Perhaps that natural disdain is what sparked an intense dislike of Jackson among his peers. The upper-echelon of billionaires in America was a bit like a fraternity: everyone knew each other, and everyone knew each other’s business. But Jackson remained apart from all that. None of the other men—old white men, for the most part—were particularly cordial to Jackson. He tended to get the cold shoulder when he arrived at social events.
Which reminds me, Shelby thought, glancing down at the gold embossed invitation clutched in her manicured hands. He’s going to hate this.
The card had arrived weeks ago, an exclusive invitation to a charity gala at the Central Opera, a centuries-old institution in New York City and one of the chicest non-profit boards in town. Jackson had waved Shelby off, agreeing to attend but insisting that Shelby take care of the details.
As Shelby responded to the invite in the outer-office, Jackson had been entertaining the Greek ambassador’s daughter in his inner-office. Shelby rolled her eyes as the sound of the Greek girl’s laughter tinkled through the firmly closed door, but still wrote down “Alecta Eliopoulous” as Jackson’s plus one to the gala.
That turned out to be a mistake, because the next day, Jackson was out with another heiress, Ana Estes, treating her to a picnic on his private yacht. It looked to Shelby like Anna was in and Alecta was out, so she’d contacted the Opera and changed the name of Jackson’s plus one. Turns out, Shelby had moved too quickly yet again.
Jackson had a steady stream of dates that week, and Shelby eventually grew exhausted trying to keep up with which woman would be attending the Opera gala with him. Finally, she told the nice, slightly frazzled woman who was coordinating the benefit to just leave the place card for dinner seating blank and that she’d let them know on the day of the gala. Between now and then, Jackson could switch dates dozens of times.
It was now the day of the gala, and Shelby desperately hoped that Jackson had finally decided which dazzling socialite or heiress would be decorating his arm at that evening’s soiree. She promised, swore, that she’d give the gala organizers a name by noon. And it would look simply scandalous if Jackson showed up at the event and his date’s place card was simply blank.
The press would have a field day with that one.
The elevator dinged and Shelby stepped in, nodding politely to the elevator operator. The operator was a hold-over from Jackson’s father’s days of running the business. Although hospitality personnel went out of vogue sometime in the mid-1980’s, Jackson’s father insisted that his buildings and businesses maintained a level of old-fashioned hospitality and charm. Jackson, for all his arrogance and self-absorption, adhered to this peculiar aesthetic of his father’s.
“How are you today, Ms. Stuart?” inquired Perkins, the elderly operator, nodding his chin deferentially.
“I’m quite well, Perkins,” Shelby replied, following the pattern of social nicety. “Thank you for asking.”
They fell into a comfortable silence as the elevator sped up dozens of floors to Shelby’s destination: the Archer penthouse.
The mirrored walls of the elevator showed Perkins looking down at his own hands, so Shelby stole a moment to inspect her own reflection. A sleek, polished executive assistant looked back at her: curly black hair pulled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, bright green eyes peering through dark-rimmed glasses, a tailored black dress clung to her curves and a dreadfully expensive pair of black and white high heels finished off the look.
While some of her critics on the Archer Enterprises board might judge Shelby for her youth—she was only thirty-two years old—they couldn’t find fault in her appearance. She was every inch the capable, put together young businesswoman. Too bad her business involved babysitting the CEO.
“Shelby!” Jackson crowed as she stepped off the elevator. He was seated at her desk, feet propped up on the rich mahogany surface. She secretly wondered if he’d waited for the elevator to arrive before adopting the position. His pose was calculated in its casualness.
“Mr. Archer,” she replied. “How are you this morning?”
Jackson slid his feet off her desk, looking a bit irritated that she hadn’t called him out on his bad behavior. “Everything’s terrible, Shelby,” he pouted, pursing his delicate lips in frustration. “Those additional Archer Enterprises shares are hitting the market sometime this week and if we don’t snatch them up, we’re fucked. Excuse my language.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” she responded, stepping around him to drop her brown leather briefcase at her desk. Although he no longer had his feet propped up, he was still in her chair. “What can I do to help?”
Jackson’s bright blue eyes lit up. “I knew you could help, Shelby,” he said. “Could you please contact the Opera gala people—”
Shelby did her best not to roll her eyes, but couldn’t completely resist. Of course, even in the middle of a stock acquisition emergency, Jackson would be in a last-minute panic about the gala. He’d done his best to ignore Shelby every time she’d mentioned it and it wasn’t until now, the very last possible second, that he’d decided to give the benefit his attention.
“Of course, Mr. Archer,” Shelby told him, cutting him off. “I’ll be happy to provide them with the name of your guest.”
A slow, almost tentative grin slid over Jackson’s face, his blue eyes twinkling apologetically. “Actually, Shelby, I need to talk to you about that.”
Shelby raised one dark, perfectly groomed eyebrow. “What exactly do you mean, Mr. Archer?” she replied, her voice impossibly cool. When Jackson Archer started to turn on his boyish charm, she knew she was in dangerous water. Jackson’s charm was his deadliest weapon.
“I don’t exactly have a date for the evening,” Jackson admitted, his grin widening enough to show off his dimples. The dimples were the last line of defense in the Jackson Archer charm strategy. He must need a big favor if he was breaking out the dimples.
Shelby sighed. “But you’ve been seeing so, so many women, Mr. Archer.”
“I know, right?” Jackson sighed. “But they’re all mad at me or suddenly dating movie producers or, I don’t know, gone back to Greece or some nonsense.”
Shelby chewed on the inside of her mouth. Normally, she tried to hide any outward signs of nervousness or anxiety—such things were signs of weakness and there was no room for the weak in the upper-echelon of New York businessmen—but she allowed herself this one small bad habit. Especially when Jackson was clearly up to something.
“Do you need me to arrange a companion for this evening, Mr. Archer?” Shelby asked, but what she meant was Please don’t ask me to hire you an escort.
Jackson noticed her subtext, his eyebrows shooting up and his clear blue eyes widening in surprise. “No! Oh, god no, Shelby,” he replied, the grin wiped off his face. “Tonight’s going to be hard enough as it is without worrying about wrangling a call girl.”
Shelby didn’t even try to hide her eye roll at that one.
Jackson ignored her, plowing on through his diatribe. “I mean, half the board members will be there, judging me for not being my father. Plus, the head of Slaterson Inc. will be there and he keeps trying to get me to sell my shares of this hotel to him—”
Shelby smiled politely and tuned him out. Sometimes Jackson needed to rant for a bit before he got to his point. When he got like this, she just let him talk until he wore himself out. A short phrase caught her attention again.
“—and of course, fucking Andre Kennedy will be there, gloating about his prize for—”
Andre Kennedy was Jackson’s bitter rival. While most of the men of wealth in the city, and country, were old and getting older, Andre Kennedy was the only one who compared to Jackson in looks, success and, most importantly, age. Both men were barely over thirty-five, but Jackson had inherited his wealth and Andre had earned his.
Although Jackson never brought it up, it was clear that he was horribly jealous of Andre’s rise to fame and fortune. Where tabloids p
romoted Jackson’s jet-setting, womanizing habits, they lauded Andre for advancements in science and all the patents he held.
They were both on equal financial footing, but Andre was getting all the glory.
It drove Jackson crazy.
“So?” Jackson asked. “Will you do it?”
Shelby realized that she’d barely been paying attention to the stream of words flowing from her boss’ mouth. She’d been too busy thinking about the handsome, successful Andre Kennedy.
“Do what now, sir?” she stammered. Shelby hated being caught off her guard.
Jackson furrowed his brow. “Go to the gala tonight with me,” he clarified. “As my date?”
Oh no, Shelby thought. What have I gotten myself into?
***
The only positive thing about being Jackson’s date to the gala, as far as Shelby was concerned, was that she got to take the afternoon off to go buy a gown, and have her nails done and hair styled, all on Jackson Archer’s dime. And, for a favor of this magnitude, it was going to be a very, very expensive dress.
Shelby had attended a party with Jackson once before, back when she was an associate executive assistant to his father, Jackson Archer Sr. Jackson had been dating a B-list Hollywood actress at the time, currently creating controversy for a graphic nude scene, and his father had put his foot down and absolutely forbade Jackson from bringing her to the gala as his date. A screaming match had ensued and, although Shelby wasn’t privy to what actually happened, another member of the Archer Enterprises staff told her that Mr. Archer Sr. had threatened to disinherit his son if he dared bring the actress to the party.
So, Shelby had been dressed, groomed, and sent into battle as date/babysitter to the younger Mr. Archer. The night had been awful: Jackson had barely spoken to her and gotten absolutely sloshed at the gala. They’d left early and she’d loaded him into the limo with every ounce of strength and persuasion that she possessed.
Neither of them ever talked about it, but Shelby counted that night as one of the worst of her entire career. Frankly, she was shocked that Jackson hadn’t fired her when his father passed and he took possession of the company. She thought for sure he’d kick her to the curb, so she wouldn’t always be there, a reminder of that disastrous gala.
Yet here she was again. Going to a gala on the arm of Jackson Archer Jr., billionaire playboy and royal pain in the ass.
Jackson didn’t bother to get out of the limo when it arrived at Shelby’s building, instead letting the chauffer dash around the side of the car and open the door for her.
Shelby slid in, carefully arranging the layers of her newly purchased red Vera Wang gown across the backseat. She spent a ton of Jackson’s money on this dress, she was damned if it was going to get wrinkled on the way to the gala.
Jackson nodded a quick hello as she slid into the limo, eyes locked on his phone screen. He kept flicking his finger across the screen to the left.
“Hello, Mr. Archer,” Shelby said, to no reply.
She tried again. “You look nice tonight, sir.”
Jackson only grunted and took a quick sip of champagne from the flute tucked into a drink holder next to him. He remained silent, flicking his finger across the screen.
“Mr. Archer, is there anything I need to know about tonight?” Shelby finally asked. “Anyone we should make a point to speak to?”
This got Jackson’s attention, although he replied without looking up at her. “I think it’s the exact opposite, Shelby. We should probably make a point of avoiding everyone.”
Great. Jackson was in one of those moods, his charm replaced by spoiled rich boy petulance.
Shelby made a mental note to keep him from going to the bar too often, and allowed the limo to sweep them through the dark streets of New York and on to the Opera.
The entrance of the Central Opera was packed with reporters, paparazzi, and camera crews, all swarming around a red carpet. The Opera gala was the event of the New York philanthropy season, and anyone who was anyone was there.
Jackson didn’t take his sunglasses off as he pulled Shelby down the red carpet, stopping briefly to pose for a picture or wave to a camera. Shelby did her best to smile and look alluring, while the paparazzi all screamed at her for her name, wondering who she was. She simply smiled in return and kept her mouth shut.
Once they reached the end of the red carpet and mounted the marble stairs that led to the Central Opera House, Jackson turned and looked at her for the first time, his blue eyes widening in surprise.
“You look nice, Shelby,” he admitted.
Shelby wanted to smack him. She did not simply look nice, she looked phenomenal; she looked fantastic; she looked like a goddess. Of course, a self-involved prick like Jackson Archer would only come up with a paltry compliment like nice.
Instead, she plastered on her best obedient grin and thanked him. His eyes roamed up and down her ensemble, from the top of her carefully coiffed black curls, down the enticing curves of her red silk gown and down to the delicate tips of her delicate, crystal encrusted high heels.
Shelby started to turn to enter, but Jackson seized her arm and pulled her toward him. “I mean it, Shelby,” he said, gazing down at her. “You actually look…really nice.”
“Thank you, Mr. Archer,” she replied. Really nice was probably the best compliment she could expect to wring out of Jackson Archer on this particular evening. She’d better take it as a win.
Jackson tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and smiled down at her, rakish and charming. “Shall we?” he asked.
Shelby nodded. “Let’s,” she responded, and they stepped inside the bustling party, camera flashes searing her eyes.
***
The gala was bustling and soon Shelby lost track of how many times she’d been given the slip by Jackson. He kept introducing her to ancient old men and then slipping away while they were shaking her hand, complimenting her figure and asking what she did for a living. Shelby did not appreciate being ditched and left with crotchety old billionaires while Jackson snuck off to the bar or into a bathroom to text.
She craned her neck and peered around the ballroom, trying to look interested in her companion’s dull story about a real estate acquisition in Tokyo while scanning the crowd for her boss. Jackson was nowhere to be seen. Typical.
Another older gentleman joined their small conversation and Shelby saw it as her opportunity to slip away and make sure that Jackson wasn’t getting wasted at the bar, but her previous companion stopped her with a gentle hand on the small of her back.
“Shelby,” he asked, “have you met Mr. Kennedy?”
Shelby looked up, all thoughts of Jackson Archer vanishing from her mind. Andre Kennedy, self-made billionaire and one of Celebrity magazine’s Sexiest Bachelors of 2017, stood directly in front her, hand outstretched and dark brown eyes twinkling down at her.
Shaking, Shelby reached her own hand out, hoping that she could maintain her composure. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Kennedy,” she said, forcing her voice to remain calm.
“Ms. Stuart,” he purred, her name rolled deliciously in the dark velvet of his voice. “The pleasure is all mine. Please tell me, did you enjoy your time in Paris?”
Shelby was shocked. The first and only time she met Andre Kennedy was just over a year ago, when they’d both been at a conference held at one of Jackson’s hotels in Midtown. Jackson hadn’t wanted to represent the company, so Shelby had gone in his place. She’d only talked to Andre briefly and mentioned that she’d be flying to Paris for business the following day. He remembered. Impressive.
Impressive and flattering.
Shelby mustered her most charming smile and answered, “Unfortunately, Mr. Kennedy, my trip was cancelled, but thank you for asking. I’m surprised you remembered.”
Andre laughed—a rich, low sound—and smiled at her. “How could I forget? It’s not every day that I meet a smart, savvy young executive who just so happens to be flying to my favorite city
in the world. And please, call me Dre.”
Shelby smiled. “I’d be happy to, Dre, as long as you call me Shelby.”
“I think I can make that compromise, Shelby,” Dre replied.
Shelby took a moment to steady herself. While Jackson and Andre had the mutual distinction of being the youngest billionaires in America, Andre also happened to be the only African American billionaire in New York City. His good looks and sharp mind, combined with his ethnicity, made him the focus of almost every news station and gossip blog in the country.
Andre Kennedy had had several girlfriends, but all of them had been fairly long-term. He was almost the exact opposite of the womanizing Jackson Archer.
No wonder Jackson couldn’t stand him, Andre was everything Jackson wasn’t: he was self-made, a genius businessman, and a serial monogamist. The gossip blogs loved Andre Kennedy and despised Jackson Archer.
Shelby couldn’t help but feel bad for her boss. Jackson was handsome and charming, but spoiled. Andre was tall, with broad-shoulders and a dazzling white grin. His tuxedo clung to him like a love note and it was clear from the way the black wool draped over his arms and chest that he was built like a Greek god.
She couldn’t imagine that any women would look twice at Jackson with Andre in the room.
Shelby’s hypothesis was proved correct. She caught sight of Jackson, huddled in a corner with a tiny, skinny little brunette. Jackson was smiling down at her, but the brunette’s attention was fixed on Andre at the other side of the ballroom. Poor Jackson.
He took that moment to glance up and his bright blue eyes went wide at the sight of Shelby talking to Andre. Jackson whispered something to his tiny companion and then pushed past her, crossing the ballroom to approach Shelby and Andre. Shelby didn’t know what her boss said to the little brunette, but it wasn’t dismissive enough, because the tiny woman was trailing behind Jackson, pulled along in his wake.
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