The Billionaire's Allure (The Silver Cross Club Book 5)

by Bec Linder

  “Very much, very much so,” Mr. Miller said, and slipped me a hundred dollar bill.

  I thanked him, tucked it into my bra, and went across the room to meet my fate.

  Max watched me coming. His eyes roamed over my body, head to feet, lingering on my breasts and hips, and I felt myself blushing. Infuriating. I was a grown woman, and he had left me. His ogling wasn’t flattering. It was rude. You didn’t stare at a stranger like that.

  And that was what we were now. Strangers.

  Too much time had passed.

  “Hello, Bee,” he said, as I drew near.

  I stopped in front of him, clutching the empty tray against me like a shield. “I go by Beth, now.” My voice was impressively steady.

  “I’ll never be able to think of you like that,” he said, gazing up at me. “You’re always Bee.”

  I didn’t want to have this conversation. I looked away from him, his earnest face, his gray eyes. My eyes fell on an empty glass on the table. “You roped someone into bringing you a drink, I see.”

  “One of those very nice waitresses,” he said. “Very accommodating. Friendly.”

  “You stay away from them,” I said. “Don’t get them involved in this.”

  He grinned, folding his arms and crossing his legs so that one foot rested on the opposite knee. “What’s this? Is there a this? I thought I was just some nuisance, a relic from the past hassling you in your place of employment, but if there’s a this—”

  “You’re making mountains,” I told him.

  “I don’t see any moles around here,” he said. “Beth. I’ll call you that if you want me to.”

  “I do,” I said firmly.

  “Beth. You look just the same,” he said.

  What a lie. I had been a skinny little thing as a teenager, underfed and bony, and now I was—well. I was a little chubby. More than a little. Curvy was the polite term. I didn’t mind it—I liked how I looked—but Max was a liar if he claimed I hadn’t changed at all. “Is there a point to all of this? I have work to do, but if you’re lonely and you want to chat, I can send one of the dancers over.”

  “Straight to the heart,” he said, clutching at his chest. Still that same flair for the dramatic. “Beth. I want to talk to you. Please talk to me.”

  I wanted to hug him, kiss him, punch him, knife him in the ribs. None of those impulses had any room in the life I had created for myself. The emotions were too raw and messy, too big to fit neatly into my quiet existence. I couldn’t talk to him now. Maybe not ever.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I have work to do.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Max

  If Bee thought I was going to be deterred by her frankly pretty paltry efforts to get me to leave her alone, she was tragically wrong.

  Beth. I needed to start thinking of her as Beth. That was what she had asked of me.

  Ironic, really, that I was willing to call her by her preferred name, but not to fuck off into the ether the way she claimed she wanted.

  The thing was, I knew her. She hadn’t changed so much, although she obviously wanted me to think that she had. She was stubborn, proud, and she would never give in without a fight, but she hadn’t told that terrifying boss of hers to bar me from the club. If she really wanted me gone, I would be cooling my heels in a holding cell right now, arrested for trespassing or stalking or God only knew what. General creepiness. Inability to take a hint. Instead, the man at the door had let me in without any trouble, and judging by the whispering and giggling that was going on at the bar, Beth’s co-workers found the entire situation amusing rather than threatening or inappropriate.

  Beth was putting up a token resistance, but she wanted to hear what I had to say to her. She was curious. She wanted to find out why I had tracked her down after so long, and how. She wanted to know who I had become.

  I was sort of hoping to figure that out myself.

  I didn’t leave the club. I camped out with my laptop and worked on spreadsheets, aided by the steady stream of rum and Cokes a red-headed waitress kept bringing me. After my utter failure on Wednesday night, and the equally frustrating experience on Thursday when I had waited for several hours before one of the waitresses took pity on me and told me it was Beth’s night off, I had come prepared.

  I didn’t mind the wait. Beth was so blatantly disgruntled by my presence that I couldn’t help but be amused, and watching her work was really pretty informative. She was in charge, I realized after a while. The other waitresses came to her with questions, and Beth would listen intently, one hand on her hip, and then shake her head, or frown, or turn to say something to the bartender. Once, I saw her speak with a man at one of the tables and then head off toward the office of the Terrifying Boss. What a woman that boss was. I would have happily taken her to bed if I didn’t think she would bite my head off when we were finished, like a human version of a preying mantis.

  And if I didn’t think Beth would be intensely displeased.

  She avoided my table for the rest of the night. I watched her delegate nearby customers to the other waitresses, and give me a wide berth every time she came out onto the floor, walking well out of her way to avoid coming close to me. I had unsettled her. She didn’t want me to be here, watching her work.

  But she didn’t have me thrown out.

  The bartender knew what was up and kept shooting dark looks in my direction, but he didn’t have me thrown out, either.

  So I waited.

  For hours.

  I worked for a while, until the spreadsheet columns blurred together into an undistinguished mass, and then I sat back and watched the activity around me. An upscale strip club was the last place in the world I would have expected to find Beth working, but after I saw the money that exchanged hands, the large bills that Beth’s customers passed to her, I understood. Her stated goal in life had always been to have enough money that she would never have to worry about sleeping on the streets again, and it looked like she had made that happen for herself. I was glad. She deserved the comfort of that security.

  Beth was good at looking after herself.

  Past midnight, I started feeling a little drowsy, and ordered a double espresso. The waitress who brought it to me set the little cup carefully on the table, and then bent over and said, “So what’s up with you and Beth?”

  Poor Beth. She hated talking about herself, and I was sure these nosy colleagues drove her crazy. “Old friends,” I said.

  “Didn’t she slap you?” the girl asked. “That doesn’t seem too friendly to me.”

  “You’ll have to ask her about it,” I said. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “Wow, a real gentleman,” the girl said, grinning. “Are you single?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. A lie, but I hoped it wouldn’t be for long.

  “That’s too bad,” she said. “You’re cute. And rich, right? You look rich.”

  “Tubs,” another waitress said sharply, passing by with a tray.

  The girl rolled her eyes and straightened up again. “Duty calls. You just let me know if you need another coffee.”

  “I will,” I said, amused. “Thank you.” What did looking rich entail? The suit, probably. Even I had to admit that it was a nice suit.

  Finally, at 2:00, the club closed. The remaining patrons staggered out into the night. The waitresses gathered at the bar to count their tips, and a tall, incredibly skinny man emerged from the back of the building and began vacuuming the floor. A few of the dancers and busboys gave me odd looks, but nobody asked me to leave, and so I stayed at my table with my three empty espresso cups and waited for Beth to crumble.

  She was still doing an impressive job of ignoring me, but I could tell from the set of her shoulders that the effort was wearing on her. She stood at the bar with the rest of the waitresses, holding a clipboard and gesturing with her pen. Scheduling, I decided. She really was the head honcho, it seemed, in charge of keeping everyone else in line. From time to time her head moved turned s
lightly to the left, like she was about to glance over her shoulder at me but arrested the movement.

  Come on, Beth. Any time now. Just give in.

  And then she did, good Christ, finally. She left the bar and came in my direction, a determined look on her face. Her braids were pulled back into a thick bundle at the base of her neck, and she looked young and vulnerable, her round face still smooth and unlined. She was still young. We were both young, really, although I didn’t feel young, and I doubted she did, either.

  Life had shaped us both. Worn us down like rocks in the river.

  “Hello again,” I said, when she was in earshot.

  “I don’t believe this,” she said. She stopped in front of me and planted her hands on her hips, so like my disapproving third-grade teacher that I had to hide a smile behind my hand. “You’ve been hanging out here all night, just staring at me. Don’t you have better things to do with your time?”

  “Not particularly,” I said. “In fact, I can’t think of a single thing that’s more important than what I’m doing right now.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” she said. “Look, Max. I don’t know why you’re here, but you can’t keep doing this. I work here. You’re causing a distraction, and you’re making me look unprofessional.”

  Fair points, but I didn’t care. I hadn’t gone through all the trouble of finding her just to give up at the first sign of resistance. I was determined to make her listen to me. “Just give me five minutes,” I said. “And then I’ll leave you alone.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Fine. Five minutes. Let me go get my things.”

  Beth had never in her life acquiesced so easily, and I was immediately suspicious. She probably intended to disappear into a back room somewhere on the pretense of gathering her belongings, and then slip out the back door and leave me in the lurch.

  So I followed her.

  She cast a dark glance over her shoulder at me as I trailed her toward the bar, and I flashed her a shit-eating grin. I wasn’t going anywhere.

  Everyone gathered at the bar quieted down as we approached. The waitress who had brought me my coffee—“Tubs,” if that was really her name—burst into giggles, and another waitress elbowed her in the side. Beth went behind the bar and silently, grimly gathered her coat and purse, her face expressionless.

  “Beth, we’re going out for drinks,” one of the waitresses said, with a swift glance in my direction. “Do you want to come?”

  “No,” Beth said, buttoning her coat.

  “You’re no fun,” the waitress said, her lower lip pushed out in an exaggerated pout.

  “You’re right,” Beth said. “I’m not.” She came back around the bar, raised her eyebrows at me, and tilted her head in the direction of the front door.

  Message received. “Evening, all,” I said to the gathered crowd.

  Tubs giggled again.

  I followed Beth out into the night. She walked a few feet down the sidewalk and then stopped and turned to face me. She hunched her shoulders, cold or defensive, and tucked her hands in her pockets. “So,” she said.

  “Bee,” I said, and winced. Habit. “Beth.”

  “You want five minutes?” she asked. “Here you go. Why are you here?”

  The question caught me off guard. I hadn’t expected her to be quite so direct. “Well,” I began.

  She cut me off. “I don’t need you reappearing in my life like the Ghost of Christmas Past. I’ve got a good life now. You abandoned me when I needed you the most, and now you’re back and think I’ll be glad to see you? I’m not.”

  “That’s not what I think,” I said.

  “Then kindly explain to me what it is you do think,” she snapped, eyes flashing. She had always been glorious when she was angry. “You want to get coffee and catch up, like old friends? You want to pick right back up where we left off? You think we’ll ride off into the sunset together and get our happily ever after? That’s not going to happen. I thought you were dead. You left me.”

  “I didn’t intend to,” I said softly.

  “I don’t give a fuck,” she said. “I’m done. You need to leave me alone. I don’t want you showing up here again.”

  Before I could respond, she turned and swiftly walked off down the street.

  * * *

  Every Saturday was family brunch at my parents’ place, and I was expected to be in attendance, come hell or high water. I dragged myself out of bed at 10, after not nearly enough sleep—I needed at least eight hours to be in peak form, and had only managed about six—and called a cab to drive me to the Upper East Side. I really needed to buy a car. I had more money than I knew what to do with; maybe I could buy one of those sports cars with the doors that opened up like wings.

  That seemed excessive.

  My parents still lived in the same apartment I had grown up in, the top two floors of a neo-Italian Renaissance monstrosity on 5th Avenue. My mother kept insisting that they needed to “downsize,” but I knew she would never be able to give up her wraparound terrace.

  Speak of the devil. My mother was lying in wait for me when I exited the elevator. The doorman must have sold me out.

  “You’re late,” she told me.

  I sighed, bending to kiss her on the cheek. “I’m not late, Mother. Brunch doesn’t start until 11.”

  “Your siblings are both here already,” she said, “which means you’re late.” She pursed her lips and examined me. “You look like you could use a mimosa.”

  “You know me too well,” I said, and she laughed and took my arm to guide me into the apartment.

  “Look who’s here,” she called as we entered the sunny breakfast room. “The prodigal son!”

  My father looked up from the newspaper, winked at me, and went back to reading.

  “I thought I was the prodigal son,” Jack said.

  “I don’t think Mother really understands that parable,” Rosemary said. “He isn’t prodigal just because he’s the last one to arrive.”

  “You children disrespect me more with every passing year,” my mother said, taking her seat at the foot of the table, opposite my father. “I won’t have it.”

  “But disrespect is how we show our affection,” Rosemary said.

  I rolled my eyes and poured myself a mimosa from the pitcher on the table. Brunch was always sort of a trial. Jack and Rosemary were nineteen and twenty, respectively, and still working out the last of their adolescent rebelliousness. I loved them both, but they could be royal pains in my ass. They both still lived at home, which was part of the reason I lived in Brooklyn. It was important to keep a water barrier between us for my sanity and their continued health.

  I wasn’t sure how my parents did it. My father read the Times through every meal, and I thought my mother probably drank a lot.

  “Now, Rosemary, tell us how your classes are going,” my mother was saying. I took a seat and loaded my plate with sliced fruit and cheese Danishes. If I looked like I was busy stuffing my face, my mother wouldn’t try to rope me into the conversation.

  “Moooooother,” Rosemary moaned, grimacing. “They’re going fine. You ask me this every Saturday. I’m not going to, like, fail out or anything.”

  “I know that, dear,” my mother said, eternally patient. “I’m merely expressing interest in your life. It’s known as small talk. Are you still enjoying your sewing techniques course?”

  Rosemary heaved a sigh. “It’s fine. It’s not that exciting. It’s just learning how to sew stuff.”

  “An important foundational technique for any burgeoning fashion designer,” my mother said. “And you, Jack? Have you decided on a major yet?”

  “No,” Jack mumbled around the croissant he had just shoved into his mouth.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full, dear,” my mother said.

  “You asked me a question,” he said, still chewing. “It would be rude not to respond.”

  My father’s newspaper emitted a noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter. />
  “Jonathan Archibald Douglass Langdon,” my mother began, and I rolled my eyes and tugged the mimosa pitcher a little closer. My parents really should have stopped after me. Three children was two too many. I needed to think of some way to convince my mother that Saturday mornings were an important time for me to do anything other than this. Maybe I could invent a satellite office in Shanghai that desperately needed my attention. The time zones didn’t make any sense, but she wouldn’t bother to do the math. My father would, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t sell me down the river.

  When the meal was finally over, Jack and Rosemary both left for their rooms and the delights of social media, or whatever it was today’s youth did in their spare time. I sighed and leaned back in my chair, and my mother gave me a sympathetic smile.

  “They’re no worse than you were at that age,” she said. “Better, in fact. Of all my children, you were the one I was most convinced would send me to an early grave.”

  I winced. Was there some sort of seminar for teaching mothers how to inflict guilt trips? “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

  “Never,” she said serenely. “It was the worst six months of my life.”

  With a great crinkling of newsprint, my father folded his paper and set it down on the table. “Not at breakfast, Marjorie,” he said. “Max is sorry enough. We all did stupid things as teenagers. Your mother told me a story once about you, your high school boyfriend, and his father’s Cadillac—”

  “She never,” my mother said, blushing. “Edward! Tell me you’re just—”

  “Oh, she did,” my father said. “I know everything. Every last embarrassing detail.”

  “I get the feeling I shouldn’t be present for the rest of this conversation,” I said. My mother only blushed like that about things that were somehow related to sex, and I really did not want to know about my mother’s teenaged sexcapades. Talk about mentally scarring.

  “Silly child,” my mother said, still shooting a warning look in my father’s direction. “Help me clear the table, please, sweetheart.”