The Billionaire Boss Collection

by Penny Ward

  The first shade is the most obvious and the same one I’d seen at the bar: confident, smug, and witty, a true businessman of Wall Street. The second shade is pensive, a brooding and fractious edge to him that makes you think twice about getting on his wrong side.

  And then there’s the third shade, the one that stops me from hating him on most days and suggests that deep down, he has the potential to be someone else entirely.

  This shade embraces his sensuality, his compassion, his vulnerability, and his love of animals, notably dogs. I know, the whole dog-lover thing stumped me too.

  But he donates thousands of dollars to animal shelters all over the country, particularly in LA, where the numbers of dogs on the street and in pounds is significantly high. I didn’t think he seemed to be the kind of man who would bother to care about animals, but the wick of a candle is only as deep as you can see it. It’s funny how much you can get to know about a person in only two weeks and without actually ever asking them. Granted, I already caught a glimpse of Clint’s sensitive side that night we slept together. That night when he told me he wished he could reverse time and follow a different path entirely.

  “Lauren! Have you got that investor account for me yet?”

  I jump at his voice, my reverie shattered. “Ah, yes I have it. Do you need it right now?”

  “Would I be asking if I didn’t need it right now?”

  Okay, someone was missing another spoonful of sunshine in his coffee this morning.

  I pass him the manila folder from the in-tray and watch as he storms back into his office, flinging the file down onto his desk so violently that some of the sheets spill out to the floor.

  Judging by the yelling on the phone I heard earlier this afternoon, I’m guessing he’s just lost an investor, which means he’s probably going to be fuming for the rest of the day. Good thing I have that present to get in a few minutes—I do not want to be around for the rest of the fallout.

  But just as I turn back to my desk, Clint catches me still looking at him and shouts a muffled “What?” through the glass.

  I instantly feel myself becoming a beetroot again, quickly turning away and praying that he doesn’t come back out here.

  “Lauren!”

  Damn it.

  Here we go again.

  “May I see you in my office for a moment…please?” he asks sharply, holding the door open.

  I nod, get up, and walk in, coming to an unwilling halt just in front of his desk.

  He stands over by the windows, looking out at the city momentarily before moving his eyes back to me.

  “I apologize for the way I spoke to you earlier and for my behavior just now,” he says gently, but with his nostrils still flaring.

  “It’s okay—” I begin to say, wanting to get out of there already, but he holds up his hand to silence me.

  “No, it’s not okay. It was inappropriate.” He pauses and sits down at the desk, running his hand over his face like he’s in distress. “It’s no excuse, but I’ve one hell of a two weeks.”

  “Makes two of us,” I mutter under my breath and then immediately regret it.

  He heard me.

  “I bet. Hannah told me what you call me around the office.”

  I freeze, stunned. Hannah what?

  “I guess I can be hotheaded at times,” he continues sleekly. “Like the devil incarnate, right?”

  I’m going to kill Hannah. I should never have told her that the other day when we’d been by the photocopier.

  But it was a joke, and she’d laughed.

  What a bitch.

  “I…never said that,” I lie, blooming more scarlet. But the way he’s directing those scorching blue eyes toward me, I just know he can see right through me.

  “It’s fine, Lauren. I know how I can be. But a word of advice for the future, don’t go clucking to Hannah about your boss. She’s a notorious gossip.”

  Even though what he’s saying is serious, his tone sounds comical. Like he doesn’t even care that I’ve been calling him that behind his back.

  “Okay,” I answer curtly, still neither confirming nor denying that I said it.

  “Good. I’ll let you get back to it, then. Oh, and take the rest of the day to find my mother the perfect gift. Spare no expense and use the company credit card.”

  I gaud one of my best sweetheart smiles. “Not a problem, Mr. Townsend,” I say, before I leave the office, picking up my bag from my desk before heading straight for the elevator.

  This birthday present couldn’t have come at a better time.

  As I cross the lobby and head out into the open air, I breathe a sigh of reprieve. Hopefully that is the last time I see the devil incarnate before Monday.

  I’m not sure if I could handle any more of his prodding before then.

  Chapter Five

  An exclusive Roman Baths day spa package, a bouquet of pink and yellow tulips, a ridiculously expensive bottle of Gucci perfume, and a vintage painting from the high-end gallery that I had waited at only a few weeks ago.

  That is what I got Delilah Townsend from her doting billionaire son.

  I am somewhat stressed out by the fact that he may not approve of any of these gifts, but I literally couldn’t think of anything else off the top of my head.

  Except maybe a fur coat, but I didn’t know her size.

  Or a leather handbag, but I didn’t know her style.

  Crap…maybe I should’ve called him and asked.

  But then again, why didn’t he suggest it?

  Great, I’m standing outside his apartment door, listening to his footsteps slowly approaching and thinking that he’s going to blow a gasket on my ass for my shoddy decision-making.

  “Lauren,” he greets warmly, cutting a smile a mile wide. “Please come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  I wait until he closes the door behind me before I follow him into the apartment.

  We walk down a short hallway that soon opens up to a huge open-plan living space.

  And by huge, I mean the complete, wow-factor commandeering of my attention.

  In front of me, stretched horizontally across the entire apartment, are eight ceiling-to-floor windows displaying the glittering flanks of Manhattan, with the now-dark Central Park being at the very center of the architect’s design.

  As I step forward in reverence, I begin to imagine how much more spectacular this view would be in the daylight, like something out of a dream and far beyond the average person’s salary.

  So this is how the wealthy and powerful live?

  Nice.

  Very nice.

  And depressing.

  Suddenly my salary doesn’t seem too impressive.

  “It’s a pretty incredible thing to look at, huh?” he remarks, walking over to the stainless steel kitchen on the far left. He places two wine glasses on the frosted marble countertop and opens a bottle of red wine.

  “I…yes. The view is jaw-dropping, literally,” I splutter, taking a few more steps into the room.

  “What makes you think I was referring to the view?”

  I blush and put the gifts down on the long, meteor-gray dining table in front of the kitchen.

  “So, uh, I got your mom a few things,” I say, ignoring his question. “I hope they’re adequate. I, ah, went all over town to—”

  “I’m sure they’re fine,” he states, bringing over the two glasses now filled with wine. “Here, have a drink with me.”

  Do I have a choice? It sure doesn’t feel like it.

  “Okay,” I reply, taking it from him.

  “But don’t drop it. That’s pure Austrian crystal you’re holding.”

  I stare at him vacuously, clenching the glass harder in my hand. Is he being serious?

  “I’m kidding, Lauren. Relax,” he muses. “If you do happen to break it, it’s all right: I have plenty more.”

  Ha, good for him.

  “I hope you like red,” he then adds offhandedly, walking over to the first
of two black lounges by the windows.

  “I do.”

  “Excellent.”

  I continue to stand by the dining table, unsure of whether to take a seat by him or linger closer to the exit. I just came here to drop off the gifts. I have no idea why he wants me to stay and have a drink with him.

  “Lauren, come and sit. Tell me more about yourself,” he says commandingly, easing down on the lounge.

  I hate how imperial he is, how everything always seems to be executed at his will and his will alone.

  Yet at the same time I don’t want to displease him, so I go along with it.

  But why should I care so much if I displease him?

  He’s my boss.

  It’s bound to happen sooner or later.

  But the way I feel when he looks at me, when he’s not having a good day at the office or is clearly rattled by something, is more than a PA should be feeling.

  If I’m being honest with myself, I think that night we first met is influencing me as the days go on. I’ve seen a softer side to him and now I’m waiting to see it again—but for a reason I haven’t quite figured out.

  Despite my apprehension, I go sit opposite him, quaffing down a mouthful of wine on the way.

  Chapter Six

  “What would you like to know?” I ask, crossing my legs.

  The action of it does not go unnoticed.

  “Anything,” he states brashly, his gaze still on my folded knee.

  When I look away and fail to come up with a response, he presses me further.

  “How about we start with how you became so clumsy, then?”

  I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me now.

  And I hate to admit it, but it’s working.

  “I’m not clumsy,” I sigh, forging an eclectic smile. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he’s riling me up. “I just get a little…light-footed some times.”

  “Light-footed.” He laughs wittily. “That’s one way to put it.”

  I decide to just keep grinning and bear it.

  Surely he won’t want me to stick around for much longer?

  After all, it’s Friday night.

  Doesn’t he have some model to go see, or screw?

  “Okay, next question,” he says swiftly, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. “How about your mom? What’s she like?”

  Where is this line of questioning coming from? Why does he want to know all this stuff? It reminds me of how he’d acted that night in the apartment, asking me about where in the world I wanted to go.

  I hesitate before answering.

  This isn’t exactly a subject I’m comfortable with and although he doesn’t know why, I find his behavior quite untenable.

  Despite my attraction to him—the perfectly sculpted mouth and chiseled jawline, the azure eyes set ablaze, and the outline of his rippling muscles protruding from underneath his plain gray T-shirt—I can’t ignore the fact that I also find him superciliously intrusive.

  “She was…a lovely lady,” I reply briefly, my voice lowering an octave.

  A look of remorse washes over his face. “Was? You mean?”

  I nod bitterly. “Yes, she died when I was a teenager.”

  “Oh Lauren.” He winces, running his hand over his face again. That’s become a real habit of his lately. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking; I’m such an asshole.”

  I purse my lips and drink the rest of my wine. “Yes. You are.”

  My eyes almost pop-out when I realize the words have actually left my mouth.

  I bite my lip fearfully, only to gaze over and see Clint leering at me like he’s impressed by it.

  “You know, you’re about the only person I’ve ever let talk to me like that.”

  “I didn’t mean any offense. I just—” I pause midsentence, suddenly realizing how exhausted I am with lying to this guy all the time.

  He was being an asshole just now and he should damn well know about it. It’s bad enough that I don’t have the guts to confront him about the one-night stand we had.

  “Actually, you know what? I did mean it. You, Mr. Townsend, are an asshole.”

  There I go again…what in heaven’s name has come over me? Is it the wine? Am I tired? Is it the stress I’ve been under for the last two weeks? Is this PA position getting to me?

  “Wow. You’re a little pistol, aren’t you? Interesting.”

  Why is he still smirking? He should be firing my ass or telling me to leave. Interesting, after that outburst? Hardly.

  “I’m sorry,” I quickly say, getting up. “I shouldn’t have said that. I should go.”

  “No, stay,” he insists, sounding quite frank.

  “Why?”

  “Just do me a kindness, will you? Keep me company for a little longer.”

  “But don’t you think I’ve acted way out of line?”

  “Nope. I deserved it.” He pats the empty space next to him on the lounge, gesturing for me to sit down again. I really don’t know if I want to, but once more, just the allure of his eyes wins me over and I conform.

  I’m so tragic.

  “Thank you,” he then says, standing to refill my glass. He brings back the bottle and fills his too. “Now, will you do me another kindness?”

  “Um, that depends on what it is,” I jest. I may as well try to keep up the casual bantering. Now that I know he doesn’t mind it, I’m starting to feel a lot more comfortable around him. It’s strange; five minutes ago I’d wanted to run for the hills.

  “Will you ask me a personal question about myself?” he asks.

  The look in his eyes is the same one I saw in my bedroom that night, a touch of melancholia nestled in them.

  “Okay,” I say slowly, thinking back to his question before. “What is your mom like?”

  He sips his wine and shuffles back further onto the lounge, his gaze drifting sideways to the windows. “My mom is…beautiful, warm, caring, compassionate, somewhat vain, and just a touch overbearing.”

  I smile at his answer—it thaws me to hear him talk about his mom like that.

  That’s similar to how I felt about my mom too, even the vain part.

  I remember how I would watch her in the mirror for ages, marveling at how meticulous she was when she put on her makeup.

  She was so pretty.

  I’d always wished to grow up looking just like her.

  “And your dad?” I ask daringly, and then curse myself for asking it. Now who’s being insensitive? “I know he passed away a few years ago. So you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

  When he shifts unnervingly, I envision him suddenly getting up and walking out again, like he did in Brooke’s apartment.

  “No, it’s all right,” he says, offering a closed smile. “But let’s just say he never won any Father of the Year awards.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  What is wrong with me? I sound like a reporter in an interview, trying to invade his personal life.

  “I’m sorry, that was out of line again,” I apologize.

  “You say sorry a lot, you know that?”

  “Yes I know, sorry.”

  Even I laugh at myself over that one.

  “My dad wasn’t around very much,” he continues. “I’m sure you’ve heard the story before…father ignores son so son ends up hating father. Yadda yadda yadda.”

  That’s awful. He hated his father, yet from what I can tell he doesn’t seem at peace with that version of it.

  “I read that your dad was a real estate tycoon, but also that he did a lot for unprivileged children, donating millions to orphanages internationally. That’s something nice,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. Plus, if I didn’t say it, there’ll just be an awkward silence and that certainly wouldn’t be helping the situation.

  “Yes. It’s about the only good thing he did do, though.”

  I decide to change the subject slightly. I don’t know why it’s piqued my interest so much, but I want to k
now more about Clint and his family, and how they first came to be billionaires.

  “How did your dad get into real estate?”

  “My grandfather began developing properties back in the twenties. He named his company the Veda Company, after my grandmother Veda. She died of stomach cancer before I was born.”

  He pauses to swallow the rest of his wine. Then he pours another. He offers to refill mine, but I shake my head.

  More wine would be a dangerous move at this point.

  “Then when my grandfather died about twenty years ago, my father expanded on the company’s operations. Now we own over six hundred offices, forty-five shopping centers, fifty-five thousand apartments, four hotels, five golf courses, and three marinas. Way to go, Dad.”

  If I didn’t know any better and judging by his sarcastic tone, I’d think he’s half drunk.

  “That’s very impressive,” I say honestly before delving on. “But there’s just one thing I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  “Where do you fit in with all the real estate? I haven’t come across anything about you or anything in the office files that bares any link to real estate.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. I don’t deal in real estate.”

  “Why? I also read that your brother now heads the Veda Company. But why didn’t you want a share of it?”

  “You really have done your research, haven’t you?” he quips, but is looking down at his legs in a way that suggests he doesn’t like what he’s hearing.

  “N-n-no,” I stammer. “Well, yes. I did some research before the interview, as anyone would. I wanted to learn a bit more about you.”

  “And was it a good read?”

  “It was…succinct.”

  He laughs and rests his wine glass in the drink holder in the arm of the lounge. “Look, I just didn’t have any interest in real estate. I was better with numbers and so I sold myself to the devil another way. I signed myself up at the University of Dakota and did a double degree in arts and science—”

  “And then went on to do an MBA at Harvard, which is where you also first starting trading out of your dorm room,” I finish, proud of myself for remembering all of it.

  “Clever PA. I have severely underestimated you, Lauren,” he chides, picking up the bottle of wine again. “Sure you don’t want another glass?”