Jane Harvey-Berrick Saving The Billionaire

by Harvey-Berrick, Jane

  The boss is distracted at the first meeting of the day, and Pam stalks me across the room.

  “What’s wrong with Devon?” she hisses.

  “He looks fine to me.”

  “He’s smiling,” she says in an accusing tone.

  It’s true.

  Ms. Alvarez certainly seems to be having a beneficial effect on Anderson, although not on his business.

  The suits at the meeting aren’t entirely sure what to make of this and nor does Ryan. They all do the smart thing and ignore it.

  I position myself behind him so I have a clear view of the door and prepare to be bored half to death. I also happen to have a clear view of his laptop and I can tell you he’s not as entirely engrossed in NASDAQ as it appears. In fact, if I didn’t know better, which I don’t, I’d say he spends the entire meeting sending emails to little Ms. Alvarez. For fuck’s sake, at this rate he’ll end up selling DMA Solutions to Azerbaijan for a dollar.

  By 9AM, he’s bored again and winds up the meeting. Waving away the minions, he breezes off to his office, cutting off Pam’s annoyed words.

  It’s a long day, and his Ms. Alvarez-induced high doesn’t last.

  When we finally arrive back at Wolf Point, Rachel is asleep on the sofa. I guess she got tired waiting for me. God, she looks so beautiful, so peaceful. And that’s what she makes me feel: peaceful deep inside. And also fucking horny.

  I lean down and stroke her cheek.

  “Hey, baby.”

  Her eyes flutter open.

  “You’re back! Are you hungry? I’ve got some…”

  But I don’t let her finish. My mouth is on hers, learning the shape of her lips again, remembering, breathing her breath. She sighs deeply, and the sound cascades through me, heating every cell of my body.

  I scoop her up into my arms and she laughs.

  “Justin! Can we have a conversation first?”

  I don’t think so. I plan on doing all my talking with my body.

  Kicking the bedroom door open, I throw her onto the bed. She’s breathless, smiling up at me.

  “Talking later then?”

  I throw my jacket on the floor, kick off my shoes and sink down next to her.

  Sometime later, Rachel collapses onto my chest, breathing hard. I stroke her hair, feeling the silky texture under my fingers, but more than that, feeling like I’ve come home.

  She sits up slowly, a soft smile on her lips.

  “Do you feel better now?”

  I nod, running my hands slowly up and down her spine.

  She reaches across and takes a sip of water from the glass on the bedside table then slides down next to me, snuggling into my shoulder.

  “What did you want to talk to me about, baby?”

  She squints up at me, one eye shut and a sleepy look on her face.

  “Talking usually works better when both people are awake,” she says, trying not to yawn.

  “That a fact?”

  She runs a finger across my left pec, circling the flat nipple. Crazy how much of a turn on that is.

  “I was wondering, would it be okay … I mean it’s fine if it’s not … but I thought I’d make a birthday cake for Lilly. Something in pink?”

  She looks up at me, her expression hopeful and anxious. It kills me that she still doubts herself. Doesn’t she know how fucking amazing she is? How decent? How damn good?

  My voice is hoarse when I answer.

  “That would be … awesome.”

  Chapter 6

  Carousel

  ABIGAIL ANDERSON IS back in town.

  I know this because the boss is holding his cell away from his ear taking a call. I actually saw him wince. So with Miss Anderson’s not-so-dulcet tones echoing through the car and probably most of Europe, I gather that the boss has been strong-armed into picking her up from the airport early tomorrow morning. Better him than me.

  The next day, the boss is up at the butt crack of dawn and heading to JFK to pick up his sister and drive out to their parents at Scarsdale. He’s taken the Rover on the (probably correct) assumption that she’ll have a helluva lot more luggage than she left with.

  She’s been in Italy with the rest of her college class, learning some fancy-schmancy way of cooking. Or maybe just learning to boil pasta. The only trip I ever took in school was Spring break my senior year when a bunch of us bought a couple of crates of beer and went camping for the weekend.

  I’m so fucking glad that the boss hasn’t asked me to drive today.

  Even better, I get to sleep-in with the beautiful Ms. Smith. A rare and very welcome luxury after the last week.

  “Hey, blue eyes!”

  She smiles up at me.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  Then she feels what’s pressing into her thigh.

  “Justin Trainer, I think you’re pleased to see me!”

  Yep, and that’s enough conversation for now.

  Hours later (hey, it’s a guy thing) … okay, okay … sometime later we’re both lying on our backs. Rachel is gasping for breath and I’ve got the biggest fucking grin on my face.

  “I think I’ll cancel my Spin class,” she says at last, still panting.

  “I don’t know why you go to those classes when you’ve got me to keep you fit, baby.”

  She frowns and her expression becomes serious.

  “Because I’m nearly nine years older than you, Justin. If I’ve got any hope of keeping up…”

  Not that old chestnut. Nine years is nothing. I don’t give a shit. Never have.

  “Baby, to me you’re perfect.”

  She sighs.

  The woman really doesn’t know how to take a compliment.

  “I mean it. Why would I even look at another woman when I’ve got you?”

  She shakes her head as if my question baffles her. But it’s true: having been married to my ex, I know what I’m talking about. Rachel is the real deal, the one I want.

  I don’t care how many women throw themselves in my direction, either getting a cheap thrill out of fucking the hired help, the hard-man bodyguard, or sometimes to get closer to Anderson. I’ve seen it all, and those types do nothing for me. I have perfection at home. But convincing Rachel of that…

  I wonder if her sister has something to do with it, whispering crap to her when I’m not there. Rachel always seems more distant after she’s visited her family. I’m going to have to face that head on one day.

  “By the way,” she says, obviously changing the subject, “I wanted to ask you about Ms. Alvarez.”

  “What about her?”

  “Well, what’s your opinion of her?”

  Why women are so intrigued by other women they don’t even know is a complete mystery.

  “She’s got the boss jumping through hoops. The poor bastard doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.”

  She smiles.

  “That certainly makes a change.”

  “Yeah. But seriously, he’s a fucking nightmare at the moment. One minute I’m expecting violins to start playing and the next he’s biting the head off of some poor sucker who breathed without permission.”

  “He’s never shouted at me.”

  “He wouldn’t fucking dare!”

  Rachel laughs. She’s always laughing at me. Somehow I don’t seem to mind.

  “So you think he really likes this girl?”

  “Head over fucking heels, in my humble opinion.”

  “You wouldn’t know ‘humble’ if you tripped over it!”

  “I can be humble.”

  “Oh Justin, a luau in the Antarctic is more likely.”

  Whatever.

  “Do you think she loves Mr. Anderson?”

  That’s the part I’m not sure about. She certainly likes him a lot, but sometimes there’s a look in her eye that tells me she’s torn up inside. Like I can’t guess what makes her feel that way.

  “Maybe, if he’d let her,” I say at last.

  “Oh, dear.”

  Rachel looks unh
appy about it.

  “She just seems so young, you know?”

  “Does it matter?”

  She looks at me like I’ve just parachuted in from Mars.

  “Of course it matters! You know what he’s like, what he does in the meditation room!”

  Yeah, I know and I don’t like it much either.

  “Rachel, she’s a grown woman. I think you’re all born knowing how to lead a guy by his dick, because I’m telling you, she’s the one who’s in charge in this relationship. She phones him or emails him, and he drops everything and comes running. Hell, he doesn’t even do that for his own family.”

  She looks slightly happier. Good, because I’m done talking about the boss. It’s not like we don’t have our own lives to live.

  And with that thought in mind, I duck down under the sheets and show my woman a thing or two about things she doesn’t necessarily need to go on missing.

  THE NEXT WEEKEND is weird. Saturday night, I have the whole of Wolf Point to myself. Rachel is at her sister’s and the boss is with Ms. Alvarez.

  I make a couple of calls and find out that some guys from my old platoon are in town, so we catch up over beer and burgers. It’s good, talking about the old days and just chilling, but when I get back home, it feels weird being in the place by myself.

  I sleep later than usual then take a long swim in the pool, a rare luxury.

  I’ve only just shit, showered and shaved when the boss drives into the underground garage, having stayed the night with his girl—at a hotel, I assume, since she lives with her grandfather and three younger brothers. I make sure I’m standing to attention when he exits the elevator.

  “Sir.”

  “Trainer, I’m expecting Ms. Alvarez at 1PM. I’ve given her the codes for the garage and elevator, but be on standby just in case she has any problems. This evening we’ll be having dinner with my parents, so I’ll want to leave at 7PM.”

  That’s shocked my fucking socks off. Dinner at his parents? At least I won’t have Miss Abigail Anderson asking me leading questions about whether or not the boss and I like Abba and have I seen the movie Mama Mia—her idea of a joke. As a matter of fact I have, on one of the thankfully rare evenings when Rachel won the toss on movie night. What the fuck was James Bond doing singing out of tune? That’s what I couldn’t figure out.

  But before I drive them out to Scarsdale and watch his parents celebrate their son’s heterosexuality, I have a shrewd idea of what they’ll be doing for the intervening six hours. Poor kid: I hope she’s fit.

  Chapter 7

  La Cage Aux Folles

  IN THE END, I can’t stand the silence.

  At 1.15PM, they disappear into the boss’s bedroom and I wander around the staff quarters. I don’t know what I’m expecting: maybe for Ms. Alvarez to run out screaming. In the end it’s me who has to leave—the tension is more than flesh and blood can bear.

  I wander over to ‘Hail Mary’, a scuzzy sports bar in the Village. Rachel hates me going into joints like this. For some reason, she thinks I’ll end up in a brawl. I’m not being arrogant, well maybe a little, but anyone who starts a fight with me ain’t gonna go the distance. Anyway, I’d have to consider that getting into a fight in the first place as a major fail. In this job, you’ve got to be able to tell which people are all mouth and which are the real danger. And I’m fucking good at my job.

  I’d really like to just sit at the bar, watch a Yankees game and shoot the breeze with a cold beer in my hand. But I’m on duty tonight, so I stick to coffee.

  There are probably a dozen coffee bars within two clicks of a camel’s fart that serve better coffee than this place. In fact, the coffee is so bad I think a badger must have washed its ass in it. It’s un-fucking-drinkable. Maybe they named the place ‘Hail Mary’ because they haven’t got a prayer of staying in business.

  It certainly doesn’t improve my mood as I wonder what it would be like to work for a regular boss and have a regular life. The truth is, I know I’m not the kind of guy who’d be happy dragging his weary carcass to an office every day, nine-to-five. I think that’s why Rachel’s sister doesn’t like me: she thinks I’m not capable of being a regular guy with a regular life, and therefore I’m no good for her sister. What pisses me off is that she could be right.

  These days, Mason has got the intel on threats to Anderson so tightly sewn up, we’re pretty much ahead of the game. But that doesn’t mean it’s time to be complacent. Just because the blackmailer has gone quiet doesn’t mean that he’s given up. And a guy who’s a billionaire makes enemies—lots of them. But it’s not just that: look at the way little Ms. Alvarez has screwed up all our lives. Not that she means to, but she’s leading the boss around by his dick, and everyone who works for him has to line up and play follow-the-fucking-leader.

  At least Rachel will be home tonight. Definitely something to look forward to.

  Shortly after 1800 hours, I head back to Wolf Point to get the sit-rep (or situation report as I had to explain to Rachel). I’ve got time for a quick shower, and I’m standing to attention, well, sitting on my ass in an office easy-chair, checking out the CCTV. There’s nothing to report.

  I feel someone looking at me, and turn to see Anderson standing at the entrance to the office.

  “Sir?”

  “I’d like to leave in fifteen minutes, Trainer. It won’t be a late night. Ms. Alvarez will need to be taken home after we’ve had dinner at my parents.”

  He pulls a face, and I don’t know whether it’s because dinner with his folks is on the menu or because Ms. Alvarez won’t be staying the night.

  He wanders away like he doesn’t know what to do with himself without his new playmate, and I’m guessing that Ms. Alvarez’s stamina isn’t all that. Maybe she should just enlist in the Marines: it would be easier. The boss’s version of hell-week is fucking from dawn to dusk, and hanging from the rafters with your tits out. I never saw that in the Marine Corps Manual, not even in the appendices.

  When I hear Bruno Mars echoing out from the main room, I know he’s in a good mood again. The guy changes his mood more often than Meg Ryan changes her face. The singer-songwriter combo is usually his music of choice when he’s feeling mellow. Rachel likes Ed Sheerhan but I’m more of a Rammstein man, myself.

  Rachel likes to dance—she says it’s the only area where I disappoint. I know she’s just joking, but that comment stings. So I’m sensitive, who knew?

  It’s a strange job being someone’s personal protection, the things we see and hear—but then we have to pretend we’re deaf, dumb and blind. At least the boss doesn’t expect me to act like a half-wit, too. Some employers can’t stand having people with brains.

  At the appointed hour, I bring the Rover around front.

  Before I can climb out to open the door for them, the boss saves me the trouble.

  The girl is staring out the window but the boss whispers something to her that makes her turn, and then he picks up her hand and kisses it. It’s real sweet.

  He’ll be watching Julia Roberts’ movies next and that English dude with the floppy hair—the one who got busted for being blown by a hooker—does all those sappy romances. Rachel likes those sorts of movies, it’s her one flaw. But hell, they make her horny, too, so I’m not going to complain.

  With a minute to spare, I cruise into the driveway of Anderson Seniors. They’ve improved security since I first started working for the boss, but it’s still an easy place to penetrate if you know what you’re doing.

  They head in, and I take the car around to the back—the usual routine. Even from that distance, I can hear Miss Abigail Anderson shrieking like a drunken sailor on payday. That woman is loud.

  I head for the kitchen and speed-eat my way through chorizo and scallops. It’s good, but not as good as Rachel’s.

  I think I’ve been pretty damn fast, although not nearly fast enough. I’ve got my back to the wall, but it’s not looking good because…

  “Hi, Trainer!” says Mis
s Abigail Anderson, in the gentle tones of a trucker from Tacoma.

  She walks towards me and I make a rapid assessment of the possible exits. I don’t rule out digging a tunnel through the kitchen floor. Her eyes are all big and sad, and then she lays her hand on my arm and I get ready to take evasive action.

  “I’m really sorry,” she says.

  She’s looking at me like my dog just died.

  “I know this must be hard for you. I just hope you know that … whatever happens … we’ll always be grateful for the way you look after my brother. I’m sure Devon really cares about you … in his own way.”

  What the fuck?!

  “I’ll give you a moment…”

  What the fuck?!

  Then she pats me on the arm again and walks out, glancing back at me as if to check I’m not slitting my wrists. I’m left with my jaw on the floor.

  What the fuck?!

  Did she…? Did I…? Was that…? Is she…? WHAT THE FUCK?! I am NOT the boss’s fucking BOYFRIEND! NO FUCKING WAY!

  Then Martha, the Anderson’s cook/housekeeper, enters the kitchen. She’s got a face like a bulldog chewing on a wasp.

  “You cannot be serious! He likes her! That mousey little thing? Devon deserves better than her!” She glances at me. “Sorry, Trainer. I know you really like him, too.”

  Okay, so I’m not the only one who isn’t taking this well—and I’ve had enough of this shit!

  “I AM NOT GAY! I’m not gay! Okay? I have a girlfriend! A woman! A woman friend! And we have sex! Lots of it! Great sex! Really great sex! Get it?! Straight as a fucking ruler.”

  Then her face goes all soft and sweet.

  “It’s okay. No one cares these days. Even in the military, or, you know … ex-military.”

  Now, I’m not usually a quick-tempered person, I’m more of a sort of slow-burn kinda guy, but it’s been a really trying fucking day.

  I glare down at her.

  “I’m not gay. I’ve never been gay. I’m not even very cheerful. I like women. Understand?”

  She gets a gleam in her eye and a speculative look on her face. That’s it: I’m outta here.