Fierce (Not Quite a Billionaire)
Page 1
fierce
not quite a billionaire, book one
By Rosalind James
Text copyright 2015 Rosalind James
All Rights Reserved
Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc., http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/
Formatting by Dallas Hodge, Everything But The Book
I never asked Hemi Te Mana to rescue me.
It was true that I had a lousy job. Not to mention a lousy apartment and too much responsibility, although it was a responsibility I wouldn’t have given up for the world. That still didn’t mean I needed rescuing, if that was what you’d call the situation I ended up in.
And anyway, I knew that a multimillionaire Maori CEO with too many muscles, a tribal tattoo, and a take-no-prisoners attitude was way, way out of my league.
So, no, I didn’t ask him to, but he rescued me anyway. Because Hemi was fierce. But you know what I found out? So was I.
Note: This is the “book within a book” that Faith is writing in Just in Time: Escape to New Zealand. Hemi isn’t Will, but you may see some of Faith’s feelings about Will coming out...
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
Shaken and Stirred
Controlling, Arrogant, & Obsessive
Not Being Zen
Lean In
Gone
Stalemate
Special Delivery
Napoleon
Not a Butterfly
An Unexpected Source
Staying on Track. Or Not.
An Elderly Suitor
The Language of Flowers
King Tsin
Cross My Heart
The Spider Decides
Enchantment
Scavenger Hunt
A Wild Swan
Making the Rules
So Much More
Sightseeing
Lessons
A Weak Moment
Real Life
Coming to an Agreement
Ta Moko
Wonder Woman
Dirty Tricks
Pushing the Limits
First Class
Breaking the Rules
An Unexpected Visitor
Things Go From Bad...
To Worse
How Low Can You Go?
Complications
It’s What You Do
Nothing to Give
The Best Sister
Business as Usual
They Always Leave
Such a Lovely Gift
Letting You Burn
Epilogue
Just in Time—Dream Date
Just in Time—Sacrifices
Just in Time—Mr. Muffin
Links
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Shaken and Stirred
Have you ever noticed how, when you’re around certain people, you seem to grow an extra thumb, and not in a good way? That you say the wrong thing and trip over your feet, and the more you realize you’re doing it, the worse it gets? That’s what that day was like.
“You’re late,” Vincent snapped at me the second I hustled through the door of the photography studio.
I handed him his coffee. “Sorry,” I said automatically. Even though I wasn’t. Sorry or late. I just wasn’t as early as usual, because I’d woken to find the double bed I shared with my sister Karen empty, and to the sound of her moaning behind the flimsy partition of the bathroom. She only just made it out the door to school on time, insisting she was “fine.”
“Have you managed to forget since yesterday,” Vincent said caustically, “that this is, oh, only maybe the most important day of my life? Something else matter more? Your girls’ softball team win the championship and stay out late having pizza? One too many wine spritzers during St. Theresa’s annual quilting bee?”
“I’m here now. Put me to work.” I managed to get the words out around the tongue I was biting for the 2,763rd time, and stuck another mental pin in my Vincent-doll. The things I put up with for the twenty-two bucks an hour that, with the Social Security check Karen had been getting since our mother’s death, was all that was keeping us clothed and housed. Well, you did what you had to do.
Vincent shook his handsome head of jet-black hair and snapped his manicured fingers at the studio space beyond. “Get set up. White seamless. Go.”
You might think that working for a New York fashion photographer was glamorous. You might, until you took a closer look and saw that I was a gofer. It was my job to make sure everyone was comfortable; that coffees and bottled waters and exotic teas were available on demand for everybody from the photographer to the stylist to the models; to keep track of the shot list and move the lights and, in general, do whatever anybody said. There was no room for ego. But then, another ego wouldn’t have fit in the studio anyway. Between Vincent, the clients, and the models, there was always more than enough ego to go around.
Especially today. The first day of a shoot for Te Mana’s menswear line, the first time Vincent had landed this most coveted of contracts. As he’d told me again and again in the past weeks, this was his ticket. If I didn’t screw it up.
Like the assistant was the linchpin. Yeah, right.
I was hustling like always, keeping track of the models, half a dozen ridiculously handsome, sculpted men who were getting their hair and makeup done now. Checking that everyone had everything they needed, obeying Vincent’s hissed, frantic instructions, all while I kept an anxious eye on the clock as it ticked ever closer to ten.
Business as usual, until I set the shot list down for Vincent, and he reached for it and knocked over his coffee.
“Clumsy bitch,” he hissed, whirling, and I really thought for a second that he was going to slap me. Too late, because I was already moving.
I grabbed the roll of paper towels and dropped to my knees to mop up, and he shoved his chair back, caught my hip a painful blow, and sent me sprawling. My arm landed in the pool of coffee, the brown liquid instantly soaking the sleeve of my white long-sleeved T-shirt.
That was when he walked in. To the sight of my butt in its tight jeans sticking straight up into the air, my hair in my face, and my arm in the coffee.
“Good morning, Mr. Te Mana,” I heard Vincent say.
I took a couple final hasty swipes, clambered to my feet with my hands, full of sopping paper towel, tucked well behind me, and smiled. My hair was still in my face, and I reached a quick hand up to dash it away even as I was stepping back, staying out of the way. Staying invisible. And trying not to stare.
In this business, you get used to hype. Everything’s the most. No, the utmost. Everybody’s drop-dead gorgeous, and everything is fabulous. Except he actually was.
Hemi Te Mana. Wunderkind designer and, some said, ruthless investor, the man who’d assimilated lesser enterprises as fast as they’d run into trouble. The man with the golden touch.
And the golden skin. Or bronze, because that was the word. The perfect word. For a statue.
Maori, I reminded myself. From New Zealand. Tall and big and so clearly strong. His great-great-grandfather had been a warrior chief, they said, and it wasn’t one bit hard to believe.
He was shaking hands with Vincent now, a frown on his face. His amazing face, which seemed to have been made out of some different material than other people’s. Deep, liquid brown eyes carved by an expert hand; eyes that would surely reveal his soul if they ever softened. A str
aight nose; a square jaw and chin; high, strong cheekbones. It was a warrior’s face, proud and firm. And the finishing touch—those full, firm, chiseled lips that any woman with a trace of estrogen would have to imagine kissing. Or, rather, lips she would have to imagine kissing her, because if ever a man screamed, “I’m in charge” without saying a word, that man was Hemi Te Mana.
It was the way he stood, maybe. The controlled way he moved, or maybe stalked would be a better word, one that would go with his predator’s gaze. The way he took up every inch of space he inhabited. The voice he didn’t raise, because he didn’t have to. As soon as he’d walked in the door, the room had gone still, and I had the feeling that it would be true of any room he entered, anywhere on the planet.
His head swiveled, those liquid eyes widened a fraction, and he was looking at me.
I forgot to smile. I very nearly forgot to breathe as he stepped forward and said, “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
“Hope,” I said, wishing I didn’t sound so breathless. “Hope Sinclair. Vincent’s assistant. If you need anything.”
The eyes had softened the tiniest bit. He put out his hand, and I reached for his. Which was when I realized mine was still full of wet paper towels. I could feel myself blushing as I held up the dripping wad with a rueful smile. “A little accident.”
He wasn’t smiling. He was just staring. Burning me. My eyes were locked on his as he put that strong brown hand up to my face and brushed my hair back, and I’d stopped breathing. He rubbed his fingers over my cheek. And then he licked them.
“You have coffee on your face.” His gaze flicked down my body, over the brown stain decorating my arm, and he smiled for just a moment. Only a moment, but I saw it. “It’s a good look on you.”
He turned away again, and Vincent hissed furiously at me, “Go clean up. You look disgusting,” and I ran, and kept running all the rest of the day. While Vincent barked and swore, and I got clumsier and clumsier, and Hemi stood and watched. Until I looked up from my knees to find him gone.
So, yes, you could say I was at a low point that day I met Hemi Te Mana. But it wasn’t as low as I’d go.
Controlling, Arrogant, & Obsessive
For the past twelve years, my life had gone according to plan. My plan. Ever since I’d left New Zealand with my brand-new Uni degree, headed for the States and the internship that awaited me there, I’d known my course, and I’d followed it.
Until I met Hope.
But then, I did a lot of things differently before that day. Or rather, I did them the same way. I did them my way. I kept my personal life in shadow, for one thing, partly because mystique was good, but mostly because my personal life didn’t bear scrutinizing.
My physical presence was a different story. I’d seen the articles saying that I was a walking advertisement for my products, but that wasn’t the reason. Vanity is a weakness and a delusion, like love. I knew that my appearance, like my intelligence, was nothing more than a gift bequeathed by my ancestors, a gift it was my responsibility to hone. I’d built up a naturally strong body the same way I’d built up my company, and for the same reasons. If we were both powerhouses, that was because winning was the only option. Close didn’t count, and second place was for losers. You could call it my philosophy.
I didn’t get photographed for my ads, of course. I left that to the models, which was why I was there that day for the kickoff shoot for my new underwear line. I always came to the first day to make sure they did it right. I knew some people called me controlling. Arrogant. Obsessive. As if any of that were a bad thing.
Now, I stood in one corner of the spacious studio and kept an eye on the slow progress before me. They’d be shooting outdoors tomorrow, with Central Park in the background, but I wouldn’t be around for that. No need. Anyway, I could see Central Park anytime from the windows of my Manhattan penthouse.
My fingers flew, checking and responding to the messages on my phone as I waited for the crew to finish their endless fiddling. I indulged one brief flash of annoyance at Galway not being ready for the ten o’clock shooting schedule I’d specified, then let it go and concentrated instead on the task at hand. Annoyance wouldn’t help right now, and I never indulged in unnecessary or unhelpful emotion. My assistant would be reaming him out after I left. That was what he was there for. Instead, I typed out a quick answer to my VP of Finance about the upcoming bond issue, then moved on to a question from Martine in Publicity about the Paris show. She thought she was short-staffed, but everybody always thought that, when the reality was that they didn’t want to do what it took to get the work done. So I texted back,
Make it happen anyway.
and moved on.
My attention kept straying, though, and that was completely unlike me. It was the girl setting up the camera who was doing it. She seemed too small for the task of hauling those tripods and umbrellas around, and I had to restrain myself from going over to help her. She was as fragile as a flower, her pale-blonde hair falling in a soft cloud to just below her narrow shoulders, her little face a perfect heart dominated by enormous blue-green eyes.
And then there was that mouth. Surely, that mouth had been created for a man to use. I remembered the way her lips had parted when I’d touched her. The way I’d been able to feel her heart fluttering, even when I wasn’t touching her at all, and the kick of pure lust it had given me, a shot straight to the groin. When I’d licked my fingers, and she’d watched me do it—the connection had been as strong and sharp as a lightning bolt.
And when she was on her hands and knees, crawling to plug in the cords…I lost my train of thought entirely, my fingers and mind both stilling as they never did, taken over by one thought.
I want that.
“Hope!” Vincent Galway, the prima donna behind the camera, was barking again now. When I’d first met him, I’d appreciated his brusqueness, his cold insistence on perfection. I’d been accused of possessing exactly those same qualities often enough. Now, it was making the hot rage rise, and I couldn’t afford that.
“Hurry up with those lights,” Galway ordered. “Mr. Te Mana is waiting.”
She bit her lower lip, and it trembled a little as the delicate color rose in her porcelain cheeks. “Sorry,” she said. “One moment.” Her fingers were fumbling, and I somehow knew that she needed this job. That she couldn’t afford to fail.
Nobody should be treating her like that. Nobody should be doing anything to her. Nobody but me.
Not Being Zen
My heels tapped on the echoing marble of the lobby floor. I couldn’t help a hasty glance down to make sure the black marker I’d used to cover up the last-minute nick in my good pumps had done its job. Yep. Unless somebody was really staring, I was golden. And thanks to the beauty of consignment stores, the rest of my outfit would pass muster, too. Maybe. Barely.
Note One. Be Positive.
I stepped into an open elevator and pushed the button for the 48th floor. The elegant brushed-nickel doors whispered shut, and my stomach dropped as fast as the car ascended. It wasn’t just the ride doing it to me, either.
One nervous hand ran over the waistband of my severe black skirt—simple and secondhand, but, like the jacket, Chanel all the same—making sure my white blouse—from Target—was still neatly tucked in. I wished the ride would take a little longer. We were already on 11, and I needed to breathe.
Note Two. Be Zen. I breathe with the universe.
Who was I kidding? I breathed like a panicked horse. All right, then, breathe like a less panicked horse.
My hands were sweating, and I fumbled in my purse for a tissue. Note Three. Wipe hands discreetly on skirt as approach Ms. Hiring Manager. Whose name I suddenly couldn’t remember. Martine Devereaux. Martine Devereaux. Ms. Devereaux.
I wiped my hands, glanced up at the security cameras, and waved. Hi, guys. They were probably used to watching terrified job applicants trying to get it together on the elevator. Probably their big entertainment.
No. A lifetime of Vincent wasn’t happening. This was the turning point. It would be this, or it would be…something. I wasn’t going to be stuck in this rut forever.
They all wanted somebody with a college degree, that was the problem. There was no place on their forms to explain that when other young women had been going to parties and studying for finals, I’d been taking care of other things. Or that I would work harder than anybody they could hire. I learn fast, and I never make the same mistake twice.