Need (Bad Boys with Billions Book 3)

by Laura Marie Altom

  After my big confession, I would have liked nothing more than to ditch work and spend the day strolling Fisherman’s Wharf with him, getting to know each other better while snapping silly sea lion pics.

  Instead, I sat at my desk, juggling Liam’s appointments so he could be home to meet with their latest contractor and still have time to take Ella to an ultrasound.

  In that moment, I hated the happy couple.

  No—hate was too strong a word. I guess what I felt was more in the realm of jealousy. I wanted Nathan to drop everything on a whim to be with me. This job of his—if it could even be called a job—had me walking a tightrope. The closer Nathan and I grew, the more I dreaded the night he turned his first “trick,” for lack of a better word.

  Resting my elbows on my desk, I cradled my forehead in my hands.

  “Hung over?” Garrett asked.

  “No—not that it’d be any of your business if I was.” I jumped when he dropped a thick stack of contracts about an inch from my head. Dick. Garrett had been buddies with Owen and Liam back in college, and he was now Phoenix’s chief legal advisor. As far as I could tell, he had no redeeming qualities other than having been born with razor blades in place of his mind and tongue. He was hot—if you went for tall, dark and self-centered—but since I didn’t, whenever possible, I avoided him. “When do you need these signed?”

  “Yesterday.”

  I shot him my usual go-to-hell glare and he went on his way.

  I liked thinking of myself as a lady business shark, but if that landed me in the same ocean as Garrett, maybe I needed to rethink my strategy. Maybe if like this morning at breakfast, I let Nathan see more of my softer side, he’d take an even greater interest—enough that he’d want to walk away from this whole vile escort thing before he got started.

  Nathan

  A week passed, during which I’d learned more about wine, table manners, art, literature, world affairs and the female psyche than I’d ever cared to know. Uma kept me locked up in her mansion every day from eight a.m. till ten p.m.—later if I didn’t catch on to any given subject as quickly as she’d like.

  Tonight, a Wednesday, as had started to be my usual routine, I sat at the dining room table surrounded by the black leather binders she’d filled with her own special curriculum. She needed to take a call, and left me on my own to compare and contrast Hemingway and Fitzgerald.

  A suit-wearing thug made sure I didn’t budge.

  Uma hadn’t again mentioned firing me or presented me with any additional bills, though I had been hyper-cautious about not giving her a reason to let me go. As much as I wished I could walk away from this whole gig, I wasn’t stupid, and I realized Uma essentially owned me.

  Judging by her security brigade, she owned lots of guys.

  The only thing helping my sanity was the fact that most every night I landed in Carol’s bed. Sometimes things heated up, but more often than not, we talked—about everything. Cartoons we’d watched as kids, or whether we liked mustard or mayo. In the dark of night, facing each other in her bed with our hands clasped and foreheads touching, I imagined what might have been if I’d met her back in high school—before she’d been seduced by her teacher, before my mother’s cruel death convinced me life was over before it had even begun.

  Sometimes I wondered if neither of us had ever heard of Liam or Ella, if we hadn’t been separated by miles and time, would Carol and I have naturally gravitated together?

  I liked to think we would.

  I found myself thinking of her a lot—the clean sweep of her jaw, the way she cocked her head sideways when she laughed. And her orange blossom essence . . . I couldn’t get enough, and spritzed one of my new business cards with her scent. I stashed it in my wallet—right alongside the tattered Great Ideas Wanted ad that had faded with use.

  I now fired off a few emails a day.

  The anonymous address had become my confessional.

  The place where Dream Nathan resided.

  There, I had a cool job, and was a respected and valued team member—not just a male escort or grocery stocker, but the kind of guy who mattered.

  I reached for Carol’s card, holding it beneath my nose, reminding myself that in a few short hours, we’d be back together in her bed. It bothered me that aside from our now routine breakfasts at the diner, we never went anywhere else. I wanted to take her everywhere—explore the city together—but we never had time.

  Uma asked from behind me, “Ready for a quiz?”

  Shit. I hadn’t even cracked the folder. “Sure.”

  “Good, although I’m afraid showing me your mastery of literature must wait. That call was Derek. He had happy news and bad news. The happy is that his client has insisted he accompany her to her yacht—which is moored off Crete. The bad news is that he was supposed to have gone out tonight with Mrs. Bartholomew-James—one of our most important clients. Since everyone else is busy, that leaves you to escort her to the Arts Council Gala. Your housekeeper brought over your tux, so all you have to do is shower and change and then wow her with all you’ve learned—not all at once, though. Capiche?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I should have been thrilled to finally get the hell out of the mausoleum to start making money, but really, all I could think about was how long the date would take so I could get back to Carol.

  “Excellent. Run upstairs and get ready. I’ll need to inspect every inch of you before you go.”

  I passed Uma’s scrutiny, and after she thrust a floral bouquet at me, ordering me to give it to “Mitsy” upon my arrival, I climbed in my convertible Bentley, then, as soon as I’d left Uma’s line of sight, placed a quick call.

  “Where are you?” Carol asked. “I was hoping you’d come early enough that we could share a late dinner.”

  “Baby . . .” I groaned. “Believe me, I’d love nothing more, but I just got my first assignment.

  I’m on my way to meet her now.”

  “Oh?” Her lone word spoke volumes. Voice cracked, she sounded on the verge of tears.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and as soon as I’ve earned enough to reimburse Uma on her investment, I’m done. I’m just taking this woman to some artsy-fartsy thing, and—”

  “The Arts Council Gala? Liam gave me his tickets. I wanted us to go, but considering your schedule, I guessed your answer and didn’t even ask.”

  “Babe, you know I would have loved to have gone with you.”

  “Whatever.” Her pout reached through the phone to crush my spirit.

  “Aw, don’t be like that.” I wanted to pull her into my arms, reassuring her with a hundred kisses how much I cared. She meant the world to me, but unfortunately, so did my job—it had to. Uma hadn’t given me much choice. “I’m sorry, but this can’t be helped. I’m betting I’ll be cuddled up with you by ten.”

  She snorted. “If I don’t wise up in time to change the lock.”

  “You wouldn’t do that. No one else goes down on you like me . . .”

  “Stop . . .” I felt her blush—and liked it. I liked everything about her. Sure, we’d started as each other’s rebounds, but if I played my cards right, this could turn into something special.

  “Forgive me?”

  She sighed. “I’ll think about it.”

  “You bet your sweet ass you will . . .” I disconnected, then focused on finding the right house. It didn’t take long—sixteen columns fronted by a replica of Rome’s Tivoli fountain didn’t exactly blend with the neighbors.

  Out of the car, I straightened my bow tie and cuff links before ducking low enough to check out my hair and teeth in the rearview mirror. Good as I’d ever be.

  I grabbed Mitsy’s bouquet from the passenger seat, then jogged five shallow steps to the front porch.

  The early September night air held a nip. Should I have put the top up on the car?

  Fuck, I was nervous.

  Every instinct told me to run my sweaty palms down the thighs of my pants, but that wouldn’
t be in keeping with the man I’d become—the man Uma had made me. I had to remember that no matter how much I would rather have been with Carol, the success of this mission not only determined my fate with Uma, but my goal to raise as much money as possible in as short a time as possible.

  To that end, I forced a deep breath and rang the bell.

  A uniformed butler answered. “Ms. Mitsy is expecting you. Would you care for a drink while you wait?”

  Fuck, yes. “No, thank you. I’m good.”

  “Very well. Right this way.”

  He ushered me into a formal living room that was so big that if I’d shouted “hello,” I would have heard an echo. The furnishings looked straight off the covers of the Better Homes and Gardens I used to stock at Food Mart’s checkout stands. Beige on beige with touches of silver, and a grand piano topped with smiley family photos.

  “Should you need anything,” the butler said in a cornball British accent I couldn’t tell was fake or the real deal, “ring the bell.” He pointed to a rope-pull with a tassel on the end. I struggled not to laugh at the rich-white-folk cliché.

  Once Jeeves slipped into the ether, nerves corroded my stomach. What the hell was I doing? Wandering in some loaded chick’s living room, waiting to put on a big show about how happy I was to be her date when all I really wanted was to spend my night doing something nice and normal—like watching a movie with Carol and coaxing her to eat a few carbs.

  A fire crackled in the hearth, and a lone lamp illuminated the family photos I now studied of ski trips and beach trips and countless smiling poses in front of the Eiffel Tower and the Lincoln Memorial and the Coliseum. I couldn’t help but wonder, if this family had so much to smile about, then why was I here? The question made me sad. What happened to make a mother and wife so despondent that she turned to an escort to take her out on the town rather than her husband or one of her three kids?

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman I assumed was Mitsy said from behind me. “I pride myself on being punctual, but the day got away from me.”

  “Hey . . . Hi,” I turned to her, surprised to see a fit, attractive woman in what I guessed was her early fifties. Per Uma’s instructions, I let Mitsy take the lead in regard to initial contact— handshake or hug.

  Smiles everyone, smiles! My mind heard Ricardo Montalbán urging his staff to welcome everyone to Fantasy Island. Because that’s what was really happening here, right? Mitsy was having a fantasy about being needed and adored and I was having a fantasy about being rich and powerful enough that a woman like Carol would actually want to be with me. It was all fucked. But I felt sorry for Mitsy and my deeply ingrained work ethic demanded I do not just an adequate job, but great.

  “Hello.” She held out both hands, which I grasped—not so firmly, though, as to be a threat. Next came a bright smile and a double Euro air kiss. “As you probably guessed, I’m Mitsy, and Uma told me you’re Nathan—fresh from the continent, where you’ve been backpacking for the summer. Congratulations, by the way—graduating cum laude from Princeton is impressive.”

  So was Uma’s ability to spin a good yarn. “Thank you.” I gave her hands a light squeeze before letting her go. “I’m excited for tonight. I haven’t been in San Francisco long enough to make it to the art museum.”

  “Hmm . . .” She patted my arm, and winked. “A MOMA virgin. We’re going to have a wonderful time.”

  The rest of the night passed in a surprisingly pleasant blur. Mitsy introduced me as a family friend, and even though I’m sure everyone knew the score, no one dared contradict her story. I learned Mr. Mitsy ran an import business and split his time between home and Beijing. Reading between the tears shining in her pretty green eyes and the catch in her voice, I guessed Mr. Mitsy wasn’t alone on his many travels. Mitsy had a son at West Point, a daughter who modeled in Manhattan, and another daughter who lived the shit out of her Greek life at Arizona State.

  Try Delta—everyone else has . . .

  The deeper into the night we found ourselves, the more I relaxed and realized that Uma had been entirely upfront with me about my job. I was here to make a nice lady less lonely, and there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with that.

  We ended with me walking her to her home’s front door, then again letting her take the lead in delivering a perfectly polite hug.

  “I can’t thank you enough for tagging along with me tonight. I hope I wasn’t too much of a bore?”

  “To the contrary. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had more fun.” Except for just this morning with Carol in the shower. The second the thought hit my head, I felt bad.

  “Good. Then we’ll have to do this another time. Next week, I have a fashion show benefitting the Arthritis Foundation. Shall I check with Uma to see if your schedule’s open?”

  “Sure—yes, please. I’d very much like seeing you again.”

  “Wonderful . . .” Her smile lit her eyes and made her look ten years younger. She was such a nice lady. Why was her husband an ass?

  Carol

  Since Nathan was now seeing clients—he didn’t like when I called them tricks—his daytime hours were more reasonable, which was why on a chilly, drizzly Saturday morning in early October, we were able to stroll hand-in-hand through the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market on the Embarcadero side, acting for all who may have noticed like a real live couple. Only we weren’t.

  For three weeks, we’d played this game of pretending Nathan’s job was normal. He swore his relations with the women he escorted were strictly G-rated, and I believed him. I swore I was okay with him being out every night—sometimes flying to LA or Vegas and once, to Paris. But deep down, I wasn’t even a little bit okay.

  Any man I’d ever loved had left me for another woman.

  I wasn’t saying I loved Nathan—it was too soon for that, but the longer he shared my world, the more he wove his way into my heart. Until now, I wasn’t sure what I’d do without him. Which was awful. I didn’t want to be that clingy woman, dependent on a man for her happiness. Before meeting Nathan, I thought I’d had my life figured out. Sure, I’d been lonely, but I hadn’t obsessed over my man getting paid to be with another woman!

  “You seem quiet,” Nathan said in front of my favorite produce stand.

  As was starting to be my norm, I told him a partial truth. “I talked with Mom while you were in the shower. I should lower her allowance, since she apparently used a chunk of change to find my daughter.”

  “Baby, that’s great.” We hugged, standing like rocks in the center of a teeming human river. “You’ve got to be thrilled.”

  “I am.” Hating the knot lurking at the back of my throat, I pressed my cheek to his chest. He smelled of autumn and the spiced cider we’d sampled a few booths down. “But honestly? I never thought Mom would find her, and now I’m . . .” Confused, scared, and crushed by the hope that with Nathan by my side, I could handle anything—but he wasn’t by my side in the way I needed him to be, not really. So where did that leave me? “What should I do?”

  “For starters, let’s get out of here.”

  “But I need tomatoes. And I wanted to go back to the craft booth with those hand-painted salt-dough Yorkie ornaments.”

  Still holding my hand, he ducked into the nearest produce booth, then grabbed a paper sack.

  “Let’s tackle one request at a time. How many tomatoes?”

  “Three.”

  Once that task was done, he led me to the craft booth, where he bought Mom’s gift, then steered me out of the worst of the crowd. We’d walked from my condo, but the drizzle had turned into a cold rain, so he hailed a cab and gave the driver an address I didn’t know. “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “My place. It’s a little closer.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to make of this development. Most of the precious little time we’d spent together was either at my condo or a restaurant. “Why?”

  “Why not?” He leaned in to kiss my cheek, and then took my hand. It was such a boyfriend move—
tender and sweet and totally swoon-worthy.

  I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “Are we . . . you know . . . like Facebook official?”

  “Is that what you want?” His sexy-slow grin melted the last of my resolve not to get too close. His white teeth contrasted against his dark stubble. If he hadn’t been a male escort, he could have easily been a model. Was it wrong of me to wish he’d chosen that route?

  I nodded, but bowed my head. Of course that’s what I wanted, but like the carbs I’d been eating too much of since meeting him, I knew he wasn’t good for me.

  “Okay, then. Done.”

  “What about tonight?” the realist in me couldn’t help but ask. That morning, he’d told me he was taking a new client to an LA movie premiere. I didn’t know the woman’s name, but I hated her.

  “Stop.” He bracketed my face with his big hands and kissed me breathless. “Do you really want to mar this momentous occasion with a fight?”

  “I’m not fighting, Nathan. I just can’t stand sharing you.”

  “Good, because you’re not. How many times do I have to tell you that my clients get handshakes and an occasional hug—that’s it. Most are old enough to be my mother, and far from being attracted to them, across the board, I feel sorry for them. I promise, as soon as I’ve made enough cash to reimburse Uma, then set a little back for rainy days and college, I’m done.” He’d repeated this speech at least a dozen times, so why couldn’t I believe him?

  His apartment reminded me of a posh hotel suite—filled with antiques and pricey oil paintings and herringboned hardwood floors so glossy that they’d be great fun to skate on wearing just socks.

  “Let’s get you dried off.” He grabbed my index finger, towing me toward his bedroom, and then his master bath, which featured a soaking tub large enough for three or four guests.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Obviously, you’re not, or you wouldn’t have scowled your way through the farmers market. Change into a pair of my PJ bottoms and a T-shirt, then we’ll raid the fridge and make a pros-and-cons list about all things finding your daughter. Sound good?”