Plain Jane and the Billionaire (Plain Jane Series)

by Tmonique Stephens

  “Hey, Cali!” Mike, her neighbor across the street, shouted.

  She waved, slightly surprised, slightly disappointed to see him pushing a stroller with his girlfriend walking beside him. Eighteen and already a father.

  Nothing had changed in her small three-bedroom, nineteen-hundred-square-foot home in the time she’d been away. There was still a layer of dust she kept ignoring, a pile of dirty laundry stinking up her bedroom, and a garbage can filled with takeout containers. It was messy, and circa 1947, but it was paid for.

  She tossed the mail on the dining table and chose a hot shower over sustenance. And had to settle for a cold one. The damn water heater went out again. Sigh. Not the first time she took a cold shower and it wouldn’t be the last.

  The doorbell rang as she toweled off. No one knew she was home except… Another sigh and she weighed her options. Pretending she wasn’t home wasn’t her style. She didn’t avoid her problems. Her only other option was to let him in.

  Or not.

  Sometimes, a woman needed to blow off steam. She jogged down the stairs and crossed to the front door.

  Bad idea, Cali. The thought didn’t stop her from flipping the lock and turning the knob. And there stood Rhodes, still dressed in his suit and tie, holding a bottle of Patron. They’d done this dance before, not often, but enough times to know when each other needed it.

  Like tonight.

  She stepped aside for him to enter. Once the door was closed and the lock engaged, she let the towel drop and snatched the Patron out of his hands because his ten digits had better things to hold.

  Am I sure about this? No. But it had been months since her libido had shown any interest. Rhodes was here, a timely present willing to be unwrapped and used.

  It was easy to forget why it had been a few months, why she didn’t have him on speed dial as he lifted her. Eventually, you reach an age where good enough wasn’t good enough. Where waiting for the right one was better than calling up a fuckboy to scratch your itch.

  But when that fuckboy shows up on your doorstep and that itch is suddenly scratchable…

  Calista wrapped her legs around him—her knee against the gun at his waist—as he carried her to the tiny living room. Tossed onto the sofa, she landed with no bounce on the old cushions. He followed her down, his mouth wet on her neck, his hands palming her breasts, tweaking her soft nipples into tight buds. The bottle slipped out of her hand to thud on the carpet. She threaded her fingers through his soft hair and brought him to her mouth.

  The kiss was hard, their tongues dueling, teeth nipping. He fit himself between her thighs and rocked his cock against her. He moaned and she absorbed the sound, then returned it with a moan of her own. It had been too long. Way too long. She needed him. Needed to be filled, fucked, rode hard and put to bed sated.

  Goddamn it had been too long since she had been pinned to a bed and taken. Too long since her hyperactive brain had quieted. Since someone had yanked her out of her preferred isolation in the shadows and thrust her into the light. Too long since she chased an orgasm with something other than her fingers or her vibrator.

  Every cell in her body screamed for a swift, blinding release. A slate cleansing orgasm to reset her mind, body, and soul. The kind of orgasm she hadn’t had in a year.

  Fuck me, Julius.

  His name scrolled across the inside of her skull, followed by his image. Every atom in her body skidded to an abrupt halt. Then restarted with a silent, What the fuck!

  What was she doing? And who was she doing it with?

  Rhodes. Her dark-haired, dark-eyed, once in a blue moon lover.

  “Something wrong, babe?” He eased off her to ask.

  She cupped his face, stroked her hand over his chocolate skin. “Yeah. I can’t do this. Not tonight.”

  His head cocked to the side, lamplight glinted off his forehead. “You seemed to be doing fine a moment ago. What happened?”

  Rhodes wasn’t an asshole. He was a nice guy, way too nice for her. He wanted more, made it clear he was in the market for a wife and kids and a picket fence. She wasn’t in the market for a husband, a kid, and she already had a house.

  She licked her lips and tried to come up with something that didn’t make her seem like a bitch. Too late. “I needed something, and you were here, but I…don’t need it from you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have opened the door.”

  She pushed him off. He went easily, allowing her to climb off the sofa and grab the homemade quilt resting on the high back chair. With her nakedness shielded beneath the quilt made by her grandmother, she waited for Rhodes to rise and make his exit.

  The man took his time shifting from his knees to plop his ass on the sofa. He shoved his hand down his pants and adjusted his cock. All under the watchful eyes of her grandparents. God rest their souls, they judged her from their place on the living room wall.

  She looked away, giving him some privacy, returning when he finally stood. She deserved the contempt on his face and didn’t hold it against him when he snatched the bottle of tequila off the floor.

  His mouth puckered into a sour hole. Oh, he had some words for her, and she braced for the much-deserved tongue lashing. Call her a tease, a slut, a ballbuster, a whore. Go ahead, she’d heard it before. Nothing said would break her. Not anymore.

  Not a word passed his lips. Like the gentleman she knew he was, Rhodes placed the Patron in the center of her coffee table and made his way to her front door. She was right behind him when he unlocked it and crossed the threshold. He paused and studied her over his shoulder. His face neutral, giving nothing away. “See you at work.”

  Sigh. “I’ll be there.”

  Door closed and locked, she snatched up the bottle. A second later, she twisted the cork, yanked it out of the bottle, and took a long swallow.

  Her mind reeled. No woe is me, what have I done. She knew exactly the shitstorm she’d waded into.

  Another long swallow.

  She just rejected a man she worked with for a man she worked for. One man who was completely attainable versus a billionaire playboy she had no business caring about, much less mooning over, much less the image of him traipsing through her head when another man, a better man, was about to make love to her. She was too damn old for silent longing like a hormonal teenager.

  “Jesus Christ!” She slammed the cork back in the tequila and left it on the coffee table instead of smashing it into her fake fireplace. She marched back upstairs and back into the shower, grateful for the icy pelting.

  Julius Morgan was everything she despised in a man. He was from that class of privileged individuals who’d never known a day of hard labor, never known a day of hunger, an hour of hopelessness, a second of despair. He thought he was special because he was born with a trust fund and went to boarding school. He played polo and lacrosse in Europe. Owned a yacht, four homes.

  Fuck. She didn’t know if he owned a yacht and had no idea if he had one home or ten. The point was he was that type, one of the moneyed bastards who had cash flowing out of their assholes from the day they inhaled their first breath. It pissed her off because he pissed her off. Not his money, but him, because for some godforsaken reason, she cared.

  Maybe it was the blood staining her hands hours after the ambulance had whisked him to the hospital. She’d left him in the ER and had no idea if he’d survived until Harden called and hired her as one of his bodyguards. She didn’t question the instant relief flooding her system when she heard he still breathed. He was fighting for his life. This was a man she had spent twenty minutes with. She shouldn’t have cared, but she did.

  Then she met him when he wasn’t bleeding out. Lo and behold, he wasn’t an asshole. He was vulnerable and scared, though he hid it well, but not from her. It was there, lurking in his eyes. Near-death experiences did that to a person. Either it brought out the worst in a person or the best. Only time would tell. He could go either way.

  The thing was, she wanted to be there, helping him along the way. That
’s all she wanted for whatever reason. At least, that’s what she thought, until Rhodes rocked his cock against her pussy and the name that burst inside her brain was Julius.

  Ugh!

  She rubbed the soap between her thighs, washing away the slickness Rhodes had not caused. She needed a long session with her vibrator on high. She slapped off the water, dragged a towel over her body, and grabbed her battery-operated boyfriend. With a flick of her thumb, it started humming. She flopped onto the bed, spread her legs and got to work. Ten minutes later, she gave up chasing an orgasm that had no intention of being found.

  Disgusted, frustrated, she switched it off and flung it to the bottom of the bed. There was only one thing she could do, and she may as well do it right now. She reached for her phone.

  “What is it?” Harden answered, his voice devoid of emotion.

  “You need to find a replacement for me.”

  “No.” Dial tone. Clear-cut and to the point.

  Fuck!

  Chapter 8

  “What happened to you?”

  Braced on a cane, Harden limped into the room with his entourage in tow, wincing with each step. He didn’t stop until he parked his ass in the lounge chair and stretched out his leg on an ottoman with the help of Julius’ private nurse.

  “Thanks,” Harden murmured and eyed the nurse with obvious interest. She returned his interest with a bold stare. His granite features, cold blue eyes with a scar dissecting his right eyebrow and curling around the outer corner, women ate that shit up. And that was prior to his ascension. “We need to have a private conversation.” Harden dismissed the nurse.

  “Certainly, Mr. Gage.” She turned to Julius. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen preparing lunch.”

  She meant supervising lunch since he now had a chef, but Julius didn’t correct her. He needed her gone so he could get the story out of Harden.

  “Spill,” Julius said the moment they were alone.

  Bruno, Harden’s right-hand man, pulled a scanner out of his inner pocket and began scanning the room.

  “The nurse is pretty. You interested?” Harden asked as Bruno proceeded, a clear diversionary tactic.

  He thinks I’m bugged. Which annoyed Julius. They’d been best friends since boarding school. Spying, bugging his friend, Julius would never do that. That didn’t mean someone in his household wouldn’t do it. Money was a great equalizer. Plus, Harden had a rule. Business meetings were on his turf. If not at his home in Jersey, then the place of his choosing, at the time of his choosing. Control the narrative and you control the story.

  “No. Not at all.”

  “She’s your type. Blond, tiny. Not much in the boob area, but you can buy those.” Harden tossed out.

  “You offering to foot the bill?”

  Harden shrugged. “Just conversation.” He eyed Bruno and the assortment of machines. “How you doing?”

  Julius didn’t miss the genuine concern in Harden’s voice. “Been better.” Home twenty-four hours, the doctor had already visited. Harden didn’t feel guilty about much. Julius knew his friend. He would feel guilty about this because he already did. “I’ll be back to myself by end of the week.”

  It wasn’t a fantasy. He was determined.

  “All clean, boss.” Bruno took his scanner and exited, the bedroom door closing solidly behind him.

  “What’s with the spy routine and why are you limping?”

  “One can never be too careful. A lot of people have been in and out of your penthouse.”

  Though he had nothing to hide, Julius agreed. “You have a point.”

  “I know who did this,” Harden said quietly.

  Julius sat up and slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. He sat straight, giving his lungs enough room to expand and aided in preventing his lower back from tensing.

  “Cool your jets. I got one of them. Turns out more than one person wants me dead.”

  “I wonder why?” Julius sneered.

  “Watch it. I’m kind to children and dumb animals. Which one are you?”

  Their running joke wasn’t appropriate under the circumstances. Knowing Harden wouldn’t tell him much, Julius had one question. “Who?”

  Harden shrugged one shoulder and frowned. “A rival with delusionary dreams.”

  Julius didn’t keep tabs on the rival gangs vying for control of the city. That didn’t mean he didn’t have cursory knowledge of the Matos, the Koslovs, the Ayads. Being the leader of the New York syndicate meant all roads led to Harden. Nothing happened without his approval. For a hit to be executed on him meant a war with no guarantee of the outcome. Harden could be killed. Judging by the condition of his leg, he didn’t come away unscathed. While his friend wasn’t a saint, Julius wanted him alive and healthy.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What I do best.” Harden smiled, a feral grin without an ounce of humor.

  Fine. He wasn’t going to share. Julius understood. “What happens now?”

  “Now, I steal your nurse for my own recuperation and you get a replacement.” He shoved to his feet, wincing with each movement, leaving Julius to wonder: bullet or knife? Which one had taken a chunk out of his friend? He didn’t ask.

  “Harden.” For what Julius was about to say, he needed Harden’s undivided attention. “I want in when you find him. Understand?”

  Harden studied Julius, doing his bug under a microscope routine that intimidated so many. But not his friends, not anymore. “You sure?”

  Never surer than anything else in his life. “Yeah.”

  Upright and leaning on the pearl handled cane, Harden nodded. “Can’t promise, but I’ll see where the road leads.” He continued limping to the exit, then paused and turned back. “Why did Calista call and ask to be replaced?”

  She’d went that far, huh. Called Harden. “Didn’t you ask her why?”

  “No, because I don’t care what her reasons are. She’s the best person for the job. That means she stays on the job, whether she likes it or not.”

  “Then why do you need to know?”

  A smile curled the corners of his mouth. “I’m a nosy busybody. Humor me.”

  “No idea,” Julius answered, not giving Harden what he wanted.

  Silence stretched between them. Harden and Emmet had perfected this type of silent treatment. They all did it to a certain extent, studying an opponent while tension built in the man until their walls cracked and they gave into what was demanded, but no one did it better than those two. A few thousand negotiations and a few billion dollars in his bank account, Julius didn’t get both by caving to pressure.

  Finally, Harden asked, “Do you want her replaced?”

  His interest in her wasn’t professional. It couldn’t be because it never was. She had piqued his interest the second he lay eyes on her. He wanted her, as his bodyguard and a whole lot more. But only if she wanted to be here. “Find me someone else.” Harden’s brows arched as Julius swung his legs back into the bed. “And I don’t need another nurse.” He was tired of the codling.

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. All of this is overkill.” He waved at the machines arrayed around the room.

  “I’m not talking about the nurse. I’m talking about Calista.”

  Julius noticed how they were on a first name basis and again he wondered if they’d had something more. “One bodyguard is as good as another.”

  “Fine.” Harden opened the door to find Bruno and two more of his men waiting. “I’m taking the nurse. A replacement will be here in an hour. Don’t do anything stupid until then.” He ordered like a parent worrying over a child. Not that worried since he’d left Julius without medical care, but frankly, Julius was grateful. Being waited on annoyed him and he wasn’t quite so helpless anymore. For an entire thirty minutes, he’d actually managed to sit in the chair Harden had vacated.

  Chapter 9

  “Someone chasing you?” Old Joe, owner of her local gym, peered ove
r his shoulder as she jogged up to him.

  Every other day for the last two weeks Joe had said the same damn thing. Every single time. “Your comedy routine needs work.” Calista huffed and slowed to a fast walk. Too much pent-up energy and unspent lust had her running through the streets at the ass crack of dawn. Burning some calories was better than flopping around in bed like a fish out of water. Plus, running helped her not worry about finding a new job. She wasn’t destitute. Always frugal, she’d be okay for six months, give or take. No need to worry—yet.

  As long as Harden hadn’t blackballed her. Strange how he first said no and hung up on her then called the next day giving her permission to leave.

  “You’re probably right.” Joe turned the key in the lock and pulled on the door. The steel door took it’s time sliding back. It weighed a ton but assisting would earn her a blistering tongue lashing, not gratitude.

  A staple in the neighborhood since 1970, she joined with her high school boyfriend, then stayed when he quit. At first it was strictly a boxing gym, then when the neighborhood changed, Joe added kickboxing and self-defense for the ladies.

  “How’s your mother?” He flipped on the lights as she grabbed a roll of tape and began taping her knuckles.

  Not much to say other than, “She’s the same.”

  Joe grunted and headed for the office. “Tell her I asked about her next time you see her.”

  Unrequited love was a bitch. For years, Joe had it bad for her mother, but Mavis Coleman had sworn off men and relationships. Frankly, Calista couldn’t blame her. Her mother had not been lucky in love.

  Each strike on the punching bag centered Calista, cleaned the debris out of her mind. This was where she was most comfortable, at the gym hitting something. She settled into a rhythm, her imaginary opponent a shapeless, faceless man with a weapon. Today, it was a gun.

  A few combinations followed by a kick. Another flurry of punches followed by a knee. The gym filled behind her. For her, punching was therapeutic. It put her in a zone where nothing mattered except landing each punch, each kick. Put a gun in her hand and she was a dead shot. However, she may not always have a gun. There may come a day where all I have is my wits and my body to save my life.