Racing Heart (The Billionaire Brothers 1)

by Victoria Villeneuve

Jake brought a gentle hand to her shoulder. “Actually, I was kinda hoping we might catch up for a few minutes. Unless,” he added, “you have things to do?”

  Megan quickly took in the sight of him, and found it extremely pleasing. He had kept his wavy, blonde hairstyle but it was neater and much better kept. A nice, white, button-down shirt covered what were very obviously fabulous pectorals, as though he’d deliberately pursued anatomical perfection. Dark blue jeans and apparently brand-new Doc Martens completed the outfit. Mostly, though, she noticed the fresh, spicily masculine scent of him.

  “No, I’m all yours,” Megan replied without thinking. Jake arched an eyebrow. “I mean,” she said, suddenly flustered, “I don’t have much going on this afternoon.” She turned to call into the small TV room just off the kitchen. “Andrea, do you mind hanging out there for a few more minutes while I catch up with your Uncle Jake?”

  “Cool!” Andrea replied.

  “Isn’t she something?” Jake asked, rhetorically. “I’d call her the apple of Tom’s eye, but that wouldn’t begin to describe it. Especially since Mary... Well, they’ve been so strong for each other.”

  “There’s not a day goes by without I think of her,” Megan said sadly. She had given generously and often to cancer charities over the last three years, taking part in fundraising walks and volunteering occasionally at a phone bank to drum up donations. The swiftness of Mary’s illness had been just heartbreaking but, perhaps, a blessing; those who loved Mary, which seemed to be everyone she had ever met, were spared the painful indignity of watching her waste away. Megan recalled it as having been a matter of only days, though in truth it was ten quick weeks; hardly had the dreadful news sunk in, Mary was gone.

  “What about you?” Megan asked, happy to move on from painful memories. “All I’ve seen of you, apart from a couple of ten-minute appearances at birthday parties, is you opening shiny, new factories in exotic locales.”

  Jake smiled. “The price of being the public face of Goliath, I guess. Still, it keeps me on the road, which is the way I like it.”

  “No settling down for you, then?” Megan asked, but regretted it immediately. He’ll think I’m finding out if he’s seeing someone. That I want a date. And I don’t.

  Do I?

  “’Settling down’ hasn’t really been in my vocabulary recently,” Jake admitted. “Too much travel, too little time.” There was a gale of laughter from the TV room as Andrea found one of her favorite cartoons. “What about you? Did you find Mr. Right?”

  Megan grunted, not the most attractive sound, but an honest response. “Between classes, ward hours, teaching piano and trying to stop my body turning into a mound of flab, there isn’t a spare moment.”

  Jake chuckled gently, nodding as if he completely understood. “It’s hard. I tried the online thing too, but mostly I seem to meet people randomly.”

  “Yeah,” Megan remarked, “that special someone tends to come along at the least likely moment, so they tell me.” God, shut up, you idiot. “Guess I should try to create a bunch of really unlikely moments and see what happens.” Hey, Megan? You know that big, flapping thing on the front of your face? Close it, right now, before you sound like a demented spinster.

  “Keeping an open mind serves us all well,” Jake philosophized aloud.

  Next topic, dummy, before this becomes uncomfortable. “How’s the business going? The media seems certain you’re going to take over the world.”

  Jake laughed easily, more than used to accounting for journalists and their hyperbole. “They fixate on novelty, and can see only a future where today’s new inventions dominate. But,” Jake cautioned, “what about tomorrow’s inventions? No-one can imagine the future with any accuracy.”

  Megan marveled at him. Who on Earth is this guy? She hurriedly discarded, piece by piece, the Jake McMahon she had known in high-school, and began assessing this newly grown-up, slightly mysterious young man. Somewhere along the way, he had managed to gain some depth. Megan wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or intimidated, whether to keep him at arms’ length, or to...

  “Look, I’d love to catch up more, but Andrea needs to get home in time for dinner.”

  “Sure,” Megan replied, a little relieved that her mouth wouldn’t be given too many more opportunities to embarrass her, but somehow loathe to see him leave. “You’ve been busy, I can tell.” It was a flippant comment which hid much.

  “You too,” Jake said, glancing around the house. “It suits you here. Just the one roommate?”

  “Yeah, Erica is great,” Megan told him. “Best finder of lost keys you could imagine.”

  Jake watched Andrea gradually detaching herself from the TV. “Cool... Look, Megan?” His confidence vanished briefly, providing the first flash of a younger, less certain Jake McMahon. “How about grabbing a drink with me on Saturday?”

  Oh, shit. “Saturday? Well... I’m not sure.”

  “One drink?” It was a cute, enquiring, hopeful expression which gave his handsome face a pleading, almost submissive air.

  Before she could answer, Andrea made her entrance. “Spongebob!” she declared. “I found the new episode!” This victory eclipsed all else for the moment, and was still being celebrated as Jake guided the chattering girl to Megan’s front door.

  “I’ll be right out,” Jake assured her. “Did she play well today?”

  Megan pursed her lips. “Not bad, but there’s always more room for practice.”

  “I don’t know how she fits everything in,” Jake said. “Her schedule is fuller than mine!”

  Something made Megan say, “Not Saturday evening, apparently.” Why did that come out?

  “So, you’re reconsidering?” Jake asked. Megan stared at the ceiling, a playful smile growing as she made a show of weighing up her options. “One drink, I’m serious.” Jake raised his palms in sincerity. “Then I’ll drive you wherever you need to be.”

  Megan scrutinized this handsome, tall blonde. God, he looks good in that shirt. She wavered, but then her grin spread and she found herself looking away, a little bashful.

  “Is that a ‘yes’?”

  Megan nodded slightly. “Just like when you’re practicing the piano,” she said. Jake’s confused frown was one of the cutest things about him, she quickly decided. “Persistence is rewarded,” she explained. “Saturday at seven?”

  “I’ll pick you up,” Jake promised. Andrea called from outside, so he quickly took Megan’s hand and said, “So good to see you. I’m glad we’ll have some more time together.”

  “One drink,” she reminded him as they shook hands, gently but rather formally, before Jake jogged to his BMW and whisked Andrea away.

  Door closed but smile still firmly in place, Megan ambled slowly, dreamily, back the piano bench and began to play.

  ***

  Nothing gives you perspective like watching someone’s life falling apart.

  Megan’s third patient of the evening took an exhausting, teary hour, at the end of which Megan held Candice for a long moment before sending her on her way, back into an uncertain life.

  Volunteering at a women’s health clinic in one of Boston’s poorest neighborhoods was an eye-opener. In the past three months, Megan had seen it all, or certainly felt as though she had. Every type of abuse, accident, confusion and heartache had made its way through their doors. Megan wondered, almost every time she came here, just how much good she could actually do. The tidal wave of miserable, downtrodden women sapped her strength and, worse, her optimism.

  But then again, each shift she would meet someone who reaffirmed her faith in humanity. Like Zoe, the ex-addict with two kids who came for discount prescriptions and help from the food bank. Clean for six years, a steady job... She was a success story. It brought a little balance and good cheer.

  The waiting room was empty by 11.20. Megan yawned, stretched and brought out her phone to finish reading an article she had found earlier: Who is the Real Jake McMahon? It seemed mostly to be poorly-informed s
peculation, but she had become committed to finding out as much as she could. Many of the newspaper search results were less than edifying; the tabloids portrayed him as a serial philanderer, a barfly with winning ways and charm to burn. One website listed, with alluring photos, all of the models and actresses Jake was rumored to have dated. The page was so long, Megan had to scroll down six times.

  Photographers had made a point of getting shirtless pictures of Jake at the beach or, in one outrageous invasion of his privacy, in the back garden of his place in London. Organizing them by date, Megan could follow the impressive evolution of his musculature, from scrawny geek with glasses, through Boston University point guard, to the buff, self-assured specimen who had so charmingly asked her out earlier tonight. The sites which promised even more revealing photos were peddling fakes, she found, quickly closing the window on her iPad before a colleague had the chance to notice the lurid threesome scene into which Jake’s likeness had been artlessly Photoshopped.

  Digging deeper, with the waiting room still unusually quiet, Megan read more about Jake’s business life, quickly piecing together a more rounded impression of the man. He was a marketing hotshot, to be sure, and had a way with the press which combined suave charm with indisputably genuine acumen. While Tom worked largely behind the scenes, crafting the future of digital storage, Jake handled the negotiations with Chinese suppliers, the sensitive issues regarding outsourcing to India, and the ceaseless requests for interviews and magazine profiles. He had barely left the front pages since his famous hint that, “Going public is a real possibility”. Half the investment houses on Wall Street were clamoring for a meeting, desperate to underwrite the “IPO of the decade”.

  Megan stopped herself for a moment. Googling someone before a date, she told herself, was standard practice these days, but part of her felt that Jake was at a particular disadvantage, given the wealth of speculation about his love life which floated daily around the Blogosphere. If she’d had a date with a medical student, Megan mused, there wouldn’t be pages dedicated to his past conquests. Did it matter, after all, if Jake had played the field? He was a young, handsome man with all the time in the world to ‘settle down’ with the right woman.

  Still, the litany of short relationships unsettled Megan. “One drink,” she whispered to his most glamorous image, a portrait of him in a beautifully-fitting suit, apparently taken at an awards dinner. “One drink. Nothing more.”

  ***

  Megan could happily have strangled the scheduling office, but that wouldn’t have changed anything. Here she was, an hour from being picked up by the legendary Jake McMahon, and she was only now getting scrubbed after a six-hour ward shift.

  “Did Mrs. Bennett get discharged?” her nurse colleague wanted to know.

  Megan nodded. “I think we’ll see her again, unless she agrees to use a walker. Three falls in a month, wasn’t it?”

  It had been a busy shift, made yet more stressful by endlessly worrying about whether she would have enough time to get home and change. And, what would she wear? And, which perfume to choose? And, should she let Jake kiss her at the end of the night? It was a minor miracle that her only slip-up was during drawing some blood, when her distracted needle work had condemned a very pale young man to a marginally more painful experience than was strictly necessary. He’ll get over it, she remembered thinking to herself. This is hardly the first needle to have gone into his arm.

  Fallen grandmothers, mute drug addicts and hassled colleagues all behind her, Megan fairly dashed to her Fiesta for the drive home. Saturday evening’s traffic was only slightly better than on weekdays, and by the time she trotted up the stairs to her apartment, only 40 minutes remained.

  “You could text him and tell him you’re running late,” Erica advised. She was lounging in the living room reading the latest Cosmopolitan and making a start on a bottle of Chianti.

  Megan was transitioning from shower back to bedroom. “I don’t want to look flaky.”

  Erica laughed companionably. “It’s not flaky to give yourself enough time to look fabulous,” she argued. Still, Megan would not be moved, choosing instead to make her dress selection, perfume choice and, perhaps most agonizingly, underwear decisions in a white heat of flustered preparation.

  “Sexy or slimming?” she asked Erica, holding up two pairs of panties. “These ones are sexy and empowering, whereas these,” she said, “remind me not to go home with a guy on the first date.” She held them both aloft. “What do you think?”

  Erica closed her magazine and gave the choice some thought. “I think,” she said after a long moment, “that whichever pair you choose, they’ll be on his bedroom floor later tonight. May as well go sexy”.

  Used to such salacious commentary from her roommate, Megan feigned a shocked disgust. “You know how many men have had my underwear on their floor in the last year?”

  Erica held up a circled thumb and forefinger. “Is that about right? Plus or minus?”

  “Yes it is, young lady. But, like I said, I don’t screw guys on first dates. I thought you knew that about me.”

  The two women heard a car pull up outside, but it was Erica who stepped to the window. “Yeah,” she offered, looking out. “I have the feeling you’ll be rethinking that rule this evening.”

  “Oh, really?” Megan replied, fastening a pair of silver earrings to her ears. “Why is that?”

  Erica pointed out of the window and Megan followed her gesture to find a gleaming, almost futuristic sports car adorning their street. A gull-wing door opened in the sleek, silver fuselage and Jake McMahon stepped out.

  “Holy shit! It’s a Back To The Future car!”

  Erica laughed and helped smooth down Megan’s dress, a tight-ish, black cocktail dress, short enough to be sexy but not so short as to risk an immodest display when getting into a sports car. “You’ll be fine. Be yourself, but no jokes about ‘compensating’ or asking him if he has hair plugs!”

  “But you didn’t see that guy!” Megan protested.

  “Yeah,” replied Erica drily. “If I remember correctly, you never saw him again, either.”

  Megan shrugged. “Yeah, well. He had hair plugs. Who wants to date a guy with hair plugs? Anyway, Jake looks like a goddamn model. I’ll be lucky if I can talk at all in front of him.”

  “Just text me later, OK?” She kissed Megan on the cheek. “Especially if you need me to be, erm...”

  “Out of the way?” Megan guessed.

  “Let’s say that. I don’t want to interrupt anything.”

  Megan turned to the mirror at the top of the stairs. “Crap! I haven’t done anything to my hair and he’s already here!”

  Erica watched this pre-departure chaos with amusement but always wished Megan success, especially in her stuttering love life. “Just flip your head over and shake it out,” she advised. “The sexy bed-head look is very popular with guys.”

  Megan obliged and then flipped her head back up. “Okay?”

  “You look like a friggin’ supermodel. You may both spend the evening incapable of speech!”

  Megan spanked Erica’s butt playfully on the way out, grabbed her black leather purse and slinked down the stair, feeling a little like a model on a catwalk. Her outward bravado hid some pretty major inner nerves. Breathe, Megan. He ain’t all that, really. Just a world-famous, tech-genius, Lamborghini-driving serial monogamist.

  Oh. Fuck.

  Megan opened the door.

  “Good evening.” Jake was in a relaxed, dark blue suit with a white button-down shirt, the top two buttons undone. His blonde hair was looking its best, as if he’d come straight from the barber. He wore a smile which exuded confidence in an open, rather sexy way. In the two seconds it took Megan to form an impression, she quickly found herself close to panic. What is this guy doing on a date with me?

  “Well, I have to tell you, Jake,” she quipped nervously, motioning to the sports car, “if this is intended to impress me, it’s working.”

  He
seemed slightly surprised. “Oh, this? I’m just test-driving this for a friend. Going to take it back later tonight. I just thought you’d like to see it before I do.” He stepped back and invited her to occupy the passenger seat.

  The Lamborghini Huracan was built principally for speed, but luxury was crafted into every aspect of the design. Megan seemed to slide into the seat, the wonderful sensation of fine leather very much present through her black cocktail dress. Rather than close it in the conventional manner, Jake effortlessly nudged the raised door downward and it slid into the fuselage like a well-engineered glove. There was something comforting in that precision, something even attractive in that attention to detail. He appreciates quality, Megan thought, like a surgeon who knows when a scalpel is truly sharp. She felt slightly giddy, a little self-conscious, but also pleasingly excited.

  “It must feel pretty good,” Megan observed as they slid smoothly along the streets of her neighborhood, “to be driving around in something that looks like a billion dollars.”

  Jake would have been lying if he’d claimed indifference to the turning heads, especially those of the town’s more than adequate number of attractive women. “I get a kick out of it,” he admitted with a grin. “I guess, at heart, I’m a showman.”

  No kidding. Megan watched him negotiate the traffic and turns of central Boston, not a traffic environment for the faint hearted. “So, where are we going?” she asked.

  Jake was pressing buttons, seemingly experimentally. “Do you know a bar called Circus?”

  Megan shook her head, and couldn’t help noticing an odd sensation from beneath the seat. “Jake?”

  “Hmm?”

  She paused to check she wasn’t imagining things. “Are you warming my ass right now?”

  His hand flew to the dashboard and clicked off a small button. “Sorry...” he said. “I’m like a boy on Christmas morning when they let me drive one of these cars.”

  “If it were Christmas morning, I wouldn’t mind,” she said with a wry smile, “but it’s seventy degrees out. Come the next nor’easter, though, you can warm my ass as much as you want.”