yapping with his buddies instead of paying any attention to me.”

  “What a rancid excuse for a human being – I trust you showed him the door after that?”

  I shrugged. “He dumped me a month later. One night I asked him why we usually just ended up hanging out at his place instead of going somewhere, and he said I was so fat, he was embarrassed to be seen with me. Then he said we might as well be through, he kicked me out, and I haven’t seen him since. I haven’t seen anybody since, actually – Mom keeps bugging me to start dating again, but I just can’t seem to get back on the horse. Pretty pathetic, huh?”

  Wow, way to sound like a needy loser, Ashley – if the hot rich dude is turned on by big whiny babies, you’re set.

  Mr. Killane stared at me, his eyes drilling into me. What was going through his head? Had I said the wrong thing, yet again?

  The room was quiet. The suite was quiet too. Hell, the whole world seemed to be hesitating, just for a moment.

  When my boss spoke, his voice was calm, clipped, and maybe a degree or two above absolute zero.

  “Please give me this person’s name.”

  “Don’t worry about that idiot, he –”

  “Ashley, I must insist. What is this individual’s full name?”

  “Um, Greg Carpenter – but you do know it’s illegal to just flat out kill him, right?”

  “I imagine so, but there are other measures that can be taken. Where does he work?”

  “Well, if he’s still at the same place, he works at Elmhurst Beverages, supervising the guys who drive the delivery trucks. He might have moved on, though – I got the impression he had a reputation as a domineering, micromanaging jerk, and I know he got his tires slashed more than once while his car was sitting in the employee parking lot.”

  “His fellow employees are obviously men and women of taste and excellent judgment. Now if you will excuse me, I have a few phone calls to make.”

  He disappeared back down the hallway and I was left sitting there alone.

  I looked over at the dress again, glanced at the jewelry box sitting on the nightstand, and then picked up my phone, which claimed there was less than an hour to go until the appointed time for our dinner.

  Well, now it was just up to me and my badass new dress to rock the evening, wasn’t it? And hey, maybe a properly attired curvy girl could turn heads in a classy restaurant – after all, weirder things and then some had already happened in the last few days.

  “So where are the security guys?”

  We were a few minutes away from the restaurant, and I’d pulled myself together enough to notice that Mr. Dugspur and his crew of quietly threatening bodyguards weren’t with us – not up front with the limo’s driver, not in the back with us, and so far as I could tell, not trailing behind us in an unobtrusive, anonymous sedan.

  “I gave them the night off.”

  Mr. Killane said this in his patented no-further-explanation-needed tone, as he leaned back in the broad seat that stretched across the width of the limousine. He extended his arms along the top of the seat in either direction, propped his right ankle atop his left knee, and seemed utterly calm and unconcerned about the absence of the security team, our upcoming dinner, or anything at all.

  He did peer out the window as we rounded the last corner before the restaurant, though, and he saw something that pleased him: his lips creased in a small, careful smile, and his eyes drifted half-shut as he sighed with pleasure.

  I turned to look out my own window, and noticed a certain amount of confusion as the restaurant came in view – a crowd of people on the sidewalk, lights way brighter than seemed necessary, two doormen in immaculate black suits trying to keep the entrance clear, and were those photographers jockeying for position?

  “Um, boss, it looks like we’ve got a little bit of a mob scene going on out there – care to reveal to me why you didn’t want the security guys on hand tonight? Aren’t situations like this part of what they’re for?”

  The limousine swept up to the curb. As it rolled to a distinguished stop, the sound from the crowd outside was obvious even through the vehicle’s vast metallic bulk and bulletproof tinted windows. I heard the limo driver’s door thump shut behind him as he emerged and walked around to open the curbside passenger door for us – apparently, rich people are way too good to be bothered with getting themselves out of a car all on their own.


  I aimed a pleading glance at Mr. Killane – was he going to tell me what was up or not?

  He beamed a pleased smile at the scene outside, and then turned to me.

  “I gave the security team the night off because their presence tends to drive away the paparazzi.”

  I glanced at the camera-laden rowdies outside, who were crowding as close to the limousine as they dared. “Isn’t keeping away rude assholes with cameras one of the main reasons to have security in the first place? And how did they even know we’d be here, anyway?”

  “Because I called them.”

  “What the –”

  The rest of my stunned response was cut off by the wave of sound that erupted when the limousine’s passenger door opened and Mr. Killane stepped out. He turned in a slow half-circle, smiling as he displayed himself to the mob like a veteran runway model. He even favored them with a regal half-wave as I sat frozen in place, staring at his back.

  When he turned and ducked his head back into the limousine, I gawped at him open-mouthed. I tried to talk, and got as far as “Why would you …” before words failed me.

  My gorgeous, impossible problem child of a boss held out his hand to me, and his smile warmed me from head to toe.

  “Because I am proud to be seen with you, Ashley Daniels.”

  9. Questions

  I guess I must have taken his hand, climbed out of the limo, and walked through the mob of celebrity-watchers, but I don’t remember any of that – I was running on automatic pilot, and just sort of found myself standing at the front door of the restaurant, clinging to his arm.

  Cameras flashed at our backs, as Mr. Killane half-turned for another professional smile and wave at the crowd. Out of the raucous thunder of voices, one guy hollered louder than the rest, “Who is she, Mr. Killane?”

  Mr. K steered me around to face the mob, and answered the question with his arm around me and his voice pitched nice and loud, so absolutely everybody could hear him.

  “This beautiful young lady is Ashley Daniels, my personal assistant and passionate lover. Stunning, isn’t she?”

  WHAT?

  I wanted to slam an elbow into him, I wanted to yell, and I also wanted to melt into his side and take him up on that whole ‘passionate lover’ thing, all at the same time – in fact, I was so flustered and angry and happy all at once that I somehow didn’t react at all and just stood there with an idiotic smile plastered on my face.

  The photographers snapped about five million more pictures that would end up God knows where, the crowd applauded and hooted and … holy shit, were those wolf whistles? For me? Was this restaurant located on Bizarro World, and my boss just forgot to tell me?

  Mr. Killane allowed the paparazzi and assorted bystanders another minute or two of admiration, and then led me inside the restaurant. The noise cut off to a dull roar as the doors closed behind us, and the camera flashes gave way to muted mood lighting and flickers of candle flame from the main dining room.

  I was still in shock from the big guy’s public proclamation that we were engaging in happy-fun-sexy-times, so I barely noticed my surroundings as the head waiter appeared and guided us to our table, situated smack in the middle of a sea of candle-lit tables and beautiful people.

  A few diners glanced our way, and only one or two whispers of “Killane” and “who’s that with him?” reached my ears, but I was convinced everyone was staring at us, talking about us, and probably taking subtle cell phone pictures of us. Being publicly displayed as the spanking new girlfriend of an insanely rich guy sure did wonders for ramping up my paranoia level.

  “Ashley, isn’t this delightful?”

  I snapped my eyes up to his face and saw that same serene, confident smile. He was enjoying the hell out of this, the bastard.

  My body tugged at my attention, asking if we could cancel dinner and skip right ahead to the ‘passionate lover’ part of the evening.

  Shut up, body.

  I ran my tongue over my lips – lips painted the same vibrant red as my dress – and slid my eyes to either side, unable to decide if I should play along with his ‘Ashley as hot monkey lover’ scenario, or give him a piece of my mind for pulling such a crazy stunt.

  Granted, I should have been used to craziness from him by that point, but being paraded around as the bedmate of a billionaire, with no advance warning, was a definite first for me.

  But then Practical Me spoke up inside my head, and asked in an acid tone just when was the last time a tall, delicious slab of man candy said he was proud to be seen with me – like maybe never?

  For that matter, when had any man ever wanted to show me off? Some guys were okay with my curves in private, but being proud of them, flaunting them to a crowd? That happened about as often as pigs flew, or politicians told the truth – so just what is your problem with this, Ashley?

  The big guy added, “I can’t wait for the pictures to be published – my previous partners will be ever so jealous.”

  I swept one last look over the gleaming candles and the bone-white silk table cloths, the perfect people in their perfect outfits and glinting diamond jewelry, and then I forced myself to look at … well, at my date. Wow.

  “Does that mean I have to look out for Oscar winners and slinky supermodels showing up on my doorstep to scratch my eyes out? You should have warned me that would be one of the hazards of this job, Mr. K.”

  “As I’ve previously said, Ashley, your job is in no way connected to our physical relationship.”

  “You mean the physical relationship we don’t have?”

  He grinned, took his own meaningful look out over the surrounding tables, and then spoke up loud and proud, as in several times louder than anyone else in earshot.

  “So tell me, Ashley – just what is the reason for your puzzling refusal to have sex with me?”

  Conversations stopped dead. People tried not to stare and failed miserably. I heard a shocked gasp or two, and a few women muttering things like “Is she high?” and “Honey, if you won’t, I sure will.” I also noticed guys openly eyeing my cleavage from afar and being snapped at by their female companions.

  It looked like we weren’t going to be the only ones having an awkward chat over dinner.

  Mr. Killane dialed his volume back down to normal. “But perhaps you’d like to order first, before we launch into a detailed discussion of when and where we’ll first enjoy a spirited session of lovemaking?”

  He waved at a waiter who practically sprinted to his side.

  “Drinks, sir?”

  “Yes, I’ll have a six-ounce cup of Cassia oolong tea with a sprig of bentavia chamomile, to be refilled at regular intervals – and you, Ashley?”

  During my limited history of going out on the town, I usually didn’t have anything more ambitious than imported beer, but I had a feeling this was the sort of place where the staff would have an attack of the vapors if someone ordered anything as pedestrian as a beer. Ever-so-exclusive restaurants like this one were all about wine, though, right?

  “Wine would be great, but I’m a little clueless about vintages and stuff like that.”

  Of course, it turned out he knew all about stuff like that.

  “Please bring this lovely young woman a bottle of 1961 Chateau Palmer Margaux, along with a decanter so that we may allow it to breathe properly. Ashley, might you also be ready to order your meal?”

  “Big girls are always prepped and ready to eat, boss.”

  Mr. Killane turned back to the waiter, who made the unfortunate mistake of saying, “Sir, if I might recommend –”

  The big guy cut him off at the pass. “I’m sure the management encourages you to recommend some ghastly concoction or other, but we’ll have what we actually want.”

  The chastened waiter scurried away moments later with our orders – broiled sea bass with sautéed asparagus for Mr. K, and bleeding-rare steak with Szechuan rice, scalloped potatoes, and breaded shrimp for me, because being nervous always makes me hungry as hel
l.

  So there I was, left alone with my alleged lover.

  And just why wasn’t I steaming mad about his proclaiming our non-existent relationship to the masses, anyway? Back home, I’d given that roomful of executives an earful about how we were not bed partners, and he’d torpedoed that by staging that little scene out front just now – now no matter what I said, everybody and all their brothers and cousins would be convinced I was sleeping with the guy.

  Shouldn’t I be tearing his head off and feeding it to him for putting me in this position?

  I still hadn’t figured that one out by the time a team of two different waiters arrived with his tea, my wine, and the decanter thingie that was apparently necessary in order for the wine to ‘breathe’ – which turned out to mean that the bottle had to be uncorked, the wine poured just so into the decanter, and then I wasn’t allowed to touch the stuff until it had been sitting there ‘breathing’ for at least fifteen minutes. Beer would have been a whole lot easier.

  Once the waiters scurried off to go do waiter stuff elsewhere, Mr. Killane leaned forward, fixed me with his trademark compelling stare, and grinned. Oh god, what now?

  “And so the hour of revelation is at hand – between this moment and the moment our food arrives, tell me everything there is to know about Ashley Daniels.”

  I looked at him sidelong as I ran a fingertip through the condensation beading on the side of my water glass. Playing a conversational game is tricky when you don’t begin to know the rules – what did he want out of this chat, this meeting, this … relationship, if that’s what it was? For that matter, what did I want out of it?

  “As in what do you want to know, exactly?”

  “As in I want to know quite literally everything about you – your first thrilling moments as a zygote, whether you favored strained peas or apricots as an infant, where you lived when you attended middle school and what manner of music you listened to back then, your first sweaty and fumbling sexual adventure, your preferred pizza toppings, why you ordered wine despite knowing nothing about it, your views on Nietzsche’s theory of the Übermensch, which television shows you enjoy and which ones you would watch only at gunpoint, whether you’ve ever known the sweet thrill of being tied up and helpless during sex, and why you haven’t kneed me in the balls yet – you know, everything. Start with your conception.”