by Fiona Starr
It takes a moment for her words to register in my mind. Someone crashing the wedding? Who?
Then she squeezes my hand and pulls her fingers away until she’s holding mine flat against her belly.
I blink as understanding hits me. I look into her eyes and I don’t have any words. I look at her, pleading for her to tell me she’s serious.
Tears well up and spill onto her cheeks as she nods.
“A baby?” I ask, feeling gobsmacked and wonderful and afraid to even believe it.
“Our baby,” she whispers.
Part of me wants to turn around and shout it out to our family and friends, but the other part of me, the part that feels lucky and precious about this exceptional moment, decides to hold our secret close.
I lean in and press my forehead to hers, creating a tiny space in the world just for us. I whisper the words that have become ours. “A stór, a rún, a chroí.”
Maddie whispers back, “My treasure, my mystery, my heart.”
Then I place my hand over her belly and add another word to the list. “A stóirín.”
“A stóirín?” she asks.
I touch my lips to hers. “My little treasure.”
The minister smiles and nods at us, and when we give him the go ahead, he clears his throat and addresses our friends and family.
“Dearly beloved, friends of Madeline and Gerard, we gather here today to celebrate love.”
More Ireland Forever Stories…
It’s time to pack your bags, darlings! We’re headed to Dublin! The Flirt Club authors are teaming up to bring you more than a pot of gold! Raise a pint to the twelve romances releasing the month of March. We’re getting more than pinched this St Patrick’s Day — we’re getting very, very lucky!
Sign up for the FLIRT CLUB NEWSLETTER
and never miss another moment of fun!
Baby Spice Forever by Frankie Love
Forever At Last by Rebecca Norinne
Forever Dublin by Olivia Hawthorne
Forever His Baby by Kim Loraine
Forever His Girl by Alexx Andria
Forever Kissed by Dori Lavelle
Forever Mine by Laney Powell
Forever My Love by Fiona Starr
Forever Ruined by Tracy Lorraine
Forever Tied by Derek Masters
Forever Together by Angel Devlin
Forever True by Rebecca Gallo
April: Mr. Platinum
Mr. Platinum: A Mr. Billionaire Short Story
Copyright © 2019 by Fiona Starr
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Dear readers,
Thank you for continuing to share how you’re enjoying these fun short stories.
Are you ready to roll with a Billionaire?
His wallet isn’t the only thing that’s bulging!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
First Epilogue
Second Epilogue
More Mr. Billionaire Short Stories…
Chapter One
NINA
It’s clear as I watch his latest interview why Platinum Industries’ board hired my PR firm. As their Founder and CEO talks to the reporter on the television, he isn’t doing his brand—or himself—any favors.
The reporter is trying to get into the personal side, get him to talk about himself. She’s doing what she’s supposed to do; bring the conversation around to something that makes him seem relatable.
But he’s holding back in every way.
They sit opposite each other in sleek gray armchairs, a faux city-scape twinkles behind them. She’s dressed in a red pencil skirt and he’s in a navy suit with a white dress shirt.
She smiles and tees up her next question. “You’ve told us about your mission to see Platinum Industries revolutionize brain surgery. But there are more pressing matters our viewers want to know about. So tell me, is there a special someone in Monty Ford’s life?”
He clenches his jaw and leans forward in the armchair as if he’s going to pounce. He’s got a finger pointing at her. “You know what, Daria? I put questions like that in the same category as asking actresses on the red carpet who they’re wearing. At Platinum Industries, we’re doing important work. We’re going to save lives and make a difference for people who suffer with deadly aneurysms. Questions like that are reductive and I don’t see how my relationship status is relevant to what we’re trying to achieve.”
The reporter looks like someone slapped her on live television. But I have to hand it to her; she keeps on rolling like a pro. “Well, fair enough. Let’s get back to business. Your board’s decision to take Platinum Industries public has been met with some roadblocks during the pre-IPO period. Can you elaborate on how you’re hoping to navigate these hurdles?”
Ouch. I’d switch off the television if I weren’t doing research. I’ve been tasked with writing a series of image pieces about Montgomery Ford and his company, Platinum Industries. I’m preparing several pieces and one large multi-page spread and have secured strategic placement for them in a set of Tier 1 magazines to roll out over the next six months. The first one goes to print in only a couple of weeks.
I haven’t yet spoken to his handler, but there needs to be a conversation about messaging and how to pivot away from these unwanted questions without coming off like an asshole. Because for all his good looks, perfect hair, bespoke suits, and velvet voice, right now, Montgomery Ford, self-made billionaire and fortieth richest person in the world sounds like a top-tier douche.
The nose of the jet tips downward and the tone of the cabin noise changes pitch. We’re descending. I look at my watch. It’s seven in the evening. The flight from Los Angeles to New York is just over five hours and we are only about ninety minutes in.
The phone embedded in the mahogany shelf next to my leather chair rings softly.
I pick up the receiver. “Hello? This is Nina.”
“Miss Blaze, this is Captain Fischer. We’re making a brief, unscheduled stop. Please buckle your seatbelt for landing.”
“Unscheduled?” I glance out the window and listen to the cabin sounds for anything out of the ordinary that might indicate an emergency. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Didn’t mean to alarm you. We’ll be back in the air within the hour.”
“All right. Thank you.”
My belt is already buckled; habit from flying often on commercial airlines. Even though the cabin of Platinum Industries’ private jet looks more like a plush monochrome living room than an airplane, it’s still an airplane and I am not a fan of turbulence.
I open my laptop and continue my notes on Montgomery Ford. At this point I’m just gathering snippets and thoughts, things I’ve heard him say on broadcast interviews and from written pieces through the years.
He doesn’t talk much about himself at all, and when he does, it’s only surface things, like events he’s attended or the volunteer work he does with his foundation. Whenever questions come up about any romantic attachments or specifics there, he punches back, gets hostile, loses his cool. That’s a liability when you’re the public face of your brand.
But it also makes me wonder…
What’s he trying to hide?
MONTGOMERY
As soon as the interview ends, I’m out of my chair. I pull the mic clip off my lapel and hand it to an assistant who has appeared next to me.
Daria sits back in her chair and lets the make-up person touch up her face. “Thanks Monty. I really—”
&nbs
p; I don’t even reply. She’s going to make small talk? I storm off the set. If there were any way to launch an IPO for Platinum that allowed me to stay off these interview programs, I’d take that option in a heartbeat. But the unfortunate fact is we need to get the word out and build not only awareness, but also confidence in the company in order to sell shares at the IPO and make the launch viable. I need to press the flesh and do the talking in person; press releases aren’t going to cut it.
The same old tired questions keep getting recycled by these uninspired hosts. Tonight’s interview with Daria Ventarolo—the so-called Mrs. Money surprised me. She’s usually spot-on with the financial angle and has no interest in her guests personally. So her question about my love life really caught me off guard.
And then it pissed me off.
She went there despite the fact that it’s clearly stated as an off-limits topic in the advance media background packet every producer gets. I head to the green room to grab my bag and a bottle of water.
The producer meets me at the door as I’m leaving. “Mr. Ford, Daria wasn’t supposed to—”
I raise my hand to stop her. “Don’t worry about it, Cathy. It’s done.”
She leans against the door, holding it open for me to pass. “It won’t happen again.”
I nod and hurry past her. I don’t want to be here. I need to be away from these people, away from cameras. I need to be alone.
Outside the studio, my car is waiting. I get in, close my eyes and fight the thoughts tightening my chest and making it hard to swallow. I can’t do this right now. I’m on the edge of finally achieving my goals with Platinum. It’s happening. I should be happy.
But instead my mind keeps going back to Mariel. The woman I loved and lost, the reason Platinum Industries even exists. She died during surgery to repair a subarachnoid aneurysm. It is delicate brain surgery, but would have been routine had the device the doctors were using not malfunctioned. A flaw in the metal… one microscopic flake of debris released into her body… and she was gone.
I pull out my phone and dial my assistant.
He answers right away. “Mr. Ford?”
“James, please cancel the rest of my interviews tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’s the jet right now?”
“One moment, I’ll check.” I hear the click of his keyboard keys and after a moment he says, “Captain Fischer’s in the air, en route from LA to New York. He’s flying up the PR person who’s doing that series on you.”
Damn. I forgot about the PR deal.
“Shall I call the captain, sir?”
“Yes. Thank you James. I’ll wait.”
He puts me on hold. It’s a couple of minutes before he returns. “Captain Fischer can reroute to Centennial Airport, south of the city. He will be there in approximately thirty minutes.”
“Perfect. James, please have him do that. I’ll be there.”
“Consider it done.”
Chapter Two
NINA
The plane taxis to a stop. I look outside the window and see we’re parked on the tarmac outside a private hangar in a small airport. I’ve flown on private jets twice before, both times were for PR assignments when it was important for me to get there fast to manage a crisis. In both of those cases, the jet was a charter; the client owned a part of a timeshare with other people or corporations.
Between the understated yet classy decor, the incredible food, personal service, and the space and freedom to move around, there’s nothing quite like it and flying on a private jet just doesn’t get old.
But Montgomery Ford’s personal jet is next-level. The creamy leather seats are roomy and buttery soft. The backs of the chairs feature his monogram embroidered into them with thread in the identical shade of cream as the leather.
In the section I am sitting, the chairs are arranged facing each other around a mahogany conference table, which also features his monogram inlaid with blond wood and finished in a high gloss. It’s classy and understated, despite being the height of indulgence.
Beyond the divider toward the back of the plane, the space is lined with gray upholstered sofas running the length of the walls. Small dark-wood coffee tables dot the area along the couches. Beyond that, in the rear-most section, is a bedroom which I can only assume is his based on my preliminary snooping.
The captain opens the cockpit door and enters the cabin. “Miss Blaze. I apologize. We don’t have an attendant on tonight’s flight.” He opens the door and waits while the staircase unfolds. “You’re welcome to get up, take some air. I have to run into the hangar for a moment. Don’t take off without me.” He winks at his joke and then exits the plane.
“Thank you, Captain.” I already served myself from the coffee pot in the galley, but it would be nice to stand up and stretch my legs. I unbuckle my seatbelt and give myself another tour of the cabin, and then sit on one of the sofas, grab a nearby magazine, and wait.
Voices outside grab my attention. I sit up and place the magazine in the pocket on the wall and turn toward the door. When Montgomery Ford enters the jet, he’s scowling. He’s wearing the same dark suit he wore on television, but his tie is loose and the top button of his starched white shirt is undone. He’s carrying a pizza box like he’s the delivery guy.
He walks past the conference table and when he sees me his face changes, softens for a millisecond, and then the scowl is back. He brings the pizza box down and places it on the coffee table between us.
All the magazine and television coverage he’s received through the years, all the pictures online and in the tabloids do not do this man justice. He always appears hard and cold, hard-body fit and chiseled—yes, but always distant, unreachable.
But in my first moments seeing him in person, he is tall and commanding, but his eyes are warm and kind, even behind his stupid scowl. There’s something in his face that is undeniably fierce and strong, while vulnerable and innocent at the same time.
He rubs his hands together and then offers one to me. His hand is large and warm, and a little rough. My own hand disappears in his grasp.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ford. I’m Nina Blaze.”
He pauses for a moment, holding my hand. He looks surprised. Did he not know I was going to be here? I feel self-conscious and out of place, but there’s nowhere to go.
“Miss Blaze? Pleasure.”
MONTGOMERY
I have my assistant send me the information we’ve gathered on Miss Nina Blaze so I can read it in the car. Her company’s profile on her is very flattering of course, but we don’t hire people based on their resume alone.
I flip through to the opposition research my best friend and general counsel, Adam Edson has compiled on her—a requirement if we’re going to let anyone work with us—and read the real stuff about her.
Antonina “Nina” Rose Blaze is a member of the Blaze resort and hotel family. She’s the third of five daughters of Daniel Blaze, Esquire, of Blaze Resorts and Giannina Carmona, whose family breeds thoroughbred Andalusian horses in the south of Spain.
She learned the ropes under the mentorship of the famed PR guru, Ricky Hobbs. When Hobbs retired she started her own company. Her PR firm has handled some high-profile clients in the five years she’s been in business. Her background is in marketing and crisis management, and she’s trained as a mediator, with a specialty in hostile negotiations. She has a reputation for being honest and hard working, results-oriented and driven. She has her own money, as well as being an heir to her family’s fortunes. And most important of all, she’s discreet.
I skim the case studies in her portfolio and read a few of the client testimonials Adam was able to get from speaking directly with her past clients, but it’s clear there is no need to read on.
My board insisted we hire someone to ease the waves I’ve been apparently making on my IPO publicity tour, and it’s clear that Nina Blaze is the best there is.
When the car stops I open the door and balance the p
izza in one hand as I step out on the tarmac. The driver opens the trunk and removes my bag, placing it at my feet. I shake his hand and thank him, then I grab my bag and make my way toward the plane.
Captain Fischer meets me at the bottom of the stairs. He takes my bag and follows me as I board the jet.
When I step inside, Nina Blaze is sitting on the couch facing the door, waiting for me. She’s wearing a black sweater over a white button-down shirt and a pair of flowing black pants that end mid-calf. I catch a flash of red soles under her black shoes as she gets to her feet and takes my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ford. I’m Nina Blaze.”
I take her hand and note absently how small it feels in mine. All the research in the world couldn’t prepare me for the creature that stands before me right now. I hear her speaking and I register her words, but my animal brain has shot to awareness and taken control. Pay attention, my inner voice says.
Nina Blaze has the face of a goddess and a body designed for things we don’t talk about in the daylight, but there’s something else—something more to this woman than any opposition research can reveal. Something that raises a heat in my chest that I haven’t felt in years. Not since…
Pay attention. The voice inside is urgent and serious. Like this is an emergency.
My mouth goes dry and I force myself to swallow as I muster up the ability to make words again. “Miss Blaze? Pleasure.” It’s all I can manage in the moment. I am at a loss.
