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

by July Hall

  Kristen stabbed her fork into another piece of fish, scowling. “What kind of weirdo doesn’t want people to smell food?”

  Too comfortable now to be annoyed, Sandra reached for her wine glass. They were sharing a bottle of Two Buck Chuck Chardonnay, and as far as she was concerned, it was the perfect accompaniment. “He says he wants the studio to be removed from all the senses except for vision. No strong smells, no background music. And lots of light.” The waiting room had huge windows. “When I interviewed, he told me that he spent a year in France after college and fell in love with the cathedrals. They informed his whole aesthetic.” In fact, they’d bonded over that. Sandra herself had studied interior design for three months in Paris on a fellowship.

  Kristen’s mouth was hanging slightly open. She shut it and returned to her food with a slight flush in her cheeks. “Wow,” she mumbled.

  This felt pretty good after a day like Sandra’s. A quiet evening with tasty food, talking to her sister like she would a friend. She didn’t have many friends. She’d never felt like she fit in with lots of the design school students—she was too uptight, too stuffy and proper. And it was easy to lose touch with people after graduation.

  Sometimes she was really, really lonely. Bradley had helped at first, just by being around. But though he talked about his own life all the time, she’d never felt able to confide truly personal things to him.

  Could she tell Kristen about what had happened today? Did she dare? Would her sister understand?

  “Um,” she said, wondering if she was really about to do this, wondering how to begin. “I never said sorry for snapping at you yesterday morning. I was out of line.”

  Kristen gave her an astonished look. Then she shrugged. “S’okay. Sorry for making you late.”

  Wow. Miracles could happen. Okay, so far, so good. But how to raise the real issue? Even as Sandra thought about it, her phone rang. It was still in her purse, which rested near Kristen’s feet. “Would you pass me my phone?” she asked.

  “Sure.” Kristen removed Sandra’s phone from her purse, idly checking the display. “Unknown number. Want me to get rid of them?”

  “Uh…”

  But Kristen had already swiped her thumb over the screen. “Hello?” she asked around a mouthful of fish.

  “Kristen!” Sandra hissed. A male voice on the other end said something she couldn’t make out.

  “I’m her sister,” Kristen said to the phone. “Who’s this?” The voice said something else. Kristen’s eyes widened. “What? Really? As in—aren’t you Bradley’s uncle?”

  Sandra’s heart stopped. Something in her face obviously gave Kristen pause, and she said, “Um…is this urgent?” The voice said something sharp. “Jeez, chill out. Let me check if she’s available.” She put her hand over the speaker and muttered, “Oh, man. Do you wanna talk to Charles Magister?”

  This could not be good. What was he playing at? She made sure she was smiling as she said, “Yeah, sure.” Then, as she took the phone, she impulsively touched the icon for the speakerphone.

  “Mr. Magister, hi!” she said, using her most chipper voice. Kristen rolled her eyes. “I’ve got my hands full right now, so you’re on speakerphone, okay?”

  If he was calling to make trouble about this morning, she didn’t want to put up with it this evening. And if he was calling about…anything else, Kristen’s presence would put them both on their best behavior. Wouldn’t it?

  “All right.” Mr. Magister’s deep voice made her heart beat even faster. Her face heated, and she tried to stay calm. Kristen was sitting right on the other end of the couch and might get a clue if things got super awkward. “Although this seems to be an inconvenient time.”

  “No, it’s fine,” Sandra said. “It’s fine. What can I do for you? I guess this is about the house?” She took a long drink of wine.

  “The…yes. Yes, of course it is. Did you receive the portfolio?”

  “Yes, I did. It was delivered straight to my desk. I brought it home, I’ve got it right here in my bag.”

  “I see. You are at home, then?”

  Kristen snorted and covered her mouth with her hand. Sandra prayed it had been too quiet for Mr. Magister to hear. “Er, yes. But like I said, it’s fine. We’re just having dinner.” She looked down at her plate and added inanely, “It’s fish.”

  Now Kristen clapped her hands in glee, but she managed to muffle her laughter as she rose to her feet and carried her empty plate to the kitchen.

  “Sorry,” Sandra continued, hiding her face in her hands. “Right. What did you want to discuss?”

  There was a pause, and she wondered if he was trying to think up a story. “Have you spoken to Warrick?” he asked.

  “Yeah. He called me at…I want to say, two thirty.” That would have been about the time Mr. Magister was ripping Bradley a new one, she supposed. “He gave me a list of the local tradesmen and services you usually hire. I got in touch with some of them too, but I won’t really be able to do much until I…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Until you see the house,” he concluded for her.

  She gulped. “Right. Well, obviously as soon as possible. Mr. Warrick and I were talking about this week.”

  “No one is in residence right now. That would be convenient.”

  Sandra found herself curling up on the couch, hugging her knees to her chest. “I haven’t told Bradley about the job yet, but maybe he could show me around.”

  “Maybe he has to work this week,” Mr. Magister said icily, “all appearances to the contrary.”

  Sandra squirmed. “Ah. Right, sure.”

  Kristen flopped back down on the couch, making the cushions bounce as she picked up the remote control. “Any chance you two could get a room?” she asked. “Season three of Bob’s Burgers isn’t going to marathon itself.”

  Obviously she shouldn’t worry that Kristen was going to notice anything. “Okay, Mr. Magister,” Sandra said, hugging her knees tighter. “If that’s all, then I’ll make arrangements to—”

  “That’s not all,” Mr. Magister said. “There are one or two more details.”

  She was trapped. Kristen waved impatiently, pointing at Sandra’s bedroom door. Sandra bit her lip, picked up her phone, and retrieved her glass of wine. Then she beat a retreat to her room, where she shut her door and turned off the speakerphone.

  “Okay,” she sighed.

  “Can we speak?” he asked sharply.

  “Yeah. I’m in my room.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, alone!” She realized what he might be thinking. “Uh, Bradley’s not here. I think he’s at home sulking. He said you yelled at him today.”

  “When did you talk to him?”

  “Not long ago. An hour, I guess. I didn’t—”

  “Did you tell him what happened?”

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t know how. He was already so—”

  “See that you don’t. This is a family matter, and as such will be decided by me. That is not a request, Miss Dane, that is an order.”

  Sandra sat down on the edge of the bed, her mouth hanging open. All the day’s fears and frustrations coalesced into one single, burning moment in which she remembered her mother’s words yet again. Don’t let him walk all over you.

  “And—” Mr. Magister began.

  “I’m sorry,” Sandra said, her hand clenching the stem of her wine glass. “You seem to have mistaken me for someone you’re allowed to talk to that way.” Silence fell. Before he could retort, she added, “Why do you talk to people like that at all?”

  There was more silence. Then he said, “Stick around and find out. You’ll see how far sarcasm gets you.”

  She quailed but took a deep breath. “Then I won’t be sarcastic,” she said, praying her voice wouldn’t shake. “I’ll be really clear. You can’t talk to me like that. Not now or ever.” She took another drink of wine, both as reward for her courage and to shore it up for the next sally.

  To her surpris
e, after a pause, he said, “Backbone is something I can respect, believe it or not.”

  She scooted back on the mattress to sit cross-legged. Her framed Paul Klee print hung on the opposite wall, and she focused on it to keep herself steady. “I’m not sure I do believe it. I saw everyone bow and scrape before you at that party for hours. You wear people down.” She kept looking at the Klee. “You might wear me down too, even if I do have a backbone. I don’t think I’d like that.”

  After a pause, he said, “Neither would I.”

  Silence fell again. It made Sandra hunch her shoulders as it dragged on and on. Then she said, “You hired me.”

  After another pause, he said cautiously, “Yes?”

  “I told you…” She might never get another chance to say this. She had to say it now, no matter how scared she was. “I told you I was my own person. And then you hired me. My whole job depends on whether or not I make you happy—”

  “No!” he snapped.

  She nearly jumped, but then rushed on. He didn’t get to shut her up like that. “And then you called me to your office and you…” She closed her eyes. He’d kissed her. He’d made the move. “Just for a second, could you please imagine what that feels like from my perspective?”

  This time the silence went on so long that she wondered if they’d been disconnected. Or if he’d just hung up on her. But the display said he was still there. After a full seven seconds, she whispered, “Hello?”

  When he spoke again, his voice was rough as sandpaper. “What happened was not what I intended,” he said.

  Sandra could believe that. She suddenly remembered that he’d tried to send her away almost as soon as she’d arrived. She should have listened.

  “I need to know,” he said. “You must tell me if you felt…forced into anything. If you were afraid to refuse me.”

  That was unexpected. Well, maybe it made sense—if he had other women in his office, or anywhere else, he must be used to them melting in his arms. Why wouldn’t they? It probably never occurred to him that Sandra might have been scared or not wanted it.

  The problem was, it hadn’t occurred to her, either.

  “Would that matter?” she asked. “What if I was?”

  “Then I’ll do whatever is necessary to make restitution,” he said. Her jaw dropped again. “That is behavior unbefitting of a Magister. Of any man. There’s nothing more despicable than a man who—” He paused to clear his throat. “Who abuses his power in such a way.”

  Sandra closed her eyes. Her chest felt sort of weird—both warm and pained at the same time. Mr. Magister sounded totally sincere.

  “I believed you wanted it at the time,” he continued, sounding strained. “That it was…entirely consensual. If that isn’t the case, tell me.”

  This could be such an easy out. And it would just be another lie. Sandra clutched at the material of her shirt over her heart. She managed, “You shouldn’t have put me in that position, but…” She bit her lip. “I never felt like you were forcing me into anything. It felt—” Oh, shit.

  “It felt what?” he demanded.

  “F-fine.” Dammit. At least she hadn’t said amazing or mind-blowing. “I mean, nothing. It didn’t feel like anything. Uh, anyway, are you going to tell Bradley?”

  “I see no reason to do so.” Now he sounded more like himself—cool and collected.

  “I care about him,” she said with some difficulty.

  “As do I.”

  “He doesn’t think so.”

  Mr. Magister sighed. “He wouldn’t. The boy doesn’t know what’s best for him, and never has.”

  “You said…” Should she bring this up? She looked at the dregs of wine at the bottom of her glass. She had to. “You said he doesn’t love me and he lies to me.”

  “I should not have said that,” he replied firmly.

  “Good, because I don’t believe you.” She didn’t, right? Maybe Bradley didn’t love her, exactly, but why would he have stuck around for six whole months if he didn’t care? She didn’t have a fortune or a dynasty to offer him.

  She took a final sip of wine. The glass was now officially finished. She looked at the faint print of her lip gloss on the rim. Maybe she should defend Bradley again, like she had at the party on Friday night. That seemed like something a proper girlfriend ought to do.

  She was obviously not a proper girlfriend. “He said I was good for him.”

  Mr. Magister sighed again. “He could be right, for once. You can provide the support he needs.”

  Something about that sounded…off. “What does that mean? I’m supposed to spend my life propping him up?”

  “You might think of it as saving him from himself.”

  That idea had seemed romantic once. Saving a man from himself. Prince and Princess Charming, together forever. After six months of it and having her world shaken in the course of a weekend, Sandra now thought it sounded like a load of crap.

  “I don’t want that job,” she said. “He needs to stand on his own.”

  Mr. Magister growled, “The company is more important than his self-esteem. What about you?”

  “Huh? Me?” Maybe it was a fair question. Her self-esteem was apparently improving by the minute.

  “How does he treat you? Is he a gentleman?”

  Oh. It might have been her imagination, but Mr. Magister had actually sounded a little bitter. No wonder—he probably chafed at the idea of being less gentlemanly than Bradley.

  “He opens doors and pulls out chairs, if that’s what you mean.” She forced a laugh. “He hardly ever lets me pay for anything.”

  “Hardly ever?” Mr. Magister packed a lot of disapproval into those two words, and in spite of her new resolve, Sandra shivered. “Don’t tell me you’ve opened your wallet a single time when you’re with him.”

  “Sure I have, a few times.” Sandra flopped back down on her bed and looked up at the ceiling. “I wanted to. Why shouldn’t I take him out to dinner once in a while?”

  “Dinner?” Now Mr. Magister sounded like she’d told him she skinned puppies for fun.

  “Yes, dinner.” What had he been expecting? “This is the twenty-first century. Women can pay for dinner. I promise.”

  “I promise you are wrong,” Mr. Magister said. “A gentleman should always buy a lady dinner. If she wants to return the favor, she can invite him to her home.”

  “Wh—” Sandra spluttered. “What does that mean? Barefoot in the kitchen?” Or did he mean something else entirely, like repaying a guy’s generosity in the bedroom? That would be even worse. But he’d said all that stuff about not abusing his power, so maybe he hadn’t meant it like that? “You’ve got to be kidding me. I don’t even cook that much.”

  “Who says you have to? The staff would…” Then Mr. Magister’s voice petered out, as if even he realized how absurd that sounded. “Of course, I suppose you don’t have staff.”

  “No, I don’t,” Sandra said in disbelief. Now he probably thought she lived in abject poverty. “I guess I could order Chinese.”

  That was definitely sarcasm. But apparently this time it went over his head, because he said, “Never buy him dinner again, for God’s sake. Stick to coffee or drinks next time, if you absolutely must.” Sandra opened her mouth to remind him that she was not to be ordered around. Before she could, he continued, “Ridiculous. If you were mine—”

  He cut himself off. Sandra’s words died in her throat.

  She had to think of something to say, since he evidently wasn’t going to. She finally managed, “I’m not anybody’s. Like I said, twenty-first century.”

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Indeed. Nevertheless, consider what your protests really mean. So you buy a man—a Magister—dinner. Does that put you on equal footing? Anywhere you can afford to pay, we can afford to buy the property. You’re making an empty gesture.”

  Was that a stain on the ceiling? In the upper right corner? Sandra couldn’t believe she’d never noticed that before. “I don�
��t think you understand how gestures work.”

  “Or maybe you don’t. I seem to recall making one that you also refused.”

  Oh…shit. If the silence had been awkward before, Sandra felt they were now at Silence Defcon 1. She couldn’t think of a way out of this one. She’d said her piece to him. Now weren’t they supposed to pretend that whole episode had never happened?

  Then Mr. Magister said tightly, “Well. Perhaps it’s just what you’re used to. Have you made a habit of taking men to dinner in the past?”

  Good grief! Sandra’s breath left her in a whoosh. “Sometimes, yeah. What is it with that? I told you it’s none of your business, it’s not like I’d ask you about—” About the other women you’ve had on that couch. “It doesn’t matter.” She could make herself believe that. She didn’t have the right to care about what he did.

  She inhaled through her nose, gathering her courage. “I know what you really mean, okay? That thing today, the thing that ‘never happened.’ I’ve never done that kind of thing before. And I’m never going to do it again.” She waited for the sudden flash of regret to pass. Idiot. “Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” he said. She realized that she could picture the exact set of his jaw, the way he was speaking through his teeth. “And that is not what I meant. I only want to know what you have been…accustomed to.”

  I’ve been accustomed to everything being just fine. To boredom. I’m not accustomed to you. “I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter.” Another woman’s mouth on his, his hands in another woman’s hair. No, he didn’t care about this for the same reasons she did. He was just obsessed with his family’s reputation. “I’m not going to disgrace anybody. What is this, you’re afraid I’m not pure enough or something?”

  “That isn’t—”

  “You really are from the last century.”

  “Yes, I am!”

  The snap in his voice brought her back to earth. She remembered what she’d managed to forget: twenty years’ difference lay between them. It was like ice water in the face.

  “Right,” she said feebly. “All the same.”