Ruthless Tycoons: The Complete Series (Ruthless Billionaires Book 3)

by Theodora Taylor

  Hold on…what is this now??? It sure sounds like my Aunt Judith and her friend Gloria set me up on a blind date on my first night off, since my weekend schedule starts on Friday night and ends halfway through Sunday to accommodate Wes’s school schedule.

  My thumbs start flying, typing out a big message about how this date they have made without asking my permission is not going to happen, but before I can finish the text, my phone lights up with a message from a 475 number. “Hi, this is Glen, Gloria’s nephew. Just made reservations at an Italian restaurant near you for tonight. Your aunt said you like Malcolm Gladwell, so I also managed to snag tickets to his talk at CIT. Sound good?”

  I blink, because…it does sound good. A date to see a speaker I have only pretended to see in the past. Now Glen’s message feels less like an aunt-inflicted hardship and more like…well, an invitation to redo the night I met Holt.

  But…no. Things are already too confusing right now. Why add to it? Even if Glen sounds nice and considerate and, you know, doesn’t hate me with the heat of a thousand burning suns, I don’t think it is fair to accept a date with anyone in my current situation.

  However, before I can compose an apologetic text message about how I really appreciate the offer but am too overwhelmed with life as a single parent and a soon-to-be college student to date right now, Barron is tugging at my arm. “Mama, guess what? Professor Nowak says he has a free hour and can talk with me about the work he did with GoBionics last summer.”

  I look around and realize the class was dismissed while I was engrossed in the texts from Aunt Judith and Glen. The hall is empty, and the professor appears to be waiting for us at the classroom door. “What’s GoBionics?” I ask Barron, trying to figure out why this is such great news.

  “The prosthetics development subsidiary of GoBotics. You know—the ones involved with all the advanced work with mind-controlled prosthetics.”

  Actually I did not know that, and… “How does that apply to the bioHelmet?” I ask, my voice weak with confusion.

  Barron widens his eyes at me as if he has been saddled with an idiot instead of the brilliant, science-oriented mother he should have had. Then he looks over his shoulder at the professor and says, “Just c’mon, Mom, please. He’s waiting and we only have one hour with him.”

  Actually we end up spending the next two-and-a-half hours in the professor’s cramped office, and I get to listen to Barron and his professor excitedly discuss concepts that are even harder to understand than the ones in his lecture. Too bad everyone can’t make high-level concepts easy to digest for the lay person like Malcolm Gladwell, I think to myself. It feels like a reprieve when my phone buzzes with a call from Allie.

  “Hey, Allie,” I say happily after sneaking out of the office. “What’s gwan?”

  “Hi, Sylvie,” Allie says with an apologetic tone. “I know it’s your night off. But Holt has a date scheduled for tonight, so we need you to work this evening.”

  My brain hiccups as I stare at the screen. He has a date. Holt, the man I’ve been having sex with almost every night for over six weeks, has a date. With another woman.

  He never made me any promises. He told me the night we made our agreement that he hated me. Over and over again. And truthfully, I am a good woman and I try not to be petty. But still…

  A mean feeling rises up in my heart as I say, “Actually I have a date, too. But please do not worry yourself…I will find someone to replace me for this evening.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  HOLT

  As I descend the marble stairs that round into the foyer, a shout rends the air from the direction of the kitchen. Back in August, I might not have recognized the sound for what it is, but now it has almost become familiar. It is the sound of Wes laughing, loud and happy, like a normal kid.

  My chest tightens with guilt. Because while I am dressed in a tux for a gala I completely forgot was on my calendar until Allie reminded me about it this afternoon, Sylvie is stuck here on her night off. And yeah, revenge is best served boss. I still believe that, but…

  Instead of heading straight to the door, I turn on my wingtip and make my way into the kitchen. We’re not in a relationship. We don’t kiss. We barely even touch more than necessary. My rules, which I set for a reason. But here I am, trying to come up with a way to subtly explain to Sylvie that I am not going on a date-date. It’s more like a photo-op with a famous ballet dancer meant to impress the board before they meet next month.

  However, I stop just inside the kitchen door.

  Because instead of Sylvie, Wes, and Barron, I find Wes at the stove sharing a stool with a little black boy who is shorter than Wes and darker and ganglier than Ender. He and my son wear twin expressions of awe as they look down into the pot, but I have never seen this kid before, or the woman standing beside him.

  She is at least three inches taller than Sylvie and quite a few shades lighter, with long dreads, wide-set hips, and dimples so deep I can spot them from across the room. She also has a set of dark, lovely eyes—I discover that feature when she looks up from whatever is in the pot and spots me standing in the doorway.

  “Oh!” she says when she sees me. “Oh, hi! I’m Mika!” She gives a little wave. “And this is my son, Albie—say hi, Albie.”

  “Hi,” Albie says without looking up from whatever he’s stirring in the pan.

  JFK CEO…I remind myself, before forcing a polite tone and say, “I’m Holt Calson, Wes’s father.”

  “I knoooow!” Mika says, widening her eyes and extending the “know” as if who I am is both obvious and awesome. “Vee said there was a good chance I wouldn’t see you at all tonight. But here you are! Isn’t that cool, Albie? Just a few weeks in Connecticut, and we’ve already met the CEO of Cal-Mart. You love Cal-Mart!”

  “Not as much as I love Hawaii,” Albie answers flatly. “It’s warmer there.”

  “Jamaica and Mexico, too,” an accented voice agrees. “But Mama says you get used to it.”

  I follow the voice to the table where I usually eat my dinner and find Ender there, tinkering with some kind of space age helmet that seems to have several nodes inside it. This must be the bioHelmet Wes was telling me about at the dinner Sylvie forced him to eat with me.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, honestly curious about the helmet and the thin cords he seems to be attaching to the ivory color nodes inside it.

  “Making green spaghetti!” Wes answers, mistaking the direction of my question.

  “And the regular kind, too,” Ender adds, without looking up from his bioHelmet. “Then I’m going to monitor Wes’s brainwaves with the bioHelmet as he tries both.”

  “Yeah, it’s a bit off the wall,” Mika points out in a cheerful tone from her position at the stove. “But that’s what the boys said they wanted to do tonight. And it’s fun and maybe even a little educational, right, Albie?”

  “Not as fun as surfing,” Albie answers, his voice still flat and tight. “But yeah, I guess.”

  I narrow my eyes at Ender. “So let me get this straight. You’re running experiments on my son?”

  Ender finally looks up from his helmet, as if only now realizing I am there. “No…not an experiment exactly. Mama said I would have to get your permission if I wanted to do that. But Wes has a large range of fluctuating moods and strong emotions, and I decided to record and track his feelings since I now have daily access to him. It’s more like I’m monitoring him. Or I guess you could say I’m sequencing his brain waves, mon!”

  Ender snickers like he’s made a joke.

  One I definitely don’t get.

  “Where’s Sylvie?” I ask him, finally deciding to give up all pretense of being interested in anything but the answer to that question.

  Ender goes back to running thin cords out of the helmet, eyes hyper focused and intent on the project as he replies, “Um…on a date…I guess,” in a highly distracted tone. “With some professor. Not one of mine. Somebody Jamaican who I don’t know.”

&n
bsp; Wait…what the hell?

  “Dad! Dad! Look at the green spaghetti!” Wes shouts somewhere in the distance.

  But I barely hear him because Ender’s words are echoing too loudly in my ears.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Holt, Holt…wake up!”

  I open my eyes, fully expecting to find my mother in long braids, wellie boots, and pajamas, her blue eyes excited for a raccoon hunt.

  But instead, I see Sylvie, her brown eyes looking excited above a plate of pancakes.

  “What’s this?” I ask, shaking off the sleep and the joint I smoked on the balcony in the middle of the night while Sylvie slept. She never says anything, but I know she doesn’t like it. So like cursing, it’s something I try to only do when she’s asleep or not at home.

  “Happy Birthday!” she says, holding out the plate.

  “Uh, thanks babe…” I say, narrowing my eyes suspiciously at the plate’s contents. The three circles look like pancakes but smell like bananas.

  “Banana fritters,” she explains off my questioning look. “This is what my mother made for me growing up. Ask any Jamaican and they will tell you these are delicious.”

  Okay, I don’t love bananas. In fact, I kind of hate them to the point that when I was a kid, I forbade my nanny to ever put them on my plate, much less slice them into my cereal or any of the other fucked-up shit people who aren’t grossed out by bananas do with them.

  But I love Sylvie. So, I put on my game face, take a big bite, and find them…whoa, really banana-y. Her pleased smile makes them go down easier than they would have when I was ten though. And so, I end up eating every last bite.

  “Wow, you ate those faster than a real Jamaican,” she says, taking back the plate with a pleased smile.

  She’s happy, but her words blow a cold wind through my heart. “Do you ever mind…you know, that I’m not Jamaican?”

  She doesn’t answer right away, and I can tell she feels conflicted, as she often seems to be between how she was brought up and the life she now has with me.

  “Of course, if I was the same color as you and you were the same color as me, then that would make both our lives easier. But honestly, when I think about being with a Jamaican guy or someone who is not you, it does not sit right on my heart. When I think about who I am, who I love—I can only see you. You are the only one I love in this way…the only one I can imagine loving in this way.”

  She is so sweet. So innocent. The most honest person I have ever met. And that makes me feel even luckier that I found her in this big world.

  “Thank you for the pancakes,” I lie easily as I set the plate aside on the nightstand where I used to keep my coke and oxy mirror. “We still getting married today?”

  She hesitates…then nods shyly. And that nod makes the after taste of bananas in my throat worth it, I decide.

  “Know what else I want for my birthday?” I ask, pulling her into my arms.

  She doesn’t have to reply because I answer my own question with her for the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon.

  That empty plate never does make it back into the kitchen. A few days later, I find it still waiting on my nightstand when I am finally cleared to move from the hospital bed in the den back into my room.

  “Holt?”

  Less than 24 hours.

  Less than 24 hours passed between when my sweet and innocent girlfriend told me I was the only person she could imagine loving, and when she left me to die in that same bedroom.

  “Holt?”

  And now, I bitterly think ten years later, she is on a fucking date…with some Jamaican professor.

  “Holt? Holt? Earth to Holt!”

  I snap back out of the past, the present coming into sharp focus. And instead of my New Haven bedroom, I see a stage with an elegant backdrop that says Greenwich Ballet’s 56th Annual Fall Gala. The stage is filled with men in tuxes and women in evening gowns.

  One of the most famous of whom is my date. What’s her name again? Amy? Allie? No, that’s my assistant. Got it! Abigail…Abigail Kent. The daughter of a pharmaceutical millionaire and a principal dancer for the Greenwich Ballet. She’s the lucky winner of Della’s power point presentation slide deck, and the woman she selected to be seen and photographed with me tonight.

  A classic, slender brunette who speaks more eloquently than most women her age, every syllable refined and precise, Abigail is the complete opposite of the trashy actresses my father was often seen out and about with after my mother died. And since achieving principal dancer status, she hasn’t been photographed with a man worth less than ten figures.

  But according to the bio Della provided me, Abigail told the Greenwich Times she plans to retire from ballet when she finds the right person to raise a family with. A media-savvy dancer with no plans to do this forever—Della was right to choose her. She would be the perfect proof to the board that I’m not a dilettante playboy like my father, but a potential family man who can help rebrand Cal-Mart as a company America can trust.

  On cue, I pull Abigail in for a side hug picture, which I’m certain Della will send to several media outlets with some kind of vague yet obvious caption that ensures anyone who Googles me will know I was recently seen out and about on a “date” with someone they could easily imagine as a young CEO’s second—and much improved—wife.

  And what does Sylvie matter, anyway? She’ll be gone by January, as stated in the contract end date she traded sex with me to obtain. That’s all we are, I reminded myself. An arrangement. One more way for me to punish her for what she did. So why doesn’t it feel like it’s working?

  “And there you go again…Holt, come back.”

  I blink and find myself once more on the receiving end of Abigail’s quizzical look. “Is something wrong?” she asks. “You seem far away.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’ve got a tough negotiation with one of our distributors on Monday. It’s been on my mind a lot.”

  “Oh, I understand,” she says with a gracious and sympathetic smile. Then she launches into her own story about a new director at a particularly difficult venue on the ballet’s upcoming winter tour.

  I like Abigail. I do. She is gracious and direct and has a tinkling laugh that pairs well with the one and only glass of champagne she sips throughout the night.

  She also seems genuinely happy to be here with me, which is a nice change of pace from the trapped animal look Sylvie has whenever I walk into the room for our nightly rendezvous.

  Abigail abruptly stops her work story and asks, “Why are you smiling?”

  I shake my head and decide to tell her the truth. “Just thinking about how perfect you are.”

  “Oh.” She blushes prettily, then covers her chest above her pale brown evening gown to say, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You know, I heard you grew up in New Haven and still donate to their opera company. You’ve probably already seen it, but the Greenwich Ballet is hosting a trip to see Chrysanthemum there next week. It’s already sold out, but if you like, you could come with me as my plus one.”

  It’s an intriguing invitation. Both her star and mine would rise if we made an appearance at another event together so soon after the first. And I would bet a month’s worth of Cal-Mart profits that Della would finagle some photog into taking a picture that would be splashed all over the internet.

  “Sounds good. Give my assistant a call on Monday to schedule it,” I say.

  “Really?” she asks, her entire face lighting up for reasons that probably have nothing to do with this date or even me, and everything to do with what I can do for her.

  But I don’t care. “How about we get out of here and go grab a bite to eat?” I suggest, knowing what her answer will be even before a new, much sexier smile spreads across her lips.

  I am going to fuck this woman, I decide as we leave the gala together. I am going to fuck her tonight, and then go to the opera with her next week. And hell, by this time nex
t year, I might even announce our engagement.

  No more obsession, I tell myself as my driver and bodyguard, Yahto, lets us off in front of the place we’ll be dining at tonight.

  Abigail’s eyes light up when she sees the sign for 2AMSun, a hot new restaurant owned by a celebrity chef that opened a few weeks ago.

  “You were able to get a reservation here?” she asks. “I’ve been trying to get one for weeks, but they’re booked well into next year.”

  No, I don’t have a reservation. But I texted Della to get us one on the way over. And despite my major image rebranding, I am still entitled enough to expect that there will be a table waiting for us when we walk in. In fact, I spot a table for two right next to the large picture window where anyone who walks by will see one of America’s youngest billionaires sitting with Greenwich’s most beautiful ballet dancer.

  But instead of smoothly escorting Abigail inside, I stop, transfixed. Not by 2AMSun’s window, but by one across the way. Beneath a dark red canopy that reads “pastabene” in unassuming lowercase letters, I see Sylvie sitting across from an owlish, light-skinned black man in a tweed suit.

  “Actually…” I say to Abigail, my voice becoming hard.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  SYLVIE

  I’m having a good time. I’m having a good time, I insist inwardly as I force myself to laugh at yet another of Glen’s lazy student jokes.

  But then the laughter dies in my throat, and not just because I find his mostly student-targeted jokes anything but funny.

  Following my gaze, Glen says, “That’s Holt Calson, the CEO of Cal-Mart, right? Do you know him?”

  “Yes, he is my…ah, boss.”

  Glen’s eyes widen. “Holt Calson is your boss?”

  “Yes,” I answer, noticing that not one, but two of the wait staff rush over to a newly empty table by ours and frantically start clearing it off.

  There is also a man with a heavy paunch at the restaurant’s front door. He is either the manager or the owner because he flips the black, white, and red door sign from “open” to “closed” before walking to the closest occupied table. After talking to the two men eating dinner there, he moves onto the next two top and then the next.