Greedy Boss Page 2
“Gee, thanks,” I say, pushing up the speed to a steady walk and flipping the channel on the overhead TV from sports to a morning news broadcast. The first thing I see is body-cam footage from the poker game bust. I point up to it. “That’s why.”
Quinn squints at the TV and braces her arms on the side of her treadmill. “Poker?”
I shake my head. “My client who was busted at the poker game. He’s…challenging.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. “In a good way?”
Good question. “We have history together.”
Her eyes get wider. “Do tell.”
“I’ll tell you and the girls all about it at cocktail hour this week.”
She claps her hands. “Can’t wait!”
“Anything new with you?” I ask. “Bennett treating you right?” Her boss, Bennett Kingsbury, seems good enough if a bit clueless. His firm has hired Durand Communications a few times for press releases but has never needed crisis management—probably because of Quinn.
“Well enough,” she says. “Speaking of which.” She turns off the treadmill and picks up her book, water bottle, and keys. “I’d better get to it.”
“See you at Amara’s,” I say as she leaves. Amara is another of our building friends, and it’s her turn to host cocktail hour this week.
After walking for another thirty minutes, I go back upstairs to shower and change. I drink my coffee on the balcony and watch the sun rise over the city. In spite of the beautiful view, my mind keeps wandering back to Jasper. As bad as he can be, being busted at an underground poker game doesn’t sound like him. Usually, he’s in the news for his choice of women or his work with a business—never anything criminal.
His brother, on the other hand, is another story. Asher Wright always took things to the next level. In fact, he was expelled his junior year for gambling. Is it possible his brother had something to do with Jasper’s appearance at this game? If so, why doesn’t Jasper just say something?
I laugh at myself. I’m clearly grasping at straws, making excuses for a guy who doesn’t deserve it. If anything, the way he schemed to sabotage my senior project proved that. He used my feelings for him to manipulate me. Clearly, he can’t be trusted, and my judgment of him can’t be, either. But my feelings won’t keep me from doing my job and doing it well.
Back at my desk, I get to work on doing what I do best—fixing the mess he made. My contact at the TV station agrees to an interview later this week about Jasper’s recent work with a nonprofit, and I manage to score tickets to Valentina’s Charity Date Auction—which had sold out weeks ago—from my friend Ross at Hartigan and Kline. I email the agenda to Jasper with instructions to meet me at the Monolith Hotel at eight o’clock sharp for the auction. His reply comes quickly.
Jasper: Are you my date?
Me: I’m your chaperone.
Jasper: I prefer date. I’ll pick you up at 7:30.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to object, but I stop myself. I know how to pick my battles, and there’s no harm in having a little prep time before arriving.
Me: Pick me up at 7:45, and it’s not a date.
Jasper: We’ll discuss semantics over drinks. See you tonight.
I’m debating my next response when there’s a knock at the front door. I open it to find a delivery boy half-hidden behind a huge bouquet of vibrant red roses. He shoves them at me, and I balance the bouquet in one hand while signing for the delivery with the other. Closing the door with my foot, I search for a note, hating that I’m hoping they’re from Jasper.
They’re not.
Helena,
Changed your mind yet? Have dinner with me at the Champagne Lounge tomorrow.
Yours,
Charlie Sky
I have my phone out, ready to send him a canned “thanks but no thanks” response, when I stop myself again. I have to play it smart. Maybe it will help me to keep my head on straight about Jasper if I have someone else on my mind. It probably doesn’t hurt that this someone is the only person I know who’s more famous and maybe even wealthier than Jasper himself.
Instead of texting him, I scroll to Charlie’s number and hit the call button.
“Hello?” he answers. His voice doesn’t send the same chills down my spine that Jasper’s does, but it’s still nice. It’s the voice that thousands of women swoon over, after all.
“Charlie? It’s Helena.”
Chapter Four
Jasper
My car pulls up outside Helena’s building at seven forty-five on the dot, and a second later, Helena appears in the doorway. I tell my driver to stay put and I slide out, opening the door for her.
“You look magnificent,” I tell her. It’s true. She’s wearing a black satin cocktail dress that cinches in at her waist and barely contains her round, luscious breasts. Her hips sway tauntingly as she crosses the sidewalk balanced on platform stilettos that make her almost my height.
Instead of thanking me, she grumbles, “This isn’t a date,” and slides past me into the car.
I follow with a chuckle, settling in beside her. “The Monolith,” I instruct the driver.
Helena is a good foot away from me, practically pressed to the other door. Her head is turned away, and her long, dark hair is pulled up, giving me the perfect view of her elegant neck. I want to close the distance between us and press my mouth against the soft skin, feeling the soft beat of her pulse.
But then, she turns her head slightly, catching me out of the corner of her eye. “You look nice, too, though,” she says.
I smirk at her and pull a ribbon from my pocket. “I brought you something.”
She turns and I lean forward, showing her the lavender ribbon pin.
“It’s for cancer awareness,” I say, and I point to my pocket square, which is the same color.
Her eyes dart up to mine. “You did your homework.”
“Contrary to what you might believe, I don’t want to make things harder on you.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. “Maybe you should have done your homework before walking into that poker game.”
The woman is a ball-buster. I don’t hate it. “I knew what it was before I walked into that hotel room,” I say. “It couldn’t be helped.” That’s as much as I’ll say about that.
And she seems to know it. Even though she looks like she has questions, she bites her bottom lip and instead, holds her hand out for the ribbon.
I wag my finger at her, then crook it, telling her to come closer.
“Jasper,” she says, her voice a warning.
“What?” I scoot over. “I don’t want you to prick yourself.”
With a sigh, she leans in, flinching only slightly when I reach for the neckline of her dress. My fingers skim the cool skin of her collarbone and then slip down, pinching the fabric of her dress. My dick twitches to life in my pants and her breath hitches, making me wonder if my arousal is obvious, though I can’t say that I care. Let her see the effect she has on me.
I slide the pin through the fabric, guarding her skin with my fingers, and squeeze it closed, lingering a few seconds longer than necessary.
Then, I lean back and admire my handiwork. Her skin is flushed red and her breasts rise and fall with her heavy breaths. “There,” I say with a nonchalant smile.
Her eyes narrow on me and she leans away again.
We arrive at the Monolith Hotel moments later. There are reporters outside talking to several other businessmen that I recognize, most of them Oakwood Boys from the club.
“Remember what we talked about,” Helena says as I open the door. “Mention the charity, and make no comment on the poker game.”
“What poker game?” I say playfully.
“Exactly.”
Though I’d rather have her on my arm, she hangs back, walking almost to the side as I make my way to the front door.
“Mr. Wright,” one r
eporter calls. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
I catch Helena’s eyes over his shoulder. She’s practically shooting daggers at me with them. “Oh? Why is that?” I ask.
“You don’t exactly have the reputation of being generous, and after what happened last week, it’s clear that you’ll do what it takes to make more money. When will it be enough?”
Helena makes a swiping motion across her neck, either telling me to cut if off now or that she’s going to kill me.
I clear my throat and fix my gaze on the reporter. “Men in my position have a duty to the community. Wright Consulting has a history of charitable donations, and I intend to continue that legacy here tonight as we raise funds for cancer research. It will be enough when we have a cure for cancer and no more children have to suffer like our Valentina.”
Turning away from the reporter, I meet Helena at the door.
“You really did do your homework,” she says, clearly impressed.
The charity date auction is in the hotel’s main ballroom—a massive, gilded room with dozens of chandeliers overhead. Most of them are dimmed to give the large room a cozy ambience. There’s a bar along the back, and tables and chairs decorated in lavender and gold, all set out before a makeshift stage.
Helena claims a table for us while I get us drinks, narrowly avoiding being sucked into conversation with Max Hawthorne and Tobias Kline. I do some consulting for both their companies, but tonight isn’t really about work. It’s about Helena.
“So,” she says, tasting her martini, “will you be bidding tonight, then?”
I laugh, rattling the ice in my glass before taking a sip of the scotch and answering. “Am I allowed to bid?”
“You should consider it,” she says. “People will love it.”
Leaning in, I drop my voice so only she can hear. “Should I take one of them home with me? Maybe that blond in front?”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t move away from me.
I brush my fingers against her neck, letting my lips almost touch her ear. She smells like flowers and sunshine, and I inhale slightly, savoring her nearness. “Unfortunately for them, I’m here with the only person I’m interested in.”
She gives a small sigh and her eyes drift closed for just a second.
“I know you think you know me, but a lot can change in fifteen years. I’ll make a donation and we can leave. I’ll take you out for dinner and we’ll talk, catch up, clear the air.”
Someone knocks into her chair from behind and I pull her closer by instinct. Her eyes dart to my lips, then back up, and I know that at least for that split-second, she considered kissing me. That’s progress, at least.
“I can’t,” she says, her voice raspy, like she struggled to get the words out.
“Helena,” I start, but she interrupts.
“I’m seeing someone.”
I lean back, surprised. “You’re seeing someone?” The thought had never occurred to me. From the moment I saw Helena yesterday, she became mine. The reporter was right—I’m not generous. I don’t share. “Who?” I ask.
“Charlie Sky,” she says.
“Who the fuck is Charlie Sky?” I ask. I’m about ninety percent certain she made the name up.
“That’s not important.” She downs the rest of her drink before continuing. “You’re not supposed to be dating. You’re supposed to be focusing on improving your public appearance, not hitting the tabloids with women on your arm.”
“Not women,” I object. “You.”
“Even worse. It was clear in high school that you and I are not compatible, and I’d rather not risk my job on someone I already know isn’t serious.”
Ouch. I’m still trying to come up with a response when the master of ceremonies takes the stage and opens the auction. I’m fuming as I watch old man Talbot win the first girl, who’s cute but doesn’t hold a candle to Helena’s beauty. Then we all get a little enjoyment out of the bidding war between Max and Tobias over Valentina’s sister, who looks absolutely baffled by all the attention.
When it’s over, I write a sizable check to the charity and Helena and I leave, avoiding the media circus out front by having my driver pull around to a side door. Helena is quiet on the way back to her place, only breaking the silence to give me directions and pointers for the interview tomorrow.
Back at her apartment building, she doesn’t wait for me to open the door, instead saying a quick goodbye and getting out on her own. She leaves me staring after her, wondering what I have to do to prove to her that I’m not just a rich boy with a pretty face. That I’m more than that, and she’s becoming everything to me.
Chapter Five
Helena
Jasper’s Facebook page is like a graveyard of past relationships. While he hardly posts anything, girls tag him in countless pictures. In some, it’s clear he’s just an unsuspecting passerby pulled into a selfie, but in others, he is very much a willing participant.
There are a couple shirtless ones that I spend way too long studying, but it can’t be helped. The man’s body is a work of art, with hard, defined muscles and a jawline that could cut glass. It demands to be admired.
Apparently, he was dating the daughter of a Russian oil baron at one point, and a social media princess at another. Both of them tagged him incessantly, and their lifestyles are so drastically different from mine, it leaves me with a sick taste in my mouth. What is he doing flirting with me when girls like this throw themselves at him? Girls who have flawless makeup and tiny waists and spend thousands of dollars on designer shopping sprees. I had actually let myself imagine being with him last night. But this is the wake-up call I needed.
I’m deleting or untagging Jasper in any pictures that cast him in an unfavorable light when I come across one from the infamous poker game. Some digging proves it was posted by a cocktail waitress. I’m not sure how it escaped notice before—maybe because the picture isn’t the best quality and it’s hard to make out any actual faces. I can spot Jasper, though, standing against a wall, almost out of the picture. He’s standing beside someone else, someone I can’t quite identify. But there’s something familiar about him.
I open another Facebook tab and look up a different name—Asher Wright. Jasper’s brother. I study the most recent picture of him, then flip back to the one from the poker game. It could be him. It’s the right build, the same lighter hair. But it’s impossible to be sure. Either way, I save the picture before untagging Jasper and sending a request to the girl to take down the shot. Then, I send a message to one of my security contacts at the Agency and ask him to keep an eye on Asher Wright.
Before wrapping it up for the day to get ready for my date, I plug Jasper’s name into the search engine. The first result is the interview he did this morning. The next few results are about him at the charity auction, his statement to the reporter there, and his sizable donation. Mention of the poker game isn’t even on the first page.
I smile to myself as I shut down the computer. Another job well-done.
It’s nothing more than that.
♦ ♦ ♦
The Champagne Lounge is an exclusive fine-dining restaurant on the top floor of one of Oakwood City’s tallest buildings. The floor-to-ceiling windows look down on the city, which, from this vantage point, is just a sea of lights.
“This is beautiful,” I say as Charlie pulls out my chair for me to sit down. We’re against one of the windows at a private table separate from any other diners.
“You’re beautiful,” Charlie says, taking a seat across from me.
I roll my eyes as I pick up the menu, but Charlie stops me with a hand over mine.
“I’ll order for us.”
“You’ll what?” I start to object, but he’s already looking away from me, flagging down the waitress.
True to his word, he spouts off an order. “We’ll start with the oysters tempura, then we’ll both have a Greek salad.”
“Actually,” I interrupt, “I’d like the fresh corn c
howder with blue crab, please.”
Charlie looks at me, his brow furrowed, then back to the waitress. “I’ll have the grilled pork chop and the lady will have—”
“The mahi-mahi please,” I interrupt again.
After a brief, confused pause, Charlie then orders two glasses of beer. When the waitress walks away, I start talking before he has a chance.
“I don’t like oysters,” I say. “Or beer.” I mean, this is the Champagne Lounge. I’ve been looking forward to an expensive bottle of bubbly champagne all day.
He chuckles as if I’ve made a joke. “Everyone likes oysters. And the lager is a light beer—it will pair perfectly with the mahi-mahi. That you ordered.” He says the last part as if to point out that this whole beer thing is my fault.
I press my lips together in a sardonic smile. There’s no use in arguing. This is why I don’t date men in my industry—or really any men at all. They view women as ornaments, objects to be seen and not heard. And that’s a problem since I have no issue speaking up for myself.
The meal comes, and despite the oysters, it really is delicious. My beer remains untouched as I opt instead to drink water. As insistent as he was that I get the beer, Charlie doesn’t notice. He spends the meal talking about his record deal and his upcoming tour. When a girl comes up and asks for a picture, he has her give me the phone like I’m his personal photographer. He pulls her in close and they smile for the camera. The first shot I take, I cut his head off, but then I feel bad for the girl who doesn’t deserve my ire and take another one with both of them fully in the frame.
After she leaves, I’m debating whether or not the bathroom is close enough to the elevator for me to make a break for it by pretending to powder my nose, when the waitress approaches with an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne. She sets it up beside our table while Charlie and I look on, confused.
I’m not going to object, but Charlie has no such qualms. “We didn’t order that.”