The Billionaire Beast

by Jackie Ashenden

  His gym was high-spec and huge—he preferred having lots of room—and it had big, glass sliding doors that gave a view out onto the garden. He liked that, too. Sometimes he had the doors open, so that the scent of the plants and flowers drifted in, making him feel as if he were running through a field or a forest.

  Sometimes he kept the doors firmly shut, his attention on the big screens displaying different news channels and various social-media accounts.

  Today he kept the doors shut, stripping his clothes off and leaving them in a careless heap on the floor before going over to the shelf unit and drawers where he kept his workout gear. Changing into some workout shorts, a tank, and some running shoes, he went to fill a water bottle from the drinking fountain before going over to the top-of-the-line treadmill and programming in something ultra-tough and punishing.

  He was half an hour into his run when suddenly the door opened and Phoebe came in, a takeout coffee cup in one hand, a paper bag in the other.

  Nero didn’t bother stopping, merely glancing over at her briefly before directing his attention back to CNN and the news story he was currently following. “I asked for these half an hour ago,” he said flatly.

  “I’m sorry,” the sound of her heels echoed on the gym’s wooden floor as she moved over to the shelving unit and placed the coffee and bagel down on it. “I got them twenty minutes ago, but it took me a little while to find you.”

  The delay irritated him unreasonably. For the past three days, she’d been incredibly responsive so what was the problem now?

  “You should know where to find me by now.” He didn’t bother to mask his annoyance. “The gym isn’t that far away.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said repeated, apologetic. “It won’t happen again.”

  Yet he caught it, the briefest of hesitations before she’d answered him.

  He kept his gaze on the screen, every instinct suddenly zeroing in on her and that slight hesitation. “One coffee and a bagel shouldn’t have taken you that long.

  “The café was very busy and there was also—”

  “Fucking bullshit. That café knows they make my coffee first before they do anything else.” He turned his attention from the screen to stare at her, his irritation at the delay combining with the anger already seething inside him, becoming something hot, explosive. A missile seeking a target. “Give me the truth or else you’re fired.”

  She stood near the door, neat as a new pin in her plain black skirt and boring white blouse. Her hair was in its customary bun, not a curl or strand out of place, and her sharp features were—as usual—completely calm, not a single emotion on them that he could read. Her gaze, too, was unreadable, meeting his without flinching.

  “I had a phone call that took slightly longer than anticipated,” she said in that cut-glass British accent of hers. “As I said, it won’t happen again.”

  “A personal phone call?”

  “Yes.” No hesitation this time.

  He kept running, his feet hitting the treadmill hard. “About what?”

  A slight—so slight that if he hadn’t been watching her closely, he would have missed it—flicker in her steady gaze. “As I said, it was a personal—”

  “I don’t give a fuck how personal it was. Tell me what this goddamn phone call was about that it took up twenty minutes of your time, twenty minutes that I am paying you for, don’t forget.”

  Phoebe’s stubborn jaw tightened minutely. He may not have been good at reading the subtler emotions in people, but he certainly knew when someone was pissed with him and he could tell that she was pissed with him right now.

  A bolt of excitement cut through his anger. Shit, if she thought she could take him on then she was more than welcome to try. He could use a good fight.

  “It was the hospital,” she said after a moment, her red-gold lashes briefly veiling her gaze. “Giving me an update on my fiancé’s condition.”

  Ah, her fiancé. She’d mentioned him in the job interview three days ago, hadn’t she? The one in a coma. He was the reason she’d come to work for Nero.

  How . . . altruistic of her. Not that he gave a damn about her fiancé. What he gave a damn about was the fact that the lead he’d been chasing for months now had turned out to be a dead end, and he was just fucking pissed about it. And to add insult to injury, she’d taken twenty minutes to get his coffee to him and now it would be cold.

  “I don’t care what updates you’re getting,” he snapped. “I pay you a lot of money to be instantly available, not to spend your time receiving personal phone calls.”

  Her gaze widened fractionally at the annoyance in his tone, which annoyed him further. “What? Is this coming as a fucking surprise to you? It shouldn’t. When I say I want you to be available 24/7, I mean it.”

  Again, apart from that minute widening of her gaze, the expression on her face gave him no hint of what she was feeling. “Then, is there a time that the hospital is permitted to call me?” Her voice contained nothing but a mild query.

  “No,” Nero said, nettled. “Now go and get me another fucking coffee and this time make it hot.” He turned his attention back to the screens and hit the button on the treadmill that controlled the incline, turning the thing into a goddamn mountain he was running up, because he wasn’t feeling any better.

  If anything, he was feeling even angrier.

  You wanted a fight, and she’s not giving you one.

  He bared his teeth at the journalist on the screen, the sound of his feet pounding on the treadmill drowning out the journalist’s voice.

  Yeah, he did want a fight. It had been a while since he’d had an actual person to yell at—not since his last assistant had fled the house in tears. And the guy had been the fifth male assistant who couldn’t deal. Jesus, what was fucking wrong with people these days? Men who weren’t man enough to handle a fight. Women who collapsed like sandcastles at the first hint of anger.

  Phoebe would be a good opponent.

  Nero turned his head and glanced at the gym doorway where she’d been standing. But it was empty.

  Something shifted and tightened in his gut. She was so calm, so contained. Her back was always so straight, and there was never a hair out of place. He’d yelled at her, and she hadn’t collapsed. She’d accepted what he’d said and turned around and walked out to do his bidding.

  Fuck. What would it take to get her to lose her cool? He’d like to see what that might be. It wouldn’t help him find another lead, but it would give him something to do with his anger, it would give him a target. And that was better than running endlessly on this fucking treadmill.

  The thing in his gut tightened further, an electric thrill. Anticipation.

  He reached out and hit the button again, upping the speed, the feral grin on his face deepening. Yeah, time to see what prim little Phoebe Taylor was made of.

  Ten minutes later, the sweat pouring off him, the muscles in his legs screaming, the anticipation inside him pulled even tighter as the door opened and Phoebe came in again, another takeout cup in her hand. “Your coffee, Mr. de Santis.”

  Nero gestured to a small table near the treadmill. “Put it here.”

  She moved immediately, collecting the bagel she’d brought in earlier and carrying it, along with the hot coffee, over to the table. As she bent to put them down, he found his gaze lingering on her hair, all coiled neatly at the nape of her neck by what looked to be a thousand of those damn pins.

  His fingers itched with the urge to do the same thing he’d done three days ago, when he’d pulled those pins out and her hair had fallen down around her shoulders, the color of apricots or peaches, or a flaming sunset. It had felt so soft, like raw silk. He liked pretty things, and she wasn’t pretty. But her hair was. Maybe he should make her wear it down and not restricted to that goddamn bun. Christ, he’d love to touch it again . . .

  Phoebe straightened and turned to him, politely expectant. “Your coffee, Mr. de Santis. Hot, as per your request. Anything else I c
an do for you?”

  Nero hit the button on the treadmill, slowing it down and getting off it. Pausing, he grabbed the towel hung over one of the treadmill arms and gave his face a cursory wipe before slinging it around his neck. Then he stood there and stared at her.

  She looked back at him, her gaze steady.

  Fuck, she was so calm, as if nothing would faze her. Not even being told that she couldn’t answer calls from the hospital where her fiancé lay in a coma.

  Why? What the fuck was her deal? Would anything faze her? Maybe he’d find out. Sure as hell would be more productive than continually thinking about that goddamn dead-end he’d run into.

  Nero gripped the ends of his towel. “You have nothing to say about the fact that I told you that you couldn’t take personal calls?”

  “You made it very clear I had to do what you said or else I’d be fired.” Her tone was crisp as an early-winter frost. “I would prefer not to be fired.”

  Well, shit, that wasn’t the reaction he wanted.

  “You’re not even going to argue with me?” He took a leisurely step toward her, watching her face closely. “Not even one word of protest?”

  She didn’t move, apart from the arch of one delicate red-gold brow. “Is there any point?”

  There was nothing confrontational in her tone, nothing sarcastic. And yet . . . that brow . . . Was that a challenge? Fuck, he hoped so. He wanted her to challenge him.

  He took another couple of steps toward her, narrowing his gaze, studying her face.

  The past few days he hadn’t paid much attention to her, too caught up in work shit. And then there had been that lead he’d been trying to follow up. She’d responded to his every request so smoothly and without drama, that he’d been able to concentrate on other things.

  But now he was paying attention. Oh, yes, he was.

  “Don’t you want to know what’s happening to your fiancé?” he said. “Or do you simply not care?”

  Something sparked briefly in her gaze, but what it was he couldn’t tell.

  “Of course, I want to know. I would simply like not to be fired more.” The crisp bite in her tone hadn’t lessened, which intrigued him.

  He came even closer, prowling up to her, looking down into her eyes. But like she’d been doing for the past couple of minutes, Phoebe only stared calmly back at him, her hands clasped in front of her.

  If his nearness bothered her, she gave no sign, betraying absolutely nothing of what she was thinking.

  It fascinated him and infuriated him for reasons he didn’t feel like examining.

  “How long have you been engaged?” he demanded. “Days? Months? Years?”

  Another burst of something he couldn’t read flickered in her gaze. “Is my personal life really a topic for discussion?”

  “It is if I say it is.”

  That lovely, full bottom lip of hers tightened. “Five years.”

  “Five years?” He didn’t hide his surprise. “What’s the point of getting engaged if you’re going to wait five years to get married?”

  “We both decided we would like to wait a little bit.” She glanced down at the coffee cup on the table. “Would you like your coffee? You don’t want it to get cold.”

  He ignored that. “What happened to him?”

  “I’m sorry?” Another arch of that delicate eyebrow. “What happened to who?”

  “Your fiancé,” he said. “And don’t pretend you don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

  Phoebe’s lashes lowered a brief second. “He was in a car accident on a business trip.” Her voice was cool and rock steady. “Severe head injury. He’s been in a coma for two years.”

  So much for a fight. How could he burn off some of this anger if she wouldn’t give him the target he was looking for? If she just gave him the answers he wanted without even a cursory protest?

  Perhaps he needed to be harder. Tougher.

  He took another step toward her, getting even closer, intruding into her personal space. She didn’t move, but he could see the tension that gathered suddenly in her, her posture stiffening. And he didn’t miss, either, a golden burst of response in her brown eyes.

  Finally. Fucking finally. A reaction.

  * * *

  Phoebe stood her ground. She didn’t want to give him an inch, especially not when he was the type of man who wouldn’t take just one mile, he’d take a million. The past three days had taught her that, if nothing else.

  He was demanding. Ruthless. Fierce. Impatient. He was also arrogant and domineering, and certainly she’d had it made very clear to her that it was his way or the highway. In everything.

  He would have been insufferable if she hadn’t found the energy he threw off so completely exciting. It puzzled her that, though the past three days as his assistant had been the hardest job she’d ever done, it was also the most thrilling.

  After two years of the boring, crappy, temp jobs she’d had to take on so she could concentrate on caring for Charles, she’d forgotten how good it was to have every day be different, to be challenged.

  She also got intense satisfaction from always giving him exactly what he asked for, without protest and without fuss, making him look at her with a vaguely suspicious expression on his intense, handsome face. As if her obedience wasn’t what he’d expected and he was waiting for some other kind of reaction from her. A reaction he knew would be unpleasant.

  Except she never gave him one and it always made that suspicious expression get even more suspicious, which only satisfied her even more.

  Dangerous to enjoy that, and yet she couldn’t seem to help herself.

  For too long the only man she’d had any contact with had either been of the medical kind or the one unconscious in a bed. And after a while, no matter that all the doctors and nurses had told her that Charles could hear her voice, those long hours of one-sided conversations had taken their toll. It was good to have someone look at her and see her. React to her. Even if that reaction was negative, she preferred that to nothing.

  The only problem was that Nero de Santis was not an unconscious man in a hospital bed. And that pushing him-even in the small, subtle way she pushed him—meant him pushing right her back.

  She was horribly aware of that right now, with him standing right in front of her, towering over her the way he had when she’d had her interview in his office. She thought she’d gotten used to his size, to his raw, primal energy, but apparently she hadn’t. Not when he was only inches away and dressed in nothing but a tank and shorts, a towel around his neck.

  His magnificent body gleamed with sweat, the fabric of his tank sticking to his chest and stomach, the damp cotton outlining the hard-packed muscle of his torso. He smelled of sweat and spice, and it wasn’t . . . unpleasant. In fact, it made something inside her shift and turn, like an animal waking up from a long sleep.

  You should step away from him.

  The thought echoed in her head, an instinct she didn’t know was there kicking in, making her want to back away and put some distance between them. Except she couldn’t think why. Yes, he was her boss and wouldn’t hurt her, that much she was sure of. So there was no reason to give any ground.

  Instead she took a slow, silent breath, trying to ignore the strangely mesmerizing masculine scent of sweat and spice, trying to quell that equally strange shifting sensation in her stomach. Meeting his gaze as calmly as possible.

  It was difficult though. His stare was dense as a black hole and pulled at her in almost the same way. Like a compulsion, she couldn’t look away.

  She should be angry with him for making her tell him all about Charles, and certainly she should be angry with him for forbidding her the hospital’s phone calls, especially when Charles’s infection was proving to be stubborn and sticking around. Dimly, she was angry. But she knew that wouldn’t help and was more likely to get her fired than anything else, especially given he’d already stated he wanted her to do what he said without protest.

&
nbsp; Far better to accept his orders and swallow the anger, to keep calm and keep her eyes on the money.

  Luckily, she was very good at keeping calm. She’d had a lot of practice after all.

  “Two years?” Nero’s voice was rough, gritty. “He’s been in a coma for two years?”

  “Yes.” She kept her tone even, not allowing even a hint of the sadness she felt whenever she thought about the time passing to color it.

  His dark gaze intensified, as if there were words written on her face in invisible ink and he was trying to read them. “Has he woken up then? Is that why the hospital was calling you?”

  Phoebe swallowed back the sudden constriction in her throat at his bluntness. At the thought of Charles just “waking up.” “No. He has an infection that won’t go away. Also, they were reminding me about the new fee schedule.”

  “What fee schedule?”

  She really didn’t want to talk about this, not with him standing there, all sweaty and hot and pinning her in place with those burning black eyes of his. “Hospital fees,” she said levelly. “Your coffee, Mr. de Santis. Please. It’s getting cold.” And she really didn’t want to have to go back a third time. Not given the strange looks the café staff had directed her way on her second visit.

  But Nero’s attention had clearly locked onto her, and nothing was going to distract him. She’d seen him like this a couple of times now, firstly at that video conference the night she’d started working with him, and then when she’d had to go into DS Corp downtown to attend a meeting in his stead. He’d been on the phone with her via a video link, and in both of those meetings the way he’d zeroed in on the subject at hand had been almost frightening. As was his absolute refusal to let the subject go until he’d gotten whatever it was he wanted out of it.

  He was not a man who was distracted by anything—unless he wanted to be.