“Mia…” He looks me up and down. “Nice threads.”
I do a little shimmy, hips wiggling, while I circle my finger, then point it right at him. “You can’t touch this.” Just a little alpha-signaling-reverse-chasing combo courtesy of Max’s pathetic book.
“Good to see some people haven’t changed,” he says, walking in.
“Back atcha,” I say.
“Vicious campaign mockups,” he says to Max. “Fucking golden.”
Vicious campaign. I snort and look back at Max. He just smiles his cool superior smile.
I get out of there and ride the elevator down.
11
Be playful and outrageous.
~THE MAX HILTON PLAYBOOK: TEN GOLDEN RULES FOR LANDING THE HOTTEST GIRL IN THE ROOM
* * *
MAX
I should bar Meow Squad from the building. It’s what I should do. A smarter man would do that. A smarter man would’ve done it the first day.
“So…not to point out the obvious,” Parker says, “but that was Mia Corelli. In your office. In a cat suit.”
“I know. She’s been delivering sandwiches.”
“And?”
“There’s no and. She engineered getting in here somehow. God knows how or why. Apparently Meredith left instructions for the front desk to let her through before she flitted off to her yoga retreat. I’ve got an email out to her, but it’s a yoga retreat. In Costa Rica.” I shrug. “I know it was Mia, though—she was so clearly unsurprised to be walking into my office that first day.”
Parker has this strange look on his face. He never liked her, never wanted to be around her. “Really.”
It’s outrageous, of course. The idea that Mia would seek me out, thinking she’d just bring it—to me—a man who controls a billion-dollar empire, along with all of the messaging and mindshare that spreads out from that, and she’s a lunch-cart girl, and she decides it’s a good time to bring it…it’s classic Mia.
“Yes, and I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that she finds all of this impressive.”
Parker frowns. “That’s what she said?”
“Impressive.”
Parker snorts. You had to be a student at the Shiz to comprehend the cut of that word. Impressive meant style over substance. Flash over soul. It meant you were pandering to the audience as opposed to being a serious artist. Impressive suggested that you cared only about looking good to people.
“So, what’s she up to?”
“I don’t know. It’s not as if I follow her on Facebook or anything.”
“You’re not catching up?”
“On the sandwich trends of Manhattan, maybe. She’s delivering lunch.”
“Right to you in your office,” he says.
I shrug. “Let’s have it. Where are we on the campaign?”
Parker spins through the media plan.
I sometimes fly Parker and some of my buddies out to Vegas to see mixed martial arts fights. Front-row seats. Ringside service. If you know the sport, you know that the fighter who is flat on his back can sometimes turn that position to his advantage. There are certain moves that can be downright deadly from the bottom.
Leave it to Mia to think she’s going to bring it from the bottom.
A lunch-cart girl. But what does Mia care? The world is her cocktail party. Back at the Shiz, wherever you heard laughter or gasps and whispers rising up from a group, you knew Mia was at the center of it.
Ah, Antonio.
Who the hell is he? A Wall Street guy? Hotshot exec? How does she even meet somebody like that?
No, she’s not with him—I know it. Mia’s gaze takes on a certain softness when she’s captured by something. And that’s not how she looked at Antonio. I saw her face only briefly, but it was enough.
Still. What was I seeing? He looked ready to haul her over his shoulder and carry her off.
Parker shows me another board. “The slate gray is pitch perfect,” he says. “And the look on your face. This is gonna kill. They will eat it up. Don’t you think?”
“Agreed,” I say. “Perfect.”
“Here’s our location for your shoot.” He flips to a backdrop. “Check out this gritty drama. Set you up here with Lana and a couple of the other girls.”
“Yeah, that works.” I look up at the image of me and Lana at the Maximillion fifth anniversary photo shoot that Mia keeps staring at. It’s a shot of me sitting with my old friend Lana, bag designer extraordinaire. Lana’s sister and one of the Max Hilton girls from that year, a jewelry designer, are gathered around us, laughing at something.
Two-point-five stars. I bite back a smile.
It was a good night at the top of Maximillion Plaza, all champagne fountains and A-list celebs and athletes. A whirlwind event where we raised tens of thousands of dollars for charity.
And not once did I look out over the rooftops and wonder what she was doing.
Not once did I sling my arm around a woman’s shoulders and think, you’re not her.
12
Only an idiot tells a woman what she wants to hear.
~THE MAX HILTON PLAYBOOK: TEN GOLDEN RULES FOR LANDING THE HOTTEST GIRL IN THE ROOM
* * *
MAX
The Maximillion Companies studio complex sits across the street from the main headquarters. It’s a creative workshop, a refuge from the demands of running the company. Doing a round through there is the high point of my day—I enjoy finding out about my employees’ projects on an informal basis. Hearing what’s on people’s minds.
I sometimes see Mia and her co-workers around the Meow Squad truck out on 8th, but she’s not there today. Which means I may not see her today at all—I have an interview and a lunch event across town.
I head in. The studio complex was an abandoned eyesore across the street when we first took over the tower. After an unexpectedly good quarter—and against the wishes of our accounting team—we bought it and had it gutted and made into an open, colorful creative space with large and small work rooms honeycombed around the edges.
I love to walk around there and get the fashion designers, industrial designers, and marketing creatives to pitch me big ideas. Sometimes I pitch them.
It took a long time to get them to stop treating me like an owner, or worse, a celeb. To understand that I’m just a collaborator with extra juice. It took a few rounds of championing wild ideas and handing out bonuses even when things crashed to get them to relax around me. And Maximillion Companies is all the better for it.
I check on the apparel design team, and then I’m up in the photography studio talking about shots. The studio has windows that overlook the street below.
It’s right before eleven when I see the Meow Squad truck pull into one of the fifteen-minute spaces.
Somebody is talking to me about a new series of images for the Maximillion body spray, but I can’t stop watching the truck, wondering what she’ll get up to today.
Eating my cheesy puffs. Letting the evidence of it sprinkle down her front. I’m sure she was laughing as she did it. Stuffing her face and laughing.
Did she deliberately place the one large puff right in front, hoping to draw my eye?
Yes, of course. Standing there trying to look serious. Mischief in her eyes; cheesy puff crumbs in her hair. In your room full of balloons, Mia is the one holding the needle, dancing around like a dervish, laughing her head off.
And the way she added all of that bling to her uniform.
It reminds me of the way she dressed when she first got to the Shiz—as though a magpie dressed her, all loud colors and mismatched metallics. Later, she made herself over, or maybe her friends did. A new casually-elegant style to go with her new casually-elegant accent.
A young guy jumps out and opens up the back. A redhead with Meow Squad ears walks up—hers are lit with tiny lights, oddly enough.
My photographer is talking about the color process, petitioning for a Japanese photo app that automates something or other. He drones on a
s more Meow Squad people arrive and get their pre-packed carts.
I nod, feigning interest.
And then she’s there, ears shining in the late-morning sunlight, standing straight and proud, making the most of her small frame. The stance is classic Mia.
She’d hold her head high through every setback, going after her stage career with an urgency that wasn’t there with other kids. It looked like urgency, anyway; I had this idea that it was a little bit about escape, too. We both wanted to escape in our own ways, I guess.
One of the few things we had in common.
I flex my fingers as she touches the young van driver on the shoulder, talking to him excitedly. Mia always had lots of funny, charming stories. I think half the school was in love with her.
She pulls out her cart and arranging it just so, laughing.
Something lightens in me, seeing her laugh, but then her friend Antonio appears around the corner. How does he end up out there? Does he wait for her? Do they text? He’s wearing another nice suit, actually. He’s young to know how to wear a suit so well. I’d think he was a model himself if not for his briefcase.
She seems happy to see him, but the way she looks at him—she’s fond of him. It’s the way she’d look at a pet hamster. She grabs his arm and says something, head tilted, just an air of mischief.
“Max?”
“Buy the app,” I say, not wanting to tear my gaze from the scene unfolding below. “Send me a few shots so I can see.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
She’s twisting her lips at him. It’s her humorous and not-so-sure-about-this look. Playful scolding.
Or am I reading her wrong?
Now his hands are on her shoulders and he’s regarding her with outsized emotions—shock, joy.
I’m reminded of a Facebook video I once saw of a deaf man who’d gotten some kind of ear implant and could hear for the first time. He listened to the ocean with that stunned, joyful, bewildered expression. Then he listened to some symphony music with a face like that.
I don’t get why Antonio looks at Mia like that. Did she deliver some astonishing news? But she still has that fond scolding look. She reaches up and fixes his tie. Is she whispering to him?
My blood goes cold as he slides his hand to the side of her head. He leans in and kisses her.
I wait for her to push him away. Instead she shoves her hands into his hair, vigorously messing it up. Her hands grip his back. The kiss is getting dramatic.
I’m off, heading down to the lower level, my legs moving before my mind can stop me. I’m rushing down the stairwell, out the door.
My mood is dark as I emerge onto the busy thoroughfare. I need to get to them. I don’t know why. I don’t need a reason.
Traffic is insane—I’m waiting at the light for what feels like forever. Finally it clears. The walk light flashes on and I’m stomping across the street. Around the corner. My brow lowers as I approach the truck.
They’re both gone. There’s just the kid. The driver.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
I take out my wallet and extract a fifty. “Who was that with Mia?”
The driver gapes at the money. “I can’t take that.”
“Why not? Did you take an oath of silence?”
“No, but…I don’t want trouble with Antonio.”
“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
The kid looks up and down the street, as if he’s worried Antonio might jump out of the shadows. “He has a lot of darkness in his heart.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“You don’t want to know. Just leave it. And don’t ask around about him—he’s dangerous.”
I get a little closer and shove the fifty into his front pocket. “I won’t have to ask around if you tell me. What do you mean by dangerous?”
The kid lowers his voice. “Antonio would plunge a knife into your heart as easily as he’d cut a ripe tomato. That’s what I mean.”
I stare. Hard. “Are you being funny?”
Solemnly, he shakes his head. “You didn’t hear it from me. Okay?”
My protective instincts kick into overdrive. “He’s some sort of criminal?”
“To put it mildly,” the kid says. “The man is a killer from Italy who had very little to live for before Mia. He grew up selling his body on the streets of Roma and getting into knife fights. He’s killed before. Sliced men to ribbons, and he thinks nothing of sleeping in pools of blood. And there are other things, too. Between him and Mia…it’s very…” He shakes his head as he loads an empty cart into the back of his truck.
I frown. “Very what?”
“Unsavory. I’d rather not get into it.”
“Unsavory how?”
He rushes around to the front and pulls open the door.
I follow on his heels. “Where is she? Right now.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” I say.
“The Hillman building. She has a quick route there, and then she’s at the International Foods Center.”
“Thank you.” I turn and walk toward the Hillman building.
I don’t like this. I don’t like the boy’s alarm. I don’t like that they kissed. Is this man in the mafia? Is that what the kid was getting at? Mia wouldn’t have anything to do with somebody like that.
I go one block, two blocks, barreling past the dawdling pedestrians, ignoring the heads that swivel around in recognition.
I’m thinking about calling a friend on the force, a detective who’s done time on an organized crime unit, and asking him what he knows about gang members newly arrived from Rome, specifically anybody named Antonio.
The Hillman tower looms ahead.
I position myself to the side of the door, trying to collect my thoughts. I can’t be late to this luncheon, but this Antonio situation feels all wrong.
I go over what I know: Roman male prostitute who graduated to knife fighting. He murdered several people. Sharp dresser. Model-good looks.
And the way he looked at her, like a man in hell seeing an angel. And the way she gripped his back, the high drama.
I turn the thing over in my mind.
And then I just start laughing.
Mia’s out the door moments later, bumping her cart down the steps. I go up to help her.
“Max! What are you doing?”
I lift the cart onto the flat sidewalk. “I heard some disturbing news about Antonio,” I say.
“I don’t think Antonio is really any of your business,” she says.
“He’s extremely dangerous,” I say. “Did you know that he sold his body in the gutters back in Italy?”
She looks bewildered. “Huh?”
“Antonio would plunge a knife into a man’s heart as readily as he would slice a tomato. He’s killed before, you know. I’m thinking about alerting a friend on the force.”
She looks pale. “A cop?”
“He bathes in the blood of his enemies. Though on the upside, tomato-slicing skills like that would make him handy around the kitchen.”
Confusion fills her face.
I do my best not to smile, but I fail, and she sees it.
She slaps my chest. “Screw off. I can’t even with you.”
I go to her, knit our fingers together, right there on the sidewalk, with streams of people moving around us and the cart. She’s warm and breathy, a beautiful, trembling confection.
What am I doing? I need to be across town. “And that kiss. So fake.”
A defiant gleam in her eyes. “Who are you to say what’s fake?”
I lower my voice to a deep register. “I’m the man who’s going to kiss you for real.”
I can feel her shudder through our pressed-together palms.
I brush my lips lightly over hers, and then I kiss her.
She gasps into the kiss. She presses into me. Her pleasure is a drug—the more I get, the more I crave.
“You think you’re all that,” she whispers into the m
illimeter of space between our lips. “You think that was a real kiss?”
I cup her cheeks, cradling them. “I know it was a real kiss.” I swipe my thumb over her perfectly plump lips. “Try not to eat all of the cheesy puffs next time.”
* * *
I SIP MY LATTE, waiting for my pre-luncheon interview. Why did I kiss her like that? What was I thinking?
I’d vowed to stay away from her.
But god, the way her eyes shone—burnt-sugar brown. Maddening, impossible Mia Corelli.
A shadow falls over the table, and there he is, Tarquin Walters, intrepid tabloid reporter. “I understand you’ve been kissing Meow Squad cats out on the street,” he says, sitting down. “Leaving them stunned and breathless.”
Stunned and breathless? He watches my face a little too intently. Does he sense a story? The last thing I want is for Mia to wind up in the tabloids with me. She’d hate it.
“Kissing me is always a deeply religious experience for women.”
Tarquin gives me a jaded look and orders a coffee.
“Come on,” he says, “Level with me. A delivery girl now? Do tell.” Tarquin’s doing a feature on me. The goal of a feature profiler is always to get something juicy.
“Max Hilton with the lunch-cart girl? Why not go all the way? We could do Satanist Max Hilton, all animal sacrifices and strange tattoos. Or Max Hilton with an alien baby. Or maybe Max Hilton who sings weepy show tunes and still can’t get over that first love who rejected him.”
“Gimme something real. Some interiority.”
“Tarquin, the side boob has come back in style, and the Verona Club has Delmonico steak back on the menu. Let’s grab a window table and get day drunk.”
“You’re not doing that to me again,” he says.
I smile. “Fine. Questions. Anything.”
“Lana Sheffidy.”
“Lana’s one of my best friends,” I say. “I’d tell you if there was something going on. I promise you,” I say when he protests. “Though she’s threatening to design a men’s fanny pack line for Maximillion.” A joke.
Breaking the Billionaire’s Rules Page 11
