The Billionaire's Intern

by Jackie Ashenden

  What he should be doing was making her tell him her real reason for being here—if she was indeed the spy he suspected she was. It wouldn’t take much in the way of pressure to make her crack, certainly not given how nervous and hesitant she already was.

  Then again, that could be an act.

  He moved closer to her chair, watching her.

  Her eyes widened as he approached, her gaze flicking down the length of his body before returning to his face. Not a sexual look, he didn’t think. More as if he were a dangerous animal she wasn’t sure of.

  Good. Keep her thinking that.

  “Yes, I did want to interview you first,” he murmured, stopping not far from her chair. “Tell me why I should take you on.”

  She gave a tiny nod as if this was a question she’d expected. “Okay, so while I was at Brown, I majored in business and entrepreneurship. I’m very keen to have some practical experience to add to what I learned at college.” Her voice was firmer this time, as if this was a script she’d learned and repeated many times.

  Coached by Ivan no doubt.

  “I’m a hard worker,” she continued. “I’m also reliable, punctual. And I’m extremely willing to learn.”

  He circled around behind her as she went on, not listening. Because it didn’t matter what her strengths were. He wanted to know her weaknesses. They could be used, could be exploited.

  Kira continued talking, but he wasn’t paying attention, his gaze falling to her exposed nape. She had a long, elegant neck, pale and slender, and some blonde wisps of hair had escaped from the bun on top of her head, clustering there like down.

  Fragile . . .

  All of her seemed fragile. Like she was made out of fine bone china and one blow would shatter her completely.

  Something coiled in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t immediately identify. Was it sympathy? He didn’t think so. He didn’t feel things like that anymore, not since Katie had died. And anyway, what would he feel sympathetic toward her about? Her uncertainty? Her nervousness? No, he didn’t give a shit about that. In fact, she’d better get used to feelings that were unpleasant since life was full of them. He wasn’t here to sugarcoat them or coddle her the way colleges did with their students these days.

  He wanted to feed her misinformation, which she could then feed back to Cesare. Hell, perhaps that might be the way to get the proof he needed of his father’s guilt.

  Apparently, his father was very good at covering his tracks. The prick.

  Lorenzo’s gaze fell once again to the vulnerable back of Kira’s neck, to the wispy locks of hair there, curling slightly from the heat of her body.

  Another strange sensation went through him. Another kick. Another jolt. The inexplicable need to touch one of those delicate wisps of hair, to curl it around his finger, maybe pull it gently. Would she make a sound if he did? Would she gasp?

  What the fuck are you thinking that for?

  He went very still, momentarily stunned as a very distinct wave of heat washed over him. An unmistakable heat. And he realized that she’d stopped speaking, and that given the quality of the silence, she’d been quiet for longer than a couple of moments.

  While he’d been standing there staring at the back of her neck.

  “Is . . . that okay?” Her shoulders hunched very slightly, as if she’d been able to feel the weight of his stare. “Do you want to hear any more?”

  Lorenzo turned and paced back to the windows, keeping his back to her, detaching himself from the inappropriate rush of sexual attraction the way he did with all unwanted emotions.

  He couldn’t figure out where it had come from or why he should feel it for this pale, colorless woman. She was Ivan’s daughter for Christ’s sake, and regardless of what she was like now, he despised people who did whatever they wanted without thought to the consequences. As well he knew, since he’d been one of those people.

  Perhaps it was only because he hadn’t visited Sian for a while. Maybe he should give her a call tonight after work, see if she was available.

  “No,” he said after a moment. “I don’t need to hear anymore.” He turned around, pinning her with his gaze. “It all sounds good, Kira, but that’s not what I’ve heard about you from different sources.”

  Color deepened on her cheekbones, making her eyes look bluer all of a sudden, the intense delphinium he remembered. “What sources?”

  The question held a sharp edge. He ignored it. “I heard that you . . . didn’t take your studies very seriously, let’s say.”

  The flush on her cheeks became scarlet and she looked down at her lap, where her fingers were now pressing hard against the black leather of her folder, the tips white. “Oh, yes. That.”

  He waited, watching her. Was she going to admit to it? If she’d been an intern he’d been serious about taking on, he would have been grilling her much harder about her behavior. Then again, no he wouldn’t. Because he wouldn’t be taking her on as a serious intern, period.

  “I didn’t get the grades I should have, no.” Her voice was very quiet. “But, I learned a . . . hard lesson not long ago and afterwards, I realized I needed to change.” She lifted her head, meeting his gaze very deliberately. “Please know that I’m not that person anymore. All I’m looking for is a second chance.”

  He knew the lesson she’d learned, and if he’d been a warmer, kinder man, he might have touched on it, told her he was sorry, maybe even shared the fact that he knew what loss was like. That everyone deserved a second chance.

  But he was none of those things, and his losses were no one’s but his to know, and as for second chances . . . Well, he didn’t deserve one, so why should she?

  So all he said was “You better not be. I have high standards for those who work with me and you’re no exception. I don’t play favorites, Kira. And if you think you’ll have an easier time of it just because you’re Ivan’s daughter, you can think again.”

  Something flashed in her eyes, an electric spark of what could have been annoyance, but it was gone before he could tell for sure. “I understand,” she said flatly.

  “Be sure that you do. I expect you to be on time, every day. I expect you to do whatever you are told, no argument. We work long hours here, and I expect you to do the same. There will no time for your friends or parties, or whatever the hell it is you do with yourself after hours.”

  “I know what’s expected, Mr. de Santis. Believe me, I know.” There was a husky note in her voice this time, a slight rasp of something that caught at him, that pulled him. Was it defiance? Annoyance? Irritation?

  Jesus, why did he even care? He didn’t like it when he encountered opposition, so why that small spark in her eyes make him feel . . . intrigued, was anyone’s guess.

  “Do you?” he inquired coldly. “Then you’ll also know that I don’t tolerate insubordination. I don’t like my employees arguing with me, do you understand? I make the decisions, I make the rules. That’s how it works here.”

  Her mouth had firmed and he found himself staring at the shape of it because it was quite exquisite, all full and soft and pouty, despite the unflattering shade of lipstick she’d painted over the top of it. Perhaps she was going to say something ill-advised?

  He realized he was almost hoping for it.

  But she didn’t. Instead she looked back down at the folder in her hand once more. “Of course.” The husky, defiant note had gone from her voice, the words sounding toneless.

  He didn’t like that, though why, he didn’t quite know. Certainly, he’d preferred her to be biddable and quiet, rather than having his time taken up dealing with the dramatic outbursts he remembered from when she was a child.

  That loose lock of hair by her ear had slid forward and was now hanging over one eyebrow, the sunlight coming through the windows behind it making it gleam like a stripe of fresh snow. Beautiful.

  His gaze drifted down before he could help himself, following the lock of hair to her elegant neck, then down to the hollow of her throat
. She’d left the top button of her blouse undone and the second button looked like it was coming out too, halfway out of the buttonhole. She breathed in, her breasts pressing against the cotton, the button straining . . .

  She was so pale. A white statue carved out of marble. Sleeping Beauty waiting for a kiss. Yet he could sense that energy inside her, fierce and hot, like a fire burning behind on the other side of a closed door.

  What would happen if he opened that door? If he touched her and let the fire out? Would she remain pale? Or would she blush like a rose? Would the color of her eyes deepen? Would she burn . . . ?

  But no. He wasn’t going to do any of that. She might have absolutely no self-control, but he did and he kept his desires firmly in check these days. And besides, aside from the fact that she was potentially a spy for his father and his soon-to-be-intern, she was also pretty much the opposite of women he was usually sexually attracted to.

  He liked his beauties very much awake, rather than sleeping. He liked them confident, assured, and impeccably turned out. Not fragile and uncertain, with loose locks of hair and gaping buttons.

  Not as if all that was needed was one touch to make the fire burn high.

  Lorenzo turned back to the view of Manhattan, ignoring the hot rush of blood in his veins, sliding his hands into his pockets and clenching them into fists.

  Tonight. He would call Sian tonight.

  “You can go now,” he ordered flatly.

  * * *

  It took Kira a second to process the fact that she’d been dismissed. Her heart was beating hard in her chest, the sound of it echoing so loudly through her head she could barely hear what he’d said.

  She was still recovering from the way he’d stalked around her, standing right behind her, making her feel like nothing so much as a goat tethered to a stake as bait for a hungry tiger.

  He hadn’t taken his eyes off her, not once, and she knew because she’d felt the weight of his stare like a pressure, as if someone was pressing steadily and firmly down on the back of her neck.

  Once, she’d loved that attention. Loved his smile and the warm rush of happiness it had given her, as she’d handed him another folded paper crane and he’d told her she’d done well.

  But it hadn’t been like that now. He hadn’t smiled, and she didn’t feel either warm or happy. His attention made her feel like she was freezing and suffocating at the same time. As if she was being judged and found wanting.

  Remind you of anyone?

  Yeah, her father and the terrible interviews he used to conduct, where he’d call her into his office to discuss her latest report card, her latest failure. His expression had always been cold, unsmiling, and stern with disapproval . . .

  Kira, her gut churning with old memories, had barely paid any attention to what she’d been saying in Lorenzo’s office, the words just tumbling out of her mouth, afraid of what it was that she’d done to earn that terrible judgment.

  No need to wonder, though. She knew. Deep down inside, she knew.

  He must have heard about the car accident and her role in it.

  The thought made her feel sick, because even now she couldn’t shake the need gathering inside her. The need for his smile and the patience he’d once shown her as a child. The need for some kindness and a bit of care.

  But there was no chance of that, not now.

  She’d disappointed him the way she’d disappointed everyone else in her goddamn life.

  Then, as if to make things worse, she’d become very conscious of how close he’d been standing, and how she’d been able to smell his aftershave, a dark, sensual, sandalwood and musk combination. The scent had made her mouth go bone dry and heat turn over inside her.

  The contrast between his cold stare and the warmth of his scent had confused her, and it had been a relief when he’d suddenly turned and stalked back to the windows. The way he moved, fluid and predatory, made him seem like that tiger she’d imagined, and she hadn’t been able to drag her gaze away from him.

  She took a calming breath, staring at his tall, broad figure, starkly outlined against the brilliant blue of the sky beyond the glass.

  So . . . that was it? Had she screwed this up the way she screwed everything up?

  Her father had told her that she was to use this interview to make a good impression and that it was essential she do so. Because she was going to have to gain Lorenzo’s trust. Without his trust, he wouldn’t let down his guard and she wouldn’t be able to get the information her father wanted. The information that would prove Lorenzo was moving against his own father.

  God, she had to get this right, otherwise she wouldn’t be getting any money and without money she wouldn’t be able to set up those classes that she’d been planning on.

  It had been something she’d decided on after the accident, during those long hours spent waiting at the hospital while her friends had been in surgery.

  She’d reflected on her life and all the mistakes she’d made. The selfish anger that had fueled her as a teenager and those last few years of college. Her frustration with her father’s insistence that she get a degree, even though she didn’t have the academic ability. But she’d gone to college anyway, because she just couldn’t bring herself to refuse and disappoint him, even though everything she’d done in her life had disappointed him.

  It was as if she’d had this burning need to set herself up for failure, every goddamn time.

  And fail she had. Every exam she’d taken, even though she’d tried, even though she’d worked so hard to sit still and concentrate, to study and get good grades the way her friends all seemed to do. But trying hadn’t made any difference. It never did.

  It was easier to be the disappointment they’d always thought her and blame everything on her ADHD.

  At least until the accident had happened and she’d been given one hell of a wake-up call.

  She’d understood then that being a disappointment didn’t absolve her from responsibility, neither did her condition. It had been her decision to get into her car and drive when she’d been so damn angry she hadn’t been able to concentrate, no one else’s. And if she wanted to make up for the lives that were lost, then it was also her responsibility to do so.

  She did want to make up for those lives, she did want to atone. She wanted to take responsibility for what she’d done, and part of that was her plan to help the kids who’d had the same difficulties she had.

  It had been Lorenzo, oddly enough, who’d given her the idea, way back when she’d been ten and he’d showed her how to make that paper crane. Keeping her hands occupied had calmed her mind, given her a way to manage herself, and so she’d expanded her original origami idea to include arts and crafts in general.

  If it had helped her, then maybe it would help other kids, too.

  Kira swallowed, her mouth dry, wanting to say something, retrieve the situation somehow, because she knew she’d screwed up, she knew it.

  But what could she say? He’d dismissed her, and pushing would have been what the old Kira would have done.

  She wasn’t that woman now. She’d never be that woman ever again.

  So she stayed silent, moving over to the desk and placing her folder carefully on the top of it.

  Then she turned and did exactly what he’d told her to do.

  She went.

  Chapter 3

  Lorenzo grabbed the expensive bottle of his favorite single malt, fifty-year-old Macallan, and splashed some of the amber liquid into a cut-crystal tumbler. Then he picked up the tumbler and walked restlessly over to the edge of the terrace on the top floor of his newly renovated Fifth Avenue townhouse. The view was directly over Central Park, and even though he loathed the heat and the waves of tourists that tended to flood the place over summer, he did like looking out over trees and green spaces.

  It reminded him of the summers he’d spent at the family ranch out in Wyoming, back when he’d been a kid. He and his youngest brother Xavier had been the ones who’d enjoye
d the rough physicality and wide-open spaces of the ranch, his sister and his other brother, Rafe, not so much.

  Once, he’d wanted to take over his mother’s family’s ranch himself, use it as a vacation bolthole when big city life got too much. But Xavier had beaten him to it. His little brother now owned the ranch and had retreated there permanently, along with his fiancé Mia, a pretty little thing Xavier had rescued from Manhattan’s mean streets.

  It had bothered Lorenzo at first, or more aptly, irritated the hell out of him. He didn’t get along with his youngest brother, didn’t approve of his careless, reckless life or his whole give-no-shits attitude. But this thing with his father had since consumed most of that petty annoyance.

  Christ, if he’d wanted a bolthole for himself, he could buy one. Not that he had any time in his life for vacations. Most certainly not now.

  Lorenzo leaned against the stone parapet that bounded the terrace, looking out over the deep green of the park. Dusk was settling in, the lights coming on, and the heat of the day lingered in the stone he leaned on. Ordinarily, he would have found it peaceful, but not tonight.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Kira Constantin. About how pale and colorless she’d been in his office. How quiet and uncertain she’d seemed. And how obediently she’d left, right when he’d told her to.

  About the restless energy hidden beneath all that quietness and uncertainty.

  He remembered that energy. She’d had it as a kid and as the pretty, wide-eyed teenager she’d once been. All big blue eyes and sulky mouth, filling every room she was in with her special brand of vibrant electricity. It had made her difficult to be around, like sharing the space with a furiously excited puppy who kept jumping up on everything and wouldn’t stop barking.

  There had been dinners he’d had at the Constantin’s where Kira had dominated the conversation, purely by dint of talking nonstop and then interrupting other people who tried to get a word in edgewise. Her mother would always talk over the top of her to drown her out, while Ivan would get tight-lipped and silently furious, the end result always being a meltdown with Kira rushing from the room in floods of tears.