Under the Billionaire's Shelter: Billionaire and Single Mom Romance Collection With New Novel Included (Under Him Book 5)

by Jamie Knight

  I could hear it before I got there. The European soccer playing on the wall-mounted TV, the only pub I had seen who did such a thing, accompanied by the raging fiddle music from the P.A. system. The only way Dimity, Sergei’s oldest son, could try any harder was if he made ‘top o’ the mornin’’ the official greeting and dressed the staff like leprechauns.

  “You sent for me, mistress?”

  “Not so loud,” Mercy chided.

  “What?” I asked, in purest innocence.

  “Hey, no judgement on anyone. I’m into a bit of bondage and spank from time to time, but I am firmly with the menfolk.”

  “Oh,” I said, the quarter finally dropping.

  “Relax, I’m just messing with ya,” Mercy said, nudging me playfully.

  The origin of her name had become something of a family legend, with the usual amount of embellishment, contradictions and exaggeration. The brass tacks of it were that Mercy’s mom, a lifelong atheist, had gone into labor unexpectedly and with more than a few complications. Exactly what these were, was a matter of some conjecture. The long and the short of it was that Mercy’s mom was rushed to the local Sisters of Mercy, who saved not only her, but Mercy, too.

  In gratitude, she named her first-born daughter after the hospital, forever after saddling her beloved daughter with the name Mercy McGee. The tradition among friends and co-workers alike was to refer to her either by her first or last name, depending on one’s level of familiarity. Anyone who called her both was treated with a death stare that could drop a rhino.

  “What can I get ya?” Lara inquired.

  “Guinness,” I said, sticking to the theme.

  “Vodka on ice,” Mercy said, with a wink.

  “Right,” Lara said, with the most subtle and friendly roll of her pretty blue eyes.

  “Bitch,” I teased, when Lara was out of earshot.

  “And you love it,” Mercy retorted.

  “Touché.”

  Both drinks came, free of spite spit, and Mercy paid with a fresh twenty from a thick wad, not actually believing in wallets. She knew they existed. Mercy wasn’t that kind of crazy. Although she did question their efficacy, especially when coupled with a purse, which she saw as just more for someone to steal. Her way, someone would have to get their hand inside her jacket. Something that lead to an elbow in the throat when done without permission.

  “Pay day?” I asked her.

  “Damn right. I fucking hate my job, but it does have its advantages.”

  “Like a living wage?”

  “Among others. You should ditch the goon squad and come work with me. With your sweet tones, you’d get lots of work,” she advised me.

  “I don’t know,” I said, feeling the warmth as crimson touched my cheeks.

  “It’s not that bad. Just a bit of banter. Beats the hell out of stripping, I can tell you that much.”

  “Yeah, but aren’t the guys, you know, creepy?” I inquired.

  “Some. Mostly they’re just lonely and a bit pathetic. If I had normal, human emotions, I might feel sorry for them.”

  “That’s not fair,” I objected.

  “I know, but it feels like it sometimes.”

  “You’ve always been a sweetheart to me,” I said, it being mostly true.

  “That reminds me,” Mercy said, getting a wicked grin.

  The last time I saw her grin like that, we both ended up on a bus in Hoboken wearing nothing but our unmentionables.

  “Uh oh,” I muttered.

  “Have you heard of Second Chance Bachelorette?”

  “The online avatar game that was crazy popular for five minutes until people started mistaking it for real life?” I asked, mentally running through my memory file once again.

  “No, that was Second Life; I mean the new online reality show.”

  “I can’t say I’m familiar,” I confessed.

  I was a traditionalist, using my computer mostly for music and videogames.

  “It’s an interesting idea, really. They choose one lucky old hag, give her a make-over to make the poor wretch look presentable, and send them on a series of dates with handsome young men until they find true love.”

  “Sounds great,” I snaked.

  “Great. I’m glad you think so. Because I signed you up.”

  “You did what?!”

  “It was an online application. Easy as pie.”

  “But all those things you just said about an old hag, a poor wretch… Is that what you think of me?”

  “Oh, no, not at all!” she quickly reassured me. “That’s why I’m sure they’ll pick you; you’re nothing like the stereotype of a middle-aged woman. You are still smokin’ hot, and a lot of guys are really into the single mom thing. That’s the cunning part. You barely meet the minimum age requirement and there’s no way you can lose, especially considering I used the bikini shot from vacation last year as your profile picture for the application. I know no other candidate could compete with you. It would be like challenging a fish to a footrace.”

  “Thanks?”

  “You’re welcome. But you haven’t heard the best part yet.”

  “What’s that?”

  “In addition to true love, in addition to hot sex with an athletic, muscular hottie, there is also a significant cash payout.”

  “How significant?”

  Rather than saying it out loud, Mercy opted for the super spy approach of whispering the figure into my ear. I damn near fell off my stool.

  This whole idea sounded like it could only lead to mortifying embarrassment. I didn’t want to be paraded around as one pathetic candidate out of many on some reality TV show for other people to point and laugh at and talk about as they gathered around the water coolers at work.

  And yet, for that kind of price tag, I would gladly sell my dignity. I wouldn’t need it once my child and I were set for life financially.

  Sign me up, I thought to myself, and then I remembered Mercy already had.

  I guess my best friend really did know how to look out for me.

  Chapter Two - Tobias

  It was almost a meditative experience. The rumble of the engine, the warm sun on my face, the dulcet tones of Delirium emanating from both the front and back speakers, enveloping my mortal form in a veritable bath of sound.

  The honk came sharp and loud. Slowly opening my eyes, I noticed that the car in front of me had moved another ten feet. The red-faced gent behind me was desperate for even the most incidental amount of advancement.

  It was like World War I all over again. He was even using quite colorful German swear words, shouting out his window, to express his deep discontent. Perhaps it was my Union Jack bumper-striker, accessorized with the phrase ‘Rule Britannia’ that set him off. Neither Germany nor America had the best of histories with Old Blighty.

  There was no real cause for worry. It was not as if they could start without me and I was as invincible as it was possible to be in terms of job security.

  Still, I was not the only one in the world, so I tried to make an effort. For the sake of others if nothing else. People really weren’t that bad, all in all. Just scared and a bit short-sighted.

  “Good morning, James,” I said to the valet.

  “Mr. Ford.”

  “Please, we’ve been over this, it’s Tobias. Mr. Ford was my father.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. - Tobias.”

  “Much better.”

  Surrendering my vehicle to his able hands, I made my way through the sliding glass doors to the white marble lobby of the studio building. The whole thing wasn’t ours, of course. The building had over thirty floors. One would need to be a trillionaire to afford such extravagance, and Jeff Bezos and I fell out some time ago.

  The studio only took up the first ten floors.

  “Good morning, Tobias,” Mike said, keeping his military bearing behind the security desk as I signed in.

  “Good morning, Michael,” I replied cordially.

  The competition for elevators was s
tiff with only two to go around and all. That was a clear oversight by the architect.

  “Thank you kindly, Adam,” I said, as he held the elevator for me.

  “Not a problem, Tobias.”

  “Good morning, Tobias,” Eva said, from right behind me, her tone one of milk and honey.

  “Good morning, Eva,” I replied, keeping things professional.

  My office was on the sixth floor, right above the actual studio where we filmed most of the interior shots. More and more, the board wanted things “out in the world.” It was something I could really do without, despite perfectly understanding it from an entertainment perspective.

  “Everyone is already here,” Mari said as I came into my office.

  “Of course they are. Which room?”

  “Babble on 5.”

  “Thank you, Mari,” I said, leaving the caramel éclairs I knew she loved on her desk.

  Babble on 5 was an in-joke no one under 35 really got. Conservatives would have called it ‘Board Room 5,’ though this was as likely to get a chortle than a respectful nod from a sizeable number of the ‘lifers.’

  The gang was indeed all there. Despite being nearly twenty minutes late, I got nary a side-eye as I came in and sat down, casually unbuttoning my suit jacket.

  “Right,” I said, instantly taking command of the room, “where would we like to start?”

  “Contestants would be the obvious answer.”

  “Yes, Tom, it would. Do you want to be obvious?”

  “Makes sense to me,” Tom said, his level of self-awareness being in the negative numbers.

  “How are the applications?”

  “Flood levels,” Maria said, scrolling through the phone always welded to her hand.

  “Good, I like the be spoiled for choice,” I said, trying to get to the good side of the situation.

  “We have the interns on it,” Samantha said, stopping just short of actually waving her hand.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes?” Samantha’s confidence mask slipping, if only a couple of inches.

  “Who ordered that?”

  “I-I did,” Adam said, bracing for impact.

  “That’s not part of their job,” I pointed out.

  “I know but -”

  “You thought you would dance on the line between a legal intern and blatantly illegal exploitation.

  “We never really thought about it that way,” Samantha said, trying to take the blame for both of them as she often did.

  “I thought it was his idea,” I said.

  “It was initially, but I went along with it. We should have asked you first.”

  “Yes, you should have. Let that be a lesson, yeah?”

  “Yes, sir,” Adam and Samantha chorus in perfect unison.

  “Take the interns off the selection process immediately and send all files to my direct email. I will handle it myself.”

  “Yes, sir,” they chorused again, sounding like cult members to a nearly spooky degree. It probably had something to do with them being siblings.

  “How are we doing with the dating end of things? Do we have enough men for the dating section of the schedule?”

  “Nearly. We just need a couple more and we’re good to go,” Maria said, as efficient as ever.

  “Have they all been vetted?”

  “Yes. Most of them are professionals. Doctors and lawyers primarily. All under 35.”

  “Criminal record checks?”

  “All clean,” Maria said, scrolling down.

  That only made me feel a little better. I was all too well acquainted with how easily members of a particular social strata could get around a criminal record. Especially if they were guilty as sin. I made a mental note to be there with the camera crew on every date the winner went on just in case things went pear-shaped.

  “Get on the selection process and I will get us a female contestant by the end of tomorrow,” I said re-buttoning my jacket as I stood, officially and symbolically bringing the meeting to a close.

  Samantha and Adam did their job admirably, my phone buzzing with their message while I was still on the elevator back up to ten.

  “Put the coffee on,” I said to Mari, hanging up my jacket on the hook by the door.

  “Big project?” Mari asked, having started on the second of the eclairs.

  “Oh yes.”

  There were hundreds. I supposed that’s what happened when you offered both love and money with a side of hot sex. People were people, after all. I had to transfer the files from my phone to my desktop just to get a better view of the entirety. As well as to make the process a bit more efficient and quicker.

  “Thank you, Mari,” I said as she silently put the mug on my desk before slipping back out.

  It was like an interesting sort of treadmill. The names, faces and vital statistics rolling by created a self-imposed fugue state. It was almost meditative in a way. Partly because I tried to get into the zone before I started.

  There had been some glances when I first said to relieve the team of interns and give all their work to me, and even more when I said I could get it all done in two days. I didn't really take it personally. I could understand their scepticism.

  Most of them had never seen me work nor really understand my prices. The only ones who had ever actually seen it first-hand were Mari, who was quite used to it by that point, and Maria, who had walked in on me once with something important while Mari was away from her desk and therefore unavailable to stop her.

  It was like slamming the breaks on a speeding train. I did my best to hold on and not let my thoughts run off the proverbial rails. I could almost hear the grinding between my ears, the one other than my teeth, as I tried to refocus. Three clicks back. Yes. I had seen what I thought I had.

  Adelaide Harris. ‘Addie’. According to numerical birth date, she turned 40 a month ago. It shouldn't matter but she didn't look it, at least not how society dictated that she should. Everyone, of course, being an individual.

  The actual facts were usually laying somewhere between the established extremes, which is why standards could seem so contradictory. There was no inherent reason for anything to be the way it was. Definitions were often functional rather than inherent and values were often personal rather than universal.

  I didn’t know exactly what combination of elements came together in that moment. What I did know, as well as I knew my own name or that gravity did indeed exist by fixture of the fact that we weren't all orbiting space, I knew she was the one.

  I scrolled down further, more as a formality than a decision maker, coming across her secondary photo option. A scintillating beach shot of Addie in a quite revealing bikini. It wasn't a deal maker. That was already done. I would be lying if I said a certain instinctive portion of my neurology was not awakened, lighting up like the burning Christmas tree I found one grave December morn when the candles had been left out.

  The sweeping was as distinctive as it was immediate. My pants, which hand been expertly tailored to fit perfectly, suddenly felt several sizes too small. Particularly in the crotch region. The call was clear, but still I avoided it. It seemed somehow wrong to indulge such desires while at the office, particularly with Mari so close, wall notwithstanding. I doubted she would even bat an eye. It would hardly be the most shocking thing she had seen that week, but still I’d rather avoid the embarrassment if at all possible.

  Even more than that, there was the morality of the thing. Not religious. Not for a while by that point. The qualm was entirely philosophical, having more to do with wanting to be the driver of my own bus than what anyone else expected me to do or be. Pardon my French, but fuck convention. What has it ever brought but misery and two world wars?

  As such, I endeavoured to be as much myself as logic and the law would allow. Part of which meant forgoing the vices that had kept me down for so long. It had been nearly fifteen years since I'd had encountered any sort of pornography or imbibed any drugs stronger than aspirin. It wasn't reall
y a moral issue, or even a health concern. It was a matter of autonomy. Personal habit was the enemy of free thought as much as, if not more than, external expectation.

  For a moment I wondered if I was hitting a quarter life crisis, being 35 at the time of my absurdist epiphany. In retrospect, it seemed unlikely.

  I always said that if I even had a mid-life crisis it would be obvious. No sports cars or college-aged girlfriends for me. I planned to go proper rebellious and live alone in a cabin high up in the mountains and study philosophy and magick full time while living off of my pension. I could imagine the same thing would apply to the earlier incarnation of socially prescribed self-doubt without the guaranteed assurance of government-provided income.

  Typing a missive to all concerned parties, aside from Addie herself, I finished off the lukewarm latte and headed for the elevators. Mari let out a gasp of surprise as I passed her desk.

  “Oh! So, you're done then, Tobias.”

  “Indeed, I am, Mari. Strike up the band and ready the marchers. I sense a parade coming on.”

  “Metaphorically, right?” Mari asked, completely unflappable, though I did try.

  “Exactly.”

  “Goodnight, Tobias,” Mari said, gathering her coat and purse.

  “Goodnight, Mari,” I said, opening the door for her before following her out into the gathering night.

  Chapter Three - Addie

  It was worse than I remembered. My weekend with Mercy almost made me forget all the shit. My shit job. My shit ex. My shit situation with Duncan seeming to prefer being with his dad more than me, even though I loved him so much.

  That’s really what turned the knife the most. I had always done my best for my baby even after that term stopped applying in the social sense. He would always be my baby, no matter how big he happened to get or how much he grew.

  I could only hope that it was a phase. One day he would be mature enough to realize what his dad really was. It felt paranoid but I couldn’t help but wonder if Dave had turned up when he did, demanding visitation as a way to turn Duncan against me. A sort of twisted, Shakespearian vengeance. In many ways I would have preferred a poisoned goblet, getting it over with fast.