by Adira August
He ended the call and sent a text.
“They can have all that ready in fifteen minutes?” she asked.
He slid the phone back into his pocket. “The potato salad is made and the rest only takes a few minutes. I already knew that was supposed to be my lunch. I’m trying to impress you.” He stood. “Am I succeeding?”
“At impressing me?” He nodded. She grinned. “Depends on how good the potato salad is and whether or not they overcook the salmon.”
He gestured toward the house and she followed him inside.
“That’s no good, that’s my cook impressing you.” He led the way across the room to his desk.
“Why would you want to impress me?” Avia wondered.
Ben waved her into the single guest chair, a solid mahogany frame with arms, back and seat padded in dark red leather. It sat to the side of his desk, instead of in front. In this way, when turned toward her in the matching executive chair, he faced her directly, rather than across a no-man’s land of highly polished desktop.
He swiveled toward her now, noticing she didn’t cross her legs, but hooked one ankle with the opposite foot, legs at a slant, knees together. It was an habitual, unconscious and inherently modest posture.
Inherent modesty had some very interesting possibilities in certain circumstances. And made him curious. Why did she sit that way? Dress that way? School her features into neutrality? On that last thought, it occurred to him - she reminds me of myself.
“I’m trying to impress you because I want us to sign these,” he explained, holding out some papers he retrieved from his center desk drawer.
Avia took the papers. “Non-disclosure agreement” headed the top of the first page.
“You’re on deep background, already. Why do you want this?” she asked.
“Your boss called me this morning for a comment on something I cannot address in any way. I’d like to be able to discuss some things with you that could be interpreted as touching on that which I cannot acknowledge.” He stopped.
“Wow, that was convoluted,” she said. “You want me to sign this so you can speak freely.”
“Yes.”
“But that would be in my best interests in terms of my assignment. So again, why would you need to impress me?” she asked.
“I’d like to discuss Companionship with you,” he said simply.
The term caught Avia’s attention. “Companion is the word the woman who’s suing you used. You want to discuss the the allegations?”
“No,” he said. “I want to discuss Companionship. With you.”
Oh. “Mr. Hart - “ she began.
“Ben,” he interrupted.
She smiled, but went on as if he hadn’t spoken. She very much didn’t want to be on a first name basis with him at this moment. This moment where reality seemed to be shifting beneath her feet.
“To be perfectly clear, you want to have a conversation with me, in your business office, during a business meeting, about the possibility of a personal relationship between us,” she stated. “Please correct me if I’ve misunderstood.”
“The only misunderstanding is about where we are. This isn’t my business office, that’s in a building at the Tech Center. I helicopter over a few times a week for meetings.
“You and I are meeting here, instead, because I’m doing a friend a private favor. Here,” he said, “we are safe from prying eyes and cameras. And -” He nodded at the end of the room with the recliner and couch. “- there’re products here I thought you’d be interested in seeing.”
“It makes me wonder why you’ve covered some of them up, then. If we’re here because I would want to see the products.”
“They’re prototypes. Just the sight of them constitutes proprietary information.” He answered. “I think there’s plenty you can see that will be ... educational.”
“So, what is this place, then?” she asked. “A showroom?”
Instead of answering, he reached out gently and took the papers back from her. He filled something in and signed it. He handed them back.
“That’s a standard form I use before any woman has been invited to sit down in that chair and discuss Companionship with me.”
He’d gotten very serious. Intense. Held her gaze, as if asking do you understand?
She did. The woman who claimed he’d assaulted her, if she had been a Companion, (whatever that really meant) had also signed this agreement to which he was bound, as well as she. He could not speak of “Companionship” in any way, unless Avia signed.
She saw he had used his full name on the document: “Benedict Valor Hart.”
“Valor?” she asked.
“My maternal grandfather’s name,” he said. “He was Lakota Sioux.”
“So,” she said with a straight face. “You’re not only a blessed stag, you’re a courageous one?”
“You seem to be making fun of me Avienne Grace Rivers, named for a bird, a spiritual attribute and a geologic water feature,” he returned.
Surprised, she looked at the paper again. Yup, there it was. He had filled in her full name. Well, what did you expect, she thought. You’d have researched him more thoroughly if you’d had time.
“At least we both have spiritual attributes,” he pointed out.
“I’ll try to keep that in mind as the discussion progresses,” she said and without giving it any more thought, signed both copies, handing him one back.
“You didn’t read it,” he said.
“I’m here on a story, Mr. Hart. No matter what it takes, I want as complete access to your knowledge and experience as I can get.”
“Ms. Rivers, that’s exactly what I’d like to give you.”
Before Avia could decipher all the layers of that statement, his phone vibrated.
“Lunch is here,” he announced.
They ate on the terrace, talking about her assignment, rather than the proposition he’d alluded to, but hadn’t yet made.
He’d brought the cart inside, himself, and served her himself. There was a crisp white wine, plus water with lemon. The salmon perfectly done, the potato salad fresh.
Afterward, he gave her a footed crystal dessert bowl layered with chocolate in various forms - fudgy, crunchy, frozen - between cool, creamy, almond-vanilla bands. A few liquors were involved in the layers, as well, she thought.
As he poured coffee for them both, Avia announced herself both replete and impressed. And turned to a fresh page in her notebook.
“Is it alright with you if I finish my work before we get to anything personal? Have an outside-the-NDA discussion?” She asked.
“Please,” he said. “What can I tell you?”
“J.J. suggested it would be interesting to include a profile of an actual billionaire to compare with the idealized version in erotica books,” Avia said.
“You do know a lot of them aren’t billionaires. Some of them are werewolves.”
“I’m sure,” she wasn’t buying. “Should I be concerned to leave before dark if there’s a full moon?”
He realized she thought he was joking. “You really are new to all this, aren't you? How long have been delving into erotica?” He could swear she blushed a little. She just gets better and better, he thought.
“A few days …. Three. Almost. I haven’t had much time for delving, I was mostly doing preliminary reading.” She admitted.
“You didn’t even check out my websites?” He was surprised, she seemed so professional.
“Mr. Hart -”
“Ben,” he corrected.
“Thank you. This morning J.J. dragged me into her office as soon as I came in, told me I was interviewing Benedict Hart in an hour, and shoved me out the door. If I seem unprepared, it’s because I am.”
“Did you even know who I was or what my company makes?” He asked.
She shook her head. “You were right, I’m really new to all this. Not that I was unaware of the existence of - various proclivities - I just never thought much about it.”
“That means in your own life, you haven’t been sexually adventurous?”
She laughed. “Not so far.”
“I see.” He locked his gaze on hers. “Well, how about if I educate you?” She didn’t look away. She licked her lips. Yes. His cock stirred again.
Not yet …
“‘Billionaire’ is a subgenre of romance. Erotic romance, for the most part,” he began conversationally. Avia made a note. “So is ‘shifter,’ where the hero and sometimes the heroine, switch forms. Werewolves and bears being quite popular. There’s Alien/SciFi. Historical, of course. Western is it’s own, though. Mystery. Horror. Paranormal. Fairytale/fantasy and more.
“While these genres can be erotica without romance, they aren’t at RedDeer. Romance is all I publish,” he said.
Avia was confused. “But, there were only four genres on the list you showed me.”
He shook his head. “Those weren’t genres, they were imprints. They represent different categories of sexual interaction. Naturally, there’s cross-over. But, for your assignment I’d be happy to be a comparative model for the billionaire books, which J.J. said might be an angle you wanted to pursue.”
Avia flipped back a page. “It is, thanks.” She reviewed her notes. “Most of them are twenty-eight, but you do manage to come in under the upper age limit, at thirty-two.”
“Imagine my relief,” he smiled. “Where do you place me on the brain-synapse-fryingly-handsome scale?”
Avia laughed. “You do know the type,” she said. “I hadn’t placed you, yet, but …” She took a few moments to study him. “You do have nice, dark, I’d call it sable-colored, hair. Thick. Bit of wave.” She said. “Yup. Perfectly acceptable erotic billionaire hair.”
She leaned first to one side, then the other. “And good ears.”
He laughed. “I don’t think a single one of my writers has ever described the man’s ears.”
“Maybe they should,” she returned. “Ears are an erogenous zone, after all. And yours are nice. Flat against your skull, not thick or lumpy. Attached earlobes.”
“Unattached earlobes aren’t sexy?”
“Only on the heroines of the books,” Avi said. “Hero needs something to suck on and drag teeth over. And then there’s danglage. Danglage is not nearly as effective with attached earlobes.”
“A word with which I am not familiar.”
She shrugged. “That’s because I just made it up. So - danglage. Detached earlobes give her something from which to dangle the outrageously expensive diamond earrings the billionaire will buy her and she’ll at first refuse, because heaven forbid she have any interest, whatsoever, in his money. ”
“Would you be interested in my money?” He asked. “If you were the heroine in one of the novels you read?”
“Of course I would be. Anyone would be,” Avia answered. “At least, it would be impossible to consider a long-term commitment without it being an influence.
"You think most women are gold-diggers?" He asked.
"No. I think this is life-changing money," she answered. "Very few of us have lives without a constant kind of hum of tension in the back of our minds. Wondering what we’ll do if the transmission falls out of the car or we lose our jobs or have to support our aging parents." She shrugged.
“I’m just saying that believing the women in these books wouldn't give the money a thought, except to be uncomfortable spending it, is more than you should expect a reader to believe. They're 'billionaire' books for a reason. If he's on the same economic level as she is, you have an entirely different story."
He started texting. You had to make a speech. Bore the shit out of him, besides insulting him. So he's getting someone to show you out.
“Sorry,” he said focused on his phone. “Just want to have the writers deal with the question at some point in the stories. Going to need a teleconference ... One more second while I get Hugo to set that up …”
Avia put a great deal of effort into not letting her mouth drop open. It was possibly the most flattering thing any man had ever said to her. Careful. He’s way too easy to like.
“So,” he said putting his cell away. “Back to our fictional billionaires."
She cleared her throat and gave herself a shake. Focus. "They are also in the ‘own large chunks of major cities, mostly Manhattan, and have fleets of private jets,’ strata," she said.
"Alas, no jet fleet. I’m afraid I’m a not very impressive billionaire.”
“I agree,” she said. “You’re tied for 124th place on the Forbes list with about nine other people.”
“And Forbes is just guessing,” he said.
“You should be 123rd?”
“Or 139th,” he offered.
Avia sipped her coffee. Even that was exceptionally good. Where do rich people buy their coffee? she wondered idly. It really is another world.
“Okay, two more things,” she allowed him to see she was serious, now. “The heroes of these books all have damaged psyches and tortured souls from traumatic backgrounds. Do you?”
“I grew up on a ranch outside of Fargo,” he said. “With two not overly bratty sisters and a nerdy little brother who idolized me until he found out he could do math I couldn’t when he was eleven and I was fifteen.” He grinned. “Maybe that traumatized him, I don’t know. We were well-loved and had a lot of chores to do. Which made us feel part-of, not burdened-by.”
Avia interpreted the warmth in his voice as a side effect of revisiting childhood memories. A sentimental billionaire. Who knew they existed? She made some notes.
“Last item on this list. These men all have non-standard relationships with women. They are all Dominants. All single and want to stay that way. They all have insatiable libidos, avoid emotional intimacy with women but are still experts at pleasing them in bed.”
“I think my libido is as normal and satiable as anyone’s. As to my sexual expertise, modesty forbids me to comment.” He smiled. “Maybe you’ll make that assessment for yourself.”
She finished her note and slid her notebook into her pocket. “I believe we’re entering NDA territory at this point,” she said. “I suspect ‘companionship’ is a word for something rather similar to what’s portrayed in these books. Certainly, non-standard. What, exactly, does ‘companionship’ mean?”
“A companion is usually defined as one of a pair of things intended to complement or match the other. Like a companion volume of commentaries to a collection of Shakespeare plays." He answered. “The word is from the Old French, compaignon, a combination of a Latin prefix com with panis, bread. Companion literally means ‘breaking bread together.’” He gave her a grin. “Which we’ve already done.”
She wasn’t amused. “Are you deliberately avoiding answering the question I actually asked?” Her focus on him was intense. In her experience, men who made jokes instead of answering direct questions were essentially dishonest. His answer could abort this discussion before it started.
“I’m sorry if you think I wasn’t taking you seriously,” he apologized. “It’s the first thing I say when I talk to someone about Companionship. I give the definition. Because I’m not looking for a convenient outlet for my libido. And, in fact, I’m not looking for a wife. I am looking for a Companion, a complementary volume.”
“You’re Shakespeare and I’m the commentary?”
Warm smile. With dimple. “You’re the poetry, the narrative. I’m the one wanting to unravel the plot. Decipher the language. Understand the character.”
And there he sat with his billionaire hair flopping around in the breeze, his frankly appraising look and apparent sincerity, and she realized she was charmed by him. And beginning to suspect he was a nice guy.
“It’s getting chilly out here. Shall we go inside?” He asked.
AWAKENING
Avia helped him clear the table and he pushed the cart inside. She moved ahead of him and held open the door to the hall while he moved the cart out and against the wall.
&
nbsp; “How literally were you speaking about limited access to the Keep?” She asked him as he shut the door. “I mean, you do have cleaning staff, I assume.”
“Not in the Keep,” he said. “My business depends on our products in development and testing remaining entirely confidential. It’s a bad idea, insensitive, really, to put an employee in the position to be tempted by the kind of bribe money my competitors would offer.”
“Besides,” he smiled. “My mother said ‘humble work makes a humble heart.’ She taught us all to do for ourselves.”
Avia made more notes as he crossed the room to his desk. Done, she paused to examine the couch and recliner near the doors.
“Do you ever sit here?” she asked.
“Everything you see here, is in my catalogue. Except the prototypes.” He answered.
“In your catalogue? These are ‘sexual support’ products?” Curious, she walked over to the black leather recliner. “This is a recliner, isn’t it? How does it support sexual … activity?”
“There are demonstration videos for all products on the website,” he told her.
“I’m here, now. Would you mind?”
He hesitated a few seconds. “As you wish. Remove your shoes and have a seat.” He joined her at the recliner.
She kicked off her pumps and did as she was told.
“This chair was our first offering in the Hartfelt line.” He said. “It’s a positioning system and still one of our top sellers. It takes the place of several more common but less user-friendly devices.”
Avia noticed his demeanor had shifted, He’d become more impersonal. Controlled. She felt a new energy from him. More powerful. Very much the CEO. Had she offended him, somehow? But he spoke easily to her, as if she were a buyer.
“You’ll notice the the proportions are skewed from those of a normal recliner. It’s narrower, the back higher, the seat shorter. You can sit with your feet flat on the floor, but your back is still supported. Try it.”
Avia slid back in the chair. He was right.
“Now grab the arms and hold your legs straight out,” he ordered.
She obeyed, and he rotated a lever on the side of the chair. The footrest lifted and extended. “Put your feet flat on the floor in front of you about twelve inches apart.”
