“Why?”
“Because he tried to fuck over my friend.”
“You mean your friend Mia? The one who’s all Happily-Ever-After?”
“There’s a lot more to the story,” I say.
“Do you think he’s hot?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s a question.” She enunciates like I’m an idiot: “Do. You. Think—”
“I heard you; I just don’t see why—”
“He’s. Hot?”
“I think he’s an asshole.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I don’t know. Or care.”
Caitlin pulls out her phone, taps around, then turns it to show me images of Aiden Page. Some are casual and others posed, but that asshole seems incapable of taking a bad photo regardless. He has sand-colored hair, always slightly tousled, and he’s usually in an open-collared shirt, often with a blazer over it. He has light stubble in most of the pics, and always looks ready for a photo shoot even if he’s running out of a building on his way to God knows where.
The only deviations in his GQ image are the sporty ones. Caitlin taps one to explore related photos, and there seem to be plenty. Aiden’s a runner, like me. And a surfer — this, I know, because he keeps asking Anthony to hit the waves the next time he’s in Del Mar, which is apparently often.
The running and surfing photos are — I hate to admit this even to myself — stupidly sexy. There aren’t many photos of Aiden shirtless, but there are several in small tops or clinging wetsuits. He has a long, practical-looking build. If I had to guess, Aiden’s never been to a gym. He lives with the gift of fortunate genetics and an active, adrenalized life.
Caitlin is practically smearing her phone against my face. “Tell me he’s not hot!”
“Fine. He’s not bad to look at.”
“And I don’t think he’s married.”
“Okay.”
“Or dating anyone.”
“And?”
“You’ve got a connection to this guy. I’m jealous. And you know he wants to fuck you.”
“He does not want to fuck me,” I say.
“Do you have a vagina?”
“Last I checked.”
“Are you young and hot yourself?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are. Ergo, he wants to fuck you.”
“He hates me. And I hate him.”
Caitlin waves her hand as if this is the stupidest objection ever raised.
“You’re serious about this,” I say. “You’re honestly not kidding.”
“Why would I be kidding?”
“You think Aiden wants to have sex with me.”
“Believe me, most men want to fuck most women.”
“Even if they’re enemies.”
“Especially if they’re enemies.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
Caitlin pulls a box from the stainless steel fridge and opens it to reveal that it’s still holding half of this morning’s eclairs. “You’re ridiculous if you think Aiden wouldn’t fuck you in a second!”
“Okay. This conversation is over.”
“You have a direct connection to this guy!”
“A negative one! Most of my conversation with Aiden consists of me yanking plans out from under him and telling the guy to fuck off!”
“Which makes you hard to get!” Caitlin shoves half an eclair in her mouth, then berates me through icing and crumbs. “Don’t you know that nothing turns a guy on more than a challenge? Think about it, Jamie. You know what most girls would do to screw a guy like that?”
“Is it worse than sacrificing every shred of dignity?”
“He’s a hot billionaire! Fuck dignity!”
She’s hilarious-looking and hard to take seriously with all the icing around her mouth — her stare still hard, her look incongruously serious.
I’m sort of offended, but also flattered. As much as I can’t stand Aiden, he is one of the world’s most desired men. Before I found out what a shit he is, we had an intelligent conversation at Urban Design, and things were admittedly flirty.
I’d never be kind to a guy like that, let alone touch him. But maybe Caitlin has a point.
“I need to get you home,” I tell her. “You’re drunk.”
CHAPTER FOUR
JAMIE
THE NEXT DAY I GET two texts from Anthony.
I’m asleep — having co-opted the huge bed and ocean view until Anthony comes home and kicks me out into one of the “small” bedrooms for the rest of my vacation — when the first one comes.
I’m groggy, and pissed at Anthony for texting so early. Then I realize it’s 11am — or 2pm in New York, which is where he’s holding his final three-day seminar of this series.
I groan. My head hurts.
The text says, Hope you’re enjoying mi casa and Del Mar! Flying back this afternoon but going to stay at the L'Auberge in SD for foundation event. Come down?
It’s touching that he thinks I’d be interested, but of course I’m not. Anthony’s foundation is a wonderful thing. It comes from a genuine place in him — he grew up poor — instead of a jaded, public-relations place like all of Aiden’s philanthropy. Anthony gives to give; Aiden gives to improve his branding.
But the event in San Diego tonight isn’t the same thing as the foundation. I’ll support the foundation all day, but I’ll be damned if I plan to leave this cozy mansion and its many secret passageways (not to mention the margaritas) so I can mingle with hoity-toity, uptight society dickwads.
The second text comes ten minutes later, as I’m getting dressed in pajamas and slippers.
Just talked to Aiden from Forage. He’s donating 50M! Insisted I promise to tell you hi.
That stops me cold, one foot in a slipper and the other out.
If Aiden is donating fifty million dollars to Anthony’s foundation, he’ll be at the event for sure. Aiden donates to buy goodwill for later; this is his latest tactic. He’ll try to chat Anthony up at the event, weasel his way into meeting after meeting and donation after donation — until he has Anthony’s full attention right where he wants it.
I can’t allow that to happen.
Because fuck Aiden Page and his schemes. Fuck him and his self-centered disregard of everyone else. I’m not the biggest Onyx Scott fan right now, but at least I respect him for laying his duplicitous cards on the table. He’s not trying to gain favor with Anthony; he’s hanging out with Mia and running Forage in all the non-Anthony ways, keeping his shit to himself.
Unlike Aiden, who refuses to leave well enough alone.
Aiden’s never apologized for what they tried doing to Mia — opening her old wound of a relationship with Onyx so they could get to Anthony through me. He’s never even admitted it. Whenever I accuse him of double-dealing, the asshole laughs at me. And the few times we’ve been in person and I’ve done the same, he smirks.
Fuck Aiden Page. Whatever he wants, I’ll do my best to make sure he doesn’t get it.
I rummage through my single bag, but of course I only packed casual. I have jeans, shorts, some summery dresses, T-shirts. Sandals and flip flops and running shoes. Nothing that will come close to fitting tonight’s dress code.
I put on a pair of shorts, a shirt and some flip-flops, then I grab Anthony’s black Amex from the downstairs kitchen counter, where he left it for me just in case. I’ll find a way to pay him back, because I’m not a charity case.
I get behind the wheel of Anthony’s black Mercedes — his least ostentatious car — and head down the driveway.
It’s time to shop for something fancy.
CHAPTER FIVE
AIDEN
THE PLANE TO SAN DIEGO is five minutes late to depart, three minutes late to arrive. Not too bad for an airline. It still irks me, though. I take great pains to be on time, but sometimes it feels like I’m the only one. My seconds are priceless. I don’t like when people treat them like pennies, and waste them
without thought.
The chauffeur should do better. And at first he does; I descend the steps to find him on the lower level, holding a sign that says PAGE. He takes my bags, loads them into the limo, apologizes as his phone buzzes, then spends six minutes putting out a fire at the company that has nothing to do with me. I sit in the back, listening to him yammer.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” he finally says. We drive off and I tell him it’s no problem.
Then I shoot off a text to my assistant, who will most likely get this idiot fired.
There’s obviously no deadline to reach the hotel, but according to my opinion on what’s reasonable, we’re at least ten minutes late. That includes my driver’s chatting time.
I tip him well. I’m not stingy, and the guy will need money when the hammer falls.
I’m already checked in, so I drop my bags in the lobby to be brought up later, then head to my room. The concierge is waiting. He hands me two keys after opening the door, then ushers me inside.
The room is bigger than most people’s homes. It will do.
“Anything else I can do for you, sir?”
I tell him yes. My tux is in a garment bag. Press it. Have it ready in an hour.
The concierge bows and says, “Yes, sir.” Then he leaves me alone.
I look at my watch, then glance at the clock on the nightstand.
I’ve got an hour, but I’m not sure how to spend it. So I use my laptop to get online with my bank, checking on Anthony’s donation. I want an actual check so they can take a photo of me handing it to him. If the concierge or someone under him doesn’t show up soon with the couriered check, I’ll probably take a short walk, head down, see what’s what.
I take a walk anyway.
Downstairs, preparations for the foundation event are already underway. Ross isn’t here yet; the man always likes to time his arrival for the biggest possible entrance. But his people are — and after enough Ross events spent trying to get at him, I even recognize a few.
I see one person out of place.
A tanned woman in a flattering purple gown, and heels that make her taller than half the men rushing around. Even from here I can spot her high cheekbones, her almond-shaped, slightly tilted eyes, her long, arching eyebrows, that wide bow of a mouth. I’ve thought about that mouth a lot lately. It’s always yapping, saying the stupidest, most self-important shit. Sometimes I imagine it wrapping around my erect cock, then sucking me until I spill inside it.
Jamie.
She looks in my direction, but I duck back before she can see me. I’m still outside the ballroom; she’s rushing around inside as if she’s Queen Of It All, when in fact she has nothing to do with Anthony’s companies or foundation. That’s just how Jamie is: presumptuous and assuming.
I can’t stand that bitch.
Ever since Onyx dropped his metaphorical pants on Forage’s behalf, Jamie’s taken it upon herself to be my personal thorn. She’s there in my calendar, managing to get all of my Ross-related events cancelled, and there in my inbox, replying to emails I’ve sent to Ross’s assistant. She’s uninvited me to dinners, answered questions Ross has asked others about Forage instead of letting them respond for themselves, and generally shoved her pert little tits between me and all that I deserve.
This deal I want between Forage and Ross’s plan for the Trillionaire Boys’ Club and the larger Syndicate? It’s bigger than enormous. It will, literally, change the world. Ross has already touched several companies, including some of our fellow Syndicate members. But those touches were small: licensing Microdyne technology, taking input from the Eros board and its cousins. I’m thinking about a partnership. And it would work to mutual benefit … if only Miss Know-it-All would get the fuck out of my way.
I can’t resist peeking back into the ballroom. Now Jamie’s looking away and giving me a splendid view of her ass. I imagine lifting that gown, yanking her panties down, and fucking some common sense into her.
I realize I’m hard. My cock isn’t in a good place for a public erection, pointing toward the ass I’m apparently craving.
I duck back again, waiting. I manage to wrestle my dick to the side and upright without being too obvious, lessening my protrusion. But I definitely don’t get any softer.
I look again.
Jamie is side-on to me now. She really does have one hell of a body. One hell of a face. One hell of a mouth. I can’t stand her, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to picture her tits, preferably with me on top of her, my oiled shaft sliding between them.
Jesus. I’m worked up. It must be the stress of flying down here. I don’t love flying, even on the Forage jet. I’m sort of anxious overall — that’s why I’m suddenly so hard for this bitch. I’ll need to handle that — beat off before the event or something — or I’ll spend the night tapping her hip with my cock while we argue.
Because I’ll have to see her, face her, talk to her. It’s half the reason I’m here. I’m killing two birds with one stone, trying to get at Ross through his foundation — or maybe through Jamie, as the nuclear option. I can play nice, and get her to like me. I can be civil. Maybe I can even get her to lay off.
I’m not that bad a guy, am I? I can make her see my side of things, if I try hard enough.
I’m picturing myself at that foundation event, in my tux, with Jamie a foot away. The gown gives her cleavage. I’m going to have a hard time not staring. It’ll take everything in me not to reach out, grab a tit, and squeeze.
Then I’m imagining her squeezing me back.
My mind shows me Jamie on her knees, looking up at me with her pretty brown eyes. Opening her mouth just a little. Taking my cock into it, working the shaft with her hand.
Fuck. If I don’t get out of here, there’s a real chance I’m going to come in my pants.
I go upstairs and lock the door.
I imagine Jamie peeling off that purple dress, opening her tight little pussy for me, and sliding it up and down on my dick until I explode inside her.
I imagine a relief that doesn’t belong to me.
CHAPTER SIX
JAMIE
THIS MUST BE WHAT THE Secret Service feels like.
I don’t have one of those little earbuds with the curly cords stuck in my ear, sunglasses, or a gun under my jacket, but I still feel like I’m prowling the event on high alert. I stood at one end of the buffet until I felt conspicuous. Then I went to the doors, but that made me feel like a greeter, and one old lady tried to hand me her coat.
Now I’m circulating, my eyes peeled. The only difference between me and the Secret Service is that instead of watching for people who might want to kill the president, I’m watching for some asshole who doesn’t deserve to try and ingratiate himself to my second father.
Maybe I’m being ridiculous.
While I was getting ready, applying mascara and trying to get my lashes to float elegantly upward, Caitlin called and asked if I wanted to go to a movie. She started prying when I said I was busy. I wasn’t planning to tell her anything, but she decided I had a date. It was less embarrassing to explain the truth than to let her theorize about my post-date rewards.
Caitlin, for one, thought I was being ridiculous. “You don’t want to attend this thing, right?”
“Ugh,” I said. “No. I’ve been to them before. They’re terrible.”
“But you’re going to go anyway, even though you hate it, just to get in Aiden’s way when he tries to talk to Anthony.”
“He’s trying to get at Anthony through his foundation!” I blurted, as if the dishonor should be obvious.
“So what?”
“He’s a douchebag!”
“So? The world is full of douchebags.”
“And he’s up to something.” I have no evidence for this. Only a feeling.
“Do you want to know what I think?” Caitlin asked.
“No.”
“I think you’re into Aiden. You want to see him.”
I tried to laugh but it left
as a snort. I’m terrible at this. “Oh, whatever.”
“Do you have a date?”
“No, but it’s not because I’m keeping myself available, should Aiden decide to—”
“That’s not what I mean. I meant that if you go solo and hang on Anthony the entire time to ‘protect’ him from that terrible man who just gave poor people millions of dollars—”
“He’s doing it to look good and get what he wants, Cait. Not because he’s actually generous or cares about poor people.”
“People will think you’re a hooker.”
“I’m not a hooker.”
“I’ve figured that out by now. But the press may not.”
“People know who I am. Anthony talks about me onstage.”
“Some do. But I’ll bet most of the uppity blue bloods aren’t going to his seminars. You can try and prove me wrong, but if they see super hunk with someone almost twenty years his junior, a lot of those people will start talking scandal.”
“I’ll just explain who I am.”
“And if there’s going to be a scandal because Anthony Ross is fucking someone too young for him, they’d better be talking about me.”
Caitlin said I needed a date so it’d be obvious I wasn’t with Anthony. I told her I didn’t know anyone in Del Mar or San Diego, and besides, it wasn’t like I even had the time.
Then she made another suggestion.
I finished getting ready, then drove downtown. I arrived before Anthony came down to help direct setup, keeping an eye out for Aiden the entire time. By the time setup was finished and the shindig was ready to begin, my date had arrived.
“Do we have to pay for this somewhere?” He points to the buffet. He’s wearing a tux that was clearly made for someone else. And his cufflinks are on upside-down.
“No, Rudy. It’s a buffet.”
“But it’s for us, right?”
“Yes.”
“And I can eat as much as I want?”
This makes me look at his small, white porcelain plate, suddenly terrified that he’ll march down the line like a fat guy at a feeding trough, stacking his plate with heaping helpings before collapsing in his seat to unbuckle his belt. Or his ill-fitting cummerbund.
The Philanthropist (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 5) Page 3