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

by July Hall

  “I don’t think it was him. It was me. I told myself that the relationship was perfect, you know? Everything I was supposed to want.” Charles nodded again, looking thoughtful. Sandra sighed. “So I kept my mouth shut about a lot of things I probably shouldn’t have, and, well…here we are.”

  She took a deep breath and smiled at him. She’d said, less than an hour ago, that all the mess with Bradley was worth it because it had brought her here. She’d meant it at the time. It felt different now. Now, maybe she was just about to get hurt even worse.

  Live in the moment. Enjoy what you’ve got while it’s here.

  It’s not love.

  Charles didn’t smile back. He gave her an intense, probing look, not unlike the ones he’d given her on the night they met. Like he wanted to see all the way down into her heart.

  He couldn’t do that. She didn’t want him to find whatever was growing there. Sandra looked away. “Anyway, I never threatened to knee him in the balls.”

  Charles chuckled. “It might have done him some good.”

  “Definitely.” Sandra scrutinized a nearby curio cabinet like it held the cure for cancer. “Oh well, too late now.”

  He touched her arm, rubbing his thumb above her elbow. She closed her eyes at the warmth spreading through her again. “Too late now,” he agreed. “What do you want to see next?”

  Sandra got her face in order and turned around with another smile. “There’s a room I’m sort of wondering about.” Would he be okay with this? “Warrick wouldn’t tell me what it was. He said nobody goes in there.”

  Charles blinked. Then he sighed. “He does have a flair for the dramatic. Come on.”

  Sandra followed him eagerly to the door that Warrick had refused to open. She tried to think through the possibilities. The heads of his enemies? A kinky sex dungeon? No, not likely. Maybe weird memorabilia? Uh-oh. Please don’t let him collect Nazi stuff or something, she thought. That would sure as hell kill her dumb romantic notions, now wouldn’t it?

  But when he opened the door and let her step inside, she saw it was just a room. Moreover, an empty room. Dark hardwood floors and four walls painted a pale yellow. A bay window looked into a courtyard. That was it.

  Sandra walked into the room, totally bewildered and wondering if she could figure it out. She paused in the center, where the sunlight flowed in through the window and stretched across the floor. It warmed her through her blouse. The room was chillier than the hallway.

  Nope, not a clue. She turned to ask Charles and saw him leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “It was going to be the nursery,” he said.

  A lump clogged her throat and made it impossible to speak. She bit her lip, hard, and looked around the room again. Yeah. It would have been a perfect space for that. A play area in that corner and a crib in the other one, toys all over the floor…

  Eventually, after God knew how long a time, she managed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stir up bad memories.”

  “That’s what you risk in a house like this. There are generations of bad memories.” He sighed. “This one has persisted long enough. Something should be done with this room. Something to make it useful.”

  No kidding. Leaving an empty room as a shrine to his grief for a whole decade couldn’t be healthy. She coughed to clear her throat. “What would you want it to be?”

  “I don’t know. A second library, perhaps? Or knock down a wall and make it part of…” He stopped and set his jaw. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  Sandra swallowed and nodded. She took a step toward the door. He held up a hand and said, “Wait.” She paused. “Stand there. In the light.”

  Her breath caught, but she did as he asked. He looked at her while she fought not to squirm. What did he see? She was just a girl standing in a sunbeam.

  After a few moments, she couldn’t take it anymore, and wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shivering. His eyes widened, and then he entered the room, walking to stand in the sunlight with her.

  “You hug yourself when you’re upset,” he said. “Sometimes very tightly. Did you know that?”

  “I guess,” Sandra said. “Yeah. It’s not subtle, is it?”

  He brushed her hair away from her face. The sun lightened his eyes into pale jade. It caught on the short silver hairs scattered through his dark beard and at his temples. She was breathless just from looking at him.

  She waited for him to ask what was wrong. She had no idea how she would reply.

  He said quietly, “You have no reason to be upset here. Those memories aren’t yours. Be happy.” He stroked his knuckles over her cheek. “Be happy and let me look at you.”

  Her face heated. She was probably red as a boiled lobster. “Okay,” she choked. He took this as permission to study her, looking into her eyes, and this time she couldn’t look away. If he saw anything…well, he saw it.

  But when he touched her bottom lip with his thumb, her eyes fell shut. She couldn’t help it. It was too much, and she couldn’t focus on anything but that single point of contact.

  She heard him give a deep, shuddering sigh, and then the touch of his mouth replaced his thumb. He kissed her more softly than he ever had before, as if she were sleeping and he didn’t want to wake her up.

  Then he smoothed his hands up and down her forearms, encouraging her to let go of herself. “No more of this,” he whispered against her mouth. “No more.”

  Sandra kept her eyes shut as she slid her arms around his waist and pressed against him. Yeah, this was better. The sunlight had warmed him up too, and now she couldn’t feel the cold at all.

  “Be happy,” he repeated.

  Are you? she wanted to ask. She couldn’t make the words come, mainly because she didn’t know what she’d do if he said anything but “yes.”

  Instead of that, she raised her mouth to his again, sighing in relief when he took the invitation. Everything really was a lot simpler when they were kissing.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  He couldn’t stop touching her.

  Charles hadn’t anticipated that. He’d believed that after making love to her three times in less than twenty-four hours, his need would have cooled. It had only intensified. Not sexually—he wasn’t superhuman. But Sandra had called him grabby, and she wasn’t wrong. He wanted her within his reach at all times, in case he suddenly felt the urge to caress or hold her.

  Sandra didn’t appear to mind. As they toured the house, she embarked on a campaign. It seemed she wanted to know everything about him. Had he grown up playing squash? The house had a ballroom—did he enjoy dancing? A Feininger painting hung over the fireplace in his suite, so did that mean he liked abstract art?

  Charles didn’t consider himself all that mysterious, but it had been a long time since he’d let anyone burrow this deeply into his personal preferences. It took some getting used to. Besides, he was more interested in learning about her. Luckily, her questions were generally the sort that could be lobbed back with, “Yes/no. And you?” She gave better answers than he did, so he mined her depths while she didn’t notice.

  She didn’t totally know herself. She had insisted all along that she liked order and tidiness. Maybe so, but her tastes in art and music revealed a preference for chaos that surged just beneath a civilized surface. It drew him like a magnet.

  She’d refused to tell him what she really wanted. Just you, she’d said, as if he was supposed to believe that like a love-struck adolescent.

  Everyone wanted something. He’d learn what her desire was and give it to her.

  She was certainly giving him everything she had. In bed he’d felt her come at the same time he had, clenching around him in his release and driving his pleasure to impossible heights. His shoulder was still sore from where she’d bitten him. The proper young lady was a hellion between the sheets. And nobody knew it but him.

  After the nursery, the only other awkward moment of the tour came in the parlor. He knew why she hesitated by the door. “W
ell, I’ve already seen the Chinese ceramics,” she said.

  “And Eleanor’s portrait.”

  Sandra hunched her shoulders, and clearly struggled before asking, “Would she be okay with this?”

  Charles had avoided asking himself that question. He’d never let himself believe that his attraction to Sandra would become a reality. Now that it had, he said carefully, “She wouldn’t begrudge me happiness. I don’t know that she would have approved of this particular scenario, but…” His next words astonished him. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

  Sandra gaped at him. Then she nodded. “Happiness, yeah,” she said, looking through the doorway again. “Good. Yeah. It, uh, sounds like she was an amazing woman.”

  “She was. An amazing woman, and an incredibly annoying child.” For the first time since he could remember, the memory made him smile.

  Sandra smiled hesitantly too. “Warrick said you fought when you were kids.”

  “That’s an understatement. Eleanor Bradford, my God.” Charles snorted. “By the time she was ten and I was twelve, I was happy to tell anyone who would listen about how much I hated Eleanor Bradford.”

  Sandra laughed now. “You could talk about her for hours, huh?”

  “Constantly.” When had this lost the power to hurt him?

  “And I bet she did the same thing.”

  “Oh, yes. Her friends heard all about stupid, stuck-up Charles Magister.” He glanced through the door at her portrait. “It was only a matter of time.”

  “How did it happen?”

  Charles sighed. “I came home for Christmas during my senior year at Yale. We were at the same party. She was in a red dress, and I kept staring at her. My date asked me who she was, and I heard myself say ‘Eleanor Magister.’”

  “Oh, wow.” Sandra put a hand over her mouth, but she couldn’t stop another laugh. “I bet your date was thrilled. How did Eleanor react?”

  “I didn’t tell her the story until after we were married.” He did have a sense of self-preservation, after all. “It didn’t matter. After I figured out my feelings, I pursued her until she caught me.”

  Sandra grinned. “That’s a sweet story.”

  “I’m a very sweet man.”

  She rolled her eyes and then reached for him, taking hold of his hand. “Shall we keep going?”

  He squeezed her hand. “Now who’s the grabby one?”

  “Unfair! I’m playing catch-up. I’ve got a lot of working out to do before I can carry you to bed and—”

  “Sir?”

  Charles and Sandra turned to see Warrick standing in the hallway, wearing a bland smile. “Pardon me for interrupting. I saw you and thought I would ask what time you wanted dinner served.”

  Charles checked his watch. To his surprise, it was already half-past six. Where had the day gone? “In an hour.”

  “Very good, sir.” Warrick inclined his head and departed.

  Charles looked at Sandra, who had his hand in a death grip. “Oh God,” she groaned.

  “That’s what you get for assaulting my virtue in front of the help.” He pulled her closer to him. “Why does his opinion concern you so much?”

  “He’s not just the help, Charles.” She tilted her head. “You do know that, right?”

  “He’s no ordinary employee, but he is still an employee.” She didn’t seem convinced. Well, she hadn’t been brought up as a Magister, after all. “Listen to me. You could walk stark naked through this house and none of them would say anything. None of them would dare, not even Warrick.”

  “Um…pass.” But to his relief, she came willingly into his arms. “Are you saying you want me to walk around naked?”

  Charles pretended to consider it. “It would be more efficient, but…no, I like taking off your clothes. And I think I’d find it distracting.”

  “Oh well, then maybe one of these days I’ll just stop wearing underwear,” Sandra said, as breezily as if she was announcing a trip to the beach. “That sounds like a good compromise, right?”

  “Very reasonable,” Charles said, a little unsteadily.

  Sandra looked at her watch. “Six thirty? I guess I should call Kristen again. It’s actually possible she might be wondering about me this time.”

  “I’m sensing that you and your sister are not close.”

  “I don’t know,” Sandra said. She looked thoughtful. “She said from the beginning that Bradley was a jerk. She warned me a lot. I guess she really does care. She’s even been asking about my job more than she used to.” She shook her head with a rueful smile. “Oh well. She’s not your kind of person anyway.”

  “No?” Charles preferred to judge people for himself.

  “She says she’s a socialist.” Charles snorted, making Sandra smile. “I should call her. I just don’t know what to say.”

  It was a good question. What excuse did she really have for still being here, much less staying another night? Charles fell back on his tried-and-true approach: “Just tell her it’s none of her business, and that will be the end of it.”

  Sandra looked at him in disbelief. “The end of it? I’m not you. I don’t run my family, and I can’t just…” She stopped and her eyes widened. “Oh, wow.”

  “What?”

  She snapped her fingers. “You run the family. You make the decisions, right?”

  “Yes,” Charles said, fascinated. Sandra had struck him from the beginning as an intelligent young woman, but he’d never seen her connive before. She seemed intensely focused.

  “So…you’re worried about the family name, and you don’t want me to make any trouble. And…” Sandra looked up and around the hallway. “I said the only thing I wanted was to be able to finish the job at your house, for Arnaud Diallo Designs.”

  Charles pursed his lips while he considered it. He liked the general concept, except for one detail. “Make it my offer, not your request.” Sandra blinked at him. “That way it doesn’t sound like blackmail. I don’t do blackmail.”

  “But you bribe?” she said dryly.

  “Well, that’s more or less expected.” Charles rubbed his hand over his chin and thought some more. “So I made you an offer, which you accepted in good faith. That sounds workable. It gives you a reason to stay, as far as your sister is concerned.”

  “And for Arnaud not to fire me.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Right,” Sandra said, putting her hands on his chest and giving him a determined smile. “I’m going to call her. Wish me luck.”

  “People make their own luck,” Charles said. She stuck her tongue out at him, and then looked surprised at herself. He responded by holding her even more closely and kissing her impudent lips.

  “Are you this mouthy with all your clients?” he breathed. He’d teased her with that in his office, what seemed like ages ago. And he never teased people.

  Sandra looked at him, appearing dazed. Then her eyes cleared and she gave him a small, fond smile as she remembered. “I make sure my clients get exactly what they need.”

  He’d hold her to that. Charles kissed her again. “Call your sister,” he whispered, “and then come back to me. I’ll be waiting.”

  * * *

  After Sandra left, Charles did his duty to his own family by sending a quick text to Stephen, asking him to call Rosalie and check on her. She would certainly not speak to Charles if Bradley had already gotten to her.

  Sandra thought she had a difficult sister, but Rosalie must put Kristen in the shade. She’d always been high-strung, and their father had spoiled her. But when push came to shove and Robert Cliffe derailed her life, who had looked after her interests?

  Stephen texted: Rosalie hasn’t heard from Bradley.

  Charles blinked in surprise. Bradley hadn’t gone running to his mother with a sob story about mean Uncle Charles? That was a first. He typed: Are you sure? He left here late this morning in a bad mood.

  Rosalie’s worried and doesn’t know where he is. Call me?

  Charles
sighed. Of course Bradley would find another way to elbow in on the weekend. Best to get this over with. He returned to his office, where he called his brother and relayed the events of the morning’s confrontation, though he saw no reason to mention he’d lost his temper.

  “Oh God,” Stephen groaned at the end of it. “The family’s future.”

  “Don’t remind me. We’ll have to discuss that when I return on Monday. He must at least be placed on some sort of probation before I make any major decisions.”

  “Decisions?” Stephen asked. “What do you mean?”

  Charles imagined it again: Magister Enterprises, traded on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, where anybody could grab a piece. A hideous thought.

  There must be a better way. “I’m not sure yet,” he said. “We’ll have to call some sort of family meeting. Bradley must be reined in. We’ve let his nonsense go for far too long.”

  “It’s lucky Sandra doesn’t want to make a fuss,” Stephen said. “She just wants to keep decorating the house? Really? That’s it?”

  Hopefully she wanted a little more. “We’re lucky indeed.”

  “Formalize it,” Stephen cautioned. “Make her sign something. That way, if she ever changes her mind and goes to the press—”

  Charles clenched one hand into a fist. “I highly doubt she will.” Stephen’s silence told him everything. He could just picture the surprise on his brother’s face. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Good,” Stephen said in obvious relief. “If she means it, this is very decent of her. She seems like a nice girl. It’s a pity.”

  Girl. Charles thought that word more often than he cared to admit. He told himself to lighten up. At forty-five, he was hardly ancient. Most of his fellow CEOs were in their late fifties or early sixties. He’d been pushing his way into that crowd since he was Sandra’s age, and he wasn’t used to feeling like the oldest one in the room.

  However, he was still twenty years her senior. Their age difference wasn’t something he cared to dwell on. If it didn’t matter to Sandra—and it didn’t seem to yet—he could keep his mouth shut and enjoy his good fortune. He hadn’t reached the top without seizing opportunities as they came, even if other people called him unscrupulous.