The Billionaire's Caress Page 4

  Basically, Simone Ritter was a woman who knew her shit and cared about people. So when she discreetly pulled my door to after I spent our morning brief all smiles, almost whistling before I caught myself because things were finally looking up, I paused to digest her question.

  I left my coffee on the desk, my forehead scrunching in confusion. “...yes?” Even though we were in my office and nothing was out of place, from my kick knacks to my stack of things to do, I still scanned the room. Eyeballed the ceiling, like maybe it was all too good to be true and the sky would fall at any moment. “Why do you ask?”

  She brought her pen to her mouth, chewing on the end thoughtfully. “I guess I’m just surprised you’re in such a good mood.”

  I locked my jaw. “If this is regarding About Us-”

  Ouch. I stopped when I looked at her face and saw that she wasn’t referencing all the reports on me at the concert and the lead singer calling me out.

  I rounded my desk and plopped in my chair with a grimace. I thought I was keeping my head down, doing a good job of acting like I was A-ok while my home life was in the crapper, but apparently, I was wrong. “Just a bit stressed lately. Nothing to worry about,” I added quickly when she stepped forward, hands on hips, ready to leap into action. Ready to forgive her boss’ rude behavior. “Hold on one sec.”

  I left her staring at me quizzically, heading to the break room. Jacob spared no expense when it came to taking care of the employees at Whitmore and Creighton. Along with the swanky cafe on the conference room floor, each break room was stocked with an espresso machine with all the bells and whistles. Usually, I kept it simple with a little sugar to go with my coffee—and I knew that Simone was obsessed with cappuccinos. Her quick response to my question about why she was shocked by my good mood told me that a mere cup of coffee wouldn’t do the trick. Putting up with crabby Leila was worth a cappuccino, at the very least.

  I cracked my knuckles, ready to take on the fancy machine that most avoided for fear of becoming the Idiot Who Broke The Espresso Machine. I’d spent two years as a barista at the local hospital while I was in college. I punched a few buttons and before I knew it, I was tamping the ground espresso beans and inhaling the fresh, invigorating aroma. I steamed the milk, tilting the pitcher and adjusting to create the foam.

  “Are you making me a drink?”

  I peered over my shoulder, chuckling when I saw the wide eyed shock on Simone’s face. “Not just a drink. The best cappuccino you’ve ever had.” And with that, I went back to work, carefully crafting her cappuccino, showing off a tiny bit by making a leaf in the foam.

  The whites of her eyes gleamed as brightly as the tiny porcelain cup. “It’s so beautiful! I almost don’t wanna-” She stopped mid-sentence, taking a sip before she let out a moan of pleasure. “Leila, this is amazing!”

  I did a little curtsy. “Glad you like it! Consider it the first of many peace offerings for having to put up with me.”

  She slowly pulled the rim from her lips. “Your behavior?”

  I nodded, crossing my arms, then uncrossing them because I didn’t want to look defensive. “No matter what was going on, I don’t want to be the kind of boss who takes the people who help me out for granted.” Or take out my frustration on you, I thought guiltily.

  She brought the cup back to her mouth, finishing it before she turned to the dishwasher with a sigh. “Leila, even if you were in a bad mood, every day, you’re still ten times nicer than most people who work here.” I opened my mouth to tell her that didn’t matter, but she patted me on the arm, her smile telling me that she held no ill will. “Apology accepted.” She led the way back to my office, her razor thin stilettos like a drummer leading up to a big reveal. “My OOTD post got over 100 likes before I even got to work, my boss made me the best cappuccino I’ve had in my life, and your most troublesome client has been on his best behavior. I don’t want to brag, but this is shaping up to be the best Monday ever.”

  I almost agreed with her, considering Jacob and I spent the rest of the weekend (and this morning) making up, but I refused to believe that Rich O’Connor hadn’t created some fire over the weekend for us to put out today. “Really? Nothing at all?”

  I rounded the desk to my chair and Simone held out her tablet for my confirmation. “I’ve checked his social media presence, traditional avenues, a few of my sources at clubs he frequents, and they all say-” She paused for dramatic effect. “Nothing.”

  I skimmed the screen before I handed it back to her. I didn’t look for verification because I doubted her story, mind you. I just found it pretty close to unbelievable that the same man who’d vomited on my rug and propositioned me and Natasha had truly turned over a new leaf. My pep talks were pretty epic, but I wasn’t a miracle worker.

  Skepticism crept into my voice. “Surely he’s not up and ready for his podcast interview in an hour? Maybe we can send the runner over to his place with a fresh cup of coffee and something to eat, check the charge on his headset and mic-”

  “Not necessary,” Simone chirped. “He’s been up since 7am, actually. Has already chatted with the host and they’re planning to start recording a little earlier. In-” Simone glanced at her watch. “15 minutes.”

  “Simone!” I hissed, smoothing the front of my blouse like I was the one being interviewed vs. monitoring him via webcam to make sure he didn’t put his foot in his mouth.

  “Sorry,” she offered, doing me one better by holding up my coffee that I’d forgotten. “I got all distracted with the cappuccino and...want some coffee? Or a fresh cup?”

  “I’m good,” I answered, reaching for my coffee. Even if it had lost a bit of its punch, I wasn’t feeling too picky at the moment. I just wanted a little caffeine before I had to deal with Rich. I wanted to believe in his miraculous turnaround, but the truth was, I had my doubts. A man who spent years nurturing his bad boy image did not go nice that easily. It wasn’t like flipping a light switch. “He’s already online?”

  “Yes he is,” my computer speakers chirped brightly. I shifted my eyes to my screen and Rich graced me with a wink. “It’s about time you showed up, Mrs. Whitmore.”

  SIMONE HAD LEFT MY office, off to tackle another bullet on our to-do list. The more I stared at Rich’s too chipper face, the more I wished I’d asked for a second opinion. Another person who’d spent a chunk of time with him, who knew his ups and downs and in and outs—and would give him the same, necessary side eye.

  The dark, midnight locks that he liked to flip and tie into a bun right before he laid into someone? Gone. In its place was a buzz cut that would have made him look more like the villain in the movie, before he even opened his mouth, but something that was definitely a rarity was stapled to his rugged face...a smile.

  “Did you have a good weekend?” Before I could even answer, he leaned in, dark brown eyes darting to the left and right like he was making sure no one was listening. I guess it didn’t matter that we both knew that he was home and alone.

  Unless he has some chick hiding in his bathroom that he’s forgotten about. I still remembered my utter shock when I came across the screenshots from a few months ago. The unbelievable headlines. Actor leaves escort locked in the bathroom for nearly 36 hours. It would have seemed absurd, like the Bigfoot stories. It wasn’t possible that someone could forget to tell their secret visitor that the coast was clear and leave town to work on a film project, right? Said visitor couldn’t have been so hopeless that she couldn’t figure out a door, right? Then I read some more because at that point, I was invested, and learned that Rich had tied the woman up and their role-play was interrupted. He’d been so drunk, high or both that he forgot all about her. Leaving the woman twiddling her thumbs, hog tied, waiting for her date to come untie her.

  “I saw that you were checking out some music this weekend.”

  I rolled my eyes and resisted the urge to groan. “You did, huh?”

  “What is it about you, Mrs. Whitmore? You attract men like flies to honey.” He perched his chin on his hand and hardened his jaw, giving me a print worthy picture that would have made most women quiver. “Present company included.”

  I didn’t want to take the bait and I refused to talk about Jacob or Corbin with him, so I steered us back on track. “We’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to make sure that you kill during your podcast in fifteen minutes.”

  He did a military salute. “Yes ma’am! Since they won’t be able to see my devilishly good looks, I’ll just have to win ‘em over with my bedroom voice.” He stared into the camera and dropped his tenor to a key that would make Barry White proud. “How’s this?”

  I didn’t want to laugh, but even I wasn’t immune, especially when he wasn’t being the crass, obnoxious guy that most of the world knew him as. When he wasn’t calling women bitches and hoes, he was kind of charming.

  “Works for me. So let’s go through the list of topics they sent.”

  Rich held up his sheet of paper like a child proudly sharing their A+ for the test they’d studied relentlessly for. “Got ‘em right here!”

  I leaned in, squinting in hopes that the pixels were deceiving me. It looked an awful lot like there were no replies or notes next to hot topics and possible questions she would ask. Rich was a man that had a reputation for going from zero to hundred when he felt uncomfortable, and those blanks spots told me he was about to do something crazy. He planned to wing it during a podcast run by one of the women he’d dissed online. A woman that was notorious for taking on self-identified assholes and making their fame go poof after she took them to task. Made them explode and say things there was no coming back from.

  “Rich...” I pressed the bridge of my nose and tried to remember steady breathing. Wished I’d paid more attention to flow and finding my inner zen during the sprinkle of yoga classes I’d been to instead of worrying about how ungraceful I looked. “Why don’t I see thoughts and comments? Have you even looked at these topics?”

  His eyes narrowed to slits of onyx. “Oh ye of little faith.” He put down the paper—and shut down any doubt that he wasn’t bringing his A game. “Why acting? That’s easy. I grew up some place where my options were to go military, continue the family tradition of working hard and still scrapping by, or hope that good grades and a kick ass essay was enough to have some college throw me a bone.” He held up a hand, counting off each bullet point. Even though he was a little mesmerizing in person, when he wasn’t busy making me want to knock him upside the head, even his voice roped you in. There was a cadence, a swagger that wouldn’t be denied. “I don’t do well with authority or following rules.” He paused, like he was waiting for some imaginary audience to let out a whistle or two. Giving the women that were being discreet and listening as they went about their day a reason to blush and bite their lip.

  Before I could shake my head, Rich continued.

  “The authority thing kinda applies to both,” Rich shrugged. “And as far college, my idea of studying happened about half an hour before the test. Homework was the very last thing on a priority list that smoking, drinking, you know what-ing, and music.”

  He knew he was playing me like a fiddle because my eyebrows arched at his last word. Hooked on his story. Hooked to the point that I’d forgotten all about the real reason he was on the show. To kiss ass, to atone for his slights against women and anyone else he didn’t deem worthy of respect. In this moment, he was just that ‘bad kid’ that all the other kids thought was super cool without even trying. Doing and saying things we never dreamed of doing and would never get away with.

  He stroked the top of his head, flashing a peek of one of his gnarly tattoos. “Music—that was my outlet. There was this bar on the outskirts of town.” He squeezed his eyes shut like this was a part of his history that he didn’t want to replay. That embarrassing moment when your parents bring out your old school pictures, making the person you brought rethink their life choices.

  “This place was a real shithole. The kinda place where you have to be wasted just to quiet that voice that whispers ‘if some shit is gonna go down tonight, it’s gonna be right here’.

  They thought it was a good idea to have me play music on Thursday nights. The first couple of weeks were rough, but once I earned my stripes, I got a following. One night this redhead-“ he paused, mentally backtracking and amending his word choice. “This woman who worked in casting came to my show and told me that I’d be perfect for a little role in a little tv show. A little tv show called Beaches.” He puffed out his chest with pride and I almost smiled. Most actors who made it big tended to shy away from their start if it happened to be on a soap opera or anything deemed low brow, but not Rich. He still attended fan conventions for Beaches from time to time and between tweets about which new starlet he’d like to spend a night with, he retweeted fan love to his followers.

  “Beaches opened the door to where I am now. I started off with two lines, but the audience fell in love and the rest, as they say, is history.” He cocked his head to the side, a sly grin on his lips. “So, tell me, Leila—am I ready?”

  To be honest, he’d been surprising me since he opened his mouth. Being himself, but dialed several notches back. Still an unrepentant flirt, but not obnoxious. His confidence radiated in a way that can’t be taught. Villain or no, he made it hard to dislike him.

  Until you caught him off guard.

  I dropped my eyes to the paper and found a question that wasn’t quite so cozy. “Why do you think it’s appropriate to call women ‘bitches’?”

  He scooted back a few feet, something racing across his face before it disappeared. When he came back, collected, grin in place, he held a single finger up, tick tocking the digit as he shook his head. “That was a low blow. No warning, huh? No foreplay with you-“

  “I’m gonna stop you right there.” I leaned in this time, serious as a heart attack. “At no point is it okay for you to talk about anything sexual or proposition the host or any possible guests in any way.” I felt like I needed to expand the scope a bit to include anyone with a pulse, but I didn’t have the time to explain to him the gravity of respecting others. “When you feel attacked, threatened, or embarrassed, you turn into a jerk. It’s not sexy, cute, or funny. It’s the reason that you almost lost the role in your current film.”

  That got a reaction, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. I prepared myself for some derogatory quip, but he didn’t say a word.

  I was surprised he wasn’t coughing up blood from biting his tongue.

  This was his first role as the leading man. A shoot ‘em up thriller where he was actually the hero, instead of the villain everyone was hoping would eventually get their comeuppance. He was at a tipping point. Either he plateaued, and would have to be content as ‘that guy who always plays the bad guy’, typecast until he faded into the sunset, or he could breakout and try his hand at showing the world he had range. That he was a versatile talent. His innuendo and flat out disrespect would only turn him into a hashtag, a symbol to rally against instead of an actor worthy of moviegoers hard earned money.

  “If you think the host is gonna be all cuddly and starstruck, asking you softball questions about where you’re from, your favorite color, and what you like to binge on Netflix after a long day, you’re not paying attention.” I arched an eyebrow. “Even if you hadn’t called her ‘chubby Reese Witherspoon’, you should know that your first words to any question about your recent behavior should be ‘I’m sorry’. Period. In fact, you should make it a goal to apologize at least three times during the interview.”

  He looked physically ill, but he gave me a slight nod, his gray eyes downcast. “Got it.”

  I wasn’t a hundred percent certain that I’d gotten through to him, but I had a spark of hope that maybe he’d keep it together long enough that his charm would outweigh his douchebag urges. “So I’ll be a ping away-”

  “You didn’t let me answer your question.”

  There was a gleam in his eye that made me wonder if he would just pick up where he left off, but I didn’t stop him. “Go ahead.”

  He didn’t clear his throat or waste time on pomp and circumstance. “First off, it’s not appropriate for me to call women bitches. I’m sorry for that. Sorry that my reaction when I’m faced with someone that has a negative or conflicting opinion with mine is to jump to insult. I should be listening. Pausing to really take a look at my actions and my words.” He let out a weary sigh. “Words can powerful, man.” His grin turned playful. “And despite popular opinion, I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

  “Oh geez,” I said, not even bothering to stop my eyes from rolling around in their sockets.

  “Now I know the interview will go well!” He pumped his fist in the air. “I got the Leila Whitmore Eye Roll of Approval.”

  I wheeled away from the computer before he saw me smile. “Just remember to treat people like you want to be treated and you’ll be just fine.” Considering he wanted to be treated like a king, I figured it would be a good start. “I’m gonna grab a bite before you guys get rolling. Back in five.”

  He’d already forgotten me altogether, strumming something on his guitar. Reminding me of another man who thought he was God’s gift to humanity.

  No, I thought firmly, closing that door before I could take a step inside. I was too hungry and too happy to go back to Corbinland.

  I swiped my phone, thumbing over to the app so I could check on Hope. She and my mother were busy making up for lost time. I had no idea who was winning Peekaboo, but Hope sounded like she could go for another hour or two.

  I felt the eyes on me when I walked the halls. The question in their eyes was the same one that Rich asked. First Jacob, now some rockstar? What was it about this chick? I had tunnel vision, answering the sprinkling of hello’s for those who bothered to speak.

  One such co-worker, a woman named Molly who worked closely with Claudia Joy, paused long enough to have a full blown conversation.