by C Standing
“Fuck that.” She smacks my shoulder. “Go, do it. This is your big chance.”
“You think I should do it?”
“Uh, do bears shit in the woods.” She says, like that clarifies everything. “Fuck yes, you should go. In fact, I’ll be pissed at you if you don’t.”
Wait, what?
“You’ll be pissed at me?”
Placing her hand over mine, she says, “Go to New York.”
I nibble on my lip. “You don’t think I’m being ridiculous?”
“Go to New York, woman. Do a little retail therapy. Go sightseeing. Find some sexy New Yorker to bang your brains out.” She laughs and I know it’s genuine. “Or spend the entire time in your hotel room, eating junk food and binging on TV. Whatever makes you happy. But at least go and experience it. You’ll only regret it if you don’t.”
Something not too dissimilar to excitement flares in my veins. “You really think I should go?”
Spooning another heap of eggs into her mouth, she grins and winks. “Get your ass on that plane, bestie.”
“Daddy will be home soon, sweetheart,” I say into the phone, my chest tightening when I hear my three-year-old’s heart-breaking sobs. “Don’t cry, angel.” The fact I’m the reason behind her tears, guts me. When she was born, I swore on my life that I’d end anyone who ever brought tears to her beautiful blue eyes, and the fact I’m the reason behind them now, kills me. Leaving her for long periods is excruciating, and I hate doing it, but in my line of work, it’s unavoidable.
“Miss you, Daddy,” Skylar whimpers.
“I miss you too, sweetheart.” I'd taken the red-eye out of LAX to New York last night, so that I could stay to give her a bath and put her to bed. But it’s not enough. I want to be there with her all the time.
Thick snow blankets the city, and more falls in a heavy flurry from the sky as my driver stops for a red light.
“I’ll see you on Saturday, okay?” I tell her. “You be a good girl for Darla, and I’ll bring you back something special.” Darla is my live-in nanny and she’s an absolute god-send.
“Okay, Daddy.” She sniffles, and I wish I could be there to wipe her tears. Hell, scratch that—I wish I could be there, period. Then there would be no need for her tears.
It’s moments like this when I have to remind myself why I got into this business. Taking over from my father at Blackley Inc. had always been in the cards for me. I’d been groomed and taught from a young age to know the ins and outs of the business, starting from the ground up. When my father retired at the spritely age of sixty, it was only fitting that I resumed his role.
A role I’ve mastered for over twenty years.
Being the CEO of Blackley Inc. may have given me the wealth beyond my means, but the relentless travelling, and being away from home takes me away from the people I love.
“Sir, we’re almost there,” Philip, my driver, says through the car’s intercom.
“I’ll call you later, sweetheart. Daddy loves you.”
“Love you too, Daddy.”
Ending the call, I let out a sigh and toss my phone on the leather seat beside me, and drop my head back against the rest. Closing my eyes, I press my thumbs to my temples, trying to relief some of the pressure building.
I haven’t slept since Friday and it’s now Sunday. I’m maxed-out, stressed beyond belief, and running on empty.
Thank fuck for caffeine.
“How long until my meeting with Andrews?” I ask my personal assistant, Patsy.
Devlin Andrews is a long-time shareholder in the Blackley Towers franchise, and a complete thorn in my side. Nothing is ever fucking good enough for him.
With her iPad in hand, Pasty pushes the bridge of her cat-eye glasses further up her nose, ready for action. Her nimble fingers fly over the screen as she checks my daily itinerary.
“Your next appointment is at 11am,” she replies in her usual monotonic voice.
I glance down at my Rolex.
8.55am.
I give a terse nod in response. “Please ensure my schedule is kept clear until then. I’ll be otherwise engaged for an hour or so, and I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Of course, sir.”
My phone vibrates on the leather interior beside me, and I groan when I see the caller ID.
Sadie Cavendish.
Fuck. I don’t have the time or patience to deal with her today.
Sighing, I let it go to voicemail and drop my head back against the rest.
“Miss Cavendish is requesting your presence at Le Bernardin tonight. Shall I tell her you’re otherwise engaged?”
“Yes. Please.”
The streets are buzzing with commuters and tourists as Philip turns right onto Fifth Avenue, where Blackley Tower stands pride of place overlooking the renowned Central Park. The fifty-two-story skyscraper boasts over one-hundred-and-seventy hotel units, and over a hundred residential condominiums. The hotel owns ten eateries, including the signature restaurant bearing the name of its award-winning chef, Hubert Ducasse.
Blackley Tower possesses a luxury spa, catering to the needs of both our male and female guests. A health club, with a heated indoor swimming pool, steam rooms, saunas, and a team of gifted and well-studied yoga instructors.
Philip pulls into the guest drop-off zone in front of the building, and I grab my briefcase and climb out.
Stepping out, the icy bite of New York’s current snowstorm hits me head-on as I secure my jacket.
Aaron, one of the hotel’s newest and youngest recruits, grabs our luggage from the car, and I take a second to absorb the majesty of this integral cog in my empire. My gaze roams to the gigantic golden lettering at the top of the hotel bearing my family name. I own hundreds of businesses and real estate around the world, but this one holds a special place in my heart.
This is where it all began.
The flagship of my father’s legacy.
Standing at over one-hundred-and-seventy meters, Blackley Tower engulfs and surpasses every building around it.
Exactly the way my father wanted it.
Taking out two hundred-dollar bills, I slip one in Aaron’s pocket.
“Thank you, sir.” He dips his head in gratitude.
I give a terse nod in response. “Keep up the good work.”
Placed either side of the entrance, are two twenty foot tall Christmas trees, and suspended in the window above is a huge wreath hung for the festive season.
“Mr. Blackley,” Harold, the seventy-something doorman who’s been here longer than me, greets as he opens the door. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“Harold,” I address the older man. “How’s Celeste?”
“Perfect as always, sir.”
The besotted smile on his face at the mention of his wife has something painful tugging in my chest, but I push it aside.
At fifty-one, I’ve resigned myself to the rather somber reality that love isn’t in the cards for me.
I’ve had my fair share of supermodels, actresses, and singers. But relationships have been few and far between. The women I dated only used me for one thing: a way to further their career.
They never actually took the time to get to know me—to care about me.
For a while, the bachelor lifestyle and all the benefits that came with it, suited me sufficiently. I was young, handsome, and rich—a pussy magnet to most of the fortune hunters strolling L.A., and I was more than content to fuck my way through Hollywood.
But there comes a certain point when that shit starts getting old. For me, it was when my son, Christian, was born.
I’ll be the first to admit that there was no love lost between his mother and I. The night of Christian’s conception was a drunken and irresponsible mistake. I love my son more than life, but if I could choose a different mother for him, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
We’d met one night at a party in Manhattan, thrown by a mutual friend of ours. The second I stepped in the room, I felt her eyes on. At first I
had no intention of ending the night with her, but I’m a red-blooded guy, and it had been a while since I’d last gotten laid.
I’d bought her a drink, we’d shared a kiss, and one thing led to another. Nine months later, my son was born.
I know most men in my position would’ve cut and run, but despite my cutthroat image, I’m not an asshole. I was there that night eighteen years ago, I played a part in his conception just as much as his mother did.
Never one to neglect my responsibilities, I handled my own.
I’d had her move in with me, and I’d made sure to be present for every midwife check, every scan, and every Lamaze class. Our situation wasn’t ideal, but it was our reality and we had to make the most of it.
Following the natural progression of our predicament, I’d done what was expected, and asked her to marry me.
To everyone on the outside, we were the ultimate power couple.
Me, at the top of my game in Blackley Inc., and her being one of the most recognized supermodels of our time.
To the public eye, we were invincible.
Our arrangement wasn’t anywhere close to the way I’d envisaged my life would play out, but for the time being, people were satisfied with our façade.
My parents and my son were happy, that was all I cared about.
Everyone was happy, except for me.
“Good, man.” I slip the other hundred in his jacket pocket and step aside to let Patsy through the entrance first.
Once inside the lobby, I roll my shoulders and feel the stress of traveling begin to subside.
Patsy excuses herself to check in.
“Mr. Blackley.” A new face steps into view. “Welcome back, sir. My name is George Denver, and I’m your head of concierge.”
Eager to get all these unnecessary pleasantries over with so I can grab some shuteye, I give another stiff nod. “Welcome to the team, George.”
“Thank you, sir. We have your usual suite ready, and all dining reservations have been taken care of.” White-gloved fingers hand me my Penthouse key card. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
I open my mouth to tell him I’m good, when my attention is drawn to the sound of a distressed voice.
“Please tell me you’re kidding?” A woman sitting on one of the Chesterfield leather couches bites out in frustration, holding a phone to her ear.
George notices my attention has been redirected. “From what I can gather, the lady has lost her luggage.”
From what he can gather?
This asshole’s been eavesdropping?
My gaze sweeps over what little I can see of her, but the ache in my chest tells me I need to do something, help her. “How long has she been here?” It’s only then that I notice she’s without a coat, and shivering.
Christ, it’s minus fucking seven out there. She must be frozen.
“A little over an hour. Would you like me to call security?”
Call security?
Jesus. The guy really is a jackass.
Spearing him a glare, I grit my teeth. “We don’t treat our guests that way, Mr. Denver. Surely you were told that in orientation.”
He frowns. “Of course, sir.”
“Has anyone offered her a hot drink or blanket?”
“No, sir.”
That gets my back up. I give the woman one last glance before I turn my attention back to my soon-to-be-fired member of staff. “Let me get this straight: there’s a vulnerable young woman sitting less than ten feet away from you, who’s cold, wet, and upset, and you didn’t think to check on her?”
Clearing his throat, he at least has the decency to look uncomfortable. “No, sir.”
Un-fucking-believable.
“How long have you been here, Mr. Denver?” Usually, with my employees, I’m candid and relaxed. As long as they’re doing their job, I don’t have a problem. But clearly, this asshole thinks he can do whatever the fuck he wants and get away with it.
He shifts on his feet. “Seven months, sir.”
“Tell me,” I loom over him and cross my arms in an intimidating stance, “what is the one thing Blackley Tower prides itself on?”
George answers without hesitation, “Hospitality, sir.”
“And is leaving a woman cold and upset very hospitable?”
A guilty expression descends across his face, and he snaps into action. “No, sir. I’ll get right on it. My apologies.”
I hold my hand out, stopping him. “I’ll check on her; see to the other guests.
Swallowing hard, he nods. “Of course, Mr. Blackley.”
Clearly, I need to have a talk with my General Manager about the caliber of people he’s taking on, because that little shit doesn’t have a fucking clue.
Heading over the beverage station, I make her a coffee before walking across the lobby to her.
“I can’t believe this!” she whisper-yells into the receiver. “What am I meant to do now?!”
I hang back a second, letting her finish her conversation.
“Yeah, well, thanks a bunch,” she growls, throwing her phone onto the seat beside her.
“Having problems?” I hardly recognize the raspy baritone that leaves my mouth.
Startled, she looks up at me over her shoulder. The second she gives me those eyes, I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched in the stomach. “You could say that,” she mutters.
Holy fuck.
Her inky black hair is piled high on top of her head in one of those top knot things, with lose tendrils framing her oval face. Her striking silver eyes are a stark contrast to her gorgeous sun-kissed skin as they hold me captive and leave me dumbfounded. She has the most perfect full lips that call to my baser instincts, making me wonder what I’d have to do to get a taste. And from what I can see of her body? Fuck... there are no words.
I thrust the coffee toward her, and do my best to ignore the discomfort growing in my slacks. “You look like you could use this.”
She huffs out a derisive laugh, eyeing me and the coffee warily.
Sensible girl.
“I think I could use a lot of things. Starting with my luggage. Who are you?”
“Just someone who wants to help. May I?” I ask, motioning toward the opposite couch.
“Seems like you’re going to anyway,” she says with a nonchalant shrug. “And for the record, nobody just wants to help. Everyone has an ulterior motive. I may be cold, but I’m not stupid.”
Stepping around the table, I take a seat and edge the coffee toward her. “The only motive I have is making sure you don’t catch pneumonia. Drink it, it’ll warm you up.”
She raises a defiant brow. “Do you always push drinks on random women and order them around? How do I know you haven’t spiked it?” She leans back into the couch and crosses her legs.
My gaze lingers on those long, toned calves, and my mind instantly drifts off to how fucking amazing those legs would look wrapped around my waist.
Fuck.
My groin pulses to the point where it’s painful. I shift my weight, trying to cover up my rather obvious attraction to her.
“My eyes are up here.” Her condescending tone and the fire blazing in her eyes send a rush of adrenaline through my bloodstream.
And what beautiful eyes they are.
I don’t know whether to be insulted or impressed.
“I told you.” She curls her lip up into a scornful smirk. “Cold, not stupid.”
I quirk a lip at her stubbornness, and lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. “I assure you, it’s only coffee, but if you don’t believe me, I’m more than happy to test it for you. And trust me, I’m more than aware of your eyes, but everything else is just as captivating.”
“Coming on a little strong, aren’t you?”
Chuckling, I drop my head between my shoulders in amusement, reveling in the way this little bombshell gives as good as she gets, and feeling a surge of excitement rush through me for the first time in years.
I look bac
k up at her. “Forgive me, that was inappropriate and we’re verging off track.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whose fault is that?”
Damn, she’s feisty.
My chest rolls with a silent laughter. “Look...” I start, but quickly realize I don’t know her name. “Would it be entirely inappropriate if I asked your name?”
She crosses her arms, clearly not willing to give me an inch. “Miss is fine.”
You have to love her tenacity. “I’m in no way shape or form trying to order you around, or try and make you do something you don’t want to do. I’d just like to help, if I can.”
She gives me a stiff upper lip. “I don’t accept help from strange men in fancy suits.”
I steeple my fingers, unwilling to give up. “How about a friend?”
She gives a patronizing chuckle. “We aren’t friends.”
I flash her a smile. “We could be.”
Sighing, her hands drop to her sides in frustration. “Look, City Boy,” she hisses those two words as if they’re meant to insult me, when they do the exact opposite. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m having a rather shitty day. So, unless you can magically make my luggage appear out of thin air, kindly do me a favor and leave me the hell alone.”
I nod my head, musingly. “I may be able to pull some strings.”
Agitated, her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and my cock twitches in response. “I don’t want you to pull anything. Just leave me be.”
“You don’t accept help very often, do you?” I deduce, with a smile.
“You don’t know me well enough to make that kind of assumption.”
No, but I’d like sure as hell like to.
I catch Patsy lingering in the lobby, waiting for me, but I’m too engrossed in this little spitfire to care.
Something about her intrigues me, and I’m not sure if it’s that sexy stubborn sass that has me hanging onto her every word, or the way she clearly can’t stand to even be in the same room as me. The way she’s trying her hardest to brush me off has me completely transfixed, and it’s the weirdest fucking thing.
Women don’t reject me.
They fall to their knees and beg for my cock. I’m not being conceited; it’s the truth. But this little beauty looks like she’d rather gauge out her eyes than accept my help.