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

by July Hall

  Warrick looked gratified. “The bones are perfect,” he said, “but some of the rooms could use a face-lift. That’s what you’re here for.”

  “The second study,” Sandra agreed.

  “Yes. We’ll conclude with that, I think, so you’ll have a feel for the rest of the place. Come along.”

  Sandra came along. There was a lot to see, and Warrick didn’t feel so much like a butler as a tour guide. At her request, he showed her the fabled grand piano and even let her tickle the keys. He knew the house up and down and was happy to wax poetic about everything, including a single ceramic cup from the Song Dynasty that was apparently really rare.

  Sandra was too distracted by something else in the parlor to care. Over the fireplace hung a portrait of a woman with blond hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. She wore a blue evening gown. Sandra recognized her from the photos she’d found online.

  “That’s Eleanor Magister, isn’t it?” she asked, approaching the fireplace.

  “—actually belonged to a noble family that fled the Revolution…ah, yes,” Warrick said. “The portrait was completed two years before she died. It’s very true to life.”

  Sandra could easily believe that. The painting captured a graceful dignity that hadn’t been so evident in the photos, which had mainly accompanied news releases about the wreck. She looked poised and aristocratic—exactly the sort of woman who belonged at Charles Magister’s side.

  “She was beautiful,” Sandra murmured.

  “Yes.” Sandra heard the regret in Warrick’s voice. “And irreplaceable, as we have all come to know.”

  She turned to look at him, wondering if somehow he’d read her mind, but Warrick was merely looking at the portrait sadly. “Who was she?” she asked. “I mean, before the marriage.”

  Warrick took a deep breath. “She was born to the Bradfords. The family resided in Cove Neck for generations. Mr. and Mrs. Magister knew each other since they were children. They fought like cats and dogs, until one day they didn’t.”

  “And got married instead,” Sandra said, her heart aching.

  “And got married instead,” Warrick confirmed. “There’s been no other since, though we have sometimes hoped.”

  “You have? Huh. I never heard of him dating anyone,” Sandra said, trying to sound casual. In the past couple of days she’d thought way too often about Kristen’s opinion on his sex life—or lack thereof. That seemed so unlikely.

  “That’s not my place to say, I’m sure,” Warrick replied. Sandra managed not to droop. “But—if there was anything—it never lasted for long.”

  Sandra winced. It kept getting worse and worse. Thank God she’d stopped him in his office, before she could become just another temporary distraction from his grief. “That’s too bad,” she managed. “And they never had children, right?”

  “No. It’s a shame. I think they would have been happy parents.”

  That was something else Sandra couldn’t picture: Mr. Magister chasing kids around this giant house. And yet the thought of it made her heart ache even more. He’d told her that he and his wife had wanted children. Maybe he would have been happy as a dad.

  It would really be something, to see him happy.

  As Warrick led the way out of the parlor, Sandra forced the thought away, along with the lump in her throat. She had to stop being ridiculous. She wasn’t the one to make Mr. Magister happy; maybe he was no longer the sort of person who could be. Happiness was something she had to find for herself, and it started with appreciating what she had, not dreaming about what she didn’t.

  They paused for lunch, which was served in a small, cozy breakfast nook. Sandra was relieved not to eat in the vast dining room with enough chairs for forty people, chairs that were covered with dust cloths when the family wasn’t in residence. Warrick told her that a skeleton staff was on call, just enough people to keep the house clean and secure, with a landscaping service that stopped by once a week to maintain the pristine grounds.

  He’d also called in a cook for her visit. Sandra felt extremely self-conscious about this, but vowed to enjoy every bite of the lunch that had been prepared—a simple but delicious cauliflower soup and a prosciutto panini.

  “Thanks,” she said as she dabbed her mouth clean. “That was incredible.”

  “You are to have every comfort,” Warrick said smoothly. “Mr. Magister’s orders.”

  Sandra managed not to blush.

  After lunch, the tour continued. Soon enough, Sandra’s feet were aching, even though she’d taken the opportunity to slide her heels off beneath the table during lunch. As heels went, they were pretty comfortable, but there was only so much you could ask of a pointed toe.

  The grounds were a thing of beauty, though, perfectly sculpted. The bluegrass lawns gleamed beneath the sun. Not so far away, Sandra could hear the sounds of the bay. “A private beach must be nice in summer,” she said.

  “A private beach is nice any time,” Warrick said with a smile. “When Mr. Magister is down for a weekend, he likes to take early morning walks along the shore, even in winter.”

  “Yeah?” In spite of her earlier resolve, her curiosity resurfaced. “What else does he do for fun?”

  Warrick looked baffled. “Fun?”

  That answered that. Sandra held her tongue until they returned indoors and she got a look at the pool. “I brought my swimsuit,” she said, trying not to sound eager. “I thought maybe later tonight…”

  “Of course. Well, what do you think of the house?” Warrick sounded almost like a child showing off a prized toy.

  “I think it’s fabulous, of course,” Sandra said, “but isn’t it time for me to see the study?”

  “Oh.” For the first time, Warrick seemed sheepish. “Of course. Follow me.”

  On the way to the study, they walked past a closed door in the living quarters. “What’s behind that door?” Sandra asked. They’d already passed by Mr. Magister’s private suite, which had been the only other set of rooms with its doors closed.

  “Nothing in particular,” Warrick said, not even giving it a glance. “We won’t be going in there.” He sped up his pace.

  Sandra blinked as she tried to keep up with him. Her heels clicked on the floor. “Did you mean for that to sound so mysterious?”

  “That room is closed off,” Warrick said firmly. Sandra’s imagination immediately kicked into overdrive. Maybe it was full of the heads of Mr. Magister’s corporate enemies.

  In a few minutes, she wondered if it just contained the head of whoever had decorated the second study. It was even worse in person. “So,” she said brightly, “who, um…did this?”

  Confirming her worst fear, Warrick said, “Mrs. Magister. It was the first room she decorated. It was fashionable at the time, though it has perhaps not aged as well as her later efforts.”

  “Did she use a consultant?”

  “After this, yes. She said she would leave it as a monument to mistakes she’d never repeat.” Warrick surprised Sandra with a wry smile. “Mr. Magister hasn’t let anybody touch the room, as you can see, except to add Mr. Bradley’s painting. It’s quite an honor for you.”

  Warrick might consider it an honor, but Sandra looked upon it as a service to humankind. “The portfolio said there are hardwood floors beneath the carpet. I want a look at those.”

  Warrick nodded. “I’ll have the laborers in first thing tomorrow.”

  “I can pull up carpet myself. If you can help me move the furniture from that wall, I can peel it up and get a peek before we remove the whole thing. I just want an idea of the shape it’s in.”

  Warrick wrinkled his nose. “I’ll send Ronny, if you insist. But everything is in fine condition.”

  “How do you know that, if you haven’t seen the floor in years?”

  “This is Charles Magister’s house,” Warrick said loftily. “The floors would not dare deteriorate.”

  * * *

  The rest of the day passed so quickly that by the time she hung
up on the final auction house, Sandra was astonished to see that it was past eight o’clock. She and Warrick enjoyed another meal together, a late supper, while she showed him the upcoming listings at Sotheby’s and Christie’s that she’d scoured for one-of-a-kind pieces.

  “It’s kind of a dream come true, working with an unlimited budget,” she admitted while Warrick scrolled down her tablet’s display. “What do you think of the Sidsel Hanum bowl? I’d put it by the window.”

  “Very striking. It’ll suit the space,” Warrick said. He took the last bite of his passion fruit sorbet and gave a satisfied sigh. “It seems like you accomplished a lot. I can see why Mr. Magister says you have a promising career.”

  Sandra sipped from her glass of Merlot, glad it gave her a reason to turn red. “I’m glad he thinks so,” she said. Just think, a few days ago she’d wondered if he would torpedo her career entirely.

  “He doesn’t usually give out unlimited budgets, you know.” Warrick raised an eyebrow at her. “That was his father’s problem, not his. It’s to his credit that he’s avoided becoming a miser in his efforts to rescue the company, but he’s no spendthrift. I’d say enjoy the freedom, but don’t go overboard.”

  Sandra thought of the emerald barrette Mr. Magister had called a trinket. No spendthrift? “He seems to have a lot of nice things,” she said cautiously. Talk about an understatement. “They all do. His family.”

  Warrick looked surprised. “Well, of course. They’re Magisters. Only the best—but never anything excessive or vulgar.”

  An hour later, as she dipped her toe into the Olympic-size pool, Sandra thought that her definition of “excessive” might differ from theirs, too. Maybe Kristen had a point. It just seemed crazy that anybody had this much money.

  But damned if she wasn’t going to enjoy it while she was here. Sandra took a deep breath and dove in the deep end, slicing cleanly into the chlorinated water.

  She swam as hard as she could, trying to exhaust so many things: her confusion, her excitement, and definitely her libido. Being in Mr. Magister’s house, talking and thinking about him constantly, had set her on edge. After hearing all of Warrick’s stories, she practically expected to see him around every corner.

  The cool water helped restore her senses. By the time she was showering back in her room, Sandra felt calm enough to call Bradley, as she’d promised.

  She wasn’t looking forward to it. That was a change. In the early months of their relationship, she’d anticipated hearing from him every day, but he’d never called her every day or even every other day. She’d told herself to stop being so clingy. She was used to it now.

  Tonight, she was the one who didn’t want to call. She did anyway, after putting on her tank top and yoga pants, and then crawling between the crisp sheets of the king-sized bed.

  Even the guest rooms were five-star, she thought as she waited for Bradley to pick up. The Queen Anne wooden furniture was lovely, although the brass chandelier looked out-of-place, and she really wanted to hide the wall-mounted plasma TV behind a false panel. The fireplace was awesome, though. It looked like the kind you could turn on by flipping a switch. She’d have to—

  “Babe,” Bradley said. “What’s up?”

  His voice provoked a pang of anxiety deep in her chest. Sandra found herself clutching at the sheets for comfort. “Hi,” she croaked, and then cleared her throat. “Nothing’s up! I mean, everything’s fine.”

  “Great, great, glad to hear it. You’re getting along okay in Uncle Charles’s mausoleum?”

  The contempt in his voice raised the hair on her arms and the back of her neck. “Yes. It’s an amazing house.”

  “To you, maybe. You never had to spend your childhood weekends there being told not to touch anything. Hell, now you’re getting paid to touch everything. Must be nice.”

  Not everything, Sandra thought, and then covered her eyes with her free hand. “Yeah,” she mumbled. “That is, it is…nice. And it was, um, nice of your uncle to hire me.” Even after we almost had sex in his office a few floors above you. Fuck. She was a terrible girlfriend. No, a terrible person.

  What did Mr. Magister know, anyway? What business did he have telling her not to be honest with her own boyfriend? He was the one who’d said he’d “do anything” to make amends if he’d scared her in his office. He understood you had to take responsibility for fucking up.

  Bradley lies to you. He lies and lies.

  “Yeah, that’s Uncle Charles all right,” Bradley said. “Guess what? My dad called him yesterday because he needs help. Uncle Charles laughed in his face. Because he’s so nice.”

  Sandra winced. “What happened?”

  “That is what happened. My dad called because he needs a few thousand bucks. Nothing major. But apparently it’s asking too much.”

  She blinked. “If it’s not that much, couldn’t you help him?”

  “I…um,” Bradley said. “Listen, I don’t want to set a precedent, you know? I’m his son, not a bank. I don’t want us to have the kind of relationship where he comes running to me every time he needs something.” Apparently that was just fine for “Uncle Charles,” Sandra thought. “That shouldn’t come between us, it shouldn’t even be a factor, you know what I’m saying? So I sent him on to Uncle Charles like always, only this time he didn’t pony up.”

  Sandra tried to imagine turning one of her parents away if they needed help. The thought made her skin crawl. “So what now?” she asked. “You have to help him now, right?”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” Bradley said. “I’m sick of people telling me what I have to do. And Uncle Charles says I better not ‘bother’ Mom with this, like the divorce was all Dad’s fault and she doesn’t owe him anything. Why is this all on me all of a sudden?”

  “No, I know, but…he’s your father. I’m not saying you have to, just…”

  “Goddammit, Sandra, could you not? Please don’t give me my uncle’s speech about family. I need someone who’s on my side.”

  “I am on your side!” she snapped. Then she remembered Mr. Magister’s hand on her thigh, his mouth moaning against hers. Oh God, if she really was on Bradley’s side, she had to tell him the truth. No matter how hard it was.

  “Yeah, you used to be,” Bradley said. “But now you’re taking his money. I’m not surprised he’s trying to buy you away from me, too.”

  Sandra shuddered to hear her own fears echoed by someone else. But there was something in Bradley’s voice that sounded off. Then she heard a noise that sounded like the slosh of liquid. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Is that against the law?”

  “Where are you?” Sandra strained to listen. “Is that music in the background?”

  “I’m at a bar. I hope that’s okay.”

  Her patience was nearly gone. “Bradley…”

  “How much do you cost, anyway? I have a dollar value for my dad. Nine thousand bucks. What about you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How much will it cost to buy you back from my uncle? Or is it already too late?” Now she could clearly hear the drunken roll to his voice. “Nobody ever gets anything back once he’s got his hands on it. Like the company…his own dad…”

  “You are out of line.” Sandra sat up in bed, pulling the sheets up to her chest. She was trembling. “I don’t know what’s going on with your father, but you don’t get to talk to me like this.” Mr. Magister had respected that. Surely if he did, anyone would.

  But Bradley said, “Screw you. I knew you’d pile on me too. Everyone does eventually.”

  “Damn it, Bradley—”

  “I thought you were different. I liked you, you know? I cared. I told Uncle Charles—”

  It was too much. Before she could stop herself, Sandra blurted, “Oh yeah, did you? Because he told me that you—”

  That you don’t love me, that you lie to me. Horrified, Sandra stopped, and pressed her lips together before any more damning words could escape.

  After a p
ause, Bradley said hoarsely, “What? What did he tell you? About me?”

  “I…” She gulped. “Listen, we should talk about it later, when you’re…”

  “Was it about the hooker?”

  Sandra would never remember what she’d been about to say next. She sat on the bed with her mouth open. She was sure she must have misheard.

  “Because that was just a mistake,” Bradley said, sounding less angry and more anxious. “I was a different person then, babe. Okay? And nobody ever filed any charges, nobody ever proved anything. Uncle Charles took care of it, he always does.”

  “Nobody ever,” Sandra said, and then, “he always,” and then, “a hooker?”

  “I was just stupid, okay? I grew up, you changed me, you made me better. I’ve never done it since I got with you, I swear. You’ve got to believe me.”

  “A hook…when…” He’d told her they had the same values. He told her he believed in clean living. “When did it happen?”

  “Before I met you. That doesn’t count, right? I never asked you about what you did before me, right?”

  “I never did anything!” Sandra cried, hearing the sudden, hysterical pitch in her own voice. “You know that!” Babe, I’m not like all those other guys I know, I hate the way they live. “Jesus, are you kidding me? How many times did you—”

  “I can’t have this conversation, please, I’m begging you,” Bradley said. “I’m drunk. I didn’t mean to say any of that. God, fuck Uncle Charles, I can’t believe him. I can’t believe he told you—”

  Then Sandra heard a female voice on the other end of the phone say, “Braddie, baby? You want a dance?”

  “Who is that?” Sandra said, red creeping into the edges of her vision. “Where the hell are you?”

  “Nothing, I’m nowhere—” His voice was more muffled as he added, “Go away, I’m on the fucking phone, I’m talking to my girlfriend…”

  “Whoops,” the female voice said, and laughed.

  “Who is that?” Sandra repeated, her voice going high-pitched.

  “She’s none of your fucking—” Bradley caught himself at the same moment Sandra caught her breath. “Shit. I didn’t mean to say that. She doesn’t mean anything to me, she’s just a…oh, hell.”