If You Want Me: The Magister Series Book 1: A Billionaire Romance

by July Hall

  Well, that was an accessory she’d never get back. His staff had probably already thrown it out with the trash.

  She’d asked Bradley about it when they’d met for brunch yesterday. They hadn’t seen each other since the party, when Mr. Magister had summoned his driver to take them home. Bradley was too wasted to drive, and Sandra had known from the beginning that she’d never be allowed behind the wheel of the Ferrari.

  Bradley had drunkenly groped her in the back seat of Mr. Magister’s Rolls-Royce Phantom. Sandra had fended him off, too rattled to put up with it. She’d told herself it was because he was too clumsy and reeked of booze. The truth was, his eyes weren’t green enough.

  You couldn’t screw your boyfriend in a car, or anywhere else, while thinking about his uncle. Sandra was pretty sure that was a law. If it wasn’t, it should be.

  The driver had dropped Bradley off at his place and then taken Sandra home, where she’d fallen asleep and dreamed about his stupid uncle anyway. Bradley hadn’t called her until the next night—probably hungover all day—but then he invited her to Cookshop for Sunday brunch. It was one of her favorite places, and she’d felt wretchedly guilty for dreaming about Mr. Magister visiting her other favorite places. Twice.

  Especially since Bradley had been every bit as thoughtful and charming as he’d been at the beginning…

  * * *

  “I ordered your drink already, babe,” Bradley said, rising from his seat and giving her a cheerful kiss. Sandra couldn’t believe it. He was early? “That margarita you like.”

  “The Kumquat Ginger?” She managed a smile as he pulled her chair out for her, trying not to remember his uncle doing the same thing two days ago.

  “That’s the one.” Then he picked up her napkin, unfolded it, and placed it in her lap. “There you are, my lady.”

  “Wow.” Sandra fisted her hands in her lap as he sat on the other side of the table. It wasn’t your fault, she told herself. Dreams aren’t your fault, and they don’t mean anything. “Looks like you recovered from Friday.”

  “You said it. Hey, wasn’t that great? I was thinking it would be terrible.” Bradley unfolded his own napkin. “And it was a real snore, sure, but everyone loved you. When you were off talking to Uncle Charles—”

  Sandra’s heart stopped for a second.

  “—everybody was telling me how nice you seemed, how glad they were that I’d met you.” Bradley chuckled. “I thought Mom was going to shit a brick.”

  Sandra wasn’t entirely sure how to take that. It sounded like a great compliment, but Bradley had thought everything would be terrible? Had he believed the other guests wouldn’t approve of her? Better not to ask; she already felt too unsettled. “I’m glad,” she said.

  “Stephen and Craig said they’re looking forward to getting to know you better.”

  “Um, yeah, me too. Hey,” she added, hoping to change the subject, “you never told me Stephen was gay.” Or that Mr. Magister was a widower, not that it mattered at all.

  On Saturday morning, she’d remedied her ignorance the moment she woke up by Googling “Eleanor Magister.” Charles Magister’s wife had died ten years ago in a car accident. Her car was struck just outside of Nice by a drunk driver, killing both her and her chauffeur. She’d only been thirty-three. Awful. No wonder Mr. Magister had refused to let Bradley drive home.

  Bradley blinked at her. “Does that bother you?” he asked.

  “No, of course not. I just wasn’t expecting it.” She hadn’t expected a lot of things.

  “People are gay everywhere, babe, except in Sigma Chi.” Sigma Chi had been Bradley’s fraternity at Yale. “I mean, I dunno. Uncle Charles is a total Republican, but he’d blacklist anyone who ever talked shit about a Magister, so nobody says anything. At least in front of him. Nobody even said anything when Uncle Stephen robbed the cradle with Craig.”

  Sandra bit her lip. “Craig’s not that much younger, is he?”

  Bradley shrugged. “I guess it’s all relative. Hell, the rule is half your age plus seven, right?”

  Before she could stop herself, Sandra crunched the numbers. Mr. Magister must be about twenty years older than she was, and oh God, it so didn’t matter.

  Just then, a waitress arrived carrying two drinks on a tray. “A Kumquat Ginger Margarita and a Bloody Mary?” she asked.

  “That’s us. Thanks, doll,” Bradley said, grinning expansively at her as she set the drinks in front of them. The waitress, a petite dark-haired woman who looked younger than either of them, blushed. As always, Sandra found she didn’t mind another woman responding to Bradley’s charm. It was only natural.

  Then she imagined Mr. Magister smiling at the waitress, looking at her with warmth in his green eyes. Jealousy and shock knifed her in equal parts. To cover herself, she grabbed her margarita and brought it to her lips, tasting the rough granules of sea salt on the rim. Then she choked on her first gulp.

  Bradley and the waitress both gave her wide-eyed looks as she hacked. “You okay, babe?” Bradley said.

  “Fine,” Sandra croaked. She reached for her sweating glass of ice water. She was a complete idiot.

  “Are you sure, ma’am?” the waitress asked, looking worried. Her nametag said “Hyejin.”

  Ma’am? Sandra wasn’t old enough to be a ma’am. Hyejin was definitely too young for Mr. Magister. “I’m positive. Um.” Her eyes smarted.

  “If you’re sure. Are you two ready to order?”

  “Um,” Sandra repeated, glancing at her menu. “Sorry, I haven’t—”

  Bradley picked up her menu and handed it to the waitress, along with his own. “We’ll both have the poached eggs.” He gave Sandra the grin this time.

  Still coughing, Sandra managed to smile back, fighting down her irritation. The poached eggs were amazing here, and Bradley knew she loved them. He was just being a gentleman. It was more than she deserved after getting jealous over another man who wasn’t even here, especially a man who didn’t smile at people anyway.

  Hyejin departed. Sandra took another, slower sip of her margarita. “Thanks,” she said, pulling herself back together.

  “Sure, of course. Anyway, they all liked you,” Bradley continued. Dismayed, she realized he really wanted to talk about the party. Well—it wasn’t often that his family showed him any sign of approval. No wonder he wanted to savor it. “Stephen said that even Uncle Charles thought you were cool.”

  “Cool?” Sandra said faintly.

  “Well, you know,” Bradley said, picking up his Bloody Mary. “Stephen had to translate from Uncle Charles into Normal Human for me. I think it was ‘acceptable’ or something. Same difference.”

  You are perfection, imaginary Mr. Magister whispered.

  “Well,” Sandra said, “I’m glad he thought I was acceptable.” She sounded prissier than she’d meant to, and Bradley raised his eyebrows. But before he could say anything, she blurted, “I left my hair clip at his house. Is there any chance I could get it back?”

  “Huh?” Bradley rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Oh yeah, I remember your hair was different at the end of the night. That’s kind of fuzzy, though.”

  “I…I had a headache. I took off my hair clip and I must have left it somewhere.” She thought of Mr. Magister sliding it out of her hair without a by-your-leave in a strange show of—what, dominance? The memory of his touch made her shiver. “I’d like to get it back.”

  “I’ll call the house. If it’s gone, I’ll get you a nicer one. Least I can do.” His look turned earnest. He reached across the table to take her hand. She was glad she could attribute her damp palm to the water glass. “Listen, I don’t always say everything I should. I tend to hold back. It’s hard for me to open up to women sometimes.”

  He needed my approval, Mr. Magister had said. Now he has it. Sandra held her breath as thoughts of “joining the family” raced through her head. What could she say? What did she really want?

  “But you’re great,” Bradley continued. “You’
re special. I knew it the night I met you. You make me feel good about myself. You listen to me. When I’m around you, I feel like I actually matter to somebody.”

  That sweet declaration only made her feel even worse. She’d seen and heard how neglected Bradley felt by his family, in spite of the “enormous responsibility” they placed on him. Even Rosalie, who adored him, never seemed to treat him like an adult. Sandra remembered how he’d seemed to shrink in front of his uncle.

  “And let’s face it,” Bradley added with a grin, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “You’re smoking. Is that shallow?”

  Sandra remembered Mr. Magister calling her a temptress in her dream. She grew warmer. Bradley often complimented her looks, but rarely called her hot or sexy or anything like that. At first, she’d thought he was being chivalrous. Later, when they’d begun sleeping together, she wondered if it was just because men didn’t ever seem to see her that way. One of her two high school boyfriends had called her an ice princess.

  “It’s not shallow,” Sandra said, looking down at the polished wood of the table. “I think everyone wants to feel like they matter to somebody.”

  “Exactly!” Bradley rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. “You really get me. You know what I’m about.” He raised her hand to his lips. “I’m sorry if I sound like an idiot. I just want to make sure you know how much I care about you.”

  She smiled tremulously at him as he kissed her knuckles. “Thanks.” Surely more was called for. “That’s so sweet.” Still not enough. “I-I care about you too.”

  It wasn’t a lie. Of course it wasn’t. After six months and losing her virginity? Of course she cared.

  Mr. Magister had asked her if she loved Bradley. She’d opened her mouth, fully prepared to say yes, and I don’t know had tumbled out instead. She must be insane. She’d thought for months that it couldn’t get better than this.

  And it can’t, she told herself frantically. Get your head out of the clouds. Dreams aren’t real.

  Then, remembering the dream in question, she found herself getting warm for a totally different reason. She squirmed in her seat. Clearly she had some kind of tension she needed to work off.

  In fact, the dream probably hadn’t been about Mr. Magister at all. Maybe her subconscious was just trying to tell her something—that she wanted to try sex that was a little rougher, a little more raw. A little more...passionate.

  Why shouldn’t she tell Bradley so? They’d been doing it long enough that he might welcome something new, too. They could go back to his place right after brunch and spice it up a little. It couldn’t hurt to try.

  And she wouldn’t be thinking about anybody else while they were together. It would be fine. No, she was done with fine. It would be great.

  She looked hopefully at Bradley. It would finally be great.

  * * *

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  It hadn’t been all that great.

  Sandra hissed in frustration as she ran. Bradley had seemed bewildered by her request, even offended, as if she was suggesting he’d been doing it wrong the whole time. In the end, to spare his feelings, she just let him do what he’d always done, and it all felt fine.

  Why didn’t that seem good enough anymore?

  Her stopwatch beeped, letting her know that she was halfway done with her jog, and it was time to turn around and go back if she wanted to be on time for work. The day was officially here, pale morning sunlight filling the sky, banishing the last of the dark blue night.

  Sandra sighed, turning around. She felt like she could run all day. Maybe she could run north until she got to Mom and Dad’s house, and then hole out in her childhood bedroom for a couple of days.

  She had to go to work instead. When she returned home, the bathroom door was shut. Kristen was in the shower. She was usually still in bed when Sandra left for the day.

  Sandra looked at her watch, stormed forward, and banged on the bathroom door. “Kristen, hurry up! I have to get to work!”

  “Hey, I got here first,” Kristen called through the door.

  “Dammit, your first class doesn’t even start until ten-thirty! I have to go!”

  “I’m meeting Najia for breakfast! I’ll be done in a minute, God!”

  Sandra stomped into her room, wrestling off her sweatshirt. It figured. She was already in a bad mood.

  When Kristen finally stepped out of the shower, there were fifteen minutes before Sandra had to leave. “Great,” she said, hurrying into the bathroom and coughing at the steam. “I’ll have to catch a later train. It’ll be packed.”

  “God forbid Your Majesty mingle with the great unwashed,” Kristen said. She rubbed the fog off the mirror. “I thought your job made you think you were too good for the subway?”

  “You know, this wannabe Marxist bullshit? It’s getting old.” Sandra stepped over the lip of the clawfoot tub. She yanked the curtains closed around it and turned the shower back on. “I’m not too good for the subway, or anything else.”

  “Whatever. Say ‘hi’ to your stupid boss for me.” The bathroom door slammed shut.

  Sandra groaned and reached for her body wash. Okay, she could have handled that better. What was with her temper? She’d have to apologize. Later. When she had the stomach for it.

  She didn’t have time to wash her hair, but she could at least scrub her sweat off. She squeezed the body wash into her shower puff. The smell of lavender soothed her a little, and she let herself relax into the hot water for just a few moments.

  Then she swiped the puff between her legs without really thinking about it, and gasped when her whole body quivered. She was still sensitive down there, desperate for a touch, as if she’d just awakened from her dream and hadn’t jogged a single step.

  She didn’t have time, Sandra told herself. She didn’t have time, and it would be wrong, and…

  I’ll be your first, Mr. Magister had breathed, before lowering his head between her thighs.

  Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sandra began scrubbing herself furiously all over, the plastic threads of the shower puff scraping unpleasantly against her skin.

  She leapt out of the tub, toweled off, and dressed herself in record time. No time for makeup. Maybe she could sneak into the washroom before Arnaud saw her at work. In the meantime, the general public would just have to put up with her stubby red eyelashes.

  She made sure her tote bag had everything she needed for the day before tossing her black pumps in there and donning her commuting flats. Then she was out the door, flying down the steps without the apology she’d meant to give her sister, and hurrying to the subway stop at Bergen Street. From there, it was a packed subway ride into Manhattan with a single train change, and she spent way too much of her commute with her face right next to a guy’s smelly armpit.

  She was fifteen minutes late. As luck would have it, Arnaud wasn’t at his desk when she hurried into the office. She waved at Indira, dumped her tote bag at the foot of her desk, and fled into the washroom to put on her face. It seemed like nothing could go right today.

  Work would calm her down, she told herself as she looked into the mirror. It always did. Planning, organizing, and making sure that everything was just right—what more could you want?

  When she returned to her office, her appearance mostly in order, Arnaud was standing by her desk with a small cardboard box in his hand. He looked down at her feet with raised eyebrows. Sandra realized she was still wearing her beat-up flats. Crap.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she mumbled, reaching into her tote bag for her pumps. “My ‘devoted’ sister hogged the shower. She says hi.”

  Arnaud chuckled. Then he held out the box. “This arrived for you when the office opened. Personal courier.”

  “What?” Sandra slipped her feet into her pumps, enjoying the extra height they gave her, and took the box. “That’s weird. I didn’t order anything to be delivered here. Are you sure…” No, that was definitely her name on the label. There was no return address. “Huh. Oka
y.”

  “Come to my office when you’re ready. I’ve got some news for you.” He glanced down at the box again. “Seems as if this is going to be a day full of surprises on your part.”

  “Surprises?” Sandra looked at him in alarm. “What’s the matter?”

  Arnaud shook his head. “Nothing. Open your package and let’s get to work.” He turned and went back to his office.

  Sandra glared down at the first of the day’s surprises and reached for the scissors on her desk, slicing neatly through the packing tape. Her eyes widened. Inside the cardboard box was another box, small and red, held together with a white satin ribbon. The leather lid of the box was embossed with the Cartier logo.

  It must be from Bradley. Talk about a surprise. She untied the ribbon, opened the lid, and gasped.

  Inside the box, against a background of black velvet, gleamed a golden filigree barrette about the size of her palm. Removing it from the box to marvel at the workmanship, Sandra saw “18K” imprinted on the inside of the barrette by the clasp. Inlaid in the gold were three cabochon stones of a deep, lustrous green. Emeralds.

  I’ll get you a nicer one, Bradley had said.

  Jesus. He hadn’t been kidding. Over the last six months, Bradley had enjoyed wowing Sandra with expensive dinners, flowers, and front-row seats, but he hadn’t been much for gifts. That was fine with her. She wasn’t with him for his money, and besides, sometimes his taste was a little over-the-top.

  Not this, though. This was perfect. Classic. She pressed a hand to her throat, not sure what to think. Fine jewelry after yesterday’s talk of how much he cared for her—only a week ago, she’d have been thrilled by such a declaration and follow-up. It seemed so romantic. But now…