Can't Buy My Love: Billionaire and Virgin Romance Collection

by Jamie Knight

  Just looking at the way her hands are, how strong and commanding they are in the tiniest gestures, makes me nervous. I quickly tell myself to calm down and to get a hold of myself, since I’m going to be working for her in a very professional, very important capacity.

  I shake my nerves away just as the doors open, and Vanacore holds the door for me again. Again, I sneak past her. But this time, I feel like she’s watching me — watching my ass as I go by.

  I hurry out of the elevator and put a bit of distance between us. Enough distance to strike those thoughts from my head, but not enough to take the lead.

  “I’ll show you to my office, your part of it, go over some notes about how I like my business conducted,” says Vanacore, as she strolls ahead of me, oblivious to any of my awkward posture or the fact that I might have felt her looking at me that way. “We’ll go from there, Tommy. Wouldn’t want to overwhelm you on your first morning, after all.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, and quickly follow after her.

  “I like the way you do that, Tommy.”

  I huff, trying not to let her hear too much of it.

  “Like how I do what, ma’am?”

  “That,” she says.

  “Call me ‘ma’am,’” she adds. “Young men these days don’t call me that. They call me things like grandma.”

  In the pause between her words, I shiver.

  “That’s one of the reasons I hired you for this job, Tommy. You know how to treat your elders the right way.”

  “I do my best, Ms. Vanacore, ma’am,” I say, working to follow after her, and not sound like this is the equivalent of a marathon to me.

  Vanacore’s eyes meet mine for a moment, as she looks back at me.

  “As much as I love all of that, you may call me Vanacore, not Ms. Vanacore. Not anymore, understand?”

  “Yes, Ms.— I m-mean Vanacore, ma’am.”

  Ms. Vanacore just chuckles and stirs me up with those hypnotic eyes again.

  “Good.” She turns back around, quickening her pace, as though she can’t wait to get to her office and show me around it. “You and I are going to work great together. I can tell already.”

  After this, she doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. Her words reverberate in me long after she holds the door open for me again, lets me into her office and begins to educate me on what I’ll be doing for her.

  Over the next few hours, I’m Ms. Vanacore’s shadow and vice versa. She shows me around her office — where she likes to keep her files, how she likes her desk to be kept when she’s not sitting at it, and then finally, where I’ll be stationed.

  As it happens, I’ll be in a little “alcove,” a little makeshift cubicle created by a fancy Asian-style screen, and one of her large windows. Here I have my own desk, my own laptop, and yes, even my own phone.

  It’s not as big or fancy as the one on Ms. Vanacore’s desk, but I’m not expecting it to be. After all, if people call me, it’s generally going to be just to leave a message for her, not to actually talk with me.

  “Go ahead and take a seat,” says Vanacore, pulling out my chair for me, and guiding me into it.

  As she does, I can’t help but feel torn between discomfort and gratitude. On the one hand, it’s a nice gesture. On the other, I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m being treated like some sort of “date”— some beauty prize being placed on a pedestal.

  “Let’s get you set up with having access to my accounts so you can reply to some of my emails, finish some of my reports and case notes for me when I’m not able to complete them myself.”

  “Okay, sure,” I say, a bit surprised at how secretarial a lot of that sounds.

  It looks like I’m going to be a bit like a glorified secretary, but I’m not about to complain. Earlier this morning, I wasn’t even sure I’d get looked at for the job. So, I can’t spit in the face of my good fortune by complaining about the details of that job now.

  “Whatever you think would be the best use of my time, Ms. Vanacore, ma’am. I’m here to do whatever you need me to. Whatever makes you feel like I’m fulfilling my duties.”

  Vanacore’s beautiful, weathered face perks up in my words.

  “Just what I like to hear, Tommy.”

  She smiles at me as the computer boots up.

  “I was right to pick you, after all. So glad about that.” She holds my eyes with her for a moment as the home screen comes on, and she types in the password. As she does she shares it with me, writes it on a sticky note, and plasters it where I can see it. “H@cklEBErRyFiNn,” it reads.

  “Huckleberry Fin,” she says. “You know, like the famous book, but spelled a little differently. With those numbers and capital letters we’re supposed to put in, to make a password more secure.”

  I nod, deciding I should commit this to memory as quickly as possible. Passwords were meant to keep people out, not to be kept out where everyone can see.

  “Got it.”

  From there, Ms. Vanacore clicks into the company’s network. Again, she shares with me the login information: her username and password. The same thing goes for the interoffice communication system, Watercooler — our version of Instant Messenger — and the email program.

  She shows me her login details, as well as how to set up my new one with new credentials.

  “You’ll need both,” she explains, leaning in close to me. Much closer than she really needs to, given the situation.

  But I don’t say anything, and she doesn’t move to do anything differently. She keeps her body pressed close to mine, enveloping me in her cloudy perfume. The warmth coming off of her, it’s like she’s still in a sugar cane field somewhere in the South, not in a high-end office in Manhattan.

  “You’ll need both my login information and yours. Sometimes you will be acting on my behalf, and sometimes you’ll be acting on yours. I’ll expect you to have the good grace to know when and where to use either, Tommy.”

  With her sun-beaten, sugar-cane scent enveloping me as it is, it takes me a minute to realize she’s been talking to me, let alone waiting for an answer.

  “Yeah, sure thing, Ms. Vanacore, ma’am.”

  Ms. Vanacore looks back at me, her silver-gray eyes pressing into me like a maker’s mark.

  “Do you think you can set something up, or would you like me to show you how?”

  “Show you” has a strange magnetic reverberation do it or a strange tug to it. One that almost makes me feel like I’m on an invisible leash in her hand, not in an office chair.

  It takes me a long second, but finally, I answer.

  “No. No, ma’am.” I clear my throat, shaking off the feeling I have of falling under a spell. “I can figure it out for myself, thank you.”

  Disappointment of some kind lights across her face.

  “No disrespect meant, ma’am,” I say quickly. “I just think that, uh, if I’m really going to prove myself worthy of being hired for this position, I should be able to set up my own accounts without needing to be shown. That’s all.”

  Under my soft, noncombative tone, Vanacore loses her disappointment. She warms back up as if what I saw was nothing more than a passing dark cloud.

  “That’s just fine. Just fine, Tommy.”

  When she smiles at me, it’s like I’m being sealed or stamped as hers to hoard and protect. She moves off and away from me.

  “I’ll leave you to set up whatever personal accounts you need or want to.” She settles at her desk — something I can see only in the shadow, moving across my privacy screen. “I’m going to get caught up on some phone calls with clients. The winners and losers of the day.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say softly. “I’ll try to make sure to keep my activities quiet and impact your work time as little as possible.”

  “That’s just fine,” she says. “If you are looking for something to do after setting up personal accounts, you may log in to mine and start putting together
notes from my most recent court dates. Add them to the case files and so forth.”

  After that, she picks up her office phone and begins her calls. They all start and end in the same way with this cheerful, Southern aura. I’m not sure if it’s an act, or how she really is with people, but it’s not my place to judge or think too hard.

  I’ve got actual work to do. Work for my boss. Who’s a lawyer. I’m no longer an aid, so I can’t just waste away my time gossiping and judging others.

  Chapter Ten - Tommy

  The lunch hour comes more quickly than I expected. In between setting up my new intra-office communication profile, my email account, and my own subfolder in the law floor’s filing system, I’m more than occupied.

  So occupied, in fact, that Vanacore actually has to come over into my cubicle to get my attention. She leans over my chair and says my name for me to realize I’m being called to.

  When I do, I sit back in surprise. I roll back from my tiny, ergonomic desk and look at her. It’s just as she swipes her long mane of white hair behind her shoulders with one hand and leans on a fancy cane with the other.

  And when I say fancy, I mean fancy. It really is like what you expect to see on an old southern madam type: long black shaft, circular gold handle.

  “Ms. Vanacore? Can I do something for you?”

  “Yes, in fact, you can, Tommy,” she says.

  I sit at attention.

  “What can I do?”

  Ms. Vanacore just smiles.

  “Go out to lunch with me,” she says.

  The way she says it, it’s like she’s asking me out on a date, not out to a business lunch — which this should be, but the vibe isn’t there. There’s nothing “business-y” about it.

  “What? Now?” I gesture uselessly at my computer, at the screen, where I had just been contemplating opening up some of Ms. Vanacore’s client folders and beginning to compile notes on her days in court and the most recent proceedings. “But I was just about to look through your court notes and everything…”

  A warm, gregarious laugh interrupts me.

  “Don’t worry about that now, Tommy. There will be plenty of time to do that after lunch, though I understand what it’s like to be eager. To be a go-getter like yourself.”

  She swivels my larger-sized office chair toward her.

  “But I’m not taking no for an answer, Tommy.” Her tone is not necessarily threatening, but it’s not necessarily as warm and jovial as before. “I’ve asked you to come out to lunch with me, and what I ask my assistant lawyers, I expect to get.”

  Though her face has remained soft and genteel, her words are a little more than intimidating. They make me chilly in my gut. I decide right there; it’s not worth arguing over. It’s not worth getting off on the wrong foot with my boss over. Especially not on the first day and the first couple hours of working for her.

  I force myself to smile and to make the smile as warm and nonthreatening as possible. It’s the same smile I learned to wear around my dad when he interrogates me about whether “I still have money” or not.

  “Okay. Sure.” I hoist myself out of my office chair. “Lunch sounds fine, Ms. Vanacore.”

  “With me,” she adds, as if I’ve forgotten.

  “Yes.” I smile again. “With you, Ms. Vanacore. It sounds like a lovely idea, ma’am.”

  I swallow thickly, hoping it doesn’t show on my throat or in my face.

  Ms. Vanacore brightens like it’s been my idea to invite her on this lunch outing, not the other way around.

  “Just fabulous, my boy.”

  She takes a bit of my oversized suit jacket in her free hand and begins to lead me toward the door. As she touches me, I feel the chilliness in my stomach subside. A knot of some kind takes its place, but I’m not sure what to make of it.

  “Follow me. We’ll take my car.”

  On both of these statements, I know I don't dare to argue or offer input. Ms. Vanacore has just that level of presence — like she’s my mother or something. A maternal force meant to be respected and bowed to, not questioned or ignored. But to say that I feel fear or intimidation because of this, that’s not true. That’s not all I feel.

  As Ms. Vanacore and I make our way out of her office, to the elevator and inside of it again, I’m overwhelmed by her energy. The way the power of it envelops me. It fills me up and strangles me at the same time. Looking at the cane resting in her hand, I can’t help but imagine what those hands might feel like on me and what that cane might be like against my skin.

  Fucking hell, Tommy! What the hell are you doing thinking like that? Why are you thinking like that?

  I shift nervously in the elevator, put my hands in front of my face for a moment.

  Not working under a boss for more than a few hours, and already you have some kind of dread involving her and her cane? Your old-enough-to-be-your-mother boss?

  As the elevator comes to the executive level, where we have to cross to a different set of elevators, Ms. Vanacore says, “Don’t worry. I have a nice big Cadillac for us to travel in, so you don’t need to stress if you’re worried at all about your size.”

  I shake my head, blushing deeper. She seems so cavalier about an aspect of my body that no one else seems to have the ability to ignore. How tall and broad I am. How much of a literal big target it has made both in the office and in my life up until now.

  “You like Cajun food?” she asks, as the elevator doors bings open.

  “I don’t know,” I say, following her out. Even now, she has a slight hold on part of my suit jacket. “Never had it.”

  “Well!” This one word carries across the executive floor a little too happily. “You’re in luck today, then, Tommy! It will be your first taste of one of my favorite cuisines.”

  As we start strolling past the coffee bar, I think I hear her say something else. Something like “One of many firsts,” but I can’t be sure. I don’t want to be sure.

  I stop by the executive secretaries’ office, having decided that I want to thank Melissa for her help, without Vanacore waiting on me or waiting for me.

  “I need to leave a message before we go,” I say. “Want to make sure your calls are handled properly while we’re out,” I add, off the cuff.

  “No need to wait for me. If you want, you can get the car, and I’ll come to meet you,” I tell Vanacore

  I pause, looking at Isabella, the only secretary at the helm, out of the corner of my eye.

  “We don’t have all day for lunch, after all, and I want to be able to savor my first taste of Cajun.”

  I don’t know why I say what I say here, or what is up with the slightly over-the-top sweetness in my voice, but it comes out.

  Interestingly, it seems to have an extremely positive effect on my boss. She appears more than happy to hear my suggestion.

  “Good thinking, son! Savoring is the best thing to do when you eat Cajun!”

  With that, she turns on her heels and heads toward the second set of elevators.

  “I’ll get the car and bring it up to the curb for you! Save time that way!”

  “Okay,” I call after her, not sure how to feel about this.

  Whether to feel loved and looked after, or slightly insulted. As the man, I probably shouldn’t be having women drive up to the curb to pick me up. But the roles are very reversed in this situation, and I can tell that Vanacore is used to being in the position of power.

  I count down the seconds it takes for her to disappear completely.

  When she’s gone, Isabella pipes up and says, “Look at you, working for a big bad southern lawyer!”

  She raises her eyebrows and sits back in her office chair.

  “Melissa told me she helped somebody get ready for an interview this morning! Must’ve been you!” She studies me. “I think I saw Melissa and you bump into each other, actually.”

  I blush.

  “Yeah.”

  I pause for a
minute and then say, “Where is she, anyway? Melissa, I mean?”

  As I speak, my eyes return to the picture on her desk — the one of the insanely-handsome man. I pull my eyes from the picture and back to Isabella.

  “I wanted to tell her thank you for this morning. Without her, I might not have gotten the job.”

  Isabella looks down sadly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry! Melissa just stepped out for her lunch break like three minutes ago! You just missed her!”

  She frowns, running a hand through her thick, curly black hair. It’s particularly poufy today.

  “Would you like to leave a message with me for her?”

  I shake my head.

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “I can pass the message to her the minute she gets—”

  “No,” I say again, “that’s okay.”

  “You sure?”

  She looks about as desperate as I feel, but she doesn’t understand. These kinds of things are better done in person. Not just with some note stuck on your computer.

  “I’m sure.” I turn away from the desk. “I’ll just tell her later. Thanks.”

  “All right then,” says Isabella. “Enjoy your lunch.”

  I raise a hand wave to her and head to the elevators to get to the ground floor where my boss is waiting for me to take me to lunch. A lunch I’m sure will have less to do with business and more to do with some kind of pleasure. Though I just hope that that “pleasure” stays to drinks or conversation.

  While there have been a lot of cases of people in this office falling for their superiors and vice versa, that’s not what I got hired for. That’s not on my agenda, no matter what it may be looking like to someone like Isabella.

  Chapter Eleven - Melissa

  Lunchtime brings calm, but only for my body, not for my mind. That is still wrapped around Dennis, and his behavior with me this morning. How bored he seemed with the idea of being connected with me longer than possible; how ready he seemed to complain about what kind of girlfriend I wasn’t being.