Billionaire: A First-Time Steamy Romance

by Gilead, Kate

  Making it clear that it’s hard, on-your-feet-all-day work, pays minimum wage to start and involves some late night shifts, she pretty much offered me the job.

  I’d have to go meet the owner and get the ball rolling immediately though, since they’re busy and have to fill the position as soon as possible.

  She’d promised not to say anything to Brad until I was ready, so I wouldn’t feel pressured by his expectations…real or imagined.

  I’d hesitated, citing my lack experience and that I didn’t want to make her look bad.

  After looking at me closely, she’d said, “All you really lack is confidence, Cherry. Tell you what. If I see you at the diner, tomorrow, I see you at the diner tomorrow. If not, no hard feelings and we pretend this conversation never happened. Deal?”

  She really is so much like her brother.

  I do love to cook and I so badly need to learn a new skill.

  If not for money, for my own sense of self-worth.

  For the same reason and more, I need to put down roots and connect with people outside of Brad and Lana.

  Make friends, get to know people and become part of a community instead of drifting between cities like a transient.

  Or a ghost.

  Will this be right for me, though? I don’t know. I’m used to office work, and most of that involved working alone.

  Will I be able to cope with crowds and pressure and working under Lana? She’ll be my boss.

  We hit it off, but working together has been known to make bitter enemies out of the dearest of friends.

  Should I? What if I can’t hack it?

  What if Lana doesn’t like my work but then feels pressure to keep me on just because I’m Brad’s girlfriend?

  What if it causes problems with me and Brad?

  What if it screws up this good thing….this divine gift that Lana is so sure has been given me and her brother.

  And I’m pretty sure it’s a gift, as well.

  Anxiety rises in my chest, making that familiar knot start to form in there.

  What if…what if…what if.

  Then, in my mind, I hear her cheerful words from the other day: “Gotta stay positive!”

  Yes. Gotta stay positive.

  The sign reading “Line Cook Wanted” is hanging on the inside of the door.

  Taking a deep breath, I open the door, take down the sign, and make my way to the kitchen.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cherry

  A Few Weeks Later

  “Thank God you’re in tight with the head chef at the diner,” Brad says, “and she let you switch shifts so we could get out of the city early.”

  We’re heading up the highway towards a destination that Brad’s keeping secret for now.

  In the truck bed behind us, Brad has The Hog strapped down under a tarp.

  “Where’d you say we’re going again?” I’m asking for what must be the tenth time, even though I know he’s not gonna answer.

  “I didn’t,” he chuckles. “Are you thinking that if you just keep asking, I’m gonna forget it’s supposed to be a surprise?”

  “Yes! It has to work sooner or later…right?”

  “Heh. Not a chance. But obviously, it’s somewhere that still has plenty of snow on the snowmobile trails. Winter sports, baby! Now that we’re into March, we have to take advantage of it while we still can.”

  As we leave the city behind, we start passing farmhouses here and there, nestled cozily into fields and pastures covered in snow.

  The further north we get, the more spacious the landscape gets. And the more this pressure I wasn’t even aware I was feeling loosens up.

  And I notice that now, we’re driving on a roadway which is bracketed on both sides with massive rock-cuts, the rocks themselves towering over the road.

  “I can’t imagine the work that went into building this highway,” I remark. “You don’t see roads like this back home.”

  “No. We’re into the Canadian Shield now, honey. Geologists say these rocks were deposited here during the ice age, carried along by sheets of ice so massive that nothing stood in their way. In comparison, these rocks were like pebbles.”

  “That’s amazing.” Thinking about forces of Nature usually make me feel small and insignificant.

  But right now I feel pretty good.

  Because to me, it feels like Brad is a force of Nature himself.

  Nothing gets in his way, either.

  * * *

  After a couple hours, we start passing exit signs with ancient Native place-names like Kawartha Lakes, Orillia and Washago, then Muskoka Lakes. Those are interspersed with towns called Gravenhurst, Midland, and Bracebridge.

  “There are so many lakes up here,” I notice.

  “Yep. That’s why it’s cottage country. It may seem odd but there’s no lack of water in the Canadian Shield. The land up here is full of water, porous with it actually.”

  As we pass through a tiny hamlet called Bala, Brad says, “Start looking for signs saying Port Carling. We’re almost there.”

  And soon, I see one. But we pass that by too and continue on, turning from the provincial highway onto surface roads.

  After a few more turns, we drive onto a lakeside road with a small sign saying:

  LAKE ROUSSEAU

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  “Welcome to the Malibu of the North,” Brad says, “the place where the rich and famous come to get away from it all. Many of the properties here belong to some very famous Hollywood celebrities.”

  Everyone’s heard of Muskoka and the stories of celeb-spotting around here.

  And indeed, well-spaced along the shoreline of the frozen lake are massive homes. Mansions, really, nothing like the cute but rustic cottage my parents rented so long ago.

  “Wow, just look at the size of the houses! Even the boathouses are bigger than a house in the city. I can believe this is a playground for the filthy rich. Who else could afford it?”

  “It’s one of the richest places in the world. But we won’t see too many famous mugs here in the depths of winter.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to say to them if we did,” I joke.

  “You’d do fine,” Brad says as we turn into a private driveway, “but look. We’re here.”

  We pull into the wide circular driveway of a log house resembling a Swiss Chalet. It’s not as large or ostentatious as some of the ones we just passed, but beautiful just the same.

  “This place is up for sale. But the owners are renting it out to select tenants until they snag a buyer. There aren’t too many buyers for a place like this, so they rent it out while they wait.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “I’m not supposed to talk about it, but…” He names a famous celebrity couple that everyone around the world knows.

  “What? This is their house?”

  “Yes but, don’t expect to find any of their personal effects. They don’t come here anymore.”

  It’s gorgeous inside.

  In the huge great room, a log ceiling soars over log walls and oak plank floors. Comfortable furniture, floor coverings and Native artwork create a cozy ambience.

  A crackling fire is already laid in the fireplace, and there’s a built-in sound system with speakers hidden in the walls throughout the house.

  In the kitchen, the Sub-Zero refrigerator is stocked with food of every kind. There are four bottles of Cristal champagne chilling in the door.

  Evidence of meal preparation can be seen on the counter and on the stove.

  I take a peek through a door leading off the kitchen. The room looks like another kitchen on a smaller scale. On the counter, a small computer is powered on, its display showing a grid of security cam viewpoints around the property.

  In the dining room, Brad is standing in front of a well-stocked bar. It’s holding high-end spirits whose brand names make him whistle in appreciation.

  “Why is there a kitchen in the kitchen, honey?”

  Brad laughs. “It’
s called a butler’s pantry but in this house, it doubles as a security office.”

  “Who bought all this booze and food?”

  “I did, via the caretaker. You could call him a butler, if you wanted. He’ll be here through dinner service so no running around naked until he leaves, all right?”

  “Dinner service? You hired a butler for the night?”

  “No, he’s part of the rental. He’s trained in security as well. You can’t rent the place without him, it’s mandatory. Anyway, don’t worry, he’s very discreet. He sees no evil, hears no evil, speaks no evil,” he teases. “C’mon, lets take the Hog for a spin before the sun sets.”

  Dropping our bags in the sumptuously-appointed master bedroom, we hurry to the entryway where we don our snowsuits and helmets and go outside.

  Brad unloads the snowmobile just as the winter sun is lowering in the sky.

  “Are you sure it’s okay to snowmobile around here? I haven’t seen another soul and it’s getting late.”

  I trust Brad’s judgement but my old habit of being anxious still rears its ugly head sometimes.

  “We have about a half hour of light left,” he says. “But there’s a trail behind the trees there that circles around some nice homes we can gawk at. Then, the trail comes right back to our door. It’s completely private, closed to the public, patrolled by private security details. So, we aren’t as alone as it looks, babe. If we run into trouble, someone will be along. And there’s no chance of getting lost. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Even though I’ve been in Canada most of my adult life, I’m still not used to how cold the weather can get, or the levels of snow in winter. Central Ohio gets snow, but it doesn’t last as long nor does the cold seem to bite so deep.

  So I’m happy to huddle behind Brad’s broad back on the Hog, sheltered from the wind, where I can drink in the beauty of the landscape, still surprisingly full of greenery in the form of fir trees.

  And the exquisite beauty painted by the slanted rays of the sun is unparalleled. The way it filters through the trees and colors the snow drifts in hues of orange and yellow, shadowed with indigo and mauve, is one of the most breathtaking sights I’ve ever seen.

  Brad, who hardly gets to enjoy his snowmobile due to his hectic work schedule, really seems to be enjoying the ride.

  He stops in front of some of the grander homes and we have a good gawk, as promised.

  And on the way back, another snowmobile approaches us. Sure enough, as we draw near, we see that it’s a man wearing a badge and a security logo on his parka and helmet.

  He holds up a hand and Brad stops.

  Lifting his visor with a gloved hand, he says, “Oh, hello Mr. Abernathy. I see you arrived safely. Having a nice evening?”

  “Yes, thank you Paul. It’s nice to see you. How’s Marlene and the kids?”

  “Very well, sir. Thanks for asking. I’ll be going off shift shortly but Gerry and Dale will be doing patrol throughout the night. They’ll keep an eye on you. Drive safe!”

  With a final nod to us, Paul goes on his way.

  “How do you know the security guards around here?” I have to ask.

  “I’ve made friends here. Mostly behind-the-scenes people, producers and such like. They’ve used my services many times on the movie sets downtown. It’s actually a fairly small community of people in the movie industry in Toronto. You get to know most everyone over the years, except maybe some of the snooty A-listers, of course.”

  “Some A-listers aren’t snooty?”

  “Course not. But some are so awful, you wouldn’t want to know them.”

  “But, how do you know the security people up here?”

  “It’s an Israeli security company,” Brad remarks over his shoulder. “They make a point of knowing everyone who comes here. We’re safe as houses, trust me.”

  I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight as we head back along the trail again.

  In my heart though, I know I’ll never be safer with anyone than I am with Brad.

  * * *

  Back at the house, things have changed.

  The table is now set with expensive-looking china, silver and glass ware. Two tall tapered candles are lit and soft music is playing through the hidden speakers in the walls.

  “If you’d like to put on that little black dress we got for you last weekend, now would be a good time,” Brad says, taking my hand and kissing it. “I’m going to get dressed in another room. How about if I meet you back here in ten minutes?”

  “Give me fifteen,” I say.

  “Deal.”

  Sixteen minutes later, decked out in my form-fitting dress and heels, hair up and a dash of mascara and lip color, I return to find Brad seated at the table, wearing a black silk suit with a white shirt and black tie.

  He looks like something out of GQ, tall and handsome and, if I didn’t know him, unapproachable and out of my league.

  Then he flashes me that grin as he stands, his eyes traveling appreciatively from my face, down to my toes, and back up again.

  As I approach, he holds out his hand.

  Taking my hand, he lifts it to his lips, kisses it, then pulls me to him, gazing down at me through half-lidded eyes.

  “You are…stunning!” He draws close, holding me cheek to cheek, making the tiny hairs on my skin stand to attention.

  He kisses my jaw, where he pauses to inhale deeply, running his lips along the crest of bone there before moving lower along my neck.

  My knees nearly buckle at the same time as my nipples perk. Jesus, what this man does to me!

  “How am I gonna get through this dinner,” he whispers, then he bites my neck just hard enough to send shivers down my skin, all the way to my toes.

  Pulling my chair out, he sees to it that I’m seated comfortably before taking his own seat once again.

  “Wine?”

  “Yes, please,” I say, admiring how handsome he looks in the candlelight.

  He pours us both a glass of white wine from a carafe and we pick up our glasses.

  “To us,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

  “To us,” I agree.

  We clink glasses and drink, then he touches my hand, caressing it with his fingers while we chat about this and that.

  In a few moments, a man dressed in a formal waiter’s uniform comes out of the kitchen bearing a tray.

  “Good evening, sir, mademoiselle,” he says, in a pleasantly low, exotic accent which my ears can’t place.

  “Good evening, Mohel,” Brad replies. “What do we have here?”

  “Tonight sir, we have baked, fresh pickerel in lemon dill sauce, with scallops, couscous and asparagus,” Mohel answers, setting our plates in front of us with a flourish.

  “Did you catch the pickerel yourself or buy it?” Brad inquires.

  “The scallops are from the market. I caught the pickerel myself this morning, in the hut on the inlet just south of here.”

  “Couldn’t ask for better. Thank you for sharing your catch with us.”

  “My pleasure. Please, enjoy your meals.” With a bow, the butler leaves silently.

  I’m about to burst with the novelty of all this sudden formality, including being served by an actual butler, no less!

  But I don’t want to appear like too much of a hick. So I begin eating, starting with the fish.

  The flavor is so out of this world, all I can do is stare bug-eyed at Brad as the tender flesh all but melts in my mouth.

  He grins, nods, swallows his mouthful and says, “Never tasted anything like that, have you?”

  “Hell, no,” I burst out, unable to hold back my inner hick any longer. “This is mind-blowing. Pickerel, huh?”

  “Yes. It was very nice of Mohel to share his catch with us. Many people wouldn’t. It’s that good when it’s fresh and healthy.”

  “Did he go ice-fishing, then?” I ask, before taking another mouthful.

  “Yes, they erect a hut over a hole in the ice and set their lines
in that,” he explains. “You’ll get a chance to try it yourself tomorrow.”

  “Oh, awesome! Thank you honey,” I beam, squirming a little with joy.

  The rest of the meal is dreamy as well, followed by a dessert called “Petit Gâteau,” or, Molten Chocolate Cake, which is almost as good as sex.

  Almost.

  After asking if there’s anything else he can get for us, Mohel clears the table and disappears into the kitchen.

  “I think I’ll go freshen up,” I say. Before I can stand up, Brad is behind my chair, pulling it out for me.

  “All right, my love. After Mohel tidies up, we’ll be alone once more. Then we can move on to the next part of the festivities.”

  “Oh? I wonder what you have planned,” I say, mock-innocently.

  “You’re about to find out,” he replies, leaning down for a kiss. “I hope you like it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Cherry

  After using the luxurious ensuite, I pause in the doorway to the bedroom, taking in the scene.

  On a rustic pine table close to hand, a bottle of the Cristal is on ice, two champagne flutes gleaming in the low light.

  The in-house stereo system is playing sexy, ambient chill music, the kind of music designed to put anyone in the mood.

  A fire is laid in the fireplace across from the bed, waiting only a lit match to ignite it into flame.

  Scattered on a luxurious, faux-fur rug in front of the heart are a handful of enormous, plump pillows, perfect for lounging against while relaxing in front of the fire.

  The bedding is turned down, folded neatly across the foot of the bed.

  Brad, his suit jacket removed but still in shirt and tie, is crouched in front of the fireplace.

  I watch from behind as he touches a match to the crumpled newspaper here and there, fanning it gently to help it catch.

  Seeing those muscles working under his shirt is enough to fan my flames, I think to myself, giving my head a small shake in admiration.