Tech Titans: The Complete Billionaire Romance Series

by Swann, Marcella

  “No one that damn skinny works as a caterer. She’s a model, Judy. She’s with Elite or IMG or one of those agencies in New York. I don’t know.”

  “So?”

  “So…Judy, Damian Black is who he is, and he lives in the world that he does. It’s not my world. He’s always going to have women flocking to him, and he’s a man.”

  “Ahhhh, now we’re getting somewhere. It’s about you, not him.”

  “No, it’s about him.” Gigi couldn’t see Judy but could swear that Judy was smiling.

  “You’ve got a self-esteem issue, girl. You don’t think you’re enough.”

  I know I’m not enough, Gigi thought. “I live in the real world, Judy. I’m not gonna forsake it for a fairy tale.”

  “Gigi—”

  “Case closed. That’s it. Not gonna discuss it anymore. It’s a new day. I’m going to relax, enjoy my day off from work, and get back to it tomorrow.”

  “I just have one question,” Judy said.

  “Sure.”

  “Did he mention me?”

  * * *

  Toward noon, Gigi roused herself out of bed, donned her glasses, and padded down her hallway to the small kitchen. She pulled the jug of orange juice from the fridge and tipped it to her lips. No use dirtying a glass, she thought. Just more dishes to clean on a day off.

  Her laptop sat closed on her kitchen table. Gigi opened the lid and pressed a key, and her screen began to glow.

  She checked her email. She checked the Chronicle. She checked the New York Times. She checked TMZ and a few other sites for any mention of Damian. You’re pathetic, Georgina Stevens. Just pathetic.

  She left the computer and returned to her bedroom. She wanted a shower. She wanted a way to start the day fresh. She realized that on some level, she was viewing this day as a whole new beginning: the beginning of a life without Damian Black.

  He’d not called her and it was now past noon. He got the message, Gigi figured. He could see I was pissed. And if it confuses him? Who cares?

  Gigi stepped into the shower and turned the knobs. As she worked the water to a comfortable temperature, she couldn’t help wondering about Damian. He’d not called and most likely wouldn’t But what was he thinking? Was he truly baffled by her behavior? Or did he, as Gigi assumed, intuit on some level what had set her off?

  The next thought that came to Gigi upset her more than she cared to admit: What if he wasn’t thinking of her at all? What if he was, at that very moment, in bed with Karen? Or some other woman? He must know hundreds, if not thousands.

  Sexual jealousy afflicts most everyone, and Gigi Stevens had never been spared its ravages. But the more she thought about her now-dead relationship with Damian, the more Gigi realized that her sadness was not driven by the loss of his carnal prowess (though she recognized his gifts in that regard were substantial); rather, she had genuinely come to like him as a man, and to appreciate the size of his heart, which he historically had tried to camouflage with a lot of wild partying and frat-boy behavior.

  I think I’d fallen in love with you.

  Gigi mentally noted her use of the past-tense, as if her feelings for Damian were not a present reality. But they were. She knew they were.

  * * *

  Under the warm spray of the shower, Gigi’s thoughts drifted to her interlude with Damian in the shower of his Milan residence. His size, the marble smoothness of his body, the ease with which he entered the shower and took possession of her. You’re not making this any easier by consciously remembering this stuff, Gigi thought.

  But it made no sense to deny its power, she realized. It had been beautiful. That was the most surprising part of sex with Damian: its genuine beauty. One might have assumed, based upon his tabloid image of a hard-partying skirt-chaser that Damian Black would be a selfish lover, a one-thrust-and-done man-child caring only about conquest. But despite there never being any doubt that he was in charge, that the bed was Damian’s domain, he nevertheless was a remarkably giving lover.

  * * *

  The air felt cool on her naked body as she walked back into her bedroom. Her hair was still damp from the shower and Gigi was in the process of wrapping it in a towel when her phone started chirping on the nightstand.

  Who do you wanna place a bet on? she asked herself. Judy or Damian? ’Cause it’s gonna be one of those two.

  But it was neither.

  It was John Underwood. Her boss.

  “John?” she answered.

  “Hi, Gigi. I’m so sorry to bother you at home, especially when you’re not feeling well. When I went looking for you this morning, HR told me you were taking a sick day. I hope it’s nothing too serious.”

  “Uh, no,” she lied. “It’s just a…just a flu bug. Not even the flu, really, just a…just a…is everything okay?”

  “Well, I’m calling to pass along a message. I would’ve given it to you in person this morning, but anyway, here I am, giving it to you over the phone.”

  “Okay…”

  “Your mother contacted us yesterday. She said she was having trouble reaching you and wanted to know if she could leave us her number and make sure you received it. She got hold of someone who passed her along to someone else, who passed her along to someone else—who eventually came to me to ask what to do. I didn’t speak directly to your mother myself, but had Darrin assure her that we’d give her number to you once you came back to work today.”

  Gigi was silent for a moment. Her face felt hot. “Did she give any indication what this is about?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” said John, “but the impression she gave Darrin was that it’s important. Which is why I’m contacting you at home. Do you have something to write on?”

  Gigi rifled through her nightstand drawer for a pen and pad. “Yes, go ahead.”

  John read off the numbers, then slowly repeated them.

  “Thank you so much, John. You didn’t have to do this.”

  “Don’t mention it. I hope everything’s okay.”

  “It is. It will be.” Gigi tossed the pen on the nightstand next to the pad and put her hand to her forehead. “Thanks so much, John.”

  “Bye, Gigi.”

  * * *

  She waited a full hour before dialing.

  Touching the numbers on her phone’s keypad, shaking her head “no,” Gigi thought, Momma, what the hell are you trying to pull?

  Chapter Eighteen: Second-Guessing

  Damian couldn’t remember the last time he had been so wrong.

  He had helped build a multi-billion-dollar company on the soundness of his judgment—his gut. His judgment, insofar as it concerned business and tech trends, had never failed him. Even his judgment in dealing with women had never been so far off. He had successfully avoided the gold-diggers and blackmailers. He’d even avoided dating D-list celebrities hoping to ride his coattails to mainstream success. He’d avoided, truth be told, any serious entanglements whatsoever, preferring the relative ease of dating shallow women who understood the good business sense of dating, if only for a week or two, the Bad Boy Playboy of Silicon Valley.

  For his part, Damian understood the business sense it made, the economic incentive to play the media game. Yet, deep down, he was not implacably opposed to a genuine relationship. He just didn’t think he’d ever find one.

  The women he’d known—the actresses, the models, the singers—had never struck him as being serious about dating. And he was fine with that. He never took it personally. “Everything is transient,” he’d always said. “Nothing lasts.” That was as true for love as it was for hairstyles and music trends. The thought of never finding his one true love—he hated the term “soul mate”—was not devastating to Damian, but if he were honest with himself, he’d have to admit it did, on occasion, prick him with a bit of sadness.

  That’s why meeting Gigi had rocked him back on his heels, a sensation he’d rarely experienced. Usually, he was the one setting others off-kilter. But something about Gigi had struck him i
mmediately. Yes, she was beautiful, blah blah blah, and the dimple that appeared on the left side of her face when she smiled made him experience a kind of oxygen-deprived swooning he imagined was shared by climbers scaling Everest. But if her physical beauty had compelled him to introduce himself the night of the party, something else altogether had compelled him to pursue her. What is was, however, mystified him.

  He was surprised to realize that he’d never really pursued a woman before. The women—especially once he became the world-famous face of SXz—had pursued him. Men with money were accustomed to getting those things they desired. There was no malice involved; rather, it was simply seen as the natural order of things. I’m a fucking billionaire: I do what I want, take what I want, get what I want.

  But Gigi Stevens had slipped his grasp and remained elusive.

  Then why didn’t he pursue her?

  He wasn’t entirely certain. He assumed it was partly the fact that he’d never had to pursue anyone before and therefore wasn’t sure how to proceed. How do you purse a woman in the 21st century and not come off as a stalker? This was one reason among many why he’d always enjoyed his high-profile bachelor status: the women came to him. It took the guesswork out of everything. Made it simple.

  Georgina Stevens, meanwhile, was not simple.

  What on earth had he done to cause her to flip like this? Everything was fine until he’d left her room to go take a shower. When he’d come back, she was noticeably distant and cool to him, and grew only chillier throughout the flight back to the States. What had happened?

  It was a mystery to him.

  He’d give her some time, though. Some space. Let her work through whatever was bothering her. She’d seemed, after all, weirdly concerned about her upbringing. Like I give a shit, he remembered thinking at the time. I’m interested in you, not your entire family tree.

  Women, he concluded, were simply made from a completely different set of blueprints. They would never be understood fully, but he wanted to understand Gigi Stevens as much as she’d allow. He would wait a few days and call her.

  Chapter Nineteen: Late Stage

  Her mother’s voice sounded scratchy, like an old LP, and echoed weirdly in Gigi’s head. She’d not heard her mother’s voice in five years.

  She’d never allowed herself to envision a reunion with her family—and certainly never entertained the idea of a reunion under such circumstances. This wasn’t tearful, this wasn’t cathartic. This wasn’t even in person. This was taking place at a remove of 3,000 miles via what Gigi was certain was her mother’s flip phone.

  “We had to kinda hurry to find you,” her mother said, Southern accent thick and musical. “We knew it’d probably take a while, and we didn’t have a while to take.”

  “How exactly did you find me?”

  “Well, we called the college and they weren’t no help a’tall at first, but then we got patched through to someone in an office somewheres and they said they thought you was out in California now workin’ for some company makes games.”

  “We make learning apps for children, Momma.”

  “Well, that sounds right good.” Her mother stopped. Another sentence hung suspended on her lips.

  “Momma, why did you call my place of business?”

  There was a long silence. “I prolly should let your daddy talk to you.”

  Gigi heard whispers and the sound of the flip-phone changing hands.

  “Georgina?” Her father’s voice sounded ragged, worn, tired. Her parents were only in their early 50s but sounded 20 years older.

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Georgina, I…well, I been waitin’ for some time now to talk with you.”

  “I’m in California, now, Daddy. My life is very busy.”

  “Yeah, I ’magine it is. I ’magine it is.”

  To Gigi, it sounded like her father’s voice was almost too laden with sadness to leave his mouth.

  “Daddy, is something wrong?”

  Her father waited, as if gathering the words he needed and placing them in the proper order before using them. “Well, sweetie, your momma and I ain’t got insurance, and we ain’t old enough yet for the Medicare. North Carolina don’t do an awful lot for folks ain’t 65 yet.”

  “Is this about money?” she asked. “Do you need money to go get a check-up?” Good God, she thought, just say it: you want money.

  “Sweetie, I been havin’ some problems lately, some pains, and your momma finally done drove me up to the ’mergency room at the hospital to get checked out.”

  Gigi’s stomach began knotting. Holy shit, no, no, no…

  “Turns out they found somethin’ wrong with my liver.”

  Gigi heard her mother say in the background: “He’s got the cancer.”

  * * *

  Later that day, as she made plans to go back to North Carolina, Gigi wondered why bad news—any bad news—still came as a shock in the 21st century. Humans have been around a hundred thousand years or more; you’d think we’d have all the answers by now, like in a big book we can check out from the public library. It’s hard to believe we still have no idea how to cope with life.

  She spoke to Holly in HR and filed for a three-month leave of absence. Would TrekTek hold her position for her? Gigi didn’t really know and didn’t really care. The one-two punch of Damian and now her father had left her with an emotional crater at her core. She’d had a five-year plan to establish herself professionally in Silicon Valley; in another day, she would obliterate that plan with a single transcontinental flight.

  It’s an odd sensation to blow up your life. It’s an even odder sensation to intentionally blow up your life.

  This move would be the antithesis of everything Gigi had ever done. Her entire approach to life had been methodical, planned, sober, thoughtful, well-considered. She was a disciplined young woman not given to frivolity or recklessness. She couldn’t recall making a single spur-of-the-moment decision in her entire life.

  Well, except one: meeting Damian Black for lunch at 10:30 at night. That had been spontaneous and not particularly well thought out.

  Damian…

  Gigi considered calling him to let him know of her departure. Would he even care? Would a phone call from her announcing she was leaving have the unintended side-effect of highlighting just how little she really meant to him? In her current raw state, Gigi didn’t think she could handle hearing Damian say, “Oh, that’s too bad. Take care.” She briefly considered texting him the news, but quickly dismissed it as somehow even more of a dodge than not letting him know anything at all. Complete silence has a purity about it, she thought. It can be cleansing.

  There was, however, a call she did have to make, a call that she dreaded: to Judy.

  Judy Mixson had been her best friend since freshman year at Brown. A trust fund baby, Judy would never have to work a day in her life. She never had to go to college, either, for that matter, but she was brainy, loved learning, and, most of all, was hoping to be swept off her feet by a dashing, preferably muscular, humanities major. That Judy ever thought she’d find a muscular humanities major—or that such a creature was currently in existence anywhere on planet Earth—proved that even Ivy League brainiacs were not immune to the charms of magical thinking.

  Gigi picked up her phone, found Judy in the contacts, then quickly set the phone back down.

  I don’t know if I can do this.

  Men have their bonds and the rituals of their gender, elements of a shared masculine experience from which women are directly excluded. But it seemed to Gigi that friendship between women is an altogether different bond, a mystery whose veil men are chromosomally incapable of lifting. Women have a paradoxical advantage over men in this regard: the whole of our culture is built around the concerns of men, and thus gives women insights into men that men will never be able to reciprocate because the culture deprives them of the necessary vantage point.

  Oh, for God’s sake, just do it and get it over with.

  G
igi snatched the phone off her nightstand, thumbed Judy’s contact, and waited for the ringing.

  Chapter Twenty: Leaving

  “I understand you have to go be with your dad,” Judy said. “But I think you’re getting carried away with all the ‘I’m never coming back’ stuff.”

  “I don’t know,” said Gigi. “It’s just a feeling. If the past week has shown me anything, it’s that my future doesn’t lie in California.”

  “That’s nonsense. You go back to your dad, you look after him a little bit. Maybe he’ll respond well to treatments, the cancer will go into remission, and you come back to California. You’re acting like everything’s already written in stone.”

  “It kinda feels like it is.”

  “And you’re leaving out one big important factor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Mr. Yum-Yum.”

  “He’s no longer a factor.”

  “Because of the caterer?”

  “Judy, she’s not a caterer and you know it.”

  “I don’t know that at all, and neither do you. You just immediately jumped to conclusions and assumed he’s banging her six ways from Sunday. And instead of asking him about it, you deleted the damn call from his phone and stopped seeing him.”

  “Yeah, well, he hasn’t exactly broken an ankle chasing me down to get me back.”

  “He probably thinks you’re a loon.”

  “He might be right about that.” A pause. Then, softly: “I miss him.”

  “Well, of course you miss him. He’s yummy! Who doesn’t like yummy?”

  “You’ll come visit, won’t you?”