The Pretend Boyfriend 2 (Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male Erotic Romance)

by Artemis Hunt

  She treads carefully around the broken glass. Brian has no cuts on his body other than the ones on the soles of his feet. His blood smudges portions of the carpet, but that’s the only blood she can see.

  She frowns. With this kind of struggle, the woman, Delilah, has to be hurt more than the police suggested. Surely the police would have picked up on that. But the police didn’t care about Brian. To them, he was just some rich schmuck who deserved to be taken down a peg or two.

  Brian’s clothes are strewn on the floor. No doubt the police have gone through that, she notes in chagrin. She picks them up – a grey wife beater and a pair of crumpled jeans. They didn’t look torn. They look as if they have been slipped off deliberately. Brian said he didn’t remember taking off his clothes before he blanked out.

  Sam sinks onto her haunches, trying to piece together the scene. Such a struggle. Someone had to be hurt real bad.

  Maybe it was time she paid Delilah a visit.

  A movement at the door arrests her. There are shadows beneath the lower edge. Several newspapers are shoved into Brian’s hallway. So he has his newspapers delivered this way in the morning.

  Suspicion makes her climb to her feet to pick them up.

  The headlines are about the elections. But on the front page of the Tribune, a news item immediately catches her eye.

  ‘PROMINENT BUSINESSMAN, BRIAN MORTON, BROUGHT ME TO HIS PENTHOUSE AND RAPED ME,’ CLAIMS VICTIM.

  In it is a stock photo of Brian, probably taken some time ago at a businessman’s luncheon. He is in a business suit – well-groomed, impossibly handsome, and smiling smugly into the camera.

  17

  Brian walks into his office sometime around ten. He has tried to dress up as immaculately as possible. His hair is neatly combed and he is every inch the cool CEO as he strides with his briefcase into the reception area.

  Everyone there immediately stops talking.

  He has seen the headlines, of course. The Chicago Tribune lies face up on the receptionist’s desk, every sordid detail of what Delilah Faulkner has told to the police in print.

  Brian’s pulse is racing, but he has made up his mind to act normal, as he would every other work day. This is his company after all, and to hell if he’s going to let his employees get to him.

  If they dared.

  “Good morning, Mr. Morton,” Alysha, the receptionist says quickly. She’s flushing a little, and she looks down, as though afraid to meet his eyes.

  “Morning, Alysha.” He turns to the two copy editors who are openly gawking at him. “Don’t you have work to do? What would it take to get the proofs for the Meatgrinder account by evening? Salary cut? Bonus suspension?”

  “Uh, yes, Mr. Morton.”

  “Right away, Mr. Morton.”

  They disappear. Brian rolls his eyes, even though he knows it’s no laughing matter. So it’s all out in the open. Guilty before proven innocent.

  Now all he has to do is wait for the fallout.

  Claudia, his personal assistant, comes up to him with a sheaf of papers. She stops short.

  “You OK?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be OK?” he says, striding into his office. “And good morning to you too.”

  She has to totter on her heels to keep up with him. She has been his assistant for three years, and he likes her because she has a no nonsense attitude about her. Pretty much like Sam, actually.

  “Everyone’s talking about it,” she says.

  “Fuck them. I didn’t do it.”

  “They are crucifying you anyway. We had a couple of calls this morning from some of our largest accounts. Burnett and Co. Addison Rouge. The mayor’s office.” She says this last meaningfully.

  Hell, he’d expected this.

  She says, “They are . . . concerned.”

  Brian nods grimly. “And the lynch mob is all lining up with their pitchforks and flaming torches. What do you think, Claudia?”

  “I think that this might be a problem for some of them.”

  “I’m not talking about the clients.”

  “Right.” She clutches the file, her knuckles white. “I think she’s a lying, no good schemer who is trying to get something out of you, I don’t know what. But I know you didn’t do it. What reason would you have to?”

  He will admit to being pretty cut up yesterday, but he had been mulling over the whole thing with greater clarity today. He agrees with Sam. This whole thing stinks, especially when the ‘victim’ is so eager to get her story out to the press. Most rape victims would rather crawl into a hole and hide. And he’s not exactly some prominent celebrity she wants to tear down for kicks.

  He has never even met her in his entire life.

  Unless she’s planning to blackmail him for his money. Or more precisely, the Morton family money. But it’s already out in the open. She can’t blackmail him for secrecy. Is she planning to blackmail him then to make it all go away?

  But it can’t go away anymore. It’s too public, too huge.

  He groans inwardly.

  What a mess.

  The alternative is too awful to contemplate – that he really did rape her in his moment of genetic madness.

  “Oh, and your uncle called. He said he called your cellphone but it went straight to voicemail.”

  “It ran out of batteries,” he says tightly.

  It’s true. In the mayhem, he had forgotten to charge it. But his uncle calling at a time like this can never be a good thing. Still, at least he called. That’s more than Brian can say about his own parents.

  Anyhow, Jefferson Morton is someone you have to absolutely phone back. He has mayors and police chiefs and politicians at his beck and call. Brian sighs as he picks up the landline. Claudia discreetly closes the door behind her.

  He dials his uncle’s direct line. It picks up at first ring. Figures. His uncle has caller ID.

  “Brian.” The voice on the other end is a whiplash. Jefferson Morton may have had colorectal cancer, but he’s cured now and is as sharp as tack. In fact, he makes Hitler look reasonable. “What the hell have you done now?”

  Brian’s defenses immediately spring to the challenge. “Et tu, Uncle Brutus?”

  “I warned you about your philandering ways, but you wouldn’t listen. Now you’ve gotten into some hole that not even I can dig you out of.”

  “So you assumed I did it.”

  “I assumed you were not in your right presence of mind with all the alcohol and drugs you have been taking. You are honestly no better than your father.”

  Brian bridles. He opens his mouth to say something he can’t take back, but thinks the better of it.

  “Look,” he says, seething, “I may not be the nephew you’ve always craved, but I didn’t rape anyone.”

  “If you did, I’d be the first to hang you out to dry.”

  “You don’t control me.”

  “I put you through college and gave you your start.”

  “I made Vanguard into what it is today, and you can’t deny it.”

  “No, I won’t, Brian. I won’t deny your brilliance, your ruthlessness, your business acumen and your innovation.”

  “It comes with the I.Q. of 190.” Brian is also aware that it comes with genetics. The brilliance might have skipped his father, but it certainly is present in his uncle and cousins.

  “But you also have the emotional quotient of a petulant teenager. You are an overgrown club boy who is as irresponsible to yourself as you are to others around you. I was just waiting for a day like this when you’d drag the entire Morton name – an empire I’ve worked so hard to build – into the mud. Not everyone outside this family will be so forgiving of your transgressions.”

  “So you’ve decided I’m guilty.”

  “I’ve decided that your sins have come back to haunt you . . . and this family. I cut your father off, but I didn’t do it with you because I thought you deserved a chance. And you are trying to fuck it up every chance you get. You’ve gone too far this time.”

/>   “I didn’t rape that woman.”

  “But you’re not sure.” His uncle’s voice turns cunning. “You can’t fool me. You think that you can just waltz through this life on sex and booze and drugs – ”

  “I only do recreational drugs, never the hard stuff, and you know that.”

  “Hasn’t stopped you from trying them in college, until I threatened to cut you out of my will.”

  “You’re not going to use that on me again, because it won’t work. I don’t care about your money.”

  “You certainly did care about it then. And you’re going to care about it again when I take Vanguard away from you.”

  Brian’s mouth twitches.

  Ah yes, that little caveat. The one that he had to sign even before Vanguard was incepted five years ago when he was just out of college. The one that gives his uncle the absolute power as Chairman of the Morton group to take Vanguard away from its President and CEO, no matter what that President and CEO has done to grow the company by leaps and bounds.

  “So why don’t you?” he challenges.

  “Take Vanguard away from you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t try me, Brian. I really will do it. You think that just because you delivered a third of the clients and have won a couple of Clio awards – ”

  “I’ve won exactly twelve.”

  “ – that you are indispensable. No one is indispensable to any company. Not even you. And when you become more of a liability than an asset to us, I can just hire some hotshot from New York to take over your place.”

  Brian grips the receiver. He’s going to say something he will regret in the heat of the moment, and now is the time to count till ten or whatever it is that stress management advocates do.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  He’s burning here. He knows what his uncle says is true, but that doesn’t make it any less difficult.

  “I have a meeting,” his uncle clips. “Try to stay out of trouble for the next twenty-four hours.”

  The line on the other end goes off.

  Brian replaces the receiver onto its cradle slowly. He closes his eyes and palms his face.

  A knock on his door. Claudia knows he has put the phone down. She opens the door and peeks in when he doesn’t say ‘Enter’.

  “The mayor’s office is on the line. They are spooked. They want to pull out of doing business with Vanguard.”

  Brian sighs again.

  The morning panic has just begun.

  18

  “And that’s all you have to go by?” says the private investigator. He is a tall, elegant man with grey eyes and a prominent nose.

  Funny, Sam had expected a Philip Marlowe type, but this man looks like he has stepped out from the cover of a GQ magazine for the middle-aged. Still, from his credentials, he is apparently an ex-CIA agent.

  “Yes.”

  “How soon do you need the information?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  The court case would not be so soon, but Sam reckons Brian can do with the break. She is supposed to meet him for drinks anyway, but he called to say he would be late.

  “The rats are leaving the ship, and the captain is about to be thrown to the sharks,” he says ruefully.

  “Hang on in there. Things will get better.”

  “They can’t get much worse, or I might as well tie a noose around my neck and spare them the cost of a public hanging.” He sounds so tired over the phone that a pang fleets into her chest. “You wouldn’t believe how many reporters have tried to get through Claudia today. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’m morphing into Kim Kardashian.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “I can see them lining up on the streets outside my window. They’re waiting for me to come out. I’ll give them the slip by wearing a wig and fat suit.”

  “There’s always the back door.”

  “Nope. Last time I checked, they’re camped out there too.”

  She has decided not to tell him about the PI. He would just stop her, or at least complicate matters.

  “Need some company tonight?” she asks.

  “I’d probably come home at midnight and tumble straight into bed. So unless you want a snoring sack for a bed partner, you’d probably get more sleep at home.”

  He doesn’t snore and she loves watching him sleep because he looks so beautiful and peaceful. But of course she’s not going to tell him that.

  Instead, she says, “OK, I’ll see you next time then. Any other updates?”

  “Yeah. My blood test results came back. A copy is with the police.”

  “What did they say?”

  “No traces of any drugs. Blood alcohol within the limits, so I can’t even claim drunken manslaughter.”

  “You didn’t kill anyone.”

  “The way everyone is treating me . . . like I’m dog turd scraped off a shoe, you’d think I did.”

  “So everything is normal.”

  “Nothing is normal.”

  “I mean your blood test.”

  “My serum Creatinine is high, although everything else within my kidney profile is apparently normal, according to the hospital. So is my potassium, but that could be an artifact, so they say. It apparently comes from eating too many bananas.”

  “Do you eat bananas?”

  “I can think of a whole lot of things to do with bananas.”

  She laughs. “But seriously . . . are your blood results really OK?”

  “They couldn’t find anything wrong with me physically during my checkup.”

  She tries to make her tone light, even though she’s worried as hell about him. “There’s nothing wrong with you physically.”

  “Yeah, before you pass judgment, check back with me tomorrow night and we’ll see if I can get the little pecker up.”

  “Last I remembered, it wasn’t that little.”

  She can visualize him smiling over the other side. “If all else fails, there’s always Viagra.”

  “You and Viagra in the same sentence? That’ll be the day.”

  They ring off. He’s still not at his usual brash peak, she notes, but at least he is attempting humor. That’s a good sign. But the fact that his clients are leaving him in droves when he hasn’t even been convicted is a worrying development.

  She slips her cellphone back into her purse and peruses the crowded rush hour sidewalk. Then her shoulders slump when she remembers her own predicament.

  *

  It’s Friday when Sam receives a call from the PI.

  “Can you meet me over lunch?” he says.

  She has an appointment with Henry Moody today. “Uh, I can’t over lunch. But after work? Say . . . around seven?”

  “OK. Bring a check.”

  There’s barely going to be anything left in her savings when she has finished paying him, but if she can land Moody and keep her job, then it would be so worth it. Besides, it’s Brian’s life at stake. Nothing can be worth more than that.

  Outside her office, Kathy Angleston passes by in her impossibly high heels. She’s in all red today, and the look on her face is like that of a cat which has licked the cream off every other cat’s saucer.

  She pokes her head in.

  “Heard you got a Henry Moody appointment today,” she says slyly.

  Sam seethes. “Who told you that?”

  “A little birdie.”

  “I suppose you’re going to say you have an appointment with him too.” Typical Kathy Angleston, Sam thinks.

  “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?” Kathy winks and sashays away.

  Damn.

  Now Kathy has her wondering what the hell she’s up to.

  *

  Three hours later, Sam comes out triumphantly from Moody Enterprises, clutching the precious contract from Henry Moody. She returns to Sapphire and marches into Rutgard’s office.

  “There,” she says with a flourish, laying the contract on his table. “I should be getti
ng a raise for this.”

  He swivels on his chair to eye her. “For doing your job? I think not. I’ve already decided on the job anyway. Kathy Angleston is more suited for it than you are, and I’ve made up my mind to keep her.”

  Sam is dumbstruck.

  “Wh-what?” she splutters.

  Rutgard takes the contract. “I’ll be keeping this, thank you very much.”

  “But I got the contract, just like you said. I’m the first one to land a minimum commitment of a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Yes, but Kathy brought it other accounts to the cumulative sum of two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Bullshit! This is not about the other accounts. This is specifically about Moody! You can’t change the goalposts midway into the match. It isn’t fair!” A thought strikes Sam. “Oh God, what did Kathy give you? A blowjob right here in this office? You fucked her, didn’t you?”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “God!” Sam is so mad right now that she has to use every ounce of her strength to keep herself from hurling at Rutgard to attempt aggravated assault.

  “It’s just business.”

  “Business has nothing to do with it!”

  “You’ve got three days to clear your stuff out. It’s a retrenchment package, Samantha, not the end of the world.”

  Sam storms out of Rutgard’s office. Her vision blurs. I’m not going to cry in front of that bastard, she promises herself. But oh, oh, oh, it’s so unfair. But whoever said life was fair? They certainly weren’t fair to Brian, and he’s a golden boy – handsome, unattainable, rich and successful. What more would the fates have in store for the likes of her, Average Jane?

  A text message alights upon her phone with the sound of a falling drop of water. She looks at the display. It’s the PI, reminding her of their rendezvous.

  Now how the hell is she going to pay for that and her apartment too?

  19

  The elevator doors slide open. Brian feels like a condemned man as he steps out onto the familiar corridor. Up here in the top floor of the skyscraper, there is barely a soul walking around. The walls are brocade, and bronzed Buddhas from Indonesia grace pedestals of varying heights.