Realization seeped slowly through her, and she blinked at the expanse of green outside the windows. He’d stopped in his tracks the moment she’d said she’d call the police, the fire in his eyes dousing instantly.
Had it been because he didn’t want the police themselves here? Or was it the jail-cell threat?
Silly question. She knew which one it was. He wouldn’t be scared of legal trouble, not a man like him. It was the threat of being dragged from his house that had gotten to him, she was sure.
She’d been very busy the past three days, busy enough that she hadn’t thought about the fact that she hadn’t seen him leave his house, not once.
But there were those rumors, the ones about how much of a recluse he was. About how no one had ever seen him outside. In fact, one of those job contacts of hers had told her that Nero hadn’t been seen outside his house for ten years.
Phoebe turned around, staring at the door again, frowning.
He was so vital, so alive. So full of that fierce, primitive energy. She couldn’t imagine him allowing himself to be contained anywhere let alone in one giant house for . . . what? An entire decade? Surely that was impossible?
And yet in the three days she’d been here, he hadn’t gone out, or at least not that she’d seen. In fact, now she thought about it, he seemed to live in only four rooms: his office, his gym, the mysterious room behind the door in his office that he disappeared off into every so often, and sometimes he went into his library, situated right next to his office, but not very often.
Something shifted inside her, the same thing that always shifted inside her whenever she encountered someone who was in trouble or someone who was broken. An intense sympathy. A desire to help. The need to do something for them, make them better. Heal them.
It was an old, familiar urge and she really didn’t want to feel it for such an arrogant, selfish man as Nero. A man who seemed quite able to look after himself and who didn’t seem to care about anyone else’s feelings. He certainly hadn’t given a thought to hers just now. All he’d been concerned about was what he wanted.
So no, she shouldn’t want to help him, God forbid. In fact, what she needed to do was concentrate on being his perfect assistant, earn herself those dollars so she wouldn’t have to move Charles somewhere else, somewhere cheaper. Somewhere that might compromise his care. Think about not getting herself fired and not hard male bodies or the feel of hot skin on hers or the bright, burning look in dark eyes . . .
Phoebe swallowed, put her shoulders back, and headed for the door.
First item on the agenda for the afternoon was to get the bloody man the women he wanted. And hope like hell that’s all he wanted from her.
* * *
Nero clicked on the tab he wanted, and a window opened up on one of his screens. He hadn’t thought about it at all for the past three days and yet now, in the hours since he’d walked out of the gym, he hadn’t been able to get it out of his head. And since temptation was something he never resisted, he didn’t bother resisting it now.
On the screen was Phoebe, in the little sitting room that was part of her suite. She was on the white linen couch, a laptop on her knees, and she was looking intently at it, her finger moving on the trackpad.
Nero had cameras in every room in the house, and he had no qualms about checking them now and then. It was part of his considerable personal security and it also enabled him to make sure his staff were doing exactly what he required of them. Some would call it an invasion of privacy, but Nero didn’t give a shit what people might call it. His house was his property, and he could do what he liked with it. His staff, too, he tended to view as his property, and not only did he want to make sure they were doing a good job, but he also liked to check to see that nothing had happened to them. Shit, if he hadn’t been watching James last year, the old guy would have died from the heart attack that had struck him as he’d walked down the main staircase to Nero’s office.
Of course, Phoebe wouldn’t be in any danger of having a heart attack, nor was she likely to not be doing her job. So really, checking up on her was unnecessary. Yet he didn’t stop himself from staring at her on the screen, watching her face as she frowned at the laptop in front of her.
He didn’t bother questioning his decisions. He made them based on gut instinct and he’d never, ever been wrong.
Except he had the sneaking suspicion that the decision he’d made in the gym—to touch Phoebe—had been wrong somehow. Even though she’d been the one to slap him—her employer—across the face.
He should have fired her for that alone, yet he hadn’t and he wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t sure why he felt that he’d been the one who’d screwed up, either. Sure, he knew that touching a woman who didn’t want to be touched was wrong, but Phoebe’s eyes had been full of gold fire and the pulse at her wrist had been fast and frantic. She’d radiated anger rather than fear, of that he was sure. In fact, he was sure that for a moment she’d been as excited by him as he was by her. Certainly, if she’d been afraid, he’d never have gotten so turned on since he’d never found fear attractive in anyone. So why had she gotten so angry about it? Why had she hit him?
Not knowing infuriated him. He’d hoped studying her where she couldn’t study him back would give him some insights into why she might have denied him and why the feeling of wrongness was so fucking persistent.
Her expression gave him no clues, though. There was a slight crease between her delicate brows, the rest of her features drawn tight in lines of concentration. Whatever she was doing was taking her whole focus.
Was it her fiancé again? The fee schedule she mentioned? Hospitals were expensive, he knew that much. Or was she putting all her effort into finding him the women he asked for? Or was it something else entirely?
He leaned his elbows on the massive black desk in front of him and interlaced his fingers, scowling at the screen.
He’d never not gotten what he wanted, not since he’d escaped the room he’d grown up in. Yet here he was, having retreated to his control room to lick his wounds because this uptight Englishwoman had denied him. Had stopped him from getting what he wanted with only one little fist and a threat she’d had no idea of the power of.
Nero narrowed his gaze at her. She’d taken her shoes off and was leaning back against one of the arms of the couch, her legs stretched out in front of her and bent at the knee, her feet resting on the couch cushions. Her skirt had rucked up, revealing a bit of pale thigh, the closest he’d ever gotten to seeing her not completely neat and tidy.
His cock hardened, the response almost instant.
He growled, cursing softly under his breath. Of course, what a fucking cliché he was. His body had decided that what it wanted was the first thing it had been denied in years, and that was a goddamn problem.
Especially when she’d been very clear that she’d call the police the second he touched her, and he had no doubt at all that she would. And they’d come, invading his house, invading the space that was his and his alone. His domain, where he was king.
It was true that he could probably get them to leave him alone—he was rich, and money talked when it needed to. But it wasn’t a guarantee. There was always the risk that he would be forced to come down to whichever precinct they wanted him at, and then there would be the media . . .
He glanced down, noticing that his hands were pressed to the black wood of his desk, his nails digging in as if he was hanging off a cliff and only moments away from falling. With an effort, he straightened them, his jaw hardening as he did so.
No. There could be no going down to the precinct. No media. No police.
No Phoebe.
Unless, of course, he got her to change her mind.
Slowly, he lifted his head, staring at the screen again.
Her mouth was pursed in the prettiest little cupid’s bow as she typed, her brows drawn down in furious concentration. What would it be like if she was furiously concentrated on him? If that delicious mouth pu
rsed as she touched him, explored him? Finding out exactly what got him hard . . .
Nero sat back in his seat, adjusting himself to ease the tightness in his pants. No, he’d be fucked if he settled for a couple of random women from his favorite escort agency. He wanted Phoebe or no one. He would not be denied.
All he had to do was think about how to change her mind.
Decision made, Nero reached out and closed the tab with the feed from Phoebe’s sitting room, and once more focused his attention on his stepfather’s file. He had one more lead to follow up on—one he’d been letting lay low for a few years now, because it was a long shot. But since that last one had ended up a dead-end, he had no choice.
Nero pulled up the details he had, staring at the picture that appeared on one of his screens. An older woman who’d once, long ago, been beautiful. Until time and hardship had blurred her features, scoring them with rough lines, a sagging chin, a thinning mouth. Dulling the dark eyes that had once been full of laughter.
The one bright spot in his shitty childhood.
The woman who’d kept him safe for so many years.
His last lead. His mother.
Chapter 5
Phoebe took dinner in her sitting room that evening, her laptop open on the coffee table beside her, scrolling through likely looking candidates for Nero’s bed. She’d spent most of the afternoon looking and hadn’t found any she thought would be suitable—not that she had any idea who would be suitable since she had no idea of Nero’s tastes.
She supposed she should have asked him before he’d disappeared off to wherever he disappeared off to, that wasn’t either his office or his gym, and where he wasn’t to be disturbed on pain of being fired.
Except she hadn’t asked him. And so here she was, hours later, looking at various high-class escort websites and trying to determine what he might like in a woman and what he didn’t, and coming up with nothing.
God, she had a feeling he was going to be extremely annoyed if she didn’t find anyone for him tonight.
He might even ask you to fill in for them.
The thought sent a hot, electric pulse through her that made her deeply uncomfortable. Damn, hadn’t she told herself she wasn’t going to think about that once already today? So why was she thinking about it now? She’d been celibate since Charles’s accident, and she was okay with that. She didn’t want to get involved with anyone else.
This whole thing was insane anyway. What did she know about what kind of woman a man like Nero wanted? Yes, she could navigate meetings and buy paintings, and get umpteen dozen cups of coffee, but hire him a couple of escorts?
That wasn’t anything she’d done before for anyone.
You wanted challenging, remember?
Phoebe scowled at the parade of women currently cluttering up her screen. Well, a challenge was one way of thinking about it, that was for sure. Except it wasn’t a challenge she particularly wanted to take on.
She sighed. Looked like she was going to have to ask him what he liked in a woman, or at least get more information as to his . . . tastes. Or she could just choose a couple of women at random and if he didn’t like them, then that was too bad.
But no, she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t abide not doing a thorough job, especially with a boss as exacting as Nero. She’d already made one mistake by hitting him across the face, and she was lucky he hadn’t fired her on the spot, no matter that he’d been in the wrong.
Phoebe frowned. Actually, now that she thought about it, that was a good point. Why hadn’t he fired her? Because he could have. Instead, he’d merely ordered her to get him a couple of women for the night, then walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Maybe it was because she was doing a good job and he hadn’t wanted to get rid of her? Or was that merely wishful thinking?
Whatever, it meant that now there was extra pressure on her, and she did not want to make a mess of things. Especially not now that Charles’s care depended on her doing a good job.
Pushing away her half-eaten dinner, Phoebe made a decision.
What sort of woman do you like? she typed quickly into the message program, pressing send before bracing herself for Nero’s terse and usually one word answers.
Send me a list was the response.
She frowned and answered. I don’t have a list. There are too many and I can’t choose.
He responded within seconds. Link me.
Phoebe sighed. Which site do you want? There are a few.
For a brief moment where there was no response. And then another message appeared. Come to my library. Now.
Arrogant so and so. Rising from the table, Phoebe gathered up her laptop, then went out the door.
It had taken her a good two days to get familiar with Nero’s huge house and to know where his main haunts were. Yet even so sometimes she lost her way and ended up in parts of the house she’d never been in.
His library though, had been easy enough to find given it was right next to his office. The door was closed so Phoebe knocked once—one of his rules—and then entered.
The library was a fairly grand affair, all wood paneling and tall floor-to-ceiling shelves that virtually lined the walls. There was even a rail set up for a ladder, to make it easier to reach the upper shelves.
A massive fireplace was set into one wall, which would be cosy in winter when it was lit, but now, in the middle of summer, it was merely a cavernous black space. A couch and armchairs were grouped around the fireplace, leather covered and comfortable looking, and on a side table was a tray with a decanter of whisky, a couple of tumblers beside it.
The floor was polished wood, thick, silk rugs softening it, plus a rather alarming bearskin in front of the fireplace—the head was still attached, the mouth open in a soundless roar. What wall space there was left, was hung with yet more landscapes. For this room, there was a definite theme; forests, both evergreen and snowy, with the suggestion of animals, either as shadows or vague shapes in the undergrowth, or merely a pair of glowing eyes. There was something mythical about the scenes, like they were places from a fairytale or from old legends.
Resisting the urge to gaze at the paintings, Phoebe kept her attention on the man sitting in one of the armchairs, the floor lamp beside him casting a pool of light down onto the black silk of his hair.
He’d changed from the workout gear he’d been in this morning into a pair of dark charcoal suit pants and a plain white shirt. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms, and the top couple of buttons were open, exposing the bronze skin of his throat. There were a stack of papers in his lap and he was holding one, a frown of concentration on his fierce face. Incongruously, there were a pair of reading glasses on the end of his nose, a sign of human vulnerability that should have made him seem more approachable, yet didn’t. If anything, the glasses made him seem even more stern.
The thing inside her that she didn’t want to acknowledge twisted at the sight of him. She’d never seen him appear almost . . . relaxed before. Though, “relaxed” wasn’t quite the word she’d use for him. Not when that animal energy crackled around him as if he was holding himself still in preparation for exploding into motion.
Nero didn’t glance at her, though he obviously knew she was there since he held up a warning hand to indicate he wasn’t to be interrupted. She forced away her irritation at being told to come now and then being made to wait, looking at the paintings on the walls, because they were easier to look at than he was.
Landscapes, always landscapes. Was that because he didn’t go out? Was he trying to bring the world to him? And why no people? He had a family and a very well-known one at that. The de Santis family had originated in Wyoming, the patriarch, Cesare de Santis, having made his name in the production of guns. Now the family owned DS Corp, the premier defense company in the States, and although it was well known that Nero was an illegitimate child, he was apparently treated as a full member of the family, having been given the managem
ent of DS Corp’s tech arm.
Perhaps he didn’t get on with the rest of the de Santis clan? Was that the reason there were no pictures of them? Certainly, she’d never heard him speak about them. Even when she’d gone to the meeting at DS Corp a day or so ago, he hadn’t mentioned that one of the people she’d be meeting with had been his half-brother, Rafael. The middle de Santis brother had been perfectly charming, not that she’d been able to pay much attention, since Nero had emphasized the importance on taking meticulous notes during the meeting.
“Come here.”
Nero’s rough voice was a small shock and she nearly jumped, only managing to mask her reaction at the last second. Pasting a calm smile on her face instead, she came over to his chair and when he held out his hand for the laptop, she gave it to him. He gave her one intense glance from over the top of his reading glasses as he took it, and she felt the impact of it like she’d been punched in the stomach, making her want to take a couple of steps back. Yet before she had a chance to move, he was looking down at the laptop screen where she had the escort agency websites open.
Silence descended on the room, thick and uncomfortable.
Nero’s attention was entirely on the screen, his finger moving unhurriedly on the laptop’s trackpad. Obviously, he was sorting through all those pictures of women, trying to find one he liked. The thought made her feel strange, though she didn’t know why.
Taking a couple of steps away from his chair to put some distance between them, she noticed his suit jacket had been flung carelessly onto the couch. Instinctively, she went over to the couch and picked the jacket up, beginning to fold it over her arm. The wool was heavy and very good quality, the tailoring exquisite, obviously custom made.
“Why did you hit me this morning in the gym?”
Phoebe, still in the process of folding his jacket, paused, the question catching her off-guard. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“I don’t want an apology,” he said. “I want to know why you did it.”
The Billionaire Beast Page 6