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

by July Hall

  “My job is here. I told Brad that I’d—”

  “You swore to me you wouldn’t contact Bradley at all,” Charles pointed out. “That was one of our terms last time.”

  “Oh come on, you didn’t really mean that, did you? I’m his father. I’m not supposed to talk to my kid? He’s a grown man now. You can’t stop me from calling him.”

  “No, I can’t,” Charles said, finishing the coffee. “And he is a grown man. With a trust fund and a job. Ask him for help, if you need to ask anyone.”

  Stephen gave Charles a surprised look.

  “Ask my son for help?” Robert said. “Are you serious?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Charles reached for his fountain pen and then thought better of it.

  “I…I can’t ask him to bail me out. That wouldn’t be right.”

  “Since when have you worried about what’s right?” Charles demanded. “I’m fairly sure it didn’t occur to you when you were married to my sister. I owe you nothing, and that’s what you’ll get from me from now on.”

  “You smug son of a bitch,” Robert said, and Charles smiled. That hadn’t taken long at all. “It’s easy to piss on me from the penthouse, isn’t it? You don’t think I could make life difficult for you if I wanted?”

  “No,” Charles said. This was almost fun. “I really don’t.”

  “Can we all be calm, please?” Stephen interjected. “Robert, I know you’re upset, and maybe Charles could have phrased that better, but he’s got a point—have you really not considered going to Bradley? How much do you need?”

  “No,” Charles said, because naming a dollar amount was the first step toward Stephen writing a check.

  “Nine thousand,” Robert said immediately. “See? Not so much. It’s nothing to the two of you. It’s everything to me.”

  “Spare us the dramatics,” Charles said, giving Stephen a warning look. No, no, no. “We’re finished here. I don’t care what you do. Go to your son, go to a loan shark, or go to hell.”

  “Well, excuse the fuck out of me if I don’t look to you for advice on father-son relationships,” Robert said. “Your dad needed your help and you fucking killed him. I’m not going to—”

  Stephen jumped to his feet and banged the receiver back down on the phone before Charles could respond. “That prick,” he said.

  Charles looked at him, too amazed to speak. Stephen blushed. “Er…Craig thinks it’s hot when I’m assertive.”

  “I see.” Charles shook his head, impressed in spite of himself. “Too bad Robert probably thinks I did it.”

  “Nobody suspects the nice ones,” Stephen sighed. “Forget about him. He doesn’t know a damned thing about what happened with Father. He’s just provoking you.”

  “I think he did a better job of provoking you.” But now that Charles’s astonishment at Stephen’s behavior was wearing off, he could feel the bitterness creeping in to take its place. It was all the worse after this morning’s…confusion.

  “Maybe so,” Stephen said. “Do you think he’ll ask Bradley for help after all?”

  Charles considered. “He might have already.”

  “Charles,” Stephen said, shocked.

  “What? Bradley came to us only two days ago. He might have been trying to pass the buck. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “God. I hope our nephew is a little better than that.” But even Stephen didn’t look optimistic this time. “Do you suppose Sandra knows about any of it?”

  Charles felt his heart freeze at the thought. “I have no idea,” he said.

  Surely not. But maybe she did? She’d mentioned Robert when they’d spoken in the library. Maybe they’d met. Robert could summon the same easy charm Bradley had. Driving Robert back toward Bradley might be a mistake, if it also meant driving him toward San…Miss Dane.

  But it was too late to do anything about it now. Miss Dane could handle things, Charles reminded himself. That was the point of keeping her around. Good Lord, if she married Bradley, it would practically become her duty to wrangle Robert.

  And in spite of the day’s disturbances, Charles found himself putting a hand over his mouth to conceal a smile. Miss Dane had threatened to knee him in the balls before telling him that he couldn’t boss her around. She could handle Robert Cliffe.

  He didn’t envy her the task, but—should it be necessary—he would let her know that she could turn to him for help. If she had to.

  “In any case, I’m glad to see the back of Robert,” Stephen said. “Good riddance, bad rubbish, and all the rest. Speaking of Sandra, how’s the house renovation coming along? You met with her yesterday, didn’t you?”

  Just like that, Charles’s flash of good humor vanished without a trace. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she’d been in his arms, on his couch not five feet away. “Yes,” he said curtly. Then he tried to sound more measured as he added, “She’ll be going up there sometime this week to get started. Warrick will take care of all that.”

  “Good, good.” Stephen looked at his watch.

  “You’re having lunch with Loemann Financial at one, aren’t you?” Charles asked. Stephen nodded. “Think you can get the rate down to two percent?”

  “I’ll certainly do my best.” Stephen stood up and straightened his pant legs. “Anything else?”

  He gave Charles his usual open smile, and Charles thought back to his cold shower. His earlier resolve suddenly seemed preposterous. He was supposed to ask his gay brother where to find a willing woman on the spur of the moment? Christ, if anybody knew that, it would be Bradley himself.

  Still, though. If it was more suitable, long-term company he sought…who better than Stephen, his most trusted friend, to help him find…

  “No,” Charles said. “Nothing else.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sandra’s rental car bounced and jolted. She was stuck in an econobox with low suspension and poorly cushioned seats. Every small pothole felt like a canyon.

  Even so, it was kind of nice to be driving again, especially somewhere as spectacular as Long Island’s North Shore. She didn’t have a car. It would be a huge, expensive hassle in the city, but she liked driving on pretty days like this one.

  A pretty, cold day. The weather was starting to turn. The fall leaves were beautiful, though, and in between potholes Sandra couldn’t stop looking at them with wide, enchanted eyes.

  She knew that she was driving past vast estates, but they were mostly hidden from the road by long, winding driveways and strategically placed trees. The houses she did see were massive edifices of brick, clapboard, or stone. She’d checked out Trulia and Zillow to see what was for sale, and had been staggered; she knew of many Manhattan properties that sold for millions, but seeing an asking price of $38 million for a new eight-bedroom house in Sands Point was an eye-opener.

  The Magister family home was located in Sands Point as well, with its own private beach overlooking the Hempstead Bay. Sandra had spent the last two days poring over the portfolio in preparation for her visit, and she could hardly wait to see it in person. For her first visit, Warrick had invited her—with permission, of course—to spend the night.

  “It’s really the only way to experience the house,” he’d told her during one of their conversations, and though he was pompous and condescending, Sandra sensed his real love for the home and family he served.

  Through their conversation, Sandra had learned that the Magisters were that curiously American phenomenon: Old New Money. She’d already known they’d lived in America since the 1740s, because Rosalie loved talking about her DAR chapter. But the family hadn’t been terribly prosperous until the age of the great industrialists began. Then they’d rolled in to riches on the same tide as the Rockefellers and Vanderbilts, though they’d never quite reached those dizzying heights. Maybe Mr. Magister was still trying to make up the difference.

  As her phone’s GPS told her that she was nearly at her destination, Sandra again went over what she knew. The house had been built in 18
73 and thoroughly renovated and expanded in 1902 when the family fortunes began to rise. It wasn’t exactly Oheka Castle, but it was nothing to sneeze at, either.

  Today, the family home had fifteen bedrooms, thirteen full baths, a tennis court, an Olympic-length pool, a ballroom, a movie theater, and a seven-car garage. A formal rose garden bloomed in summer. The whole property sat on twelve acres, though this was paltry compared to its past: nearly fifty acres had been sold back in the 1960s to cope with rising property taxes.

  Thinking about it, Sandra felt the lurch of anxiety in her stomach. The largest home she’d ever decorated professionally had been a 1,500-square-foot condo.

  At least she wouldn’t be doing this alone. Arnaud, though not officially involved, would be looking over her shoulder every step of the way, and she was sure that Warrick would have plenty to say too. So would Rosalie, once she heard about it.

  The thought made Sandra wince. She hadn’t told Bradley about her new job until last night. He’d certainly been surprised. They hadn’t seen each other in person since Sunday brunch. After their angry exchange on Tuesday night, she’d called the next day to test the waters and found that his frustration seemed to have passed.

  “Well…good for you, babe,” he’d said, his amazement clear. “Mom’s going to be pissed, though.”

  Rosalie would survive somehow. “I’m spending Thursday night at the house,” Sandra had told him.

  “Yeah? Cool. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

  “Of course.” She’d felt like snakes were writhing in her stomach. It was the secret trying to get out.

  Not just her secret, their secret. Mr. Magister had told Sandra this was a family matter, and that she ought to keep her mouth shut and let him handle it. It had infuriated her, but maybe he had a point. This wasn’t just about her and Bradley as a couple. It would screw up everything, including Bradley’s already strained relationship with his uncle, and probably Mr. Magister’s relationships with his siblings too. And it wouldn’t stop there. The company itself would take a beating if the main shareholders were all at each others’ throats.

  She didn’t want to lie, but what was she supposed to do? Maybe she could just break up with Bradley, because she was obviously a shitty girlfriend, and not say why. But he’d only ask more questions about why it came out of nowhere. And then she’d lose the Magister account and Arnaud would fire her. All because of one mistake, an error of judgment she’d never make again.

  But she was still lying to her boyfriend. Nothing could change that. “Bradley,” she’d said, her heart racing. “Um. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about…”

  “Whoops, I gotta go,” Bradley had said. “I’m meeting Jeremy for drinks. Later, babe.”

  Yeah, later, Sandra had thought, and then she’d lain awake all night trying to figure things out. She hadn’t been able to. Instead of finding a solution, or even beating herself up some more, she’d remembered Mr. Magister’s kisses.

  Today, her hand tightened on the steering wheel just thinking about it, about him. She was going to spend the night in his house, where he’d grown up and presumably learned all that stuff about How To Magister. And then—unless everything blew up in her face—she was going to spend God knew how long shuttling back and forth between Manhattan and Long Island over the next few…weeks? Months? Nobody had given her a deadline. Arnaud said that Mr. Magister had conspicuously avoided doing so. That didn’t seem like him at all.

  She wished she knew what his game was. He had to have one.

  In spite of going over the numbers and looking at the photos, Sandra was unprepared for her first real sight of the house. She found herself breathless as she drove the clunky rental car down the brick-paved driveway.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed.

  The Georgian-style mansion was constructed of brick, except for the white stone façade surrounding the front door. Four Roman Doric columns stood at attention on the front steps, two on either side of the massive French doors. Six dormer windows peeked out from the roof, spaced in perfect symmetry, and Sandra could see at least seven chimneys. As she approached, the house seemed to loom, growing both more intimidating and more beautiful. Like him.

  She’d seen Versailles, she reminded herself. She’d seen Notre-Dame. She wasn’t here to act like Country Mouse. But Jesus, this was amazing.

  She rounded the circular driveway, which surrounded a stone fountain, and parked before the front door. Two men emerged from the portico entrance: one of them was a young man in a chauffeur’s uniform, and the other must be Warrick himself.

  Sandra had been expecting someone straight out of Downton Abbey in tails and a white waistcoat, but Warrick wore a black suit with a black tie and a crisp white dress shirt. He was short and round, with a thicket of white hair, and older than she had expected: in his late sixties, perhaps.

  As she exited the car and climbed the brick steps to the front doors, Warrick extended his hand. “Miss Dane,” he said. “I’m Warrick.”

  “I guessed.” Sandra smiled at him. “Please, call me Sandra.”

  “Of course, Miss Sandra,” Warrick said with a pleasant smile of his own. “Please give Ronny your car keys. He’ll park it for you. May we offer you any refreshments?”

  “Oh, no thank you,” Sandra said as she obediently gave Ronny her keys. “I’m excited to get started.” She looked up at the front of the house with wide eyes. “The pictures don’t do it justice.”

  “No, indeed. You’re a lucky young lady. The Magisters do most of their entertaining in the city. Very few people are invited to the North Shore house.”

  “Why is that?” Sandra asked, following Warrick as he led the way into an enormous foyer.

  “Mrs. Magister died,” Warrick said, not looking at her.

  “Oh,” Sandra said in a small voice. She fought down a pang of jealousy because it was bad enough to envy living women—it would be grotesque to envy a dead one. Especially under the circumstances.

  Still, what a shame about the house. This space deserved to be used. “So who stays here?” she asked, glancing toward the dual staircase and then the mezzanine.

  “The property is in Mr. Magister’s name, but Mr. Stephen and Miss Rosalie both use the house any time they wish. They all grew up here. I knew them as children.”

  For some reason, that was a mind-blowing idea. Mr. Magister had been a child once? Well duh, of course he had, but it was hard to picture any such thing. The best Sandra could do was imagine a miniature version of him running around in a tiny power suit.

  The image made her smile. She said, “How often do they come here?”

  “They might show up on any given weekend, especially in fall or spring when the weather is most accommodating. Lately, Mr. Stephen has taken to bringing Mr. Winslowe. Miss Rosalie used to come here frequently when Mr. Bradley was young, but rarely does so now. And of course, Mr. Magister’s work keeps him in the city.” Warrick gave Sandra a significant glance. “Still, I expect he will be interested to hear about your progress.”

  Sandra plastered on her brightest smile. “It shouldn’t come as a surprise,” she said. “We’ll be keeping him updated.” Through e-mail. E-mail was good. Not meeting face-to-face or hearing his deep voice was good.

  She took diligent notes as Warrick led her through the house and around the grounds. She became increasingly awed with every step. She’d grown up in a rambling family home that her parents had added to over the years, as their business grew more successful. The house had a big backyard and a beautiful front porch. During high school and college, her parents had let her redecorate it bit by bit, and even Kristen had to admit it looked great. Sandra had been letting that give her some confidence, her lone experience of decorating a stand-alone house.

  Now that confidence crumbled. Her parents’ living room didn’t compare to an honest-to-God ballroom with marble flooring and a thirty-five-foot ceiling. Sandra looked up at the chandeliers, protected from dust by holland covers, and wonde
red what it had been like to grow up in a house like this.

  “So,” she said to Warrick as they left the ballroom, “you worked here when Mr. Magister and his siblings were kids?”

  “Yes. My father managed the house under Mr. Magister’s father, Leon Magister, and I took over from him. I’ve seen quite a lot during that time, let me tell you. Many changes.”

  “I’m sure.” Sandra looked around the magnificent hallway. “But this doesn’t seem like the sort of place to change much over the years. Am I wrong?”

  Warrick seemed to hesitate. “You are not wrong. But that’s only through Mr. Magister’s efforts. At one time, his father intended to sell the property to a developer.”

  Sandra stopped dead in her tracks. “A developer? To…what, make this into a hotel or something?” The very thought seemed blasphemous.

  Warrick shook his head. “Worse. They would have razed the house entirely and turned the land into a subdivision. It’s happened to many old family homes in the North Shore.” Sandra’s jaw dropped. “But Mr. Magister wouldn’t have it. When he…er…stepped in to take his father’s place, preserving the house was one of the first measures he undertook.”

  “No kidding,” Sandra said. “Why would his dad ever have done such a thing?”

  Now Warrick gave her a withering look. “Money, Miss Dane.”

  Sandra gave him a withering look right back. Whatever. She was pretty sure that the Magister definition of falling on hard times wouldn’t be the same as most people’s. “Looks like Mr. Magister values some things more than money.”

  Warrick lifted his chin. “He values the family name most of all. To lose the house would have been a death blow. He told me so himself.”

  “He said ‘death blow’?” Sandra asked doubtfully.

  “I might have taken a few liberties with the wording, but that was the gist,” Warrick sniffed.

  “Well, I’m glad,” Sandra said, looking around again. “This place is incredible.” It might not be Versailles, but somehow that only made it more awe-inspiring. It wasn’t a museum—people actually lived here.