by B. B. Roman
Learning to Trust
(Interviewing the Billionaire)
Part 1
Copyright 2012 B.B. Roman
Published by Bizotica
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains many sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your eBooks where they cannot and will not be accessed by minors.
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I slowly walked down the long cobblestone driveway, hoping that I'd made a good decision in coming here. He had ordered me to park quite some distance from the house, probably so I was forced to stare at the grandiose, monstrous structure as I walked. Mr. Starland was a highly eccentric man and a meticulous planner, one that most likely had prepared my fate long in advance. He was also very rich—probably the primary thing that had drawn me to him. Not just his wealth per se, but the ways that he had acquired it.
His mansion sprawled out before me, almost filling the entirety of the horizon, giving me nothing else to look at but his excessive housing arrangement. It was a gorgeous stone mansion, one that had an incredible matching awning that wrapped over the front door and overflowed in all directions. There was a subtle darkness right before one entered the house, even with the sun shining brightly.
All around were stone figures of gargoyles and other mythical creatures. I imagined his house would be great during Halloween, but also figured that he probably didn’t allow trick-or-treaters—especially not with the huge gate surrounding the property. Honestly, it just didn't appear that he enjoyed visitors. I walked between the creatures to get to the porch, passing through them like gravestones.
So what was I doing at this eccentric billionaire’s home, all by myself? I was a reporter, one that was always looking for a hot or controversial story to add to my catalog of work. Mr. Starland had inherited a lot of his wealth, but almost doubled it through his own efforts. His primary business interest was real estate, a family thing for sure. Everywhere you looked in the neighboring city, you saw Starland Realty signs attached to nearly every property for sale. He also was responsible for a large chemical company, StarChem, one that had fallen under a lot of public scrutiny lately. As was typical of most billionaire enterprises, the public only knew so much.
Illegal dumping, excess emissions, employee illnesses—the list just went on and on. In the space of only a few years, StarChem had gone from source of pride for the country to a global menace. I was here to talk with its shining owner, hoping to expose some hidden fact, some remnant that no other news outlet had grasped yet. I wanted to take the next step in my career—no, I wanted to take a leap, a plunge.
I had flown from New York City to the west coast for this interview, encouraged by my boss to take the time necessary to do a thorough job. If I got a killer scoop, it would mean huge things for the paper—and me. At 28, I already I had many big credentials to my name. I actually got paid really well—incredibly well, actually—and had received a number of awards for my work. That wasn't enough, however.
My parents raised me to believe that I was never good enough. As a woman, I had fought for upward mobility, spending the majority of my twenties single because I just didn’t have time for anything other than work. I missed many holidays with my family while trying to get a story. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it did not. It was hard to break that trance once I got into it, so sometimes my family became a victim of my lifestyle.
As much as I kept it buried inside of me, I was actually becoming a little tired of never slowing down. I hadn’t taken a vacation in years, instead spending my very few days off working on things at home. If I got a great piece with Mr. Starland, it could actually change my career forever. I hoped that my endless determination would be put to the best possible use in this case, allowing me to leave with a first-class ticket to a new sort of existence.
People always told me I was cute and that my appearance helped with my interviews, but I wasn’t one to accept compliments. I knew that my looks—and the simple fact that I'm a girl—might have been the reason I got sent so far away to do this interview. But that didn’t change my critical eyes when I looked in the mirror.
I was moderate height, with dark brown hair and green eyes, my body curvy and shapely. I was a few pounds heavier than I’d like to be, vowing nearly every year that I’d start going to the gym more. Yes, I would go to the gym—after I completed the Starland piece. I was serious this time. I could feign confidence in most situations, but I wouldn't fake this.
I approached the door, dressed in a one-button black blazer and skirt, trying to look the part of the professional. I almost tripped after not noticing the sudden rise in the height of the porch. “Great job, Marisa,” I said aloud. I stepped on the porch and looked back into the yard—it was huge, sprawling out for what seemed like miles. Was it really that far to the gate? My car looked so small.
I stepped up to the beautiful wooden door and gripped the steel knocker, taking a deep breath before I slammed it into the door.
Bam! The sound echoed wildly through the house, bouncing off the walls. It sounded like a cathedral from the outside. I guess that was why he didn’t have a doorbell. I stood there and waited, time crawling. I waited for several minutes, but still nothing. I was about to turn away when the door suddenly swung open.
“Ah, Marisa,” Mr. Starland said. “So glad that you could come.” His eyes burned into me, quickly looking me from my head to my feet. I immediately sensed power in his demeanor.
I wasn’t even sure what to say—he was handsome as hell, muscular and tall, silky black hair, strong jaw and facial features. He was close to 50—and he was gorgeous. “Uh, Mr. Starland, hi,” I blurted out. “Sorry, you surprised me.”
“Yes,” he said, big smile across his face. “The premises are kind of extensive—sometimes I get lost and it takes me a few minutes to get to the door. Please, do come in.” He was wearing a pair of jeans and a tight black t-shirt, one that hugged his taut physique.
I stepped up into the house with far more caution than I had exercised when stepping onto the porch—and immediately lost my breath as I saw the high ceilings and many rooms laid out before me. It was like a cathedral in this main room. The décor inside was just as gothic as the outside, something that I felt like I would need to ask him about at some point. “Wow,” I said. “This is really impressive.”
“This is the result of hard work, Marisa. Well, hard work and luck. I can’t deny the good fortune of being born into a rich family. My parents had me late in life, probably just because they needed an heir. And now I’m the only true Starland left.” He looked up lovingly at a photo of his parents, admiring it, despite the fact that he’s probably seen it literally thousands of times before. He showed a twinkle of emotion that suddenly departed when he turned his glance back to me. “You’re especially pretty in person, Marisa.”
I blushed, trying to keep my emotions under control. “Well, thank you. You’ve seen me before...not in person?”
“I studied your work. I would never let someone into my home that I didn’t know something about.” He smiled, his eyes once again burning into me. There was so much intensity in him, so much drive, so much focus. “You’re a good reporter. Very thorough. I was impressed.”
I blushed again. Why hadn’t I better prepared for this? I felt like a schoolgirl talking to a boy for the first time. “Thanks. It’s really nothing.”
“I don’t think it is, Marisa. I’ve read that you go…great lengths to get a story. I admire that. Don’t talk yourself down. You definitely shouldn’t do that.” He gripped my arm gently, squeezing it with affection, saying so much with his gesture. I felt vulnerable around him—and it had only been a couple of minutes. He knew exactly how to talk to me for some reason.
“Okay, okay. I mean, you probably know why I’m here.”
“Surely I do. Take a seat on the couch over here. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water? Whiskey? I have it all.”
“Uh, coffee,” I said.
“Right, give me a moment then.”
I heard him rattling around in the kitchen, moving pots and pans. I sat there staring at the inside of the house, fascinated by the size. What could he possibly need all of this space for? I guess this might have been his parents’ home, so maybe he wasn’t even responsible for the excess. But—
“Alright, here you are.” He handed me a drink with beautiful latte art resting on the top, a leaf. “That’s the only object I can make. I do hope it’s acceptable.”
I laughed. “Yes, it’s beautiful.” I sipped it—sweet, but not too sweet. The coffee was sensational. “Wow, this is great!” It warmed me as it went down my throat—just as his hand had earlier.
“I'm better at the drinks than the art. I’ve become quite the expert in coffee-related things. I know you asked for just coffee, but for some reason I thought a latte would be more appropriate.” He sat down in big leather chair across from where I was on the couch. “So let’s talk business. I’m sure you’ve got some questions for me.”
I finished my sip and tried to put myself back together. “Yes, yes, Mr. Starland. I’ve got many questions for you.”
“Please, call me Roland. You’re in my home with me, a guest. We don’t need to adhere to silly social conventions here.”
That hit me a little off guard. Here I was in business attire, ready to professionally deal with one of the richest men in the world. “Uh, okay. Roland.”
“You probably want to know about StarChem. Shame what happened with that illegal dumping in India.”
“Yes, Mr. Star—Roland. Are you accepting responsibility for that disaster? What are you doing about it?” I suddenly felt empowered, like I could dig into his mind. I felt like regular old determined Marisa again.
“That’s a big question, Marisa. I don’t think we can talk about that right now.”
Shit. He was already closing up. Time to try again. “What about the unlawful evictions that Starland Realty has been associated with? The banking fraud? The forged books?”
Roland sat there, staring at the beautiful, high walls of his house, totally unfazed by my questioning. Certainly a man this rich had dealt with things much more intense than my humble questioning. “Marisa, I know what you’re doing here. I think you’re moving a bit too fast. If we were romantically—well, never mind that.” A wicked smile formed across his face, one that held me captive, wondering what it meant. “I know that you’ve got all the time you need with me. Why should we spoil such fun on the first day?”
I didn’t even know what to say. How could he know that I had as much time as I needed, a travel budget that was near limitless (within reason)? Had he called our office and inquired about my whereabouts? This man was a total expert, at the very least. “Well, Roland, I—“
“I’m not comfortable with your business attire. This isn’t a job interview. You really should wear something more comfortable for tomorrow. Sexy, but too professional.”
I felt the heat rushing into my cheeks again. Why was I letting him manipulate me like this? “Uh, sure, but—“
“Marisa, I know what you’re here for. You want to expose something about me to the world, something hidden, secret. Dark, maybe. I like you, so I think I’d be willing to do that for you—if, and only if you’re willing to expose something about yourself to me. You know, open yourself up. I know what you’re like: cold and determined, a strong woman that won’t give up until she gets what she wants. But I know there’s more to you than that. I can just tell.”
Already he knew more about me than my parents ever had—and he had only known me for about twenty minutes. Whoa, Marisa. This was a lot. He sat there with a smile, watching me as the gears cranked in my mind, studying my body language. I shifted awkwardly and resumed eye contact with him. “Okay.” That’s all I could come up with.
“Good,” he said. “Tomorrow I want you to come back at the same time. I’m sorry to make this so short, but I don’t know that you’re ready yet.”
God, I felt so humiliated—he was right. I came in here, guns blazing, expecting him to just make my career. Just to flip on a switch and give me exactly what I wanted.
“Great. If we’re going to do this, we need to learn to trust each other. It starts tomorrow.” He stood up, his height towering over me. I suddenly felt so small next to him. “I trust you’ve already finished that latte.”
“Yes,” I said. “It was delicious. I finished it three gulps after you gave it to me.”
He laughed heartily. “That’s much better already, Marisa. No need to be so serious.” He took my arm and guided me to the door, bending down to gently kiss my hand before sending me on my way. “It’s been a pleasure, Marisa. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I said. It was all I had left. I stepped out of the door and started to walk the long distance to my car. At least it would be good exercise.
“Casual attire!” he called from the door. “And do park closer tomorrow.”
“Alright,” I said, turning to smile at him.
He crept back into the house and disappeared with the closing door.
I briskly walked to my car and climbed inside, suddenly sobbing after the door closed. “Goddamnit!” I shouted, frustrated and confused. I felt humiliated, weakened, vulnerable—and actually, a little aroused. That was the weirdest part of it all. Stress could cause strange things to happen.
I sat there and cried for a few more minutes, letting my emotions pour forth. I had interviewed people like Roland before and some of them had been total pricks. They wouldn’t respond and toyed with me, insulted me and made me feel stupid. Still, I could defend myself from them. They were like whole armies that could be conquered with a Trojan horse. I took what they gave me and prepared my defense.
Sometimes they gave me what I wanted. And sometimes they didn’t. Nevertheless, I was comfortable at the end of the interviews. I was used to the hazards of my job, used to the abuse that was sometimes directed at me. Today had not been like that at all. Roland's calmness made it even worse.
I drove slowly back into town, stopping at a diner to eat something. I figured that it might actually help me feel better. I had a whole booth to myself; it immediately reminded me of how small I felt inside Roland’s house.
I pulled out my laptop, using it to fill up some of the empty space, and looked through my notes about Mr. Roland Starland. It was all the same—billionaire heir, owner of StarChem, real estate mogul—and it didn’t mean much of anything. Obviously he had traits that weren’t easily described until you met him, a lesson I had learned hard. Still, why was I beating myself up? It had only been day one—and he agreed to open up to me if I opened up to him. In some way I had succeeded, right?
What had he meant, really?
I sat there pondering that question for a long time, just staring at my laptop. Was he a wannabe psychologist, an amateur that wanted to analyze me based on my past? Or did he want something more? The way
he touched me—it had been very quick and platonic, I know—had caused my lower belly to heat up and burn, tension like I’d never felt in my life. It was like his grip went beyond my skin, tickling me all the way to my core. That, paired with his good looks, made me very confused.
I left the restaurant not long after that, settling into my hotel room for the night. It was still early, but I didn’t really know what else to do in town. Besides, I still couldn’t figure out how I was feeling. I took a quick shower and settled into the bed, putting on a comfortable silk bathrobe and again grabbing my laptop. I found myself staring again, drowning in my own thoughts.
It had been so long since I’d been with a man, my career taking first priority over any romance. I felt like having a companion would require me to be vulnerable at times, to be open, to relax and care about others as much as I cared about my career. No, I hadn’t wanted that. Sure, sex would have been nice from time to time—but rarely were sane relationships just about sex and nothing else.
My workaholic mentality began halfway through college. Prior to that, I hadn’t taken school or work very seriously, instead doing the bare minimum to get by. I took a required writing course that happened to be taught by a female professor, one with a background in reporting. I immediately warmed to her and loved going to her class, finding that it was one of the highlights of my week. The only problem was, I rarely ever did any of the homework. I just couldn’t motivate myself to care.
She had pulled me aside one day, taking me to her office to talk. I still remember that conversation so well. She told me that my writing was great and that I was talented—and that I was about to fail her class. That conversation changed everything for me. She cared about me and wanted to see me succeed, doing her best to divert me from my current course of laziness and inactivity. Instead of doing her homework, she asked me to join the college paper, instead choosing to treat my reports as my coursework.