The Billionaire Boss Collection

by Penny Ward

Oh, and the fact that there is literally no one else at this benefit to hang around with. I rest my forearms on the leaf-decorated bar and mull over the list of cocktails.

  “Or the Amazon heartbeat, a secret combination of tantalizing components that will get your pulse racing and your feet dancing.”

  “Ooh, on second thoughts let’s go for that,” Hannah winks. “It sounds illegal.”

  “I guess I’m game if you are,” I chide, yet know in hindsight it may not be a good move.

  Maybe I should volley some food down my throat first. The last thing I’d want to happen tonight is to fall over in front of all these people, seeing as I’ve been here for only ten minutes.

  We take our cocktails and sit at our designated table, making small talk with the people on either side of us.

  Above us hangs a huge sculpture of a starling, with a dark velvet cloak spread behind it to represent the night sky over Manhattan. I tell Hannah that I think the bird looks sad, that it has a look of wistful melancholia bleeding from its face, only to have her break out in stitches over it.

  “What are you, a poet or something?”

  We’ve both had way too much to drink.

  I’m not even going to admit how many glasses of champagne we ended up having in the Hummer.

  Thankfully the waiters have just brought out a selection of antipasto platters. I literally can’t stop eating the smoked salmon and Brie with the onion and sesame crackers.

  Why does food always taste so good after you’ve had a few drinks?

  “Kind of. I dabble a little bit,” I finally answer, thinking back to my conversation with Brooke at the Globe.

  Hannah stops eating midway through the olive on the end of her toothpick. “Get out! Lauren Swift, the poet. Ha! It even has a nice ring to it!”

  “What has a nice ring to it?”

  I jump at his deep voice behind us, almost knocking my cocktail off the table.

  “Oh,” Hannah cries, just as alarmed as I am. “You scared us, Mr. Townsend.”

  “I apologize, ladies,” he says gravely. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s okay,” I peep, a little energetic from the cocktail.

  “Yes, it’s okay,” Hannah echoes. “Lauren here was just confessing to being a poet.”

  “A poet, really?” His eyes narrow on me like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever heard.

  “Yes, and then I said Lauren Swift, the poet, had a nice ring to it. Don’t you agree, Mr. Townsend?”

  “Indeed,” Clint says politely, but looking at Hannah like she’s on the verge of crossing the line. We really shouldn’t have overindulged on the liquor.

  “Hannah, may I steal away our poet for a little while?” He stretches his hand toward me, gesturing for me to stand.

  I look at Hannah to make sure she doesn’t mind, but she’s staring at Clint like she hasn’t heard him properly.

  “Um… of course,” she stammers, but is clearly looking unimpressed.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  “No, it’s okay. There are people here I’ve been meaning to chat to anyway. Go ahead,” Although she says the words, I can tell from her tone and expression that she’s still not being honest.

  “I’ll come find you soon,” I add, flashing a quick smile.

  I take Clint’s hand and shakily stand up, taking one last glance at Hannah before I follow him through the maze of tables.

  “Not to sound rude, but where are we going?” I ask quietly, making a mental note to bring up Elsa too at some point.

  “To dance, of course.”

  He says it like it’s always been the plan. Like I should have figured that out already. Funny, I don’t remember being asked to dance.

  “But you haven’t asked me yet,” I bray lightly, definitely with some encouragement from that last cocktail. I can’t remember ever feeling this confident. It must be the effects of the ‘tantalizing components’ it had promised.

  Clint stops suddenly in the middle of a walkway, turning to look at me attentively. “Would you like to dance?” he asks robustly, on the brink of a grin.

  “Sure,” I say, and then before I know it we are swiftly moving on again.

  But the more we navigate through the center, the more Clint is greeted by socialites and other hedge funders eager to take up some of his time.

  “Welcome to the money market,” he whispers in my ear, once we’ve managed to break free from the clutches of another suited vulture. “But you’ll get used to it. If you haven’t already, that is.”

  I throw him a wide smile, feeling more and more at ease with his raillery. It really is one of his most endearing features.

  I know we haven’t spent heaps of time together, only three months and mostly in the office, but during that time I’ve come to know him and respect him in all his different aspects.

  When we finally get to Clint’s proposed destination—the designated ballroom that’s been decorated like a rainforest—he doesn’t hesitate any longer, pulling me directly out on the dance floor and into his arms.

  I can already feel the eyes on us, the miens of scorn as a billionaire dances with his PA.

  It is not exactly common protocol.

  “Um, is this appropriate?” I ask, starting to feel uncomfortable.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” he answers enigmatically.

  “I don’t know. Hierarchy and all that.”

  “Hierarchy? I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

  “You know what I mean. All these people are staring at us,” I sigh.

  But Clint seems unfazed, like he hasn’t even noticed. “Are you not having a good time?”

  “No, it’s just—”

  “Lauren, stop worrying. It’s a charity benefit, not a soiree at someone’s private house. Ignore them and just dance with me.”

  I obey and gaze only at him, looking deeper and deeper into his eyes like I could fall through them and keep on falling, forever.

  After a few more moments, it feels like everyone else has sunk away and all that’s left is us.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman here tonight,” he says in that soft, cultured voice, and looking at me in a way that I haven’t seen before.

  I turn away from him modestly. “That’s sweet of you to say.”

  “Not sweet. Accurate.”

  As his grip tightens on my waist I feel myself become moist instantly, the warmth of his touch vibrating through me like an electric current. In the next few seconds I don’t know how or why it happens, but Clint is leaning in closer, his eyes focusing on my lips.

  Just in time, I manage to whip my head to the side and the overwhelming feeling passes over me like I’ve just stepped back from the edge of a precipice.

  What am I doing? What is he doing? What did we both almost do?

  He was about to kiss me.

  My boss, one of the most famous and wealthiest billionaires in America, was going to kiss me in front of all these people.

  And then I hear the click.

  Both Clint and I turn our heads to see a paparazzo with a camera clutched in his eager hands.

  Click. Click. Click.

  “How about a smile from you and your girlfriend, Mr. Townsend? For the Wall Street Journal, of course,” the reporter asks.

  To my astonishment, Clint unwraps one arm from around my waist and smiles curtly, ready to pose for the picture.

  “Now just put your hand against his chest, Miss—?”

  “Lauren Swift,” Clint answers for me. “My exquisite PA and date for this evening.”

  His what? PA, I concede. But date?

  “Lauren Swift,” the paparazzo repeats. “Can you step in a little closer please, Lauren?”

  I do as he instructs and then notice the crowd gathered in front of us; apparently Clint getting his photo taken is a must-see affair. As I smile into the camera and move my head closer to Clint’s, I catch sight of Elsa at the front of the crowd, her sta
re as cold as ice.

  Click.

  “Eyes to the camera, Lauren.”

  Click.

  “That’s better. Beautiful.”

  Click. Click.

  “Great. Much obliged, Mr. Townsend,” the reporter says, bowing his head.

  As I watch him skimp off into the mob, I decide that now is the perfect opportunity to excuse myself and avoid the lingering white elephant in the room.

  “I think I should probably go and find Hannah,” I say timidly, stepping away from Clint.

  “What was that?”

  “I said I should—”

  “No, back out on the dance floor…when I went to kiss you…you pulled away. Why?”

  And there’s the white elephant, trumpeting in loud succession. Is he serious? He actually wants to address this here? With all these people still staring at us?

  “Clint…I don’t think this is the right time to discuss it. Do you want a scandalous headline? There are about two hundred ears turned toward us right now.”

  “Fine,” he replies sharply. “Thank you for the dance, Lauren. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  He gaits away from me hurriedly, leaving me standing there alone.

  What the hell?!

  What is he so angry about?

  I smile awkwardly at the few faces still targeted on me as I leave the ballroom, trying not to rush so they don’t suspect Clint and I had a disagreement—if that’s what you can even call it.

  A weird miscommunication between species is perhaps a better way to describe it.

  I make my way back towards the dining room.

  I’ll just find Hannah, get another drink to steady my nerves, and then hightail it out of here.

  But when I get to the table where we’d been sitting, there’s no trace of her.

  Great.

  This is perfect.

  Now I really am a lamb amid the wolves.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After thirty minutes of trying to find Hannah and lapping up another cocktail, I decide to give up and go home. There’s only so much wandering around by myself with people staring at me oddly that I can handle.

  I’m so embarrassed by Clint’s behavior. I just want to curl up into a ball and stay that way for eternity.

  Or until enough time passes that people don’t remember the pretty PA who Clint Townsend had danced and had a photograph with, only to rudely walk away from afterward.

  I mean come on, that would be humiliating for anyone.

  Once again, Clint has reverted back to his taciturn ways.

  Well I’m just about done with his game.

  After I make the $5,000 donation, I slowly make my way down the magnificent mock gold-and-ivory staircase that was built just for the benefit, located by the center’s entrance. But as I near the last few steps I see Clint standing at the bottom, conversing with a small cluster of socialites.

  From this view I’m able to see him entirely, his suave black-and-white tuxedo looking far sharper than the other gentlemen’s.

  And to think that I had avoided kissing this guy…I must be mad.

  I consider turning around and finding another way out, but the fact that I’m so close to them means I would probably draw even more attention if I suddenly changed direction.

  Just as I decide to quickly go forward onto the last step, I miscalculate the distance to it, my whole body now plummeting toward the center’s floor.

  I close my eyes and hear the gasps of the crowd, waiting for the impact of my face on the hard surface and the crunch of my nose or arm.

  But it never comes.

  I feel strong arms suddenly around me, catching me, and guiding me back up. I open my eyes to find that it’s Clint, his panic-stricken face bent close to mine.

  Again.

  “Lauren, are you all right?” he asks fretfully, his palm pressing into my cheek.

  “I think so,” I whisper, my face as bright as a vine-ripened tomato.

  This fall makes what happened in the ballroom look like nothing. I’ve just embarrassed myself twice in less than an hour.

  “Can you walk?” he asks.

  I put my weight down on both feet and feel a pang, but nothing seems broken. “Yes, I can walk.”

  “Okay, I’ll help you out,” he says gently, linking my arm in his and ushering me outside.

  I avoid looking at him until we’ve reached the valet and the Hummer is parked in front of us.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as he helps me into the car, tears forming in my eyes. “I shouldn’t have come tonight. You shouldn’t have asked me.”

  “I wanted you to be here. It’s my fault. I…made a mistake.”

  I feel my disposition darkening even more. So I’m a mistake to him now? What a way to kick a girl when she’s down.

  “Whatever,” I say insolently, moving farther away from him.

  “Lauren,” he says softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong tonight. You were professional, exquisite, a great dancer, and yes, somewhat clumsy toward the end”—he chuckles—“but you’re not a mistake. That’s not what I meant.” He steps back to allow the driver to close the door. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you Monday.”

  And then it’s just me and the silence in the Hummer, my mouth opening and closing in sheer confusion.

  What was even the point of tonight?

  What was the point of him asking me to dance and then trying to kiss me?

  I have no idea what is going on between Clint and me.

  This whole situation is beyond crazy.

  This is not how the relationship between a PA and their employer should be.

  It’s iniquitous. It’s disreputable. It’s a problem.

  And now it feels like the entire world knows it too…

  Chapter Fourteen

  “So, did you quit?”

  “No,” I sigh dejectedly, curling up on the couch next to Brooke.

  “What? Why? How did he change your mind?”

  I take the tub of ice cream off her and start eating it with the spoon. Salted caramel. Yum, just the comfort food I need right now.

  “He apologized again for his behavior,” I sigh, as the salt crystals dissolve on my tongue. “He just wants to put everything that happened at the benefit behind us.”

  “Is that it?”

  “No, then he explained how much of an asset I am as a PA so he doesn’t want to lose me. But, if I want to move on from Townsend Investments because of his inappropriate ‘advance’ on the dance floor then I can leave in January, six months short of my contract and with full pay for the year.”

  “Wow. Well isn’t that generous of him?” Brooke says sharply, shaking her head. “What an asshole…did he say anything else?”

  “Yeah, just before I left the office he told me to look at the front page of the Wall Street Journal.”

  “Okay, that’s random. Why did he say that?”

  “He said, and I quote, ‘Because I just made you famous.’”

  “No way! He did not say that. What an egotistical bigot! Wait, what was on the front page? I haven’t seen it today.”

  I get up and take the folded copy of the Wall Street Journal out of my handbag and toss it to her.

  “Holy shit!” Brooke exclaims, her eyes scanning the photo of Clint and me before she reads out the headline and photo caption:

  BILLIONAIRE TOWNSEND MAKES HIGHEST EVER DONATION

  FOR CHARITY BENEFIT

  Pictured above: Clint Townsend with date, Lauren Swift

  Is this Wall Street’s hottest new romance?

  She pauses at the end for effect, putting down the paper before igniting back at me.

  “What the frick, Lauren?! You’re like a celebrity now! And dating a billionaire! A billionaire who is a total dick, but hey, that’s just semantics. Way to go, girlfriend!”

  I’d been expecting Brooke to react this way. She couldn’t look more thrilled. No, it’s more profound than that—I think she’s actually proud of me.

&
nbsp; “This is good news. At least it wasn’t about him running away from you in the ballroom or you falling down those stairs. I still can’t figure out how he managed to catch you in time. That’s some crazy reflex.”

  Brooke definitely has two valid points there.

  Yes, it would’ve been far worse if the headline had been about Clint storming off, or me tripping on the staircase.

  And yes, he was lucky to have caught me; he must have seen me long before I noticed him standing at the bottom.

  “I know,” I say. “But still. It’s weird; I don’t know what he wants from me. It’s like we keep mixing up signals or something.”

  “So he still hasn’t mentioned the one-night stand?”

  “Nope. Honestly, Brooke, I really don’t think he remembers. Surely he would’ve admitted it by now?”

  But she grimaces and shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe he thinks you don’t remember and he’s playing it cool? Men can be like that too. You know…you could always just bite the bullet and mention it.”

  “Are you kidding?” I surge at her. “And make things a thousand times more awkward around the office? No way. I’d rather both of us just secretly go on, pretending.”

  “Do you really, though? I think the whole thing is actually kind of nuts. You’re both grown adults and work together. The truth is going to come out eventually.”

  I know Brooke is right: what Clint and I are doing is childish.

  I will bring the one-night stand up with him but just not until things have settled down and we’ve established a better working relationship. I fear that if I were to bring it up now it would only make things worse, and I don’t want that.

  “No matter what happens, I got your back, honey,” Brooke says sincerely, drawing me toward her and into a hug.

  There’s that layer of Brooke I’ve been waiting to see again.

  The one that doesn’t care about fashion or dating or what social position you are.

  The one that is thoughtful and down-to-earth and truly understands.

  The one that comes out precisely when I need it to.

  Part Three

  Chapter One