Breaking the Billionaire’s Rules

by Annika Martin

  “Omigod,” I say.

  He smiles his knowing smile. “Mia—”

  “I think we went temporarily insane,” I say.

  “Maybe we didn’t,” he says. “Maybe this is sane. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be.”

  My heart pounds. I want it to be true so bad, but I’m scared. Max has made a cottage industry out of lulling me into a false sense of security and then yanking the rug out from under me.

  “Where are you going?” he rasps.

  To the reality of us—that he got Meow Squad assigned to his building and requested me as delivery person with an agenda in mind. That he’s too good for me.

  I try to tell myself that it’s maybe just fear, but then I look up at the elevator chandelier. Something about it is so familiar. What?

  Then I remember it—the Instagram post. A woman against this very wall. A man’s hand planted on the panel next to her. That chandelier in the reflective area above her. The caption: This elevator has everything it needs except a well-stocked liquor cart.

  I feel sick.

  “Like I’m gonna be a notch on your elevator bar?” I push him away. “In your dreams, Max.”

  “What?” he asks.

  “Dreams. A thing that the mind imagines, but that will never be.”

  “What’s going on?”

  I hit the buttons. They make a little plastic nothing sound. Ineffectual buttons disconnected from the world. Like Max’s heart. I point to the key. “Make it go.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This is wrong,” I snap. “What am I thinking?”

  Pain flashes across his face. Or maybe I just imagine it. He turns the key and the elevator is moving. I move away from him.

  He says my name and I put up my hand. “Can you leave me alone for once?”

  The door opens on the lobby floor to a group of chattering professionals who part as I push my cart away.

  The doors shut.

  I stand alone in front of the blank elevator doors, panting. He brought me into his building to wait on him. Now he’s seducing me.

  This is a victory lap, nothing more, nothing less. If Max was actually interested in me, he’d ask for a date, not make me his servant. The more I think about it, the angrier I get.

  I hit the elevator again and pop back up to the twentieth floor. I leave my cart in the hall and burst into Blade’s office. “Let’s do it. Let’s kick some scavenger ass.”

  He looks surprised. “The New Year’s Eve party?”

  “You still want to?”

  “Of course,” he says.

  You’re sweet, I think before I can stop myself. And then I add, You’re sexy. I don’t hugely think it, but maybe I could think it. I remind myself of all of the TV shows that I currently love but that I wasn’t so sold on during the first few episodes. Maybe Blade’s like that. Maybe he’ll unwarp my mind from Max. “Okay, Blade, we’re on.”

  “I’ll text you the deets,” he says.

  My mouth is smiling, but my mind is saying, please, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t say deets again.

  16

  Never ask a woman if you can kiss her. She should be asking you. Better yet, she should begging you.

  ~THE MAX HILTON PLAYBOOK: TEN GOLDEN RULES FOR LANDING THE HOTTEST GIRL IN THE ROOM

  * * *

  MAX

  People start streaming into the four-story atrium, everybody in their finest. Oscars-night shit. I shake hands and exchange New Year’s wishes.

  I’m not a fan of New Year’s Eve, but I’m proud that the Maximillion holiday ball is such a hot ticket, all tuxedos and cocktail-length gowns. Never underestimate the draw of a dress-up party with a large Instagram component.

  I fix my bowtie.

  Parker’s sitting on the edge of the stage, holding court with a glittering group. I catch his eye and salute him. He smiles huge and salutes me back. You couldn’t want a better business partner.

  The professional scavenger-hunt designers—yes, there is such a thing—come over to consult with me about some last-minute decisions. They’ve been hiding prizes and clues in the blocks between the park and Midtown. You have to take selfies with the clues when you find them. They’ve done an amazing job.

  The party is also beloved by my employees, thanks in part to the massive loot that’s involved. The socialites and industry people tend to play for charity. The PR and social media buzz we get off it is worth ten times what we spend on the thing.

  My heart is not in it. All I can think about is Mia. Mia punching my sandwich like an outrageous goddess. The way she felt in the elevator, soft and hot in my arms. Mia’s face at the end. What happened? Maybe I should’ve followed her, but I’m not in the habit of following women who say leave me as energetically as Mia did.

  I tracked down her number and texted her a few times, and she promptly blocked me. I got her address, and I gave serious thought to sending something nice, or even going over there. I'm going to figure it out after this party. I’m going to make her see that she’s not notch in my elevator bar.

  I’ve never felt such an intense connection with a woman—not even close, except maybe that summer with Mia. I screwed it up. I won’t do it again.

  I grab a champagne off a passing tray.

  The string quartet plays a festive arrangement with its roots in folk songs—the key changes feel Slavic. Russian, maybe. They’ve got an excellent fiddler—somebody actually trained. Enough that I have to wander near to get a look.

  I stop short when I recognize the lead violinist from the Shiz—DJ Barnes.

  I’m not loving that DJ Barnes is here. A lot of the people from high school are jobbers now, sitting in on musical groups and bands and orchestras. It’s inevitable that I run into them at events. Still. High school was a miserable time, and I don’t like seeing people from then. Except Parker. And Mia, of course.

  DJ looks over and smiles. I give him a friendly nod.

  They start up something new—a demanding number designed to pluck annoyingly at the heartstrings, and they’re putting their all into it.

  Hearing him play his heart out, it sends a feeling through me that’s not exactly pleasant.

  As if on cue, Tarquin Walters is by my side with his photographer. Still working that profile. He’s the last person I want to see. “I appreciate the invite.”

  I raise my glass with a smile. “You find your angle yet?”

  He gives me a look I can’t quite read. “Are you playing this year?”

  I frown, stiffen. “Playing?”

  “The famous scavenger hunt? They say you sometimes do it.”

  “I play when there’s an odd number.” I shrug. “I hope you’re getting in on it. You’re perfectly welcome to.”

  “I’m on the job. I’ll stick with you.”

  Of course he will. All the better to ruin my party for me. Not that it isn’t ruined already, because I can’t stop thinking about Mia.

  Lana comes up and links arms with Tarquin. I give her a grateful look.

  My attention drifts back to the quartet. In your dreams, she said.

  Except she was right there with me before that. My blood races. She thinks I’m toying with her?

  It seems clear she doesn’t trust me, maybe doesn’t trust my motives. Why? Is it from high school? Is it the Max Hilton thing?

  Tarquin’s addressing me now. He’s broken away from Lana, who shrugs helplessly behind him.

  I give him a charming smile. An in-on-the-joke smile. People want a lot of things from me. Tarquin wants his angle, yes, but he also wants to feel like part of the in-crowd. One of the beautiful people. I have created this empire by knowing what people want. Specifically what men want.

  A new song. A musical arrangement that’s new to my ears. I feel his eyes on me as I zero in on the contrapuntal voice of the bass. “Question?”

  “Who picked the music?”

  “Planners.”

  “They’re good. This quartet.”

 
I cock my head. “Can anybody really tell? With classical music?”

  “But you went to the Soho High School for the Performing Arts. You studied music. Surely you know. Surely you’d have an ear.”

  I lean in to him as if I’m about to share a confidence, to give him a piece of Max Hilton. “Did you take a language in high school?”

  “French,” he says.

  “Tell me this—” I dip my head closer to his, deepening my confiding tone. “Can you watch a French movie without subtitles and understand what the fuck they’re saying?”

  He snorts.

  I smile. I slap his back. We clink glasses.

  “And please. Don’t call me Shirley,” I add. He laughs at the ridiculous reference. I take another glass. I have him back under control. We talk movies and he takes notes on that.

  People stream in, peacock colors across my periphery.

  My attention drifts to the east doorway and everything in me goes hot.

  I blink, unsure whether I’m seeing right. But I’d know that posture anywhere. It’s Mia in a sky-blue gown that hugs her curves and sets off her dark hair. She stands out from the crowd, so self-assured and heart-stoppingly beautiful.

  Something in me surges to attention.

  What is she doing here? The crowd shifts and I see him there on her arm, Ryan, I think his name is. From marketing. She’s with Ryan? She waves to somebody. She turns to say something to Ryan and he laughs. She’s animated. Relaxed.

  You can’t be with him, I think wildly.

  Tarquin is saying something about Airplane Two. Family anecdote. I tune back in. “Funny,” I say, and from his face, I see that wasn’t the right answer. “I mean, the franchise.”

  “Yes,” he says.

  I swallow and look back at her. People are coming up to her, but Ryan keeps ahold of her. I want to storm over there and pull her away from him. I want to wrap her up in my coat and take her home and kiss every inch of her.

  “Who is that?” Tarquin asks.

  “Who?”

  He gives me a strange look and nods. “The couple you’re staring daggers at?”

  “I do believe…” I furrow my brow, “I do believe one of my employees has hit on our poor lunch-cart girl. Meow Squad or something. They all look so different without their ears.” I drain my drink, hand it off, pull out my phone, and start trashing emails, as if clearing my Gmail deck might magically translate to clearing the snarl from my mind, which, for the record, it doesn’t.

  What does Ryan think he’s doing, bringing her? Why would she come with him?

  I look back over. They’re laughing together again.

  “You have a policy against fraternization here,” Tarquin says. A statement, not a question. “Does that extend to vendors?”

  Unease twists through me. “No, it wouldn’t be against the policy. He’s free to ask her out,” I say, wishing he’d leave it already. I hate that she’s here with him.

  Parker comes up and points out my jacket to Tarquin. Tarquin feigns interest, but he’s sensing red meat elsewhere. “What’s her name?” Tarquin asks.

  I frown. “The lunch-cart girl?”

  Parker gives me a strange look.

  Tarquin’s not letting it go. “Maybe she’s the next Max Hilton girl.”

  “Dude,” Parker says, reading my mood. “Sometimes a lunch-cart girl is just a lunch-cart girl. On the other hand, speaking of Max Hilton girls…” Parker drags us over to Britta and Tabitha, two of the nerdiest models you’ll ever meet. I encourage Tabitha to show him images of her stamp collection. That will trap him for at least twenty minutes.

  I watch Mia out of the corner of my eye as she moves around the edge of the place like the fucking queen of England, with Ryan gazing at her like a besotted serf, utterly outclassed. A grim smile tugs at my lips. He probably thought he was getting a bit of bling on his arm only to have her outshine him like the sun.

  “Excuse me,” I say, extricating myself from the three of them.

  I wander toward Mia, greeting all the people who want something from me—favors, promotion, proximity. Usually I try to talk up this year’s charities, trying to goose the donations. I force myself to do it now.

  I draw near enough to her for her voice to burn. I’m agitated, flustered, hurt, angry. I catch shards of the accent she buried like a violet in a snowstorm. I’m shaking hands, talking with people, her laughter invading my awareness. Finally I reach them.

  Her gaze skitters over my tux before quickly snapping back to my face.

  I smile and take her hand, a quick touch, quickly ended, except for the heat that sizzles over my skin. “Finally free from the ears,” I say.

  “I was going to wear them, but people would expect sandwiches.”

  Ryan laughs, gazing at her like a puppy. I turn to him. “The lunch-cart girl,” I say.

  He can’t seem to tear his eyes from her. “Mia. Her name is Mia.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, he knows,” Mia says. “We went to high school together, didn’t we, Max? The Shiz.”

  “The Shiz,” I say, holding her gaze.

  “You went to an arts high school?” Ryan says to me.

  “Yes,” I say coolly.

  Ryan looks amazed. I don’t publicize it, but it’s on Wikipedia. Did he not look at my entry? I make a mental note to check with his supervisor about his fitness for whatever role he plays in marketing. “I guess I can’t imagine you in a performing arts high school.”

  “He was quite the piano virtuoso at one time,” Mia says.

  “You play piano?”

  “Played,” I say, wondering how many times tonight I’m going to have to have a conversation about the Shiz. I turn to Mia. “You might see somebody familiar in the string section over there.”

  She puts a hand on Ryan’s shoulder and goes up on her tiptoes, craning her neck to see the band. “DJ! DJ Barnes!”

  “Break out the party hats,” I say.

  “A piano virtuoso?” Ryan still can’t get past that one.

  Mia’s shining eyes meet mine. “Max could play anything. He could dazzle. So…impressive.”

  There it is. I turn to her, my gaze every bit as bright as hers. “I tend to succeed at whatever I put my hand to.”

  She stares daggers at me. My blood runs thick with lust, and there’s a strange energy in my chest. Everything feels too bright. The room feels hot.

  “Do you still play?” Ryan inquires from somewhere out on the nowhere fringes.

  “No,” she says, and then she turns to him. “Blade, did you play an instrument?”

  “Blade?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  “Yes, that’s my nickname for him.” She grabs his arm. “Blade,” she says it kind of badass, like they have a dirty inside joke.

  What? She calls him Blade? Why would a woman call a man Blade? Why would a woman call this man Blade? It’s like calling a Chihuahua Killer or something. But he seems to be in on it. Does he carry a blade? Is he thuggish in bed?

  An unpleasant heat prickles over my skin. “Interesting,” I bite out.

  “We’re both Blade Runner fans,” he explains.

  “Mmm,” I say, still not liking it.

  She glares back at me. “Yes, he has one of my favorite stills from the movie up on his office wall.” She turns to him. “We share a passion for that movie. It’s good to have genuine passions.”

  “That still is your favorite?” Ryan says to her. “I would’ve guessed the street walk scene. That’s usually people’s favorite.”

  “But isn’t that one so obvious?” she says. “A lot of steam is coming up from grates.”

  “Steam coming up from grates is awesome!” he says.

  I gaze over at her and she itches her nose with her middle finger. FU. Everything in me swells.

  “Is everything okay?” Ryan says. “This isn’t…” He motions between them. “This isn’t against policy, is it?”

  “Of course not,” I say. “You can bring whoever you want
outside of the company.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to Max,” Mia says, giving me a challenging stare. “He’s just crabby because we’re discontinuing cheesy puffs. I’m sad to say that there will be no more.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard that before,” I tease.

  She sets her jaw and straightens up, a posture I came to understand, over long hours of watching her, as her strong-against-the-world posture. The stance she takes when she means business “This time it’s true.”

  “They really are my favorite.” I lower my voice. “Nothing else compares.”

  Her cheeks go pink.

  “I have to admit, cheesy puffs are good,” Ryan says.

  “Well, you can’t have any,” I say to Ryan, though I’m still looking at Mia.

  “I don’t know, I might scrounge some up somewhere.”

  “Uh, that’s okay, there’s plenty of food here,” Ryan says.

  Mia sniffs. “You know what this stupid conversation needs? A nice liquor cart stocked with pure-grain alcohol, because it’s making me want to kill all my brain cells.”

  I want to drag her off. I want to kiss that smart mouth and peel off that gown and worship every sassy inch of her. Never have I felt such absolute, primal desire for a woman. My gut twists with the force of it.

  And then my phone buzzes. Again and again. It’s here I realize the band’s stopped. When did it stop? Parker would be the one buzzing. I have a speech to make, but I’m feeling crazy. Mia can’t be with Ryan.

  I look over at Ryan, who gives me a faltering smile, and I smile back. This isn’t about him and I can’t blame him for wanting her. Just don’t fucking touch her again, I think like a man possessed.

  “Speech time.” I head up toward the stage on autopilot, doing the Max Hilton walk, cool as a cucumber in my designer tux.

  I grab a glass of champagne from an assistant and climb the three steps, sauntering over to the podium like I own the place, which I do. I smile, holding my glass in two careless fingers, trying to find her in the crowd, but the lights are dimming.

  I gaze out at the crowd, like, what the hell are you all still talking for? Some people laugh. More look up at me.