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

by July Hall

  She said, “Miss Dane has left.”

  Miss Dane had left. She would be in no hurry to return. “All right,” he replied, trying to remember what he ought to say next. Nothing around him seemed real. “When’s my next appointment?” He thought it was at 12:15 with one of the accounting VPs.

  “12:15,” she said. “Lunch with Accounting.” She spoke coldly, and he remembered storming by her on his way to get Miss Dane’s coat. Then Miss Dane had fled, and…

  Now Violet was looking at the couch, at the buttons scattered over the carpet and the emerald barrette lying in their midst. Oh, hell.

  “The girl was upset,” she said slowly. “She was shaking.”

  Charles sat up straight. “Violet—”

  Violet gave him a look that held no fear. “Tell me honestly. What happened?”

  After a shocked moment, Charles said, “You tell me honestly. If you thought I was a rapist, would you be in my office right now?”

  “No, sir,” she said. “I would be in a police station.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “Mistakes were made, Violet. Entirely consensual mistakes. And by mutual consent, they will not be made again.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. He looked steadily back. Violet had worked faithfully for him for decades; she had begun as his secretary, and then later served as his spy in his father’s office, letting him know how bad things really were. Her resourcefulness had earned her a place on the top floor when Charles took over, and she’d held on to it with a death grip ever since.

  Now she shook her head. “I thought you couldn’t surprise me anymore,” she said.

  He couldn’t stop a snort. “I could say the same of you.”

  “Will she make trouble? Do I need to call Legal or PR?”

  Charles sighed and rubbed his eyes. I have my own reputation, thanks, Miss Dane had said. If she told anybody, it would be Bradley, and Bradley could be dealt with. “No,” he replied. “Now let’s both get back to work.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. Then she circled her lips with a finger. “By the way, you’ve got lip gloss on your face.” Charles’s eyes widened. “12:15,” Violet repeated, and left.

  Charles hissed and grabbed a tissue, wiping it over his lips and chin. Thank God Stephen was out of the office this morning. Violet was bad enough, but his brother would have been a disaster. This had been a close call, too close. It was past time for him to snap out of it and move on with his life.

  The problem was, the girl would remain in his life if they truly behaved as if this morning never happened. He couldn’t fire her without raising questions. She couldn’t admit to what happened without endangering her prospects. They would continue dancing around each other.

  Unless she just kneed him in the balls, like she’d threatened. He wouldn’t entirely blame her. Flawed as Bradley was, Miss Dane appeared to care for him. Why wouldn’t she? She could not possibly have seen the worst of him, and she hadn’t appreciated Charles’s attempt to tell her the truth.

  He shouldn’t have made the attempt at all. Even if he was a spoiled brat, Bradley was family. He was a Magister. Charles had looked out for him even before he was born, though he got precious little thanks for it. And now that girl had turned Charles so inside out that he’d been ready to divulge Bradley’s dirty secrets—secrets that could ruin the Magister reputation.

  He must abandon his fantasies. They were dangerous. He needed to leave Miss Dane alone and let her take her proper place in the family, where she could be most useful.

  Yes. That was it. He’d look on her as an asset to the family, and…

  Charles put his face in his hands. Damnation, it was even worse than before. At least before, he hadn’t known what he was missing. Now he’d had a taste. He knew what her lips felt like against his and the weight of her breast in his palm. Her hair was even softer than he’d imagined.

  Just a taste, while another man got the whole feast, presumably on a regular basis. Bradley wasn’t even the only one. Charles dug his fingernails into his scalp, but the sting wasn’t enough to clear his head: in his memory, she whispered, I have private things, too.

  Private things. Other lovers.

  This was idiotic. Of all the things to worry about. Miss Dane was young and beautiful, and she could use those blessings as she liked. If she was with Bradley now, what did her past matter? Charles could not possibly be jealous over a girl he barely knew and her history with men he’d never met.

  But he was. Dear God, he was, and he wanted to find each and every man who’d enjoyed her and flay them all alive. Then he’d send Bradley packing to the Hong Kong office—no, he’d build a new branch in Siberia. He’d tell the boy that if he ever so much as sent a smoke signal to Miss Dane again, he would be disinherited and thrown into the streets. Then, that taken care of, Charles would snatch her back into his office, lock the doors, and properly get down to business.

  Or…no, not the office. Of course not. They needed a room with a vast, expansive bed, somewhere comfortable where he could take plenty of time. Then he could explore her from her silky hair to her elegant feet, and every delightful spot in between. He’d make that soft voice cry out his name and beg him for more. He knew now what she looked like in the heat of the moment, but he didn’t know what she looked like when she was spent.

  And he wouldn’t. She’d made that clear. A control freak who doesn’t know what love is. That’s what she thought of him.

  Charles closed his eyes. The truth might be worse than she guessed. He had to silence that dark, primal voice that urged him to do what he’d always done: win. He didn’t really know how to do anything else. He’d sworn to himself to stay out of this, because once he entered a game, he sought victory at any price. His own father had been a casualty.

  He’d learned from that. This price was too high, and the prize too uncertain, no matter how she kissed.

  No matter how softly and sweetly she kissed. Softer than silk…sweeter than honey…

  Charles looked at the clock again. 11:15.

  Perhaps Stephen’s absence was a pity after all. Charles rose to his feet and headed to the sideboard, where he made himself an extremely stiff drink.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sandra was a horrible person. A terrible girlfriend. The worst. Had she really just done that? Gone into Charles Magister’s office and made out with him? Maybe it hadn’t actually happened. Maybe it had been just an awful dream.

  An awful, wonderful dream.

  Sandra closed her eyes as she took a seat on the bus. Yeah. She was the worst.

  Besides, she had solid evidence that it had definitely happened. Screw Mr. Magister, anyway. Sandra had loved that blouse. She’d bought the silk Pucci last year during the January sales, admiring the vivid pattern and colors. It had come with three replacement buttons. He’d torn out seven.

  Maybe he’d send her a new blouse too, she thought bitterly. She’d keep that one.

  Since she didn’t have time to go back home, she took the bus to the H&M on Lexington Avenue and bought the first blouse she saw that looked okay with her skirt. She snipped off the tags, changed in the store, and caught a cab back to the studio. She really could have done with a nice long walk to clear her head, but Arnaud was expecting her back, and she’d left her comfortable flats at her desk anyway.

  Besides, she wasn’t sure that any walk would be long enough. She could trot to Canada and back and still not have figured out her feelings.

  Mr. Magister had warned her not to tell Bradley. He might be covering his own ass, except it hadn’t seemed like he was nervous about what Bradley would do. She couldn’t imagine him worrying about that at all. Maybe he just didn’t want to hurt anyone. He was Bradley’s uncle, after all, even if he treated him coldly.

  Sandra didn’t want to hurt Bradley either. Mr. Magister already made him feel insignificant. How much worse would it be to learn that he got Sandra hot and bothered?

  Insanely hot and bothered. Finally-saw-
the-big-deal-about-sex hot and bothered.

  Couples should be honest with each other, but she’d always heard that little white lies didn’t hurt anyone. This wasn’t exactly a little white lie. Her stomach lurched, and it wasn’t just because the cab nearly ran a red light.

  She’d figure it out later. She’d pull a Scarlett O’Hara and think about it tomorrow, or at least when she got home after work. That might be pretty soon, depending on how Arnaud reacted to the news that she’d lost Mr. Magister’s business. Shit, how was she going to explain that?

  Arnaud had told her that their clients could be entitled sometimes, and you had to grin and bear it. She hoped that this wouldn’t fall under that umbrella. The thought nauseated her.

  When she arrived at the studio, Arnaud was in his office, speaking to a well-heeled couple. New clients. Maybe that would put him in a good mood. Sandra hurried toward her own office, still trying to work out what to say, when she saw Indira wave at her from the front desk.

  “We got a message from Charles Magister’s office,” Indira said when Sandra was close enough.

  Sandra’s stomach churned. Oh God, he’d beaten her to the punch. “Really?”

  “Yeah. They’re sending some portfolio over with a lot of information about the house. Is that a different shirt?”

  Sandra blinked, and then took in a deep breath and exhaled it. “Yeah,” she heard herself say. “I spilled coffee on mine in his office. I had to stop and get a new one on the way back.”

  “Oh, that sucks,” Indira sympathized. “I always keep a spare shirt in the coat closet in case something like that happens. So how did it go? Was he totally scary?”

  “Uh, kind of.” She was scared by how badly she’d wanted him to take off her underwear, did that count? “But it was fine. He wants to start me on just one of the rooms to see how I do.”

  “Just one?” Indira pursed her lips. “Then I hope you do well. Arnaud’s really excited about this account.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” Sandra asked, managing a smile.

  But she couldn’t quite believe Indira’s words until the portfolio arrived at her desk twenty minutes later, a heavy reminder that nothing had happened between her and Charles Magister. Or else.

  * * *

  It was harder to remember that when Bradley called her as she was heading home from the studio. She’d pulled an extra-long day, making contact with Mr. Magister’s snooty-sounding butler and various contractors, and it was now half-past seven.

  “He was un-fucking-bearable today,” Bradley said with no preamble, or even a greeting.

  On her way to the nearest subway station, Sandra stopped and leaned against a lamp post. She might not be able to stand on her own two feet in a minute, especially since the giant portfolio weighed down her tote bag. “Uncle Charles?” she asked dully.

  “Who else? He called me in at two or three or something, and reamed me out because Accounting said the numbers were off in my division or whatever. Like I can keep an eye on every penny. I’ve never seen him like that. You’d think I killed his dog or something.”

  Sandra hugged herself. It was too cold to stand still talking for long. “I’m…I’m sorry,” she said. “Do you know why? I mean, why he was so mad?”

  “Because he’s a born asshole,” Bradley said. “He doesn’t need a reason.”

  Sandra closed her eyes, trying to ignore the pedestrians streaming past her like water around a stone. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, knowing she wouldn’t tell him what she was really sorry for—not tonight. She was such a coward. But she couldn’t do it now, standing out on the street with no idea how to begin. “I can’t believe he treats his own family like this.”

  At least that was true. She couldn’t believe Mr. Magister had made a move on his nephew’s girlfriend. She’d just been sitting still on the couch, vowing to behave herself, and then…his kiss.

  She would never have initiated such a thing, no matter how attractive he was. So it couldn’t all be her fault. Could it?

  “Why not? I’ve been telling you all about him for months,” Bradley said irritably.

  Yes, but there had still been a lot of stuff Sandra didn’t know. Like how Mr. Magister kissed, or how roughly he would handle her—as if he wanted her so badly he couldn’t keep himself in check. She swallowed.

  “Weren’t you paying attention?” Bradley added.

  No, Sandra had evidently not been paying attention. She’d never seen any of this coming. “Yes, of course I w—”

  “Good, because I’m not sure how you could have fucking missed it.”

  Her mother had said Bradley took all the fight out of her. “I know you’ve had a bad day, but that’s no reason to take it out on me,” Sandra snapped. “I’m not the one who yelled at you.”

  Of course, she might be the reason it had happened. She thought of that as soon as she spoke, and bit her lip hard. Though he didn’t know it, Bradley had every reason to take out his anger on her.

  After a pause, Bradley said, “Awesome. I was going to ask you to come over, but now it looks like nobody in this city gives a shit about anything I have to say, so what’s the point?”

  Sandra looked up at the night sky and stamped her foot in frustration. A single passer by gave her a curious glance before continuing on his way. “Bradley, I’m…” Sorry, I’m so sorry, and I can’t tell you why, I need more time to think. “Of course I care. But I can’t come over tonight.” Why not? She fumbled for a plausible excuse. “I’ve got a…stomach thing. Something I ate for lunch.”

  “Get well soon,” Bradley said sourly, and hung up.

  Sandra swore to herself and dropped her phone back into her purse. She knew she deserved that, even if Bradley didn’t, but still—had he always been like this when he was angry? He doesn’t love you, Mr. Magister had said.

  Well, Mr. Magister was probably not the most reliable source on that subject. Bradley himself had always made a big deal about how lucky he was to have met Sandra, someone who shared his values about clean living and honesty. Just the thought made her head hurt.

  Sandra picked up her tote bag and began trudging toward the subway again. She’d wondered all afternoon what was going on back at Magister Enterprises. If she’d had to take a guess, she might have said that Mr. Magister would be nicer than usual to Bradley, perhaps feeling the same guilt she did.

  Evidently not. So what had motivated that kind of anger?

  Jealousy?

  No, that was ridiculous. Mr. Magister didn’t give a shit about her. He’d been the one to insist they put everything behind them, as if it was no big deal to him.

  Maybe he’d done this before.

  Now, as she reached the station platform, Sandra felt her face getting hot. It wasn’t an unreasonable thought, was it? Maybe Mr. Magister had women all the time on that couch. Or in other places. They probably fell all over him. He wasn’t young, but he was handsome, and—she knew now firsthand—fit. More than that, he was so sexy she didn’t even know what to do with herself. And he was rich as sin, which in and of itself would be enough for plenty of people.

  Not Sandra. Those green eyes would have made her weak in the knees if he’d worked behind a deli counter. But he didn’t, and he surely had the pick of any woman in the city. Or the country. Hell, the world.

  Sandra shivered as she heard the whistle of an approaching train. What could she possibly offer him? She’d just been…there, that was all. Maybe that had been enough. Maybe he’d just been horny, and she’d been available. Any other woman could have just as easily experienced the touch of his long-fingered hands and the wiry strength of his arms.

  She didn’t have to worry about Mr. Magister’s jealousy. Apparently she could generate plenty of her own. And she had no right to it. It was just something else to pile on top of the guilt.

  By the time she got through her front door, it was 8:00 p.m. and she was already braced for another fight with Kristen. She was so on edge that she’d snap at the slightest pressure
, and her sister was always happy to provide that. But to her surprise, when she stepped through the door, she smelled the savory aroma of homemade food.

  Kristen rarely cooked. Maybe she was having her psychology study group over again. The very thought made Sandra’s shoulders slump.

  “Hello?” she called, setting her tote bag and purse on the floor by the couch.

  Kristen stuck her head around the corner of the kitchen. “Hey.”

  “What are you making? It smells good.”

  “It’s called maafe,” Kristen said. “Fish and vegetables in a tomato and peanut butter sauce. Goes on white rice.”

  “Wow,” Sandra said, impressed. She’d never heard of it. “That sounds amazing. Where’d you get the recipe?”

  “Online,” Kristen said, giving Sandra a rare smile. “It’s Senegalese.”

  “Yeah?” Sandra took off her leather gloves and began unbuttoning her coat. “That’s funny. Arnaud’s parents are from Senegal.”

  “Oh. Uh, wow, really? I had no idea.” Kristen ducked back around the corner. “How was work?”

  “It was…” God, where to begin? “It was fine. Are you having some friends over?”

  “Nope, just us. I wanted to try this. It’s almost ready.”

  It was amazing how the prospect of a good meal could immediately defuse a bad mood. Sandra already felt ten times more relaxed and less likely to bite anyone, especially the hand that fed her. She’d take any excuse to think about something else for a little while. “Let me change my clothes. I’ll be right out.”

  Ten minutes later, she was in a sweatshirt and yoga pants, sitting on the couch with Kristen and eating maafe from their parents’ old plates. “This is delicious,” she said.

  “You like it? I made plenty,” Kristen said. She popped a piece of fish into her mouth. “You can take some leftovers into work tomorrow.”

  Sandra chuckled. “Only if it tastes good cold. Arnaud doesn’t let anyone eat hot food in the studio. He doesn’t want it to smell.” Kristen’s face fell. “But you know what, I bet it does taste good cold,” Sandra added quickly. “It’s got a great flavor. I’ll definitely take some.”