Five Minutes Late: A Billionaire Romance (10 page)

My eyes snapped open to the sight of Devon Killane lounging in the chair directly across from me, grinning like a fiend and supremely pleased with himself.

When the hell had he stopped haranguing subordinates over the phone and started monitoring my private conversation? How much had he heard? And how did he manage to get the drop on me in every situation?

“Well, sir, I figured I’d wait until I could tie you to the bed in your swanky San Francisco hotel and ravish you until you expire from orgasmic bliss, okay?”

“Ooh, promise? Is there a possibility of whips and chains as well? Might I hope to see the video on Youtube?”

“I was thinking more of making it a pay-per-view live streaming event, so that your estate could rake in a few extra kazillion dollars after you meet your untimely-but-worth-it death – by the way, will you be eavesdropping on my private conversations as a regular thing? Is that in my job description?”

“Ashley, you should know by now that virtually anything might end up being part of your new job – don’t you find that exciting?”

“I find it unnerving – and just how much did you hear, anyway?”

“Oh, I heard everything you said – so, is your mother in favor of your making love to me with wild abandon until our hearts give out, or does she advocate caution?”

“She acts like she’s cool with it, but she’s more worried than she’s letting on, and maybe you should consult with me before you assume we’re headed for lots of passionate interlocking of various body parts?”

I glared at him and sank my nails into the armrest of my chair, trying my best to project simmering outrage as the Gulfstream jet accelerated down the runway, pressing me back into my seat.

He didn’t buy it. “And do you truly see bits of ‘funny’ and ‘nice’ leaking around the edges of my carefully crafted ‘moody and difficult’ persona? I must spackle up those leaks before you find yourself liking me, don’t you think?”

Why the hell did I just blurt it out? Was I high? Was I as crazy as he was?

“Too late, Mr. K.”

My stomach dropped down into my feet, and it didn’t have a thing to do with the plane vaulting into the sky.

“Well, you’re sure to regret that in time – but might I ask a question?”

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or enraged that the asshole didn’t so much as blink at my impromptu confession.

“Fire away, boss.”

“Why do you think I’m joking about wanting you in my bed?”

Goofy and Relaxed Sexy Guy vanished in an instant. Now Serious and Intense Sexy Guy sat across from me, sitting bolt upright and staring at me like a hawk memorizing the exact dimensions of a plump pigeon.

Well, plump was the problem, wasn’t it?

I played for time. “I’m not sure I understand you, sir.”

 “Nonsense, you understand me perfectly. Why on earth would you imagine that I want you for nothing more than comic relief? Why do you assume my interest in you is only work-related?”

I shifted in my seat and felt all my extra pounds shift with me. Was he going to make me say it?

Well, why the hell not? Come on, Ashley, let’s blow this thing out of the water right now, before it has a chance to go any further and make you any crazier.

“Sir, are you looking at me? Really looking? Take a good long gawk at my hips and thighs and stomach, and then you tell me why you’d rather jump me than those gorgeous size zero models and actresses that hang onto you like remoras holding tight to a shark.

“I mean, I’m more than sure that I’m as desirable as anybody, but guys tend not to see it that way – at least not when they think they have a shot at something bony and fake, and definitely not when they can have any woman they want just by raising an eyebrow and waving 58.6 billion dollars at her.”

“I am looking at you, Ashley.” He ran his gaze up and down my body, and made a special point of staring at my ample breasts. “Would you like to know what I see – aside from your lovely hard nipples, that is, and the way you’ve allowed your legs to edge ever so slightly apart?”

I clamped my knees together and didn’t say a thing.

“As it happens, I see many things when I look at you – I see ripe, full curves, I see a woman who won’t break beneath me like a twig, I see a body that will respond to me with honesty and passion, and most particularly, I see someone more than willing to throw 58.6 billion dollars back in my face and walk away if she feels she’s being mistreated or used. Wouldn’t you say that’s a fair assessment?”

One word slipped out of my mouth, and it was all I could manage.

“Yes.”

I turned my head away, afraid of what I would or wouldn’t hear next, desperate to distract myself. I looked out the window and saw the ground rolling past beneath us, all the buildings and trees and cars, and I thought about how my old life was down there, a life that was gone for good.

“Do you know what all those models and actresses are, Ashley? Do you know what they are that you are not?”

“They’re slinky, stunning, and they fuck like randy bunny rabbits?”

“They’re fake. Everyone around me is fake. The women in my bed, the executives in my employ, the business rivals, the reporters, the photographers, the endless stream of fearful faces hiding contempt behind their nervous little eyes – none of them are real. I sometimes doubt that the world itself is real – the people, the places, and the objects often seem like nothing more than mere props, bits of stage dressing whose only purpose is to make my own existence feel less … fictional.”

He’s batshit, Ashley. He’ll crash and burn sooner or later, and he’ll drag you down with him. Get out now.

I turned to stare at his distant, haunted face and realized it was way too late to get out. I looked into those strange blue-violet eyes, and I knew my point of no return with this guy had already gone rocketing past.

“Do you know why you’re here, Ashley? Do you know why I didn’t just drop you back into your safe, sane little life as a receptionist?”

“Tell me why.”

“Because you’re real. I don’t understand the how or the why of it, but you’re real, real when no one else is. That’s why you’re here.”

He stood up and he didn’t say another word. He just turned away, he walked to the rear of the cabin, he disappeared through the door in the back wall, and I didn’t see him again for the rest of the flight.

***

She was real, but what would she do when she found out I wasn’t? Everyone else ran away when they found out I wasn’t one bit real.

I hoped she would stay, and I was terrified she would stay.

6. What a Towel

During my first day in San Francisco, I learned several interesting facts.

For instance, I learned that if you call Apple’s flagship store in downtown San Francisco and mention that Devon Killane needs a new iPhone because his old one has a cracked back plate, the store manager will appear at the door of Mr. Killane’s luxury penthouse suite less than an hour later, new phone in hand and a nervous smile on his face.

As it turns out, you will also be contacted by a senior executive at Apple’s company headquarters in Cupertino, asking if Mr. Killane found the company’s products and service to be satisfactory, and would he perhaps like to be one of a select number of beta users for a prototype of the next iPhone model?

I allowed as to how yes, Mr. Killane would be pleased to get the new iPhone months before it would be available to the common herd, and it arrived by courier that afternoon. Once the sleek beyond-new phone was in my hand, I made a judgment call that the boss could get the current model – his only question when I handed it over to him was, “Will it play Angry Birds?” – and that as his loyal personal assistant, it was my duty to test out the sweet new prototype myself.

I learned that Mr. Killane kept a week’s worth of suits, shoes, and the like aboard that private jet of his, in preparation for spur of the moment trips like this one. He didn’t bother mentioning this fact to me until I panicked at the sudden realization that I hadn’t thought to make arrangements for the guy to have something to wear while he was busy conquering companies and crushing dreams.

He also mentioned that while he traveled with a wardrobe full of five-thousand-dollar suits, he hardly felt that anything in said wardrobe would fit me; that was when I seriously freaked out at the realization that I was the one facing several days of work in an uncertain new job in a strange new city with only the clothes on my back.

But hadn’t Dana said something about cards? I dug the envelope she’d given me out of my purse, searched through its contents, and learned I was now the proud owner of a no-limit company credit card, a gas card, and keycards granting me admission to Mr. Killane’s private entrance, private parking, and private elevator at company headquarters, in addition to keycards and entry codes that gave me access to his private damn home, what the hell?

I decided worrying about why he’d want me at his house could be put off until a later date, and I excused myself out the door. One round-trip limousine ride later, I was back from the high-end stores in Union Square with half a dozen somehow-stylish-despite-all-the-curves-they-had-to-cover business outfits in my possession.

Man, I could so get used to this lifestyle.

In between making arrangements for meetings, monitoring the European markets on his laptop, and issuing commands to various minions over the phone, Mr. Killane took time out to eat. He did this by directing me to order ‘something’ from room service, while refusing to clue me in as to just what he might actually like.

So I pulled up the contacts list I’d transferred to my iPhone-of-the-future and talked to his housekeeper back home. I learned from her that for lunch my boss favored Sicilian roast beef sandwiches garnished with diced bell peppers, romaine lettuce, sliced tomatoes, and honey mustard sauce – but if he found so much as a drop of mayonnaise on his toasted sourdough bread, he’d go ballistic. I ordered a sandwich designed to his exacting specifications, and double-checked what room service sent up for any offending mayo droplets; I found none, and considered this another obstacle overcome.

I learned that the security detail assigned to Mr. Killane for his stay was polite, unobtrusive, professional, and melted into the background – until any unauthorized stranger wandered anywhere near the boss’s personal orbit. That sent them all into ‘glaring menace’ mode, staring at and drifting toward said stranger as if they suspected he or she was concealing an entire armory of lethal weapons on their person and therefore needed to be taken down with extreme prejudice. I commented to Mr. K about the deadly aura these guys radiated, and he said that they seemed to him like ‘nice boys.’

I learned that Mr. Killane’s taste in music was truly horrifying. This fact was revealed to me the afternoon of our arrival, when I found him lounging on one of the huge leather couches in his presidential suite, new iPhone held to his chest, earbuds in place, eyes closed, and a dreamy smile on his face.

When I asked, “What are we listening to?,” he pulled one earbud free, handed it to me, and I should have been warned by the tinny blare from the thing before it got anywhere near me – but no, like an idiot I popped it into my ear anyway. I was immediately assaulted by a firestorm of screaming electronic feedback, actual screaming in a language I couldn’t begin to identify, several not-so-small explosions, a countdown sequence announced in Croatian – don’t ask, I have no idea – and something that sounded like a few thousand cats being tortured by a serial killer during a thunderstorm in Hell.

In response to my asking, “What was THAT?,” Mr. K. advised me this was the latest album by an Eastern European acid death metal band called Rats Eat My Brain, and that he found their musical stylings ‘soothing.’

During my first night in San Francisco, I learned that Devon Killane did not play fair.

My boss informed me that the following day would consist of nonstop meetings, negotiations, offers, counteroffers, concessions, and general infighting; but even though I wasn’t expected to know exactly what was going on, I was for some mysterious reason required to be at his side for every thrilling minute of it. Okay, I figured – I could manage that and probably even keep my eyes open for all of the incessant blathering before Devon “It’s All About Me” Killane got his way in the end, but I’d need to prepare by turning in early and getting some extra sleep.

Problem was, although I’d reserved a small room – small for this place, meaning several copies of my studio apartment back home would have fit into it – on the next floor for myself, the hotel hadn’t yet sent up the keycard for my room.

With 11 p.m. a few minutes away and still no card, I decided to head down to the front desk and pester whoever had night duty until they handed over my card. Figuring that Mr. K would probably have an attack of separation anxiety if I went anywhere without giving him a detailed itinerary, I hollered my intentions through the door of the master bath attached to the suite’s master bedroom at a volume that ensured he could hear me over the lengthy shower he was taking.

I was out of the bedroom, down the hall, and almost to the suite’s front door when I heard Mr. Killane’s voice behind me.