by Holly Rayner
AN HEIR FOR ALEXANDROS
The Greek Billionaire’s Baby
By Holly Rayner
Copyright 2016 by Holly Rayner
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utili.zation of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerogr.aphy, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval *crane system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
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Table Of Contents:
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ONE
The offices of Standard, Ayers, and Associates were housed in a tall building of beige concrete. Kally Jones hadn’t been expecting the Taj Mahal when she’d started working with these literary agents, but each time she came in for a meeting, she found it just a little more depressing. The building seemed to lack all charm. That, and windows. It had shockingly few of those for its size. Kally made a note of it, but she was determined to stay positive. She had come all the way out here to start a new life, after all.
The New York sun was uncommonly strong for January, and Kally felt like an ant under some sadistic kid’s magnifying glass. She dashed for the building’s unimpressive, glass doors, smoothing the jet-black skirt of her suit as she went. She smiled ruefully to herself as she reflected that the crazy weather summed up her life completely: it too was unbelievably out of order.
Inside, everything was cool and shaded, and Kally’s heels sent echoes throughout the room as she walked over the black marbled floors. Thank God for air conditioning, she thought to herself as she moved away from the doors. There was a desk on her left, just beyond the door, and she was before it in two quick strides.
“Good morning, Ms. Jones,” came a genial voice from behind the desk. It belonged to a pale young man with a fresh face and keen eyes.
“Huh? Oh, good morning,” she replied distantly, etching “10:45” in the log under “Time In”. Without another word, she turned purposefully toward the elevator banks.
As she waited for a car to arrive, Kally turned over the phone call she had gotten an hour ago. They wanted her to interview someone, that much was clear, but she couldn’t figure what all the secrecy had been about. As a rule, Kally was not overly fond of secrets, and puzzling through this one was not helping her mood.
A very important person, she thought. That’s all they’ll tell me. I don’t like flying blind, but right now, I haven’t really got a lot of choice. She tried to tamp down the wave of bitterness that suddenly rushed over her, stepping into the car that had finally arrived, but it was too late. She could feel it writhing inside her, clawing like an enraged house cat.
She jabbed the sixth floor button a little harder than she meant to, and winced as her finger spiked with pain. Instinctively, she squeezed it in her other hand, hoping the pressure would provide a bit of relief. She swore in a low voice, and tapped her foot impatiently, until the doors opened onto the gray-carpeted hall that led to her literary agent’s office.
“Let’s get this over with,” she mumbled to herself, forcing her expression into the plastic smile she reserved for occasions like these. She walked up to a heavy wooden door that bore the agency’s nameplate, and stepped inside.
The offices were small, but decorated pleasantly enough, with plants, end tables, and ferns.
“Ms. Faris is waiting in the rear office,” a gravelly voice called out. Kally gave the short, gray-haired old woman a polite nod. Good old Ruth she thought to herself, feeling just a little bit better as she reached the door of the rear office. Ruth had been the first person to greet her when she’d arrived, and since then, the older woman had taken on the role of grandmother to her. She gave excellent advice, and every now and then, she could be counted on to show up with a batch of homemade cookies.
I ought to do something nice for her, Kally thought, before delivering three sharp knocks to the door in front of her. There was a brief rustling inside the office, as if someone were hurriedly gathering a stack of papers together.
“Come right in, Kally,” a woman’s voice answered. It was businesslike, yet inviting, and bore a slight Middle Eastern accent.
Kally let herself in, and beheld an office she always swore to herself had been designed by a Hollywood studio. The desk was black Lucite, the lights were recessed, and the chairs were cushioned with a red fabric that looked and felt like velvet. Behind the desk, the windows ran from the ceiling to the floor. Kally could almost see two or three cameras trying to put the scene in focus.
All this place needs is a bar, Kally thought, taking a seat, and trying not to think about how good a drink would be right now.
Layla Faris was a slightly chubby, olive-skinned woman, with strong black eyes and hair to match. Her face was round, and while it wasn’t pretty, strictly speaking, it was full of character, and impossible to ignore.
This was only the fifth or sixth time Layla had met Kally in person, but she thought she could read curiosity in the other woman’s cool, gray, eyes. She hoped that she was right. She needed Kally to take on the assignment without any trouble.
“As I said on the phone,” Layla began, getting right to the point as she always did, “we have an offer for you from a client who wishes to remain anonymous. Until your first meeting, I am not permitted to provide you with any information other than these basic facts: he’s male, a man of means, and highly influential. This client represents a great opportunity for you, as well as Standard, Ayers and Associates, and the project would be for you to assist in writing his memoir, entitled…”
“The Life and Times of Casper the Friendly Ghost,” Kally interjected. “I used to be a journalist, Layla; working without facts is anathema to us. How am I certain I can make a relevant contribution, before I waste your time and mine?”
“We’ve reviewed everything, and I can assure you there’s little chance of that. Besides, the terms are non-negotiable. Either you agree, or you lose the client, and not to get too personal, but I don’t think you can afford…”
“Tell me this, then,” Kally cut her off, more sharply than she meant to. “Why did such a well-heeled client select me?” she asked, softening her tone. “I’ve only been ghostwriting non-fiction for a few months. Doesn’t it seem a little odd that he didn’t ask someone from the New York Times bestseller list? Simon Reed, for instance? His book about Senator Nelson is insanely popular.”
“Well, he preferred your memoir of Dmitri Liourdis, the Greek high jumper who won gold at the Olympics in the sixties. Liourdis is a hero of his, and your writing style impressed him. His people can pencil you in for tomorrow if you think you can handle the assignment.”
“So a wealthy individual, probably Greek, who likes sports and has good taste in writing…”
“Are you going to accept the assignment, Kally?” Layla asked impatiently. She was relieved to see Kally nod. Despite her undeniable talent, Kally had developed a reputation for stubbornness in her short time there, and Layla was afraid it might lose her agency a vital opportunity, and spectacular bit of money.
“I’m glad to hear that, Kally. I’ll inform the client at once. I’ll contact you later with an appointment time, and the client’s address. This assignment could be a stepping stone to finding yourself on the New York Times bestseller list, so…”
“I’ve already agreed to do it, Layla,” Kally interrupted impatiently. “You can stop selling it now.”
TWO
The following evening found Kally in one of her most impressive skirt suits, a fashionable gray ensemble that fit so well it might have been made for her. Added to her crinkled, dark brown hair, long legs, and the subtle curves of her face, it made her look like she belonged on television.
I don’t know what one usually wears to meet the fabulously wealthy she thought, as she approached her destination, but this is about the best I’ve got. She tried to call her journalism training to mind to mentally prepare herself for the interview ahead. Despite her trepidation at knowing very little about the client she was about to meet, Kally simply could not allow anything to go wrong.
The previous June, Kally had been working at the Republic, a midsized national paper based in her hometown of Washington, DC. When she started out there, five years earlier, her plan had been to make her mark and then springboard to a bigger publication. She’d set her sights on the Post and the Times, and becoming a nationally-syndicated columnist. Her very first assignment had taken her to Pentworth, where two brothers were struggling to establish a tuition-free daycare center. Her editor, Frances Phillips, had been stunned by the level of quality in the report Kally turned into her. With each new project, she’d worked with a level of fervor and dedication that had constantly floored the higher-ups. By the end of that first year, Kally had been promoted twice, with her piece on suburban drug use garnering a great deal of attention.
Kally had known at the time that that had been the moment to leap into the welcoming arms of the bigger papers. The Post had made her a generous offer that likely would have touched off a promising career as a columnist. But she had fallen in love with the small offices of the Republic, its gruff but likable managing editor, and her colleagues, who felt like more like family. She had made a dear friend in Beth Matthews, and Kally had often helped her and her husband, Walter, look after their baby boy, Noah. More than that, she had earned a great deal of latitude and was able to submit the kind of stories that were usually ignored by larger national news outlets. She had decided to stay, and over the next four years, the Republic had become much more than a job; it had been her identity.
That identity, however, had never been without turmoil. In Washington, like everywhere else, Kally’s medium was slowly dying. The Republic had been struggling to remain relevant long before Kally joined its ranks, and some people had joked that it would soon go the way of the bookstore. They had dutifully gone online like the other major papers, discounted subscriptions, and even commissioned smartphone apps, but the bottom line was simple: very few readers were willing to pay for information that they could get for free elsewhere. Advertising dollars started to dry up, forcing the paper to offer huge discounts to prevent them vanishing entirely. Expenses had mounted and salaries dwindled, but the Republic family stubbornly fought on.
“This paper has been running since the 1920s. It’s not folding under my watch!” Frances had declared. The woman was as tenacious as a lobster, and the fire in her voice did a lot to keep her employees going.
A few hundred thousand subscribers had fought the good fight, too, eager to support unique reporting from people like Kally. They would often send their favorite writers encouraging emails, and urge their friends and family to “get behind the pay wall”. The staff at the Republic thought of these diligent souls with great affection.
Despite all these efforts, there simply wasn’t enough money to get things done, and by June, advertising dollars were scarcer than rain in the Sahara. It was obvious to everyone that, unless Cinderella’s fairy godmother appeared with a sack full of cash, the paper would soon fold. And then a miracle came, like a bolt from the blue, just when even Frances had lost all hope. It hadn’t been a fairy godmother, but to Kally, it had seemed close. Drexel Omnimedia wanted to buy the Republic.
Drexel Omnimedia was a subsidiary of the massive global conglomerate, Stratos Holdings Inc. Three months prior to its offer for the Republic, Drexel had bought out a failing television station and turned it into a thriving news network. The success of WHRT-TV gave everyone hope that the newspaper would not only be saved, but left intact.
However, no sooner had the acquisition been confirmed than the paper was closed down and stripped bare of everything of value. Almost overnight, the family Kally had known for so long was cast to the winds.
Kally had been in shock, and at least three days had passed before she could compose herself enough to begin looking for a new job. Like her colleagues, she had run to the Post and the Times, only to be unceremoniously turned away. She was curtly reminded that she’d turned them down before, and told that they couldn’t afford to let her reconsider now. Everywhere she had tried, the story was the same: no newspaper wanted to, or could afford to pay anyone new.
Eventually, Kally had been left with two options: take whatever job would allow her to survive, or continue to pursue her career in journalism. In the end, she had decided that she loved her art, and she couldn’t see herself doing anything else. She had conceded that the market had dried up in D.C., and Kally was certain she would only fare better in New York. It was a risky gambit, but she had taken it, only to discover the same situation existed there too. Then a mentor of hers had offered her a suggestion, and an introduction to Standard, Ayers and Associates. Having embarked on a fledgling career as a non-fiction writer, the bulk of Kally’s financial future now lay in the hands of the unknown man she was going to meet at The Three Rivers.
He’s not showing off at all, is he? thought Kally, gazing up at the building. It was a huge expanse of polished glass, and had the opulent look one usually saw in the best of five star hotels. A plush red carpet led to enormous glass doors with brass handles that looked like golden roses. Each pane was bordered by intricately-drawn patterns of leaves and vines. Above Kally's head, a wine-red awning bore the restaurant’s name. Kally moved past the valet and into the vestibule. An self-conscious impulse moved through her as the sheer scope of the building became apparent, but she did her best to ignore it.
“Okay, this is just ridiculous,” Kally said out loud as the sound of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons filled her ears.
The vestibule area was richly carpeted and a luxurious velvet couch sat at either end. Behind the couches were small waterfalls that slowly fed koi ponds full of radiant fish. A small chandelier hung overhead, and tried to mimic the subdued beauty of candlelight. Stepping into the restaurant proper, Kally beheld a marvelous fountain and vaulted glass ceilings. Elegant tables stretched as far as her eyes could see, but oddly, every one of them was empty. She was still considering how a place like this could be deserted on a Friday evening, when a clear voice rang out.
“Are you Kally Jones, miss?” The voice belonged to a rail-thin waiter with a tiny nose and flaxen hair. “Please follow me,” he continued when she replied in the affirmative. “He’ll be with you shortly.”
Kally was led up a spiral staircase and onto a balcony, where a truly extravagant set of tables awaited. She took a seat at the one in the center, and was left to her own devices for a few moments, before the waiter returned to offer her a glass of wine.
“Shortly” turned out to mean over twenty minutes, and Kally found herself getting a little antsy at the wait. What is taking him so long? she thought for the twentieth time. Once or twice, she’d toyed with th
e idea of trying to order an appetizer. But she always came back to the fact that it would likely cost half her rent without giving her anything to do until her client, whoever he was, condescended to appear. “This is not a good start,” she said out loud. “Not at all.”
She went over everything she would need to ask twice, and made a Sherlock Holmes mystery out of trying to divine her client’s identity. She began with the clues she had at hand: male, rich, Greek, sports fan. She tried to think of all the famous Greeks she could recall, but every one that came to mind worked in politics. She wasn’t sure of much at the moment, but she was fairly certain the Greek prime minister was not about to appear before her.
“It would explain the delay, though,” she mumbled, just as a tall gentleman came into the room.
“Good evening,” he boomed, in a strong Greek accent. “I apologize for making you wait.”
Kally started at the sound, shaking the proffered hand automatically as she collected herself. “No problem at all,” she replied, hoping she sounded genial.