Forbidden Love (Venture Capitalist Book 1)

by Ainsley St Claire

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asks.

  “I have a younger sister. How about you?”

  “I have four brothers. I’m the baby.”

  “Four? Wow! That must have been crazy growing up.”

  “Any guy who looked at me would get the evil eye, and if he talked to me, they might take him out. Made me undesirable to boys while growing up.”

  “Are they all still in Denver?”

  “Yes. All married with at least three kids. What about your sister?”

  “She lives in Texas and is married but no kids yet. I’m expecting a call anytime now. She’s a teacher, and my brother-in-law works for a big insurance company. They live to focus on their family.”

  “I suppose that’s the way it should be.”

  We enter the building and I hold the door to the elevator. “You’re probably right. Meet you in my office in fifteen minutes?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Emerson

  I know most people find Dillon intimidating. He’s over 6’5”, and I believe he played football at Stanford close to the same time I was there. With sandy blond hair and piercing emerald-green eyes, he is by all means incredibly attractive. I’ve never seen him as intimidating. He reminds me of my brothers—funny in a self-deprecating way. I find myself surprised by how comfortable I am with him.

  He has several clients who need my attention. When we return, I grab a pad of paper and a pen and meet him in his office.

  He looks at me with a puzzled expression. “You do have a tablet, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but I’m a bit old-school and prefer to write everything down on paper. I tend to remember the information better.”

  He seems puzzled by this, but lets it go. “Okay then, write away. The first company we need to get you in with is Accurate Software.”

  Picking up the phone, he calls the founder and sets up a time for us to come by tomorrow, then proceeds to tell me about the company while handing me a three-inch folder of due diligence and research which is pretty specific. It includes information on each employee and notes on a few who may not be a good fit for the culture they are starting to build. We spend the afternoon talking about what they’ve done both successfully and not so successfully. We will be meeting with Accurate Software, as well as three other companies this week.

  When I look up, it’s after seven. It has been a long and exhausting day which has gone by in a flash.

  “Oh, it’s late, and I should get going. I have a dog at home which my dog walker let out about five hours ago. I may have quite the mess on my hands if I don’t get home soon.”

  “Can I give you a ride home?” he offers.

  It’s thoughtful, but I can tell he’s going to be trouble for me. Without a second thought, I tell him, “I can grab Muni.”

  In a protective voice, he insists, “You can’t take the bus home at this hour.”

  “Dillon, I take the bus all the time. It’s what people do in a big city. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll drive you home.”

  “I live out in the Avenues in a bungalow. It’s too far for you.”

  “Nonsense! I’ll meet you by the elevators in ten minutes and drive you home.”

  I hold my hands up to give up the fight. “Okay. See you in ten minutes.”

  As we drive out of downtown, I direct him to my small home in the Presidio Heights neighborhood. It’s the beginning of the Avenues and close to the old Presidio, which is a former Army base and is now a national park. It’s adjacent to the Golden Gate Bridge, so the views can be spectacular. I live in an area of homes that seem like they belong in the suburbs, but within a block are busy streets, high-rise apartments, condos, and great restaurants.

  Looking around, he comments, “You’re less than ten blocks from my place. This is hardly out of the way.”

  “I appreciate the ride. Molly will enjoy it. See you in the morning?”

  He runs his hands through his hair in what seems like a fit of nervousness. “Hey, can I join you for a walk with your dog?

  Surprised by his request but excited to spend more time with Dillon, I say, “I usually do a run around the park, but I guess we can forgo that today and go for a good walk.”

  “I don’t want to interrupt your exercise, but I miss having a dog, and I think it’ll be fun.”

  “Great. Come on in and you can meet Molly. I should warn you, she’s a very active beagle. I’ll change out of my dress into something more appropriate for picking up dog poop while you two get acquainted.” Molly is a tricolored beagle, barking and baying and demanding all of Dillon's attention, which he graciously lavishes on her with a lot of ear and belly rubs. I run back to my bedroom to change. Grabbing a pair of yoga pants and a Yale Law T-shirt, I walk out and ask, “Ready?”

  Disengaging from the dog, he stands. “Let’s do it.”

  “We usually head over to the Presidio. Does that work for you?

  “Of course. I’m here for the time to spend with the dog.” As we head out, I let Molly direct where she needs to do her business. After a couple minutes, he turns to me and says, “You have a beautiful place, but I didn’t see any signs of a roommate or anyone else. Are you married or seriously involved with anyone?”

  I’m surprised by his directness and remember Sara’s comment about keeping our personal lives personal. “Me? No. Are you?” I’m not sure why I asked, but if he can ask those questions of me, I can do the same.

  “Not really. Never thought it was for me.”

  “What does ‘not really’ mean? Sleeping with half a dozen different women but none are serious?”

  He blushes and asks, “Why aren’t you married? Your brothers can’t be scaring them off anymore.”

  I chuckle. “No, not anymore. I’m single because I live in San Francisco.”

  “People meet and marry in San Francisco all the time—”

  Interrupting, I share, “True. But in my experience, guys struggle with the strong, smart females with an opinion. I figured out a long time ago that it probably isn’t in the cards for me.”

  “I think you’re selling yourself short.”

  “Maybe. I’m not closed off to a relationship. I have a wonderful group of friends, and I don’t live waiting for some guy to show up at my door. But if you know of anyone, please feel free to send them my way.”

  Laughing, he asks, “Okay, what are you looking for?”

  “I recognize any guy I’m going to meet is going to come with baggage, so I hope the baggage is carry-on and not needing to be checked.”

  He has a puzzled look on his face. “What does that mean?”

  Smiling big, I explain it to him as if he’s in fifth grade. “It means his issues aren’t too overwhelming. What about you?”

  “I think my requirements are pretty steep. Which, according to my sister, is why I’ll be single forever.”

  I tease, “Fess up. Tell me everything. “

  “She needs to be tall. I’m a tall guy, and I don’t want to break my back bending over to talk to her all the time while we walk around town. She needs to be comfortable with all walks of life our job brings us in contact with. She needs to not always want a five-star dinner but also be comfortable at a fun hole-in-the-wall burger joint. And with that, she can’t be a vegetarian. She needs to eat more than salads. I want someone who has a life outside of me. She needs to understand our work life can overtake our personal life at times. I would love it if she played golf.” And then, as if it’s an afterthought, he mumbles, “Oh yeah, and she needs to be beautiful and good in bed.”

  Pushing his shoulder, “Oh, I love how you slipped ‘beautiful and good in bed’ in there. Can she be trimmed or does she need to be completely bare?”

  Laughing hard, he can barely get out “What?”

  “Well, if I’m going to try to fix you up with one of my friends and sex is really at the top of your list, what is your preference?”

  He’s not going to answer my question. Just as w
ell, since I’m not sure what I would do with that information.

  As we walk by a strip of small local restaurants, I stop in front of an Italian café and see it’s doing a brisk business. “Can I buy you dinner?” I ask.

  “No. But since I’ve hijacked your evening, how about I buy you dinner?”

  I’m not used to so much attention from a straight man. During dinner, we talk about so many things. He leans in and listens to my crazy ideas about dating and work-life balance, and I am entirely comfortable with him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dillon

  Emerson is hilarious. I can’t believe how direct and dry her sense of humor is. She’s obviously been hurt, but she isn’t bitter like so many women in San Francisco become. We’ve stopped at a cute little Italian bistro and we both order. I love that she goes for a glass of wine and the lasagna, with a salad as a starter.

  “I hope it’s okay that I’m ordering a salad as part of my dinner,” she teases at what I know is going to become an inside joke for us.

  As we settle in to wait for our food with Molly at our feet, I can’t help but keep giving the dog pieces of bread. Her big brown eyes are melting my heart. “Okay, now tell me about your perfect guy. Don’t be shy.”

  “I’m not picky. I like my dates taller than me. I’m 5’11” and like to wear heels.”

  Women always say they’re not picky when in reality they really are. I snicker. “I’ll determine if you’re not picky. Keep going.”

  “All right already! He must be able to carry on a conversation and not be afraid when my opinion isn’t the same as his. He needs to love his mother, but doesn’t live at home with her.”

  I stop her there. “Do you meet many men who still live at home with their mom?

  She rolls her eyes and shares, “You’d be surprised.”

  Laughing, I tell her, “None of my friends live at home. Keep going. You haven’t mentioned golf, and we talked about your playing golf at Stanford when you interviewed—which impressed all of us greatly, by the way.”

  “Well, playing golf is a given. A guy would have to be prepared to lose when we play golf because I won’t throw a game for a man’s ego.”

  “What’s your handicap?”

  “When I was playing every day, and hitting over fifteen hundred practice golf balls a week, I was a minus one. These days, I hit about five hundred golf balls a week in the mornings before work and play at least eighteen holes a week. So I tend to run about a three handicap.”

  I almost spit out my drink. “A three? You could play on the pro tour.”

  “That would make my hobby a job. It wouldn’t be as fun.”

  “Well, you’ll beat me, but I can take it.”

  “I didn’t say my ego couldn’t lose to my boss.”

  “I’m not your boss, I’m a peer. We’re all partners with equal voting rights.”

  Conspiratorially, she shares, “Then be aware, I give nothing.”

  “Great. I’ll set up a tee time at the Palo Alto Country Club for Saturday morning. You’ve played there before, haven’t you?”

  “It’s Stanford’s home course, so I played at least one round a day there for almost five years. I’m quite familiar with it. Are you sure you want to play there?”

  “Of course. The guys and I are all members. It’s our home course, too. More of a level playing field.”

  We talk about random things for a bit longer as we finish our meals. Paying for dinner, I lean in close. “This was fun.”

  “Yes, it was. You’re stuck with me all day tomorrow at Accurate, and Wednesday we have another day together for a different client.”

  “I think I can handle it.”

  Walking to her front door, she tells me, “Good night, Dillon.”

  “Good night, Emerson. I’ll bring my running clothes next time so we can take Molly for a run.”

  She enters her house and turns to wave. “See you tomorrow.”

  What a fun evening. Very unexpected.

  On my short drive home, I call Tiffany and invite her over for the evening. Tiffany is an excellent match for me right now; she’s adventurous in bed and doesn’t require much of me.

  She meets me at my place wearing only a trench coat with stockings and stilettos. I usher her into my home and turn to watch her drop her coat. She doesn’t kiss me, just gets on her knees in front of me and undoes my pants, making a small moaning sound as she takes me in her mouth. I’m not completely hard as she starts, but as she licks and sucks the length of my cock, I quickly become as hard as a baseball bat. I love the way she’s so keen to make me come. I think about Emerson and wonder what it would be like if she were here doing this to me.

  I take a deep breath, enjoying the suction and the pull of her mouth as I grow harder. She pulls me into the kitchen and lies with her back on my kitchen table. Lifting her legs up and wide, she begins circling her clit while watching me. She drives me crazy.

  I remove my clothes and place a condom from my pocket on the table while watching her. Getting on my knees, I lick up the sweet taste escaping from the pleasure she’s giving herself.

  “Please, fuck me!” she begs.

  I wish she would let my mouth bring her to her pinnacle, but I stand and grab the condom.

  As I open the package, she tells me, “You know, I have an IUD, and I don’t fuck anyone else. I’m clean.”

  I kiss her and keep rolling the condom on my hard and wanting cock. Entering her, I thrust in long, hard strokes. She moans like a porn star. It can be a bit of a turn-off at times, but she’s into having sex. I pull and twist at her nipples while pumping hard in and out of her. I love down-and-dirty, carnal sex.

  When we’re done, she wraps herself in a blanket she finds in my living room, and I grab a pair of sweatpants from my bedroom and a Star Wars T-shirt.

  Twirling a strand of her chestnut hair around her finger and avoiding looking at me with her big brown eyes, she tells me, “I would love skin-to-skin contact with you when we have sex.”

  “I would like that, too, but you know we’re not exclusive, and I promise you I use a condom with every woman I sleep with.”

  She’s quiet for a few moments. I can tell she isn’t happy with my answer, but I’m in a financial situation where I must be incredibly careful. I don’t want her or anyone else attempting to trap me with a baby. I like her, but I’m not sure I want her in my life forever.

  Now I would like her to go home, but it would be rude to ask, so we make small talk. Tiffany is a fan of reality TV and talks nonstop about someone’s Instagram account. I’m lost, and all I can think about is Emerson.

  It’s after midnight, so I lean over and tell her, “It’s getting late. I need to get up early tomorrow for a few business meetings. As usual, you were incredible. Let’s make plans to get together again next week.”

  Disappointment fills her eyes as she nods. “I can’t wait.”

  When I hand her her coat, she steps in for a deep, wet kiss. I know she wants to stay, but I don’t spend the night, and I always sleep alone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Emerson

  What a fun evening. Of the four partners, I’d had the best connection with Dillon when they approached me about buying my company. All the conversations I’d had with the partners were completely professional, but we did talk about my playing for Stanford’s golf team as an undergraduate and having gone to Yale for law school.

  We spent a lot of time discussing why I chose to leave the actual practice of law and start my business. It seemed to be a way to use my law degree, but in a way, it’s more in line with my personal interests. After all, if you’re going to spend eighty percent of your day doing something, you might as well enjoy it. Plus, I prefer to keep people out of trouble rather than sitting in a law firm figuring out how to dig people out of the trouble they’ve found. That drives me crazy.

  I like Dillon. He’s handsome and, as I figured, he’s a player. He’s totally my type. He’ll be a strong business part
ner, but if I’m smart, he’ll be nothing more than a friend. He’s trouble. He most likely isn’t a candidate for any of my friends, but who knows?

  Calling my best friend, CeCe, I fill her in on my day and the conversation with Dillon.

  Scrutinizing my opinion of the conversation, she asks, “Are you sure he isn’t hitting on you?”

  CeCe was my roommate my freshman year at Stanford, and we’ve been best friends ever since. She’s known me for over fifteen years and knows me better than I know myself. “No. We have a pretty strict non-fraternization clause in our contracts. They feel it could disrupt the balance of power, so it’s clear. I see Dillon more like my brother Michael.”

  She laughs. “You mean trouble.”

  Michael was consistently in trouble when we were growing up. He’s only thirteen months older than I am and he played football at Cal. Just across the bay, we were able to hang out often while in school, and his friends were consistently getting in trouble. CeCe had many drunken nights with Michael and his friends. “Probably, yes.”

  “Are we getting together this weekend?”

  “Let me see what his plans are after golf. Can you hold tight a few days?”

  “Sure. I’ll put Greer and Hadlee on alert. Maybe dinner and drinks? It would be fun.”

  “Most likely after my first week at this crazy job, it may be all I can do. Don’t let Greer talk you into going to a gay bar for dancing after dinner.”

  “I promise. Have a good night, and text me tomorrow if you can escape for lunch.”

  “I’m headed to Mountain View for the day.”

  “Oookay, fine. No for lunch. Call me, sweetie.”

  “Promise.”

  Our Wednesday goes without much of a hitch. Thursday after work, the partners get together for drinks in the conference room. This is a weekly meeting, and we drink beer and recap the week and any additional work on the horizon.

  Dillon shares the research teams finding on two more start-ups that look interesting. As we pour through the P&Ls and other parts of their financial status, I watch the group dynamics. Everyone offers their opinions in their areas of expertise. When they come to me, I’m careful when I share my concerns. Mason drills down, asking more in-depth questions, and in the end, we agree to not invest in the company.