by Lyz Kelley
Billionaire’s Secret
Lyz Kelley
Contents
A special gift just for you.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Author Notes
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Chapter 1
To a New York tourist walking down the street, the chipped, green-painted door might appear ordinary, but he knew the secrets and misery and strength that lived on the other side.
Weston Carver looked up to appreciate the old tenement-style architecture. The brick had turned a dark orange over time, and fire escapes zig-zagged down the structure in a geometric pattern.
A thin, hunched-over man lounging on a folding chair by the leather retail store next door glanced at Weston’s shoes and took a long draw from his cigarette, squinting against the late-morning sun. “We got leather. You need a coat? Maybe a bag? Nice belt? Come in. Best price in town. We got the good stuff. Come see.” Smoke wafted, then absorbed into the warming air.
“No thanks. Maybe later.” Weston waved off the man’s insistent beckoning and stepped into the building’s shadow. The lunch-hour aromas of Manhattan’s Lower East Side seeped into his senses. He loved this gritty vibe. The noise. The hustle. The cultural richness.
Everything about the neighborhood was a punch-in-the-gut reminder of the life he couldn’t have.
Craving invisibility, the CEO of Carver International had opted not to wear his authentic Rolex and Armani shoes for this outing. Obviously he still stuck out like a zit on a teenager’s face.
He checked the time on his phone. Three minutes until the scheduled meeting. The swig from the dregs of his two-shot vanilla latte tasted bitter, and he swallowed to get rid of the stale flavor as he climbed the cement steps and pressed the buzzer to the left of the door. A menacing growl and bark sounded on the other side, but he didn’t hear the expected footfall approach.
Turning, he glanced down the bustling street filled with workers and shoppers going about their business, pausing when he recognized an eighty-something woman bent with age and laden with several grocery bags.
“There you are.” Just seeing her erased the melancholy mood plaguing him the past few days.
Valerie Borum took a detour to chat with a young woman. He studied the way she so effortlessly held the young woman’s attention. The action stirred a memory of the first time he met the neighborhood icon.
Decked out in black and gold and a look-at-me color of lipstick, she’d made one hell of an entrance at the inner-city fundraiser. She’d dressed to impress, and was ready to fight for women’s rights.
Weston trotted down the tenement steps, lifted the nearest recycling trashcan lid to deposit his empty paper cup, and headed to meet his afternoon appointment.
“Hey there, Mrs. Borum, may I help you with those bags?” He reached for the double set of reusable totes looped over her shoulder.
“Lord have mercy, Mr. Carver. You’re as handsome as ever. Good to see you. What’s it been? One? Two years?”
“Almost three, Mrs. Borum, but in any case, it’s been too long. The last time we were together you were working at the women’s shelter in Chinatown and about to retire.”
“That’s right. You were at my going-away party.” Her bawdy laugh made her ample bosom jiggle. “Boy, time sure flies.”
Her masked expression hinted there was more to the change of jobs story, but she didn’t seem willing to share at the moment, and he wasn’t willing to push. He shifted the groceries to his left hand. “Let me take the other two bags for balance. You can get the door.”
“That’s mighty kind of you. Nice to know there are a few men left in this world who treat women well. Then again, in my line of work I see only the worst.” Valerie handed over the rest of her bags, her hands creased and red from carrying them. “You’re a busy man, Mr. Carver. I appreciate you agreein’ to come visit this place.”
“Actually, I was hoping to convince you to take over the running of Empower House. I’ve recently taken a seat on the board, and we could use your expertise. You’ve been running inner-city women’s shelters for a long time, and the nonprofit could use your type of experience.”
She paused while picking through her key ring. “Me? Oh, dear.” Her bloodshot eyes softened. “Once upon a time I would have jumped at the chance. You don’t want me, Mr. Carver. No, sir. These bones can hardly move anymore. If you want somebody good, you’d best set your sights on Ms. Courtney Kramer. She’s the owner of this shelter, and the person responsible for making it a treasure.”
Courtney Kramer. Interesting. He’d been aware of her for over a year. They’d never met, at least not directly. He’d learned a lot about her during the past few weeks from his recruiting team’s profile summary.
He hadn’t lied. He did have a seat on the board of Empower House, but he was the only board member on his inherited private nonprofit. He’d taken on sole responsibility because his family didn’t want the distraction. His father in particular warned him about his obligations to Carver International, but Weston couldn’t allow this business to fail.
The recruitment summary labeled Courtney as young, reckless, overzealous…all the things his parents had criticized him for while he was in his twenties. The conviction in Valerie’s voice intrigued him. What did she see in Courtney that his staff didn’t?
While Empower House was a side gig in addition to his day job, it was important to him nonetheless, and he needed to find the right leader for the job.
“According to my sources, Ms. Kramer can be a hothead. If I recall, she verbally attacked New York’s mayor last month at a town hall meeting.”
Valerie gave him a rolling-eye dismissal. “She’s just passionate about getting abused women out of bad situations, and that ol’ fuddy-duddy deserved a tongue-lashing for not delivering on his promises.”
“Passionate, maybe. Combative, definitely. Attacking the mayor is not always in a person’s best interest. The best alternative to solving a problem, Ms. Valerie, is proposing an implementable solution.”
Valerie shook her head as she unlocked the door and pocketed her keys. “There’s no wrong way to create awareness when a person is trying to do good.”
That’s debatable, he thought as he followed Valerie through the women’s shelter door—and then stopped. Three feet in front of him a Rottweiler mix stood tall and curled his lip, unsheathing mighty fangs.
“Brutus, mind your manners,” Valerie snapped her fingers and pointed to the floor. The dog’s front paws slid forward over the whi
te and black mosaic tile, his back end lowering until his torso rested on the floor. But the dog’s tension remained. One false move on Weston’s part and he’d be up and lunging.
“Don’t pet him. He loves women and children, but the animal shelter we got him from warned us that some guy abused him, so he might bite. Best guard dog we’ve ever had,” Valerie’s voice echoed from the kitchen.
Weston kept his eye on the dog as he used a foot to kick the front door shut.
Golden eyes watched him with the kind of intensity only the best guard dogs possessed. “I hope you have a sizeable liability policy,” Weston said with a slice of humor and heavy layer of caution tacked on.
Valerie peeked around the corner. “He looks fierce, but he’s just a big baby. Watch.” She selected a colored biscuit from a glass jar on the laminated white counter and held it where Brutus could see it.
The dog’s jowls slacked and his mouth dripped saliva.
“Roll,” Valerie commanded.
The dog leaned to his side and, with a kick, got all four paws in the air. “Good boy.” She tossed him the treat. “Brutus hasn’t hurt anyone, but he sure has scared off a few people we didn’t want visiting. That’s his job, to scare off certain kinds of people.”
Weston eyed the dog with wary respect. “He sure looks built for the assignment.”
Following Valerie’s mint and lavender scent, he walked over the hundred-year-old floor toward the kitchen. He liked the feel of the place. The old building had good bones. And if the smell of disinfectant was any indication, it was well maintained.
Four feet from the doorway a high-pitched scream coupled with a rumbling giggle and rapid footfalls racing down the hall gave him a few seconds’ warning. He lifted the bags as a backward-looking toddler slammed into his legs, her pink-barrette-held ponytail wobbling on top of her head. Catching her balance, she looked up, and her eyes opened wide, then her forehead crumpled with fear. She froze, mouth open, before the whimpers began.
His hands tightened around the canvas bag straps, his teeth gritted.
The toddler’s terror made him want to track down whoever caused that reaction and put him behind bars.
No child should have that look of horror, but the frightened reaction was one he’d seen too many times. He forced a smile and relaxed his stance into a more casual position. “Whoa there, little one. Where are you going so fast?”
Brutus, already on his feet, inched forward to sniff the child’s diaper. He circled the young one, shielding her, protecting her from a person he considered a stranger.
His opinion of Brutus improved by the minute.
A young woman looking barely old enough to drive swooped the child into her arms and backed away. “I’m sorry. She just got away from me. I’m sorry, mister, I a…”
Valerie appeared in the doorway, a can of condensed milk in her hand. “Stacia,” she said. raising her voice to break through the wall of fear. “This is Weston Carver. He’s one of the good guys.” She thrust her chin toward the main stairwell. “Why don’t you take Faith upstairs and give her a bath? Then you both can come back down and help me prepare lunch. I believe it’s your assigned chore today.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The young woman retreated down the hallway and disappeared. Brutus followed along, doing his job.
Valerie sighed. “Mothers. They keep getting younger and younger. Or maybe I just keep getting older.” Her relaxed, robust chuckle echoed through the narrow space.
“How many are here?” Weston hoisted his load of canvas bags up onto the kitchen counter.
“More than the state says we’re permitted to have, but it breaks my heart to turn the young kids away. We have over forty on the waiting list.” Her tired eyes met his as she shrugged.
“Is that why you invited me here today? You want me to see if I can help find space for your waiting list?”
“No. I’ve already tried placing the critical need cases. There are just too many who need help and too few rooms.” She reached into one of the bags and took out three boxes of pasta. “The reason I invited you here is to see this shelter firsthand. I have a lot of respect for Courtney Kramer. She’s the owner of Safe Embrace, and she runs a good business. The challenge is, we lease this space, and the landlord just sent us a notice of nonrenewal.”
“Let me guess. The building owner sees the area becoming trendier and wants to either sell the building or increase rents.”
“He’s looking to sell.”
Weston unloaded brown sugar, starch, and chocolate chips from the bags and set them on the counter. He held up several boxes of butter and a bag of coconut. “Magic bars?”
For a fraction of a second the exhaustion in his friend's eyes disappeared, replaced by a rainbow of delight. “There’s nothing that soothes the soul like comfort food.”
“Amen.” He returned her smile.
He liked this woman, liked her the moment they met, not least because the social worker had seen too much over the years to be intimidated by the Carver name. He appreciated being treated like someone who brushed their teeth, put on clothes, went to work, just like other people.
“Seems to me if you lose this lease, you’ll be out of a job. My offer is still good. I can put you in contact with someone at Empower House, and I’m sure they can find you a job.”
“I don’t want another job. I like it here. Plus, I enjoy working for Courtney. She has passion. Energy. New ideas. She makes a real difference in these women’s lives. Not every shelter can say the same.”
He’d heard the rumors on the streets about Empower House. Bedbugs. Abuse. The administrators filling beds only to get government subsidies. All the things a women’s shelter shouldn’t be…and all too often was.
On the other hand, Safe Embrace, this shelter, actually made a positive and lasting difference in the lives of their residence and consistently had the highest marks.
He went over to study the whiteboard on the kitchen’s back wall. Red, blue, and green markers listed names, chores, and assignments. “Skills assessment,” he read aloud, then pointed at that first column. “What does this entail?”
Valerie’s expression softened and then brightened at his interest. “Every person walking through that door wants something different. No one’s needs are the same. The goal of their assessment is to find out what skills they already have and match them to a mainstream job description. A real job, with good money. Something that will make getting out of bed in the morning worthwhile.”
“Smart. And this?” He pointed at the words, “job training.”
“We have partnered with other organizations to help with on-the-job training if the incoming resident isn’t already in school. The goal is to help place a person in a job within six to eight weeks.”
Wow. He crossed his arms, holding in the skepticism. “Is that achievable?”
Valerie’s mouth curved into the sweet smile he remembered. “I’ve seen that look. I had a similar response three years ago when a spunky young woman approached me with her master’s thesis.”
“I take it you’re referring to Courtney Kramer.”
“Yep. That woman has dreams. Big, myth-busting dreams. And nothing is gonna get in her way.” Valerie added a jar of honey to the cupboard already neatly organized with stacks of cans and boxes of food. “She’s up on the roof tending the gardens. Why don’t you go introduce yourself?”
Weston nodded and walked through the kitchen to the back wooden staircase and began a squeaky, five-story climb. He pushed back the heavy metal roof door and navigated around the plastic compost dumpster tucked against the exterior wall. Rows of raised vegetable gardens edged with aged gray wood sat underneath a shady trellis. The nearest labels read tomato, lettuce, pepper, and corn.
He breathed in the fresh scent of new life. Growing their own food. Smart. Real smart. He lifted a delicate yet firm tomato branch covered with tiny yellow flowers and saw the small red, unripe sphere clusters burdening the lower branch
es.
In the shaded corner two women weeded the last container.
The young woman with brown curls he recognized. She’d attended his family’s charity gala the prior year. However, the legs as long as summer extending out of her faded jeans shorts came as a surprise, as did the pucker-me-pink bra that showed through her white T-shirt. Her tanned skin made him forget to breathe. Long, beaded earrings dangled against her slender neck. When was the last time his heart did extra pumps while looking at a woman?
Months?
Possibly years?
Maybe never?
The peaceful image should be painted on the side of a building to inspire others to plant urban gardens and use every spare inch to both nurture life and produce local food for the hungry. It was one of his favorite causes.
He shook off his intrigue. He didn’t have time for women. Hell, he didn’t have time for a life outside work. Even today wasn’t an indulgence, only a small donation toward his past sins.
He reached up to lift the nearest pepper leaf, limp from the hot sun.
The movement made both women turn. The youngest took several steps back and hid behind the planter box.
“Men are not allowed here.” The brunette sidestepped to stand in front of the terrified woman.
That wasn’t true. Even he could see her hesitate over the lie, but he respected her determination to protect. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He held both hands in front of him to prove he meant no harm. “You must be Courtney,” he offered a smile and dropped his hands, hoping to ease the tension.