Despite the Gentleman's Riches: Sweet Billionaire Romance (For Richer or Poorer Book 1)

by Easterling, Aimee

  "Which is where Lena could go if she turned her head around," Jack wheedled, any pity he felt for me long since forgotten. Mr. Fish Sticks sure did know just where to apply the thumb screws....

  "No car. Jerk of a boss," I reminded my companion, not willing to soften my stance despite the vicarious glow I felt upon imagining Lena walking through a college campus with nothing to do but learn. I'd craved, but never enjoyed, that kind of freedom, and it hurt my soul to imagine Jack's little sister throwing away such an opportunity for the sake of teenage rebellion. If she continued to be kicked out of high schools and didn't make it to college, I suspected the girl would regret it. I definitely would have.

  "The car isn't a problem," Jack countered, still intent on working his way through my defenses. It was probably obvious from my thoughtful silence that my wannabe-boss had won the Lena-college argument, and he seemed confident he could dismiss my other concerns as well. "Give me the key and I'll have your vehicle repaired and delivered to your door by morning."

  Despite myself, I laughed. Mr. Fish Sticks clearly hadn't spent much time in small towns, and on this issue I felt confident he was wrong. "You do realize how far we are out in the middle of nowhere, right?" I asked him. "Even our gas stations close up on Sundays; there's no way you can get anyone to come out and fix my car in the middle of the night. And I can't afford a new starter anyway—my mechanic was just going to buff the rotors or something. Once I finally saved up the cash to get the work done, that is." I muttered the last words under my breath, embarrassed that I lacked the funds to keep my car running properly.

  Jack opened his mouth and I could almost see his charismatic side preparing to say something outrageously provocative, perhaps offering to buff my rotors. But my companion seemed to change his mind at the last minute, closing his mouth and continuing to crawl down the road at five miles per hour. At this rate, it would take us all night to reach my trailer, but I was afraid to ask Jack to speed up for fear of what I'd get as a result.

  And, if I were being really honest, the car's creeping pace was a boon because I wasn't quite ready for the evening to end. Since I was planning on rejecting Jack's job offer, we might never spend another minute together beyond the inevitable standoffs over Clean Power's proposed plant. And, as much as I hated to admit it, I'd miss bantering with Jack once he was safely out of my life.

  So we traveled about a quarter of a mile veeeery slooooowly with no complaint from me as Jack formulated his reply. "Consider the car repair a sign-on bonus," he said at last. Then, more cockily: "Key?" As if the arrogant jerk expected me to just slip the car key off my chain and hand it over to a complete stranger who definitely didn't have my best interests at heart.

  Okay, yes, he probably did expect that. But some hopes are meant to be dashed, so I just ignored my companion and turned my head to look out the window instead.

  To my surprise, Jack didn't up the arrogance quotient when no key was forthcoming. Instead, he sighed and pulled the car over so he could turn around to face me without fear of crashing. The engine was virtually soundless and the winding highway was deserted at this late hour, so I could almost imagine that we were two teenagers parked by the side of the road for a make-out session. The aroma of Jack's shampoo was barely noticeable over the scent of leather and money (yes, I really thought I could smell dollar bills), and my treacherous body begged me to lean in and see if he would kiss me. Naw, it's never smart to stick your finger in an electric socket, I thought, taking a firm grip on my seatbelt to remind myself about the inherent dangers of my situation.

  Jack seemed to be deep in thought also, his face almost too shadowed for me to make out his expression, but what I did see appeared a little sad, which definitely didn't help me remember his bastard tendencies. So when my car-mate said: "Still worried about that jerk of a boss?", all I did was nod a simple confirmation. I couldn't quite force myself to throw the words in my companion's face once again, but I was still worried about having my arrogant, charismatic companion as an employer.

  Jack drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a minute, staring out the window at the full moon beginning to rise over the trees in front of us. "What exactly are you afraid of?" he asked eventually, then took his words back immediately. "Never mind," he continued quickly. "Probably better not to go there. How about this?" The golden boy leaned toward me, and for a minute I thought he really was going to kiss me, and I was crazily glad. But Jack was just moving close enough to make out my countenance in the dark. "I'll pay you in cash every day so you can quit without notice, and you won't ever see me again unless you want to. Is that enough?"

  His final word was harsh, as if Jack had been rejected more times than he cared to count and was ready for me to toss him out of my life as well. Which made no sense since the combination of Mr. Fish Sticks' powerful job, his charm, and his financial status should have meant that the man in front of me was untouchable. He definitely seemed that way to me. Still, the impulse that always forced me to pick up stray kittens (and then to find them new homes since I couldn't afford to feed more than one pet at a time) had me reaching across the center console to touch Jack's hand.

  It was much less than a caress, my fingers barely brushing the tiny hairs that rose a millimeter above his skin, but Jack jerked away as if I'd hit him. Interesting, I thought, then winced as the back of my companion's head banged against the side window in his efforts to escape my touch. Despite his stifled curses, though, I got the impression that Jack was relieved by the pain since it took his attention away from the first honest reaction he'd let slip since we met. Perhaps there was more to my companion than the smooth playboy businessman he liked to appear.

  My initial urge was to apologize for surprising him, but I somehow knew that saying I was sorry would make the situation worse instead of better. So I capitulated. Well, sort of. "Okay," I agreed. "I'll think about it. If the repaired car is sitting in front of my house at eight tomorrow morning, I might show up on your doorstep an hour later to make Lena smile."

  ***

  Of course, in the midst of all that drama, I forgot to hand Jack my car key, and my companion forgot to ask for it. So that decides it, I thought to myself as I gave Florabelle one last scratch, gently set her on the perch in her cage, and covered the cockatiel's home with a blanket so she wouldn't catch a chill or wake me at first light. Tow truck then job hunting tomorrow. I wasn't sure if I was disappointed or glad to escape a situation that was surely a tempting but dangerous trap.

  Either way, with the decision made, I fell asleep easily and rested more soundly than I had in weeks. Even before losing the Food City job, accumulated stress had been keeping me awake most nights as I worried about my increasingly pushy landlord, about how I'd manage to keep my rust bucket of a car running, and about whether I'd be able to afford enough heat to maintain my tropical pet's health next winter. A prime worrier, I'd even managed to lose sleep obsessing over the caterpillars on my broccoli plants and over whether Ms. Cooper was angry that I refused to use her given name.

  So why could I now I rest peacefully when all of those problems still existed? (Well, except for the broccoli plants—I'd eaten the last head out of my garden two nights before.) The obvious answer was the handsome man whose face featured in my dreams up until the instant that Florabelle woke me with the frantic flapping of wings from her own night terrors.

  "Shh, it's okay," I soothed, ripping the cover off my pet's cage and inserting a finger for the cockatiel to step onto. A few times a month, Florabelle would rouse me like this, upside down on her perch with her feet firmly clutching the support branch and her wings beating crazily against the ground. Perhaps the trauma of her wayfaring childhood had made my cockatiel a little cracked? No matter—I still loved her.

  "How about a bath?" I cooed, pouring a few inches of water into a bowl and nuking it to my pet's favorite temperature—just warm enough that I couldn't feel the liquid at all when I touched it to my skin. Usually, I loved watching Florabelle's
ablutions, giggled over the way she dunked herself and then preened back into fluffy dryness under the desk lamp. But today I felt restless and I went outside after preparing her bath, leaving my bird to her own devices.

  The sun was barely up, but my yard was light enough to allow me to walk easily through the dewy grass. I had thought it would be a simple matter to find something to do in the garden until the hour was advanced enough for me to call a tow truck, but for once, my vegetable plot seemed to be well tended and even my apple tree didn't require any attention. I'd strung out a water hose the previous morning to wash away aphids sucking juices from the tree's smallest twigs, and close examination now proved that the minuscule insects and their ant herders were still absent. The lone fruit on its spur was green and shiny, nearly as big around as a golf ball, and there was no way to speed its ripening except to watch and wait.

  I usually loved spending mornings like this one in my garden. My sleezeball of a landlord generally slept in until noon, so I wasn't in danger of an uninvited visitor dropping by, and the dew always made my plants look even more beautiful than they did in the afternoons. The ground would be soft now, earthworms close to the surface if I dug a little hole to transplant seedlings into, and I might find a toad burrowing down into the mulch in preparation for the day's heat if I pulled some weeds.

  But I couldn't seem to focus on my usual pleasures. Instead, I felt like I was waiting for something. For the towing company to open their doors, I reminded myself. Long hours stretched out in front of me, full of chores but empty of pleasures, and I sighed, heading back around to the front of the trailer to fix some breakfast and make my calls.

  So when I saw it, I didn't quite believe my eyes. Even though the space in front of my trailer had been empty when I went outside, and even though I hadn't heard anyone drive up in the interim, my rust bucket of a car was sitting in the driveway, the whole vehicle engulfed in one of those dramatic bows that peppered high-school parking lots on graduation days. On a new car, the ribbon would have looked over the top, but on my ancient, rusting hunk of metal, the bow just appeared ridiculous.

  "But I didn't give you the key," I murmured, rushing back inside the trailer to check. Yep, sure enough, my car key was still on the ring where I'd left it. Not that something as simple as the lack of a key would stop Mr. Fish Sticks when he was intent on making a point, I thought. I knew without turning the key that the ignition problem would be fixed, the car starting on the first try.

  I wanted to be angry, to tear off the bow and burn it the way I'd done with my Food City uniform. But instead, treacherous tears filled my eyes as I gently slipped the ribbon out from under the door frame and then hurried into my trailer.

  "Back in the cage, Florabelle," I said, my voice lighter than I'd meant for it to be. "I've got an appointment to keep."

  Chapter 7

  The Reynolds mansion felt like a mausoleum. I'd arrived to a note on the door telling me to go on in and make myself at home, that Lena would wake up...when she woke up. Why Jack had made such a big deal out of setting my starting time at 9 a.m. was beyond me since it quickly became apparent that my charge was no early riser.

  It felt strange to be alone (except for a sleeping teenager) in such an opulent house, but I wasn't uncomfortable enough to resist the urge to explore. I spent a few minutes wondering if Jack had installed security cameras that would allow him to replay my wanderings at his leisure, but it soon became apparent that I wasn't impinging on the family's privacy in any way by walking through the downstairs. Each room was flawlessly decorated, shiningly clean...and completely devoid of any personal touches whatsoever.

  There were no family photos, no valueless doodads. No magazines on coffee tables or clothes draped over chair backs. Even the library, so stunning at first glance, soon disappointed me. The room housed floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound tomes, lacking only one of those sliding ladders to make me think I'd died and gone to heaven. But when I looked closer, it became evident that the books had been chosen for aesthetics rather than for entertainment value, as if Jack had told his secretary to order the classics but had neglected to mention which genres he preferred, so she'd selected books with the prettiest covers. The few texts I pulled off the shelf had clearly never been cracked open, their bindings unforgiving beneath my hands.

  The kitchen was similarly beautiful on the surface...and just as empty underneath. Copper-bottomed pans hung from a rack near the ceiling, but the vessels were too high up for even Jack to reach without assistance. The granite countertops were immaculately clean, as if no one had ever dared to prepare food atop them, and the sink was completely devoid of dirty dishes.

  I'm sure the fridge will look just as empty...if I don't open the freezer, I thought to myself with a grin, remembering Jack's purchases on the first night that we'd met. They probably thaw out a pizza every night and eat it on paper plates in front of the TV. Sure would make cleanup easy...if you didn't care about decimating the rainforest and hardening your arteries.

  I yanked on the handle of the silver-gleaming refrigerator door, expecting the interior of the appliance to be as spotlessly clean and empty as the rest of the Reynolds mansion. But to my surprise, I was instead greeted by a carton of milk, a jug of OJ, and a vast array of tupperware containers.

  Leftovers, I'm sure. Perhaps I'd misjudged Jack—maybe he liked taking his sister out to dinner every night and ordering enough extra to bring home for her lunch the next day. But the image didn't quite match up with what I'd seen of Mr. Fish Sticks so far. Was Jack really the type to carry along his own tupperware rather than accepting the easy convenience of the establishment's styrofoam takeout containers? And how could he and his sister have accumulated so many leftovers in such a short period of time?

  Knowing that my actions were veering past curiosity and tending toward outright nosiness, I still couldn't resist popping the top off the first container and peering inside. Homemade carrot sticks created from real roots slivered into sections, not those insipid "baby" carrots that most people chose for vegetable convenience food. Who had taken the time to carefully peel and slice these morsels?

  My fingers kept opening and my eyes kept being amazed. Cherry tomatoes, cut cucumbers, coleslaw, and baked beans. Home-sliced turkey from a real bird rather than processed lunch meat, fancy cheeses that I knew hadn't come from our local Food City, and, at the very bottom of the fridge, a bowl covered with a damp cloth under which bread dough was aromatically rising. The trays on the inside of the door were full of condiments, and even if many of the brands were too fancy for me to be familiar with, the jars and bottles made the fridge feel like the larder of a family. Like the center of a real home.

  Sitting back on my heels, I stared at the food in consternation, not even thinking about how leaving the door open was forcing power plants to spew toxins into the air for no purpose except to cool an already frigidly air-conditioned room. Had Jack stocked his larder with real food just for me? (The thought made me shiver...or perhaps the motion was just a reaction to the cold air.) And if all of this food hadn't been selected with me in mind, then who exactly was expected to consume this feast?

  "Are you hungry, sugar?"

  The woman's voice behind my back made me jump up so abruptly that I managed to hit my head on the underside of one of the shelves on the refrigerator door. Stifling an exclamation, I looked over my shoulder and saw a familiar, yet totally unexpected, person walking into the room.

  "Shirley?" I'd last set eyes on the pleasant, middle-aged woman at Food City, where she worked behind the deli counter, spooning potato salad into small plastic containers for folks who wanted a quick meal without the hassle (and expense) of a restaurant outing. Now, the matron was out of uniform and her hands were full of bulging grocery bags, solving the mystery of the rising bread dough. Jack had hired a cook. Or, more likely, given the state of the floors and windows, a housekeeper.

  "In the flesh," my once-and-future coworker replied, panting a bit fr
om the effort of hauling around what would become the next round of tupperware contents. Recovering from my surprise, I remembered my manners at last and rushed forward to ease the grocery bags out of her hands, then hefted them up onto the center island. "Thanks, sugar," Shirley continued, pulling a stool out from beneath the counter and settling her ample mass down to recuperate. Those bags were heavy, clearly laden with real food instead of processed offerings, the latter of which would have been packaged into large boxes to make it look as if you were getting more for your money than the containers really offered. Fake food was lightweight and lacking in substance.

  Just like fake men. "How long have you been working here?" I asked, trying not to let an arrow of hurt pierce my heart. It shouldn't have mattered that Jack had chosen me and Shirley both from the same grocery store, as if he couldn't be bothered to hunt for someone really appropriate for the job and was instead content with whomever was most easily accessible. One-stop shopping. Picking up the dregs of society from the grocery store along with a frozen pizza for dinner.

  "Just a few days," Shirley replied, oblivious to the thoughts whirling through my mind. "Mr. Reynolds offered me twice Food City's salary, if you can believe it. Twice! I turned in my apron on the spot."

  I swung away, filling a glass with water for my coworker as I tried to work through Shirley's revelation. Double her previous hourly wage certainly looked good to the older woman, and would have impressed me too if Jack hadn't been giving me what amounted to about four times my own previous pay rate. Did that mean my employer thought I was worth paying extra for...or just that he was a shrewd businessman who knew how to get what he wanted? Chances were, if Jack had offered me $500 per week, I would have turned him down flat and kept pounding the pavement in search of a real job. So, as flattering as it might have been to think that Jack felt I was worth two of Shirley, I suspected this was just another example of Mr. Fish Sticks doing whatever it took to get his way.