The Billionaire's Hotline (Men of the Capital Series Book 1)

by Cara Nelson

  “Hannah Abbracciabene?”

  “No. Hannah Filomena Abbracciabene. My stupid father had never even been to Italy, but he was all about his heritage, so I got saddled with this unpronounceable crap name. My dad filled out the birth certificate. They’d agreed on Hannah, but he really let his freak flag fly with the rest of it while my mom was passed out on painkillers. When I was fifteen, I decided I was going to change it legally, but he dropped dead and I felt bad about making such a fuss over my name. So I left it.

  “Then when I married Alex, it was like a reprieve. The only thing I really got out of that doomed relationship was a nice, normal last name that everyone could pronounce the first time. I like having a name that doesn’t have six syllables. It was a great deal easier to get an agent once I had a more recognizably American last name.”

  “I don’t like Largent.”

  “You don’t like your name either.”

  “My name is at least my own. You have some guy’s name. Some jerk who didn’t even stay married to you.”

  “I left him, Jasper.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s personal.”

  “This whole conversation is personal, Hannah.”

  “He cheated on me. More than once.”

  “He was an idiot.”

  “I thought so by that time. It turned out well, though. I have a job I love, a good life.”

  “But tonight you were crying for me.”

  “I may have cried a little, but it had nothing to do with you, egomaniac. I’m under a great deal of stress right now. I’m worried about my sister.”

  “I wish I hadn’t made you cry,” he said. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “Working.”

  “No. You’re going out with me. I’m putting dial-a-blonde on ice for the evening.”

  “Like a date?”

  “Not like one. An actual date.”

  “I don’t meet your criteria.”

  “You burned it down with your big mouth and your Vitamin D deficiency, Hannah. Seven o’clock?”

  “Yes. Now hang up before I change my mind,” she said, clicking ‘end’ before a giggle escaped her.

  She hated to admit it to herself, but she was excited. She paced her apartment, practically giddy. She usually dreaded dating and any kind of social engagement that required leaving her apartment and neglecting her work for more than an hour. She got antsy just having her nails done with Becca every couple of weeks. Somehow, sequestering herself with a bunch of PowerPoints seemed to have lost its appeal for the night.

  * * *

  “Where are we going?” she asked Miss Hollingford by phone.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you, okay? Now help me out. I don’t know what to wear for tonight.”

  “Again, I’m not sure what engagement you’re referring to. I have Mr. Cates’ schedule right here on spreadsheet, and you are not listed.”

  “What does it say for seven p.m.?”

  “It’s blank,” Miss Hollingford said, confounded. “If he were planning an evening out, he would have had me make reservations. I assume from his lack of formal engagements that he is working late tonight. I’m not sure what he told you, but it’s nowhere on the calendar.”

  “Can you give me a hint?” Hannah asked as sweetly as she could.

  “Do you have an auditory processing problem, honey? I don’t know what the man is up to, but it’s off the record. I can’t help you.” Miss Hollingford took pleasure in hanging up the phone on the sassy-mouthed girl who’d told her off yesterday.

  Left to her own devices and her cautionary experience at the Blake Bar, Hannah decided to dress up. After canvassing her own closet and finding only a navy shirtdress appropriate for an interview or a funeral visitation, she called in the cavalry. Her sister swore she had the perfect solution.

  Soon, Becca was at her door with a garment bag.

  “If we can squeeze you into a size six, we’re golden,” she said by way of greeting.

  “I told you I couldn’t fit in your clothes. I’m an eight.”

  “Duh. I wear a four. This is from the prop shop. The old lady I’m understudy for wears a six and she has this knockout dress. There’s no rehearsal tonight, so I nicked it. Check this out.”

  It was black, one-shouldered, with a wrap skirt and a high slit up the front. It was sleek and sophisticated, and with the triangular cutout front and center below the breasts, it was sexier than anything she’d ever worn. She stared at it covetously.

  “Let’s try it,” Becca urged, and she helped her sister into a strapless bra and a waist cincher to lay the foundation.

  “Always put the shoes on first. It gives you the right posture and attitude,” she counseled, passing Hannah a pair of nude stilettos. She zipped up the dress and tugged Hannah’s shoulders back.

  “You have to stand up perfectly straight, or you’ll slump and your tummy will ooze out the cutout. That’s not the look we’re going for.” Becca turned her toward the mirror and she saw her own mouth form an ‘oh’ of wonder. It was gorgeous. Just like something out of a magazine.

  “Now, makeup,” Becca said, expertly curling her sister’s lashes and applying eyeliner.

  When she was finished, the pale cheeks had a peachy glow, the dark eyes were contoured with green shadow, and a deep wine lipstick was topped with a fiery red gloss. “You’re a knockout,” she said approvingly.

  “Thank you. I’m not sure I can walk or stand up straight enough, but it’s better than I’ve ever looked. I won’t spill on the dress, I swear. Or rip it.”

  “If you do, wardrobe can take care of it. No sweat.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No, I mean no actual sweat. It’s murder to remove from fine fabrics. I forbid you to perspire in this gown. It’s designer, so no sweating.”

  “I love you.”

  “Me, too.” Becca said, air kissing her to avoid messing up the makeup job. “Where’s he taking you?”

  “I have no idea,” Hannah admitted.

  “You have no idea and you’re dressed this formally? I thought you were going to a benefit gala or something. This could be a disaster. You need to change. What if he takes you horse riding?”

  “That’s unlikely. One can’t prepare for every contingency. This suits the kind of world he inhabits. I’m sure it’ll be a fancy dinner,” she said more confidently than she felt. “I’m meeting him at his office in half an hour. I have to go. Thank you again.”

  “You turn into a pumpkin at midnight,” Becca warned.

  “I’m already a pumpkin, but the control top waist thing took care of that. No worries,” she said, grabbing the evening bag Becca had stuffed with her essentials.

  He met her in the lobby with a low whistle of appreciation.

  Jasper Cates was wearing jeans, albeit jeans that probably cost three hundred dollars, and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, tanned forearms.

  “Are we—where are we going?” she faltered.

  Jasper thought quickly. Her bombshell dress called for a definite change in plans. If he took her where he’d intended, he knew she’d be spooked—she’d be so busy worrying about how overdressed she was that she couldn’t enjoy herself.

  “Beautiful,” he said. He pulled out his phone and punched in an email to Miss Hollingford to produce tickets. “First, a drink.” He led her down to the Blake for a cocktail.

  “I don’t drink very often. It kills throat cells,” she whispered.

  “Two Shirley Temples,” he ordered, straight-faced, and soon a juicy concoction with three maraschino cherries speared on a plastic sword appeared before them. She sipped it happily and he relaxed when he got a message from Miss Hollingford.

  “The car will be here momentarily. We’re going to the symphony. It doesn’t start until nine. Are you hungry?”

  Hannah was torn between eating because she was hungry and abstaining because she di
dn’t want to spill or burst her girdle. She shrugged in what she hoped was an expressive European way and ate a cherry out of her drink. Jasper kissed her then, suddenly and in front of the crowd at Blake Bar. He tasted of tart lime and salt. She kissed him back without hesitation. When he put his hand to her waist, she flinched, worried he would feel the boned mechanism restraining her midsection, and sat up straighter.

  “I have ideas of where we could spend our two hours,” he said, wiping red gloss from his mouth with a scoundrel grin.

  “No, thanks. I don’t want to be the first entry of dial-a-brunette. I’ll pass on the nudity portion of the evening,” she said flippantly, although the thought of spending two hours in various stages of undress with Jasper Cates in a hotel room made her start to sweat in a way she was certain Becca would disapprove of.

  “Then come to the park with me. It’s a nice evening. The sun’s gone in, so you won’t get any Vitamin D but we can enjoy the fresh air.”

  She hobbled after him in the stilettos until they reached the park a few blocks away. She occupied the first bench she saw, remembering to keep her spine ramrod straight.

  “You’re tense,” Jasper said. “Tell me about your work. What did you do today?”

  “Put on the most agonizing shoes known to mankind,” she said, indicating her feet.

  Jasper knelt on the ground in his jeans and popped off her right shoe. He pressed his thumbs into the arch of her sore foot, stroking and massaging until she was nearly purring. He replaced the shoe and removed its mate, beginning on her left foot. She made a half-hearted protest before reveling in the unaccustomed pampering. When he was finished, he put her shoe back on and sat beside her on the bench, reached into his pocket for his hand sanitizer, and rubbed his hands together.

  “More relaxed?” he asked.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she assented, dropping her head to his shoulder. “Thanks.” He turned and kissed the top of her head, putting an arm around her so she fitted against his side.

  “I know you’re a sound engineer…I thought you’d appreciate a concert. It’s the Brandenburg Concertos.”

  “Ah, Bach. The Baroques aren’t my favorite, but I do enjoy the Brandenburg Concertos, if only because I feel sorry for Bach. He was such a genius—hard to get along with, but a genius. The Brandenburgs were never even performed in his lifetime…he sent them as an audition for a king, like a job application, and the musicians at court were so shitty that they just put away the scores unused because they were too complex. Think how sad that was,” she said vehemently.

  “It’s hard not to kiss you sometimes.”

  “Even though I insulted the Baroques?” she teased.

  “Handel and his ilk can go to hell for all I care. I’m only going for you.”

  “You don’t like Bach? Or it’s just a waste of your valuable time?”

  “I don’t have any strong feelings for Johann Sebastian, favorable or otherwise. The only reason his concertos are worth my notice is that there’s this sound engineer I want to impress and I hear that musical appreciation is a big part of that.”

  “Thank you. That’s thoughtful of you.”

  “Stop being formal and tease me again,” he said, leaning in to kiss her, brief, gentle kisses that brought her closer to him, eager for more.

  “You surprised me when you called last night. I underestimated you,” Hannah said.

  “I surprised myself. I never thought I’d give up a blonde in the hand for a mockingbird in the bush.”

  “That was spectacularly horrid and corny.” She laughed.

  “Ah, but it was worth it to make you laugh like that. I can’t believe I made you cry.” Jasper ran both hands down the length of her hair and pulled her to him, his warm palm closing over her bare shoulder. “You have freckles,” he said quietly, bending to kiss them.

  “We’re in a public park.”

  “Very observant of you, yes,” he said, putting his mouth to her throat in a way that made her toes curl under with desire. She stifled a high-pitched noise and he pulled her to her feet. “Shall we adjourn to my apartment?”

  “No.” Her voice sounded ragged. “Let’s have a pretzel,” she suggested desperately, making her way to the soft pretzel vendor and securing a giant twist of salty dough. He shook his head when offered a bite, but subsided and waited for her to finish.

  “I suppose we should go to the concert hall now,” Jasper said, offering his arm.

  When his hired car pulled up and he seated her in it, they sped luxuriantly to the venue, his hand on her knee, hot through the thin fabric. Their tickets were at the will-call window, but an usher made Jasper don a borrowed suit jacket to enter—it was tight across the shoulders and shiny with age. She knew he wasn’t dressed for the symphony and she had her suspicions why, suspicions that made her hold his arm more closely, rest her cheek against his sleeve when they were seated.

  The music was exquisite, and her trained ear appreciated the precision and brightness of the instruments and their players. During the final movement, she was preoccupied with how to get rid of Jasper and avoid ending up in his apartment with her borrowed dress on the floor. His practiced touch was overwhelming, a temptation nearly impossible to combat. When she turned to glimpse him, to gauge his interest in the music, she found that he was watching her, not the orchestra below. Startled, she flushed and he put his hand to her cheek. They sat motionless for minutes, his hand on her face, her eyes locked on his, breathless, before the music changed and the moment passed.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening. I know from that jacket that this isn’t what you had planned.”

  “I was going to return it, but I think I’ll give it a decent burial instead.” He regarded it critically, gesturing to Hannah to help remove it because the sleeves were so snug. She peeled the jacket off him and stepped back before she could be tempted to remove anything else.

  “It was a wonderful evening. I’m going to take a cab home. I have some work to do—”

  He caught her in his arms midsentence. “You’re lying,” he challenged, his face mere inches from hers.

  “What?”

  “Your voice lowered and you looked to the left. I have it on good authority that you just committed a classic lying tell. As a punishment for your utter lack of sincerity, I insist you come to my apartment for coffee.”

  “You don’t drink coffee.”

  “Interestingly enough, I have a French press and the ingredients to make a truly superior espresso, or so Miss Hollingford assured me.”

  “A French press? You might as well offer to show me your etchings.”

  “Etchings wouldn’t get you in the door. With a French press, you’re mine.”

  “How long have you had it? Does it still work?”

  “It had better. I sent Miss Hollister out to get one this morning in hopes of enticing you to my lair.”

  “It’s working. But I’m not sure I can work a French press dressed like this.”

  “I’m sure I have something you could put on.”

  “I won’t fit into anything left behind by a six foot blonde.”

  “I meant something of mine. I wouldn’t mind seeing you in my robe. Or my sheets.” She bit her lip, mainly to keep from biting his.

  In the dark of the car, his hands found her hair and tugged the pins out, letting it spill over his hands as he stroked her scalp, easing the tension there. She leaned over to kiss him and he pulled her across his lap, his fingers splayed warm against the triangular cutout above her stomach. The heat of his touch made her shudder. She knew as she stepped into the elevator with him that it was a terrible idea, possibly the best terrible idea she’d ever had.

  His apartment was clinically neat and expansive, with high ceilings and pale wooden floors. She followed him to the kitchen and assembled the French press while he washed his hands at the sink.

  “Do you have a thing about germs?” she asked.

  “Excuse me? I thought washing one’s hands prior to food or bev
erage preparation was customary,” he said coldly.

  “You’ve used hand sanitizer about twenty times tonight. Anytime you touched me, or a doorknob, or the car. It’s just an observation.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty wrong with you. You’re misanthropic and controlling and almost criminally obnoxious. Somehow it’s an endearing combination to me, which makes me question my sanity, not yours.” She put down the assembly and put her hands on his shoulders. “Your blood pressure cannot be good with the level of stress you’re putting on yourself. I have never met anyone as tightly wound as you, and I work with actors and musicians, who don’t have a reputation for being Zen. You have GOT to calm the fuck down.”

  He turned away.

  “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry,” she said, laying a hand on his arm.

  “Hardly. Here. Percolate away.”

  She brought him coffee, setting a white mug before him. “Sugar?” she offered.

  He shook his head, wanting her to leave. “No thanks,” he managed.

  “Your place is really big,” she remarked. “Clean and angular.”

  “Are you going to analyze my apartment size and tell me it reflects insecurity?”

  “I thought it had more to do with you having a lot of money,” she said simply, sipping her coffee and smiling. “This is really good. I’m going to have to get a French press.”

  “Have that one. I don’t need it,” he said, more dismissive than generous.

  “I liked the symphony,” she said, waiting for him to reply. When he remained quiet, she continued. “You said with a French press I was yours. So what will you do with me?” She looked up almost coquettishly, and the dark timbre of her voice nearly undid him with desire.

  “Besides disinfecting you with hand sanitizer?” Jasper said wryly. He managed a half-smile.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think sometimes when I say something. I spend most of my time alone, working. I guess I have the social skills of a bridge troll sometimes, Jasper. I’m sorry.” Her gentleness rubbed him raw more than her scrutiny. The intimacy made him start to sweat.