The Billionaire's Intern: Logan Black (Forbidden Book 1)

by Maisey Yates

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “Well, that too. Without going into emotionally scarring details.”

  “You’re too kind, Austin.”

  “Hey, a chance to stay in a luxury hotel and live in style, while taking a break from school? That’s not bad.”

  “And who’s going to pay for my ‘living in style’?”

  “Me. And then Dad’s big effing insurance payout.”

  She made a face. “I don’t really like taking money from him. Money from what he did.”

  “Like it or not,” Austin said, turning his chair to face the city skyline, “our entire life was financed by him.”

  She stared straight ahead, her vision blurring. “What a legacy.”

  “Yeah. So let’s make it a better one.”

  Addison pushed the individual Skittles piles together. “Yes. Let’s do that.”

  She would. She would make things better somehow. Even if it just started with her being a good intern. Because she wasn’t just lying down and giving up, no matter what the people around her seemed to think. Her life wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

  Chapter Two

  Logan Black looked out the window, directly across from his desk. The view of Fifth Avenue was both entrancing and slightly off-putting. Depending on his mood.

  And his moods were subject to change at a moment’s notice.

  The streets were packed with cars, nothing unusual, but the kind of thing that made his vision swim when it caught him off guard. Like just now.

  He should have closed the curtains.

  He turned his focus away from the view and leaned back in his chair, looking at the time displayed on his phone. Addison Treffen was due to arrive any moment. The beautiful daughter of the recently murdered Jason Treffen. If her brother hadn’t called in the favor, he would have happily chosen almost anyone else.

  There was no place for soft, beautiful women in his life. Not now.

  But Austin was one of the few people who tried to maintain a friendship with him since his return. And while Logan hadn’t done much to reciprocate, the gesture was appreciated.

  Still, the idea of bringing Addison into Black Book, keeping her here…

  Yesterday, it had seemed that it might work. Today, he was less certain.

  He was used to that. To his moods changing like the tide. To New York feeling like a storm he could swim through one day—and one that would drown him in the depths the next.

  Some days were much harder than others and he could never quite pinpoint what kind of day it would be. It usually started with shoes. That was often the biggest clue. How much did they bother him when he put them on? How much did he resent having to wear them?

  If the shoes were a problem, it was a fair bet that the Manhattan streets would be too. That the traffic below would feel like his own personal hell.

  Shoes had been a problem this morning. Which meant his meeting with Addison would be interesting indeed.

  Though it occurred to him he might need to put his shoes on before she arrived.

  He looked down at the pair of shoes and socks beneath his desk. Just a standard pair of black dress socks, and a pair of very expensive, handmade leather shoes.

  He’d left them under there last night after he kicked them off.

  Funny, he’d owned the shoes for something like five years now, but they’d rarely been worn. In part because they’d been new when he left, and in part because since he’d returned he worn them as little as possible.

  He didn’t want to wear them. So he wouldn’t.

  Ms. Treffen would learn very quickly what it was to work with him. He did not bend for convention. He forced others to bend to him.

  But he was aware now of what was necessary and what was simply an extra rule imposed by society. He’d been a man stripped down to nothing. A man at his simplest, at his darkest. Where there was nothing more than life or death. Where there certainly weren’t rules about what sort of shoes he should wear into work. Or if he should wear them at all.

  Though he realized that whether he cared or not, others did.

  He also realized that sometimes there was a lot of power in making others uncomfortable.

  There was a knock at his office door, and he knew it had to be her. Because she was the only person the front desk had permission to allow up. And because he didn’t like being paged over the intercom, a knock was the only way anyone could signal their presence.

  There were a lot of things he didn’t like now. One of the many reasons his old friends, barring Austin Treffen, seemed to find him boring these days. But it didn’t bother him.

  The feeling was entirely mutual.

  “Come in,” he said, putting his hands on his desk, palms down, as strange, restless energy surging through him. It was like this with people. Always.

  The door cracked open, and she led with her leg. A shapely, stocking-clad leg. There was no avoiding the fact that it was a nice leg. That wasn’t even up for debate. Even in his twisted brain, where things often seemed backward or upside down, a nice leg made sense.

  The woman that followed the leg was even better than the body part in isolation. Blond, petite, with blue eyes that were like a deep, clear sea. Her lips were full, a pale pink not like anything found in nature on his island. It was far too delicate a shade.

  She was wearing a white skirt that tapered to fit her shape, ending just below her knee, a matching, fitted jacket conforming to her curves.

  And on her feet, adding, he had no doubt, to the shapeliness of her legs, were a pair of black high heels that added nearly four inches to her height and likely pushed her feet into a near-impossible position.

  He’d never given much thought to women’s shoes prior to his experience on the island. But now that he resented his own footwear so damn much, he couldn’t help wondering just how contorted Addison’s feet would be in something like that.

  Though the wonderment in no way detracted from her legs.

  Every part of Addison Treffen was exquisite. Photos of her in the news didn’t do her justice.

  “Mr. Black,” she said, his eyes level with his. “I’m Addison Treffen. My brother arranged this meeting and—”

  “I’m fully aware of the details of the arrangement.”

  She blinked, her expression remaining neutral. “Well, I had thought it possible my brother spoke with someone you worked for.”

  “One thing you will learn about me, Ms. Treffen—nothing happens here without my approval. And no one would be permitted in my office, on my floor, in my hotel, without my arranging it.”

  The hardness in his tone didn’t ruffle her. The petite, small-framed woman with her smooth hair, skin and clothes, staring him down with an expression that bordered on serenity, was not at all what he’d expected. “Was the hotel room on offer for anyone who took up the spot?” she asked, her fingers shifting on her handbag, the only slight tell of nerves he’d seen since she walked in.

  “Yes,” he said. “I understand that an internship, an unpaid one, is not the easiest thing to negotiate, so it seemed a nice offer.” And in addition to that, he rarely left the hotel. Which meant any assistant of his had to be here.

  “Technically, that makes it paid in a way,” she said.

  “If you like.”

  She smiled and for a moment he was at a loss as to the appropriate social response. Smile back, obviously.

  Yes. Obviously.

  He smiled, but had a feeling it looked more like a grimace. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair that was situated across from his desk.

  She crossed the room and complied, her gold bag held tight against her stomach, her hands wrapped around it like claws.

  Still, her overall demeanor was calm and when she sat, some of the tension eased from her hands.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s been a strange couple of weeks. To say the least.”

  “I heard about your father,” he said, watching her expression. Something kicked over i
n him, reminding him that he had skipped something important. Something appropriate. “I’m sorry.” The words came too late to seem genuine.

  She remained utterly still in her chair, stiff, unmoving. “I’m sorry I had to see it.”

  The thought of this soft creature witnessing the death of her own father twisted something deep inside him and left behind an emotion that held a vague echo of sympathy. He knew what that was like. To be jolted out of your privilege and headfirst into every ugly thing the world held.

  She didn’t deserve it. It could be argued that he had.

  “So,” he said, changing the subject, “what is it you want to get out of this time at Black Properties?”

  “I’m here to learn. I’d like to open a hotel someday, a small one. So I think anything I can learn from you would be valuable.”

  “And what about school?”

  “I’m going to school. I’m a senior at Columbia and should be graduating at the end of the year. Majoring in business, minoring in hospitality. I would love to finish on campus, but at the moment that is…difficult. I’m making arrangements with my professors.”

  “But you will finish,” he said.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Because school is important?”

  “Not particularly,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said, her lips making the shape of the word and holding for a moment before she continued. “I’ve never had a job. I went from living at home to going to school. And my parents always took care of me. They still sort of are.”

  “Are you trying to dissuade me from giving you the position?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. The alternative is hiding out somewhere until the press goes away.”

  “Or you can hide here,” he said. “And you can get work experience. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds slightly more productive than my plan.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Why not?”

  “Not a very definitive answer,” he said. “But one I’ll take.”

  He rose from his position behind the desk and Addison followed his lead. He watched her movements. Graceful, poised. She was the product of an aristocratic family, as he had been. She’d been given every tool to succeed from an early age, a private school education of the highest quality that had turned each movement into art, and conversation into a performance.

  There had been a time when he’d had those things, but they were lost to him now. Funny how two years of solitude could break a lifetime of habits. He was rarely conscious of it anymore, but something about Addison forced him to be.

  Perhaps it was the contrast. The society sweetheart who still lived in it, and society’s favorite former playboy who had retreated so far into the darkness he could only peer in on the world he’d once belonged to. Not because the door was locked, but because he couldn’t remember why in hell he’d ever wanted to be part of it. Because even if he wanted it, he wouldn’t be able to.

  Just the thought of it made a cold sweat break out on his neck, made a sick sensation slip down into his stomach.

  No, it wasn’t even a possibility for him. And he didn’t want it to be anyway.

  “Would you like a rundown on your responsibilities?” he asked.

  “Aside from making you coffee or tea?”

  “I don’t drink coffee,” he said. “Or tea.”

  “Oh.”

  “Or alcohol.”

  “Oh,” she said again, a crease appearing between her finely arched eyebrows.

  “I never got used to it again,” he said. “Alcohol just makes me vomit. Coffee gives me a headache.” Possibly too frank judging by the brief contortion of her lips. He could never seem to strike the right balance.

  “I see. So…what do I get you, then?”

  “I can tell you’re already slightly concerned that rumors of my mental state are true,” he said, watching the momentary flicker in her expression, which was now smooth as glass. As telling as any expression of horror could ever be. “But not wanting a shot of whiskey after dinner doesn’t make me crazy.”

  He walked out from behind his desk, and her eyes fell to his bare feet. She blinked a couple of times.

  “Not wanting a shot of whiskey after dinner doesn’t make me crazy,” he repeated, “but there are other things.”

  “I see.” She cleared her throat and took a breath, looking back at his face as if she was determined to skip over the lack of shoes. “What do I do for you, then?” she asked, the softly spoken, crisply articulated words moving over his skin like a breeze that signaled an impending storm. “If I can’t make you coffee or pour you a drink.”

  “You can start by fielding the endless messages I get every day.”

  “Pardon my impertinence, but why is it you don’t have a paid PA or secretary for this?”

  “They keep quitting,” he said. “Hence the internship. I needed someone with no job experience who couldn’t just go out and find another position.”

  “Why is that?”

  He looked back down at his feet, then back up at her, the left side of his mouth turned up of its own volition. “You’ll see, I imagine.”

  Her blue eyes remained level with his. Unblinking. “I have a feeling I will. So, would you mind giving me directions to my room?” she asked.

  The idea of her wandering around on his floor without direction made his pulse spike. For the first time, he questioned the wisdom of allowing her to stay here.

  But it made sense. And she was just a woman. Nothing to get crazy about.

  “I’ll show you to your room,” he said. “Did you bring your things?”

  “Yes,” she said. “The staff assured me that they would be sent up ahead of me.”

  “And yet you were still testing me. Seeing if I would dismiss you. Hoping I would?”

  She smoothed her hair. “Probably that’s what I was doing, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t just turn you down. Austin would have a fit.”

  “Would he?”

  “He thinks he’s taking care of me… I think he believes this internship is going to magically fix everything that I’ve been through recently. It’s not that simple.”

  “You’re preaching to the converted,” he said. “I know all about that.”

  “I imagine you do. Which brings me back to the question, what drink do I bring you? Should I juice a pineapple?”

  He nearly laughed at that. The impulse was strange and unfamiliar.

  “Water,” he said.

  “Water?”

  “That’s all you need, isn’t it?”

  “Most men I’ve met are more concerned with want than need. Sometimes it seems like want must be…more important.” She sounded confused by the concept. As though she didn’t operate on that level. But he knew differently. A woman like Addison Treffen couldn’t possible know about self-denial.

  “Here it is,” he said. “But there are a lot of other places where that isn’t the case. I can think of one in particular.”

  The corners of her lips turned down. “I apologize. For the comment about the pineapple. It’s probably not something you like people to make joke about.”

  He thought about it for a moment, processing the feeling he’d had when she made her pineapple juice comment. Sometimes it took a while for him to evaluate what he felt when he talked to people because he’d spent so long feeling nothing. Well, nothing nuanced. Elation, rage, terror and despair were his primary emotions. The rest had been squeezed down and sorted into one of those four.

  “It doesn’t bother me,” he said finally, because that was true enough. “Actually people don’t like to mention it, unless they want to grill me, and I’d prefer a casual joke to that.”

  “Well, that’s good to know. Or not, if I’m still trying to get you to fire me.”

  “You may as well stick this out. You don’t have any better prospects and I’m willing to bet that after your father’s assassination no one will want you around.”
<
br />   “I think the assassination bothers them less than the fact that he dealt in…very unsavory things, but I could be wrong.”

  “Are you in danger?” he asked.

  “Would it bother you if I was? Because if the grudge was against the Treffen family, it could make me a hazard.”

  “No, it wouldn’t bother me.” For some reason the idea of a rogue gunman bothered him less than stepping out onto the city streets.

  He’d given up trying to make sense of himself.

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, anyway, the best the police can figure is that it was a professional hit. My father was targeted because he was prepared to accept a plea bargain. To name names in order to shorten his sentence. So it has nothing to do with me, because I know nothing.”

  “One hopes the sniper knows that.”

  She blinked rapidly. “Thank you for that.”

  “Sorry,” he said, knowing the words had little weight. He barely felt them at all. “Sometimes I’m too blunt.”

  “Strange. I was expecting a little more charm. Especially given that, from what I’ve heard, you’re a notorious playboy.”

  “I haven’t been one of those for quite some time. That was in my other life. Now, would you like to see your room?”

  *

  Addison looked at the man, taller than she’d anticipated. She’d only ever seen Logan Black on TV. Years ago as the playboy moving his way through all of Manhattan’s socialites—her being an exception, as she was barely legal at the time—and now as the miracle heir to Black Properties, back from the dead after two years. Pictures that had flashed onto the television and on newsstands then had been filled with a thinner, more hollow-cheeked version of him. Long hair, a beard. More Swiss Family Robinson than Swiss banker. But none of those articles or clips on TV had prepared her for the presence of the man.

  Of course, he was frequently mentioned in business news now, the photo of the grinning playboy back, in place of the gaunt castaway. Before his time away, he’d always been a heartthrob. His lean frame and wicked smile had dropped panties from St. Bart’s to the Upper East Side. He was different now. He didn’t smile. Any snapshots she’d seen on TV recently were definitely old. Because this Logan didn’t look capable of a real smile. And the spark was gone from his eyes. He was larger too. Broader. Any hint of boyishness was gone now.