Broken By A King: The King Brothers #3

by Lang Blakeney, Lisa

  That's not good news.

  "So when do you meet Saint Stevenson?" she asks.

  Now we're getting to the real point of her inserting herself into my peaceful lunch today. She wants information. She always wants something.

  "Today."

  "You need any help? I can help you prepare. Maybe sit in on the meeting with you, so you don't make a complete fool of yourself when he starts talking football. I grew up with two brothers who played since pee wee league. I know a lot about the game."

  She must have been drinking daiquiris too, because if she were in her right mind, she'd know that I'd never agree to that ridiculous offer. Her in the room at my first meeting? In any client meeting? So she can try to sabotage it. Hell to the no.

  "I have Jason for that," I brag.

  "Oh?"

  "He's worked with pro athletes before. So he's advising me."

  "Oh right, I do remember him telling me that the other night."

  Abby is on my last nerve. She wants everything I want for no real reason other than because I want it. She wants the senior management position, but doesn't work nearly as hard as I do. She wants Spin, but doesn't even own any of their music. And then one day she must have bumped her head, woke up, and decided that she wanted Jason. She flirts with practically every man in the office, but with him it's so obvious that it's nauseating. Evidently the male ego feeds off of obvious though, because Jason seems to lap it right up.

  "So ... I need to finish up my lunch and get ready for my meeting."

  My subtle way of telling her to go the hell away.

  "Good luck with that," she says with zero sincerity.

  "Yep. Bye."

  * * *

  The frozen daiquiri I drank at lunch is doing wonders for my nerves. Must have been the top shelf rum I requested or the fact that I never drink. That's why one drink always does the job for me. It's settled me down enough to take a longer look at my file and do a little further Google research on one Mr. Saint Stevenson.

  I knew there was something familiar about this guy. Seems like Saint Stevenson was a football prodigy. I must have heard of him over the years at some point. A talented kid from a famous football family who went on to become a star in college but apparently is flailing in the pros.

  Explains a lot about the vibe he gives off. A sense of entitlement, with a touch of arrogance, and something to prove. I've seen it a million times with so many of our celebrity clients. Young, rich, bored and reckless.

  The stage has been carefully set for my first meeting with the man they call The Gunslinger. Peter's assistant ordered a mixed hoagie tray and another tray of assorted fresh fruit, which are set up in the small conference room. Apparently this guy likes to eat.

  The whiteboard and my laptop are ready for me to give a slide show presentation, and several printed materials on Carson Financial are on the table.

  I've done my best to freshen up. Other than smoothing out my slightly wrinkled skirt with my hands, I've brushed my teeth in the bathroom, applied a fresh layer of blush and lipstick, and popped a mint in my mouth for good measure.

  Kate, our bubbly receptionist, pops her head in with a wide grin spread across her face. "Sabrina, he's here! Should I send him back here? Are you ready for him?!"

  Kate looks around the room as if she's double checking on its cleanliness or something. She's quite excited.

  "I'm ready. Send him in."

  "Oh hi, Jason." Kate turns her head.

  "Hey, Jason," I say with surprise and a little too much brightness in my voice. I need to remember to turn it down a notch, if I don't want to appear desperate and obvious to him. I work really hard to appear as if I'm not plotting on him every single second of the day.

  "I thought I'd sit in on your first meeting just in case you run into any snags." He smiles.

  "Let me guess." I smile back. "Did Peter or Marisol send you in here?"

  "They may have mentioned that it would be a good idea for me to drop by."

  "The Carson tag team strikes again. So I take it that you've been debriefed on the fact that I'm sports illiterate and football dumb."

  "Yes, I have been, but I have plans to change all of that."

  "Really?"

  I like the sound of that.

  "Absolutely. That's what mentors do right? Instead of working dinners, I'm thinking we should have a few working game days instead. We catch a game, I explain what's going on, and then you will learn the landscape and who the major players are in no time."

  "Sounds perfect!" I say, yet again too brightly.

  I can't help it though. I'm excited about the possibility of us spending all that quality time together.

  Kate returns to the door with my new client in tow.

  "This way, Mr. Stevenson," she says as she directs him inside of the conference room. Her lips covered in a fresh coat of iridescent lip gloss, which has me wondering how she found time over the last sixty seconds to put it on. I'm seeing already how this man has an effect on women, and giving him a once over as he crosses the threshold reminds me why.

  Good Lord.

  Let's just say his stats don't do him justice.

  I already knew that Saint Stevenson towers over most human beings on the planet, but he's also wider and even more muscular than I remembered. I think I read somewhere online that he's unusually big for a quarterback, which apparently adds to his value as a player.

  He's dressed very casually in a dark gray sweat suit, white sneakers, and a New York Nighthawks baseball cap. The soft cotton fabric of his hoodie basically caressing every peak and valley of his rock hard upper body. His loose sweatpants not quite baggy enough to hide the large package between his legs.

  Avert your eyes, Sabrina.

  He's not wearing any ridiculous sunglasses this time (thank God), but the brim of his hat has been purposely bent and shaped into a curve that hides his eyes. Maybe they're bloodshot. From what I've heard about him, bloodshot eyes would confirm Marisol's description of him as a big partier.

  I run my hands down the sides of my skirt hoping to dry my clammy palms. I'm starting to wish I had worn my oversized gray power pantsuit which hides my curves a lot better than this skirt because after our first encounter, I need him to take me seriously, and not just look at me as a piece of meat.

  Hell–let me just rip off the Band-Aid and get to it.

  "Hello, Mr. Stevenson." I say in my brightest professional voice. "It's a pleasure to have you on board at Carson Financial. You've made a wise decision for your career."

  "Why are you talking like that?" he asks while taking a seat at the table.

  "I'm sorry what did you say, Mr. Stevenson?"

  His sentences are being muffled beneath the brim of his hat.

  "I asked," he takes off his cap and stares me straight on, "Why are you talking to me like some corporate hack, and call me Saint please, Mr. Stevenson is my father."

  I am almost too dumbfounded to respond. This is my first time seeing his complete face, uncovered and close up. He is the epitome of perfect imperfection.

  A close shaved beard which compliments his hard angles.

  A very crooked nose.

  Wide bloodshot eyes with pools of steel in the center.

  A slight cleft chin.

  And a permanent scar across his upper lip.

  It's a crime for someone to look this good without even trying, or it really should be one.

  "Okay, Saint then." I almost exhale the words without breathing.

  "And who's this?" Saint turns his head and stares directly at Jason, but I can tell by his tone that he remembers exactly who Jason is, and now the realization of all the things I said that night hits me like a ton of bricks.

  I told him Jason was my date.

  I told him a lot of things.

  "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stevenson." Jason extends his hand to shake Saint's. "I'm Jason Humphrey, senior account manager here at Carson Financial. I'm sitting in on this meeting as Ms. White's poin
t person."

  He doesn't say anything in response to Jason's introduction, but rather turns his head back to me, slightly tilted, with a curious glint in his eye.

  "You date coworkers, Miss White? Do you think that's wise?"

  I tap my foot nervously as I quickly try to think of a way to clean this up.

  Jason clears his throat. "I think you have it wrong, Mr. Stevenson. Sabrina and I are coworkers. Our relationship is purely professional."

  "Oh?" He looks down at me with a huge grin. "Maybe I did have it wrong. Sorry about that."

  He grabs one of the bottled waters on the table, twists it open, and takes a long swig. "But you know what, Jase?"

  Oh God, who on earth calls people by a nickname without having some sort of relationship with them first? Condescending jerks do that's who.

  "I think that Miss White and I will be fine on our own today. You don't mind do you? I want to get to know my new business manager without any distractions. Without any barriers."

  That last statement sounded pretty dirty, but I suppose he can't help it. Everything that comes out of his mouth sounds like sex. At least if feels that way to me.

  And Jason looks a bit taken aback by the sex god's blunt words. In fact, as long as I've known him, I think this is the first time that I've ever seen Jason look a little intimidated by another man. But it's understandable. Everything about Saint Stevenson is intimidating.

  "It was requested that I sit in–"

  "Should we call the head of this division in then? Uh, what's his name?" Saint snaps his fingers obnoxiously as if he's trying to remember Peter's name.

  Boy this guy is a terrible actor and a bully.

  "Peter," I say in a huff to end his shenanigans.

  "Oh that's right–Peter."

  "Uh no, Mr. Stevenson. That won't be necessary. Sabrina is one of the best account managers in this office. She can absolutely handle this meeting on her own. I was just trying to be helpful."

  "Well if we need your help, I'll make sure she calls you back in."

  Jason leans into me. Our shoulders touching. His mouth very close to my ear.

  "You all right with this, Sabrina?" he whispers. Still sounding unsure about leaving me to deal with this rude new client of mine.

  "I've totally got this. I promise," I assure him.

  He smiles in return.

  "Of course you do. Call me when you're done okay?"

  "Will do."

  "Pleasure, Mr. Stevenson."

  "Likewise."

  Eight

  SABRINA

  When the door slams shut, I immediately get to the heart of the matter. No need to beat around the bush. This is how you have to deal with guys like him.

  I adjust my seat and cross my right leg over my left, which is no easy feat in this skirt, and look him square in the eyes.

  "So let's talk real talk, Mr. Stevenson," I say to him in my best big girl voice.

  "Real talk, huh? All right let's do it," he says excitedly, then he flashes me a thousand watt smile, which has probably dropped a thousand pairs of panties across the nation.

  "It can't possibly be a coincidence that you've hired this company to handle your financial affairs. The company I work for."

  "You seem pretty sure that I'm up to something, Miss White."

  "Well–"

  "You think a company looking to enter sports management in a big way wouldn't have approached someone like me a long time ago?"

  I shuffle uncomfortably in my chair. Is this just a coincidence, and I've now put my foot in my mouth? Did I offend him?

  "I guess that–"

  "But let me stop you there, because you would also be correct," he cuts me off. "It's not a coincidence that I'm here."

  "So you're saying that you hired Carson Financial, because I work here?" I ask still a little unsure of what I may actually be insinuating.

  "That's right."

  I almost choke on my own saliva.

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. Why did you tell me you were on a date with your 'point person' when we met?" he counters using air quotes when he says the words point person.

  "I'm not sure what one thing has to do with the other, but you were being quite presumptuous with me in the restaurant. You didn't know if I was on a date or not. Lying seemed to be the easiest solution for shutting you down."

  "Is that still the case?"

  "Is what still the case?"

  "That you're not dating your coworker, because he seems very interested in what's happening in this room right now. In fact, I'd bet a hundred dollars that he's standing right outside of this room right this very minute."

  Saint's eyes drop to my thighs.

  "I bet it's killing him that the door to this room is closed, that you're dressed in this, and that he has no idea what I'm saying to you or doing to you."

  "Doing to me?" I repeat appalled and aroused.

  He walks over to the seat closest to me and sits down. His massive body taking up not only the space around me, but it almost seems as if he's filling the entire room. Just the insinuation of Saint Stevenson doing anything to me makes me pause. I mean I'd have to be dead not to be drawn in by the raw sexual heat this man emits.

  "Yes," he practically growls. "Doing to you."

  "Listen, Mr. Stevenson–"

  "We've been over this, love. The name is Saint."

  "Saint. Look, I want to be perfectly clear here. I'm not sure what game you're playing, but I have very little interest in games or in you as a client at this point."

  He pauses for a moment as if he's carefully thinking of a response to my very frank but honest statement, and then he just goes ahead and asks me a question which is totally off topic.

  "Are those authentic Philadelphia hoagies over there or New York's lame version of a sub?"

  "I don't know. I didn't order them," I say flatly.

  "Oh did the cute girl who walked me back here order them?"

  Ugh, this guy.

  "I. Don't. Know." I reiterate strongly.

  "I'm just asking, because I usually eat clean during the season. If I'm going to cheat, I might as well go with the good stuff."

  "I'm sure they were ordered from a reputable place."

  "An authentic Philadelphia hoagie in New York? I doubt it. But could you be a darling and hand me one of the turkey and cheese ones anyway?"

  The nerve.

  "I'm sorry but did you hear anything that I said?"

  "Something about no playing games. No interest in me as a client. Blah, blah, blah."

  "That's right. I'm not interested in taking on you or any other professional athlete as a client. Especially under these ... circumstances."

  He saunters over to the hoagie tray.

  "Guess I'll help myself then," he says as he grabs one chunk of hoagie. Which is funny to me, because I bet he could probably eat all ten of those chunks and burn them off by dinner.

  "Listen, Miss White. I don't think you're fully aware of what's at stake here."

  He adds some of the side fixings to his hoagie, grabs another bottle of water, and has a seat across from me this time.

  "Enlighten me then."

  "I am one of the highest paid rookies in the league. Without having been solicited, I personally called your office, talked to your boss for fifteen minutes, and then agreed to sign with Carson Financial for a year but only with the stipulation that you would be my account manager."

  I audibly gasp.

  This guy is insane.

  "You're finally getting it now, are you?" He licks his lips after chewing a small bite of his sandwich.

  "If you don't take me on as a client, then I'll take my business elsewhere. I certainly didn't sign here to end up with that guy you've been schoolgirl crushing on for years to manage my money. He doesn't look fun at all."

  "You are out of your mind."

  And how does he know I've liked Jason for years?

  "That's what they tell me, darlin'."


  What should I do right now? If this Gunslinger jerk leaves the company because of me, I can certainly forget about my promotion. I may even lose my job. But if I take him on as a client, then I don't know what I'm in store for. I have no idea what he's up to. I don't play games, and I don't even pretend to know how to.

  "What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Stevenson?"

  He uses his strong legs to roll the chair he's sitting in completely around to my side of the table then sighs heavily before speaking again.

  "You're all business aren't you? It's killing you to call me by my first name no matter how many times I ask you to. And look, you have stress lines etched across your beautiful forehead from this conversation. This isn't supposed to be a tense transaction. This is supposed to be good news. I'm the client that's going to make you a star around here. Don't you want that?"

  Of course I do, but at what cost? And what's in it for him?

  "I have to say that I'm really confused as to why you've offered me this opportunity. We had a five minute exchange in a restaurant a couple weeks ago. You don't know me."

  "You remind me of someone I once met." He grins.

  "So that's the criteria you're using to make major business decisions?"

  "There's just something about you I trust. Is that better?"

  "Wasn't your family managing your money before? You don't trust them?"

  "You're starting to hurt my feelings, Miss White. If you don't want to manage my twenty-two million just say the word."

  "I don't want to manage your twenty-two million," I say defiantly.

  "Gah!"

  Saint slams his hand down on the table in what seems like part frustration and part amusement.

  "I like you, Miss White, so I'm going to give you one more chance to answer correctly."

  "What else do I need to say for you to understand? I'm not interested."

  "What is this prejudice you have against me or is it with professional athletes in general? What jock broke your heart in college or was it high school?"