by Claire Adams
BILLIONAIRE CHRISTMAS
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Claire Adams
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CHAPTER ONE
CHLOE
I looked up at the dilapidated building, sure I was in the wrong place. I checked my GPS again; Siri was insisting this was it. The pictures I had seen online had been of a place that was newly renovated, with brand new windows and a fresh coat of paint. They said there were views of the Hudson River.
I didn’t see the Hudson, at least from where I was standing. Maybe you had to be on the top floor. But that still didn’t explain the rest of this mess. The faded and chipped paint was anything but fresh. The windows were caked with dirt and some of them were cracked, and I was sure the giant, brick building directly behind the complex probably blocked the purported view of the river.
My father’s voice echoed in my head, telling me that moving to New York was a bad idea. If he had been there, he’d have said he told me so. He’d have been kind and sympathetic about it, but he would have still told me.
Leaving my family behind was not something I had wanted to do, but I’d felt that the only way to build a career in finance was to be in the center of it – New York City, where it all happened.
I white-knuckled the luggage I was holding onto and tried to block out my father’s voice. I took a deep breath and pulled open the front door of the apartment building. It was unlocked, and sadly after seeing it and the neighborhood, I wasn’t surprised.
I stood there for a second just inside the door, looking around at the “lobby.” It was actually a narrow hallway with mailboxes and an empty reception desk. The wooden floor looked like it hadn’t been cleaned or varnished in years, and some of the mailboxes were growing cobwebs. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how old those photos online had been. It even smelled old and musty.
I found the elevator, but it was blocked off with yellow caution tape. I actually laughed at that while I was looking for the stairwell. I started up for the third floor, lugging the heavy bags alongside me as I went. The stairs vibrated to the beat of loud music that seemed to be rocking the walls, and the wood sagged underneath my feet, making me imagine sinking through and ending up trapped inside a basement and dying of starvation before anyone found me.
I made it to the third floor, slightly out of breath. Note to self: do more cardio. I stopped on the landing to peer down the hallway. It was empty and the paint peeled and the carpet was stained, just like the rest of the building. I was naïve enough to have hoped it was only the outside and downstairs that had been misrepresented, but no such luck. I made my way down the hall to my new apartment that I was no longer excited about. I stopped in front of 302-B, took another deep breath for luck, and put my key in the lock.
I pushed the door open and took in the sight of a long, narrow living room filled almost to capacity with a mismatched selection of furniture. There was a day bed posing as a couch with a ruffled, yellow spread and a red, leather recliner with a dark-blue ottoman sitting in the center of it all. I guessed my roommate made it before I did.
I’d never met her; we had only talked on the phone. I told her I didn’t have any furniture and she assured me that wouldn’t be a problem – the apartment was furnished. She did forget to mention that it looked like someone had eaten a box of crayons and thrown up in the living room. But I guessed beggars can’t really be choosers.
“Hello? Lilliana?”
I saw the hair before I saw her. About two feet of long, black hair came around the corner before the tall, stick-thin, Hispanic girl attached to it appeared. “Hey! Are you Chloe?”
I nodded. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and came closer. She was beautiful and impeccably dressed for a woman who seemed to be unpacking. She looked me over with a critical eye, and as she did, I remembered she told me that she did something in fashion, a model maybe?
I was suddenly self-conscious about the sundress I’d picked out. It had seemed casual-chic in Minnesota. In New York, it just seemed last year. It was late October, though, and New York was in the middle of a rare, fall heat wave, so I had thought it was appropriate.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, holding out a long, thin arm and hand.
I took it and shook, “Nice to meet you, too.”
She gave me another once over and then proved she wasn’t shy by saying, “Is that vintage?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your dress. Did you get it at a vintage shop? I’m just trying to understand it.”
I looked down at the yellow, eyelet sundress. My skin was tanned from spending the summer at the lake and my blonde hair had natural highlights in it; I’d honestly thought the color of the dress brought all of that out. From the way Lilliana the fashion guru was looking at me, I had been very wrong.
“I’m not sure what’s to understand. It’s just a sundress.”
“Oh, well, I wasn’t trying to offend. But you did say that you were interning at Moreau Investments, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m just hoping the rest of what you have in that suitcase was made in this decade.”
She might not have been trying to offend, but she was working on it. “I brought some business suits; they’re still down in the car.”
“Oh, good.”
“You’re interning for some fashion magazine, right?”
“Yep, Monet.” I’d never heard of it, but I read the business section of the paper and Forbes Magazine and the Wall Street Journal — and that’s about it.
“Great. Are you a writer?”
She snorted and rolled her eyes. “No, darling. I’m a clothing and make-up model.”
I should have guessed. I cleared my throat and said, “Well, maybe you can give me some tips.” I was only being nice, but it seemed to make Lilliana happy. Her face brightened and she said,
“Ooh! I love a new project.”
I chuckled nervously. Great. “Um, can I take a look at the rest of the place?”
“Of course, it’s your home…as long as you pay half the rent.” She laughed. “I already picked my room, though; I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s fine.” I’m guessing it’s the master bedroom with the bath attached, but I can’t blame her. If I had gotten here first, I would have taken that one, as well. None of this was what I was expecting, and Lilliana hadn’t seemed so…abrasive online. I snuffed out my dad’s voice in my head once more and went to look at the kitchen.
It was tiny, but it looked like it had everything we needed, on the surface anyways. It also looked like it hadn’t been redecorated since 1988, but that would be in keeping with the rest of the place, at least.
From there, I went to the room across from the living room and opened the door. It was a tiny bedroom with a twin-sized bed and a nightstand that looked decades old. I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace when I no
ticed Lilliana watching me and moved on to the bathroom in the hall. It had a toilet, small shower stall, sink with no vanity, and mirror that looked like it might open and offer the only storage space. It kind of looked like one might imagine a prison bathroom.
I’d often felt like living with my parents as an adult was as close as I’d ever get to being in prison. Perhaps I’d been wrong.
“It’s…nice,” I forced.
Lilliana shrugged. “It’ll do for now,” she said. “I’m new at the magazine, but I plan on working my way up quickly. For now, I’m on a budget, and I assume you are, as well.”
“Yeah, my internship is paid, but not a lot.”
“How’d you score an internship in a place like Moreau anyways?” She was looking at me again like it would be a crime for me to walk in the building.
“I did very well in my classes and one of my professors is a business associate of Mr. Moreau. He gave me a very good recommendation.”
“So, why the last minute?”
I had wondered that myself. I’d applied for my internships months ago. I wanted New York in spite of the grief my parents gave me over it, so I had only applied for internships in Manhattan. My teachers and counselors had told me that the competition would be fierce, and I had all but given up hope before I got the call from Mr. Moreau’s assistant last week.
It was part of the reason why I found myself moving into a dump with a girl who looked like she hadn’t eaten in a week and I knew nothing about other than her name and that she hated my sense of style…or lack thereof.
“I’m not sure, but when they called, I wasn’t about to say no.”
Lilliana pulled all that hair up into a ponytail, flipped her head over, and twisted it up into a knot on top of her head. When she stood up, it looked like one of the messy buns you see women wearing on the front of a magazine. “So, are you going to sleep with him?”
“What?” What the hell kind of question was that?
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve seen him, right? He’s the hottest thing Canada ever produced, that’s for sure.”
I’d seen pictures…lots of pictures. After I’d found the first one, I honestly couldn’t stop looking and she was right.
Jet black hair, sky blue eyes, and a body any straight woman would die to touch. From what I’d seen in the pictures online of the rest of his family, he wasn’t the only one blessed with good genes. If I was being honest with myself, I’d have to admit that his face and hard body had starred in plenty of my fantasies that past week. But I wasn’t about to admit that to this chick.
And, I sure as hell wasn’t planning on sleeping with him. In almost every picture online, he was with a different woman and they all looked like some version of my new roommate. He was obviously a player, and even if he wasn’t, I was obviously not his type.
“Yes, I’ve seen him. I’ve seen lots of men; that doesn’t mean I intend to sleep with any of them.”
She smirked. “He’s famous for leaving a string of personal assistants and interns strewn across Manhattan.”
I’d read that, too. I had chosen to ignore it. My interest in him was strictly professional…for the most part.
Lilliana ran her eyes over me again and said, “But maybe if you really want him to leave you alone, you should wear that dress.” She threw her head back and laughed like she thought that was the funniest thing she’d heard all day. Then, without another word, she turned and went back into her room. I just stood there for a few seconds wondering what I’d gotten myself into.
Suddenly, I wanted to hear my father’s voice. I wanted to go home.
I went into my own, dingy room, closed the door, and I sat down on the bed to try to channel the girl I’d left back in Minnesota – the one who was on top of the world and ready to take it on single-handedly. At the moment, she was being elusive, but I knew she was still there and I knew that I’d find her.
Despite my apparently unfortunate lack of fashion sense, I knew I was a good fit for the company. I might not have had much confidence in my ability to fit in where fashion was concerned, but I had plenty of confidence in my intelligence and ability to do my job.
CHAPTER TWO
LOGAN
I was sitting at my desk looking at the letter that I’d gotten from U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) for at least the hundredth time.
The window behind me was fogged up with the cold that just yesterday had been a heat wave. Before we blinked again, it would turn to snow and the sky would be as gray and dreary as my mood had been all day.
I reread the letter once again, just in case I’d missed something. Apparently, they’d sent me prior letters that I’d ignored for whatever reason. This one was dated October 15th, and the gist of it was that since I’d failed to do what they’d asked in prior letters, they were revoking any rights I had to apply for an extension of my currently expired visa. In other words, I had to get out of the U.S. and I only had two months from the date of the letter to do it. I’d received it two weeks prior.
The next day was already the last day of October, and I had yet to figure out what to do. I hadn’t told any of my business associates for fear of it making our stock crash, and I hadn’t told my family, simply for lack of wanting to hear, “I told you so.”
They had all told me. My brother and his wife, my parents, and my sister, who I suspect had help from my father with hers. They were all already citizens or well on their way to becoming citizens. Even my brother who had died fifteen years before would have been shaking his head at me.
I was going to be the Canadian relative they visited on holidays, and I’d have to request special permission to return once a year for my brother’s memorial. As I fretted about all of this, my intercom buzzer went off. With an annoyed sigh, I pressed it and said,
“What is it, Mel?” Melinda was my personal assistant. She’d worked for me for over six months, and so far, she was the only one that outlasted her first paycheck. If she’d been working for me when the first two letters came, I wouldn’t have been in that predicament. She didn’t miss a thing.
I told myself her brilliance and dedication was why she’d lasted so long. The real reason was that the day she accepted the job, she’d made it quite clear that she would not sleep with me – ever. I’d had women say that to me before, but after a heaping dose of my charm, they always gave in. Almost always. Mel was not going to give it up, though, and I’d come to terms with that, for the most part.
“Your new intern is here.”
“My new what?” Fuck. She has to be kidding me. Not today.
“Your new intern, sir.” Sir? The intern must be sitting right there at her desk.
“Mel, can I see you first, alone?”
“Of course, sir.” Seconds later, she let herself into my office. I caught a glimpse of blonde hair before she closed the door, but that was all of the intern I saw.
Mel’s beige pencil skirt hugged her perfect curves and her brown, silk blouse that did the same. Her long, brown hair was braided to the side and her five-foot-four frame was enhanced by her signature six-inch heels. The truth was that although I’d come to accept I’d never get to see those curves naked, that didn’t do anything to stop my mouth from watering every time I thought about it.
I shook the thought off. I was better off with her as an assistant than I was as a lover. I paid Mel more than I’d paid any of my other personal assistants. The reason was that she not only possessed capability and worthiness at her every day job, but she’d also proven herself indispensable in a variety of “morally” or “ethically” complex assignments. She could be slightly over-bearing at times, but she was the only other woman in my life besides my mother who could tell me what to do and get away with it.
“I don’t want an intern. Send her down to HR and have Sue Pierce find someone in one of the departments that needs her.”
“You need her. You can give her to one of the analysts, but you need to know her personally.”
She rolled her eyes. “Listen to me,” she said, leaning in close like she had a secret she didn’t want anyone else to hear. She glanced down at the letter lying face-up on my desk and then, tapping it with a long, manicured nail, she continued, “This is why you need her.”
I raised an eyebrow. “She knows something about immigration law?”
“No. I mean, maybe, but I didn’t ask her. Look, you have exhausted your options, right? You let this thing expire, and by the time you went in and begged them to let you do the paperwork, they said it was too late. So, before Santa slides down the chimney, your plane will be landing in Vancouver.”
“Thanks for that helpful summary. Did you just come in here to kick me while I’m down?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. What is the one way you can obtain citizenship almost overnight?”
I knew what she was getting at. Of course, I’d thought about getting married so that I could stay. But it was a fleeting thought.
Marriage and I were two topics that no one had put together in a sentence or conversation since Lisa and I divorced eleven years earlier. Most people had no idea I’d ever even taken that plunge, and I didn’t mind keeping it that way. As a matter of fact, I’d even fed my ex-wife’s bank account for years to keep the reason we’d divorced a secret. I didn’t like my private life in the press. If they wanted to talk about my prowess with women, that was okay, but that was as much as they needed to know.
“I could fuck the sixty-two-year-old, blue-haired lady at U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services who keeps denying me.”
She rolled her eyes again. “You’d have to fuck the whole department, and although I know you believe you are just that good-”
“I am that good.” I smiled smugly.