Five Minutes Late: A Billionaire Romance (15 page)

When he turned and ducked his head back into the limousine, I gawped at him open-mouthed. I tried to talk, and got as far as “Why would you …” before words failed me.

My gorgeous, impossible problem child of a boss held out his hand to me, and his smile warmed me from head to toe.

“Because I am proud to be seen with you, Ashley Daniels.”

9. Questions

I guess I must have taken his hand, climbed out of the limo, and walked through the mob of celebrity-watchers, but I don’t remember any of that – I was running on automatic pilot, and just sort of found myself standing at the front door of the restaurant, clinging to his arm.

Cameras flashed at our backs, as Mr. Killane half-turned for another professional smile and wave at the crowd. Out of the raucous thunder of voices, one guy hollered louder than the rest, “Who is she, Mr. Killane?”

Mr. K steered me around to face the mob, and answered the question with his arm around me and his voice pitched nice and loud, so absolutely everybody could hear him.

“This beautiful young lady is Ashley Daniels, my personal assistant and passionate lover. Stunning, isn’t she?”

WHAT?

I wanted to slam an elbow into him, I wanted to yell, and I also wanted to melt into his side and take him up on that whole ‘passionate lover’ thing, all at the same time – in fact, I was so flustered and angry and happy all at once that I somehow didn’t react at all and just stood there with an idiotic smile plastered on my face.

The photographers snapped about five million more pictures that would end up God knows where, the crowd applauded and hooted and … holy shit, were those wolf whistles? For me? Was this restaurant located on Bizarro World, and my boss just forgot to tell me?

Mr. Killane allowed the paparazzi and assorted bystanders another minute or two of admiration, and then led me inside the restaurant. The noise cut off to a dull roar as the doors closed behind us, and the camera flashes gave way to muted mood lighting and flickers of candle flame from the main dining room.

I was still in shock from the big guy’s public proclamation that we were engaging in happy-fun-sexy-times, so I barely noticed my surroundings as the head waiter appeared and guided us to our table, situated smack in the middle of a sea of candle-lit tables and beautiful people.

A few diners glanced our way, and only one or two whispers of  “Killane” and “who’s that with him?” reached my ears, but I was convinced everyone was staring at us, talking about us, and probably taking subtle cell phone pictures of us. Being publicly displayed as the spanking new girlfriend of an insanely rich guy sure did wonders for ramping up my paranoia level.

“Ashley, isn’t this delightful?”

I snapped my eyes up to his face and saw that same serene, confident smile. He was enjoying the hell out of this, the bastard.

My body tugged at my attention, asking if we could cancel dinner and skip right ahead to the ‘passionate lover’ part of the evening.

Shut up, body.

I ran my tongue over my lips – lips painted the same vibrant red as my dress – and slid my eyes to either side, unable to decide if I should play along with his ‘Ashley as hot monkey lover’ scenario, or give him a piece of my mind for pulling such a crazy stunt.

Granted, I should have been used to craziness from him by that point, but being paraded around as the bedmate of a billionaire, with no advance warning, was a definite first for me.

But then Practical Me spoke up inside my head, and asked in an acid tone just when was the last time a tall, delicious slab of man candy said he was proud to be seen with me – like maybe never?

For that matter, when had any man ever wanted to show me off? Some guys were okay with my curves in private, but being proud of them, flaunting them to a crowd? That happened about as often as pigs flew, or politicians told the truth – so just what is your problem with this, Ashley?

The big guy added, “I can’t wait for the pictures to be published – my previous partners will be ever so jealous.”

I swept one last look over the gleaming candles and the bone-white silk table cloths, the perfect people in their perfect outfits and glinting diamond jewelry, and then I forced myself to look at … well, at my date. Wow.

“Does that mean I have to look out for Oscar winners and slinky supermodels showing up on my doorstep to scratch my eyes out? You should have warned me that would be one of the hazards of this job, Mr. K.”

“As I’ve previously said, Ashley, your job is in no way connected to our physical relationship.”

“You mean the physical relationship we don’t have?”

He grinned, took his own meaningful look out over the surrounding tables, and then spoke up loud and proud, as in several times louder than anyone else in earshot.

“So tell me, Ashley – just what is the reason for your puzzling refusal to have sex with me?”

Conversations stopped dead. People tried not to stare and failed miserably. I heard a shocked gasp or two, and a few women muttering things like “Is she high?” and “Honey, if you won’t, I sure will.” I also noticed guys openly eyeing my cleavage from afar and being snapped at by their female companions.

It looked like we weren’t going to be the only ones having an awkward chat over dinner.

Mr. Killane dialed his volume back down to normal. “But perhaps you’d like to order first, before we launch into a detailed discussion of when and where we’ll first enjoy a spirited session of lovemaking?”

He waved at a waiter who practically sprinted to his side.

“Drinks, sir?”

“Yes, I’ll have a six-ounce cup of Cassia oolong tea with a sprig of bentavia chamomile, to be refilled at regular intervals – and you, Ashley?”

During my limited history of going out on the town, I usually didn’t have anything more ambitious than imported beer, but I had a feeling this was the sort of place where the staff would have an attack of the vapors if someone ordered anything as pedestrian as a beer. Ever-so-exclusive restaurants like this one were all about wine, though, right?

“Wine would be great, but I’m a little clueless about vintages and stuff like that.”

Of course, it turned out he knew all about stuff like that.

“Please bring this lovely young woman a bottle of 1961 Chateau Palmer Margaux, along with a decanter so that we may allow it to breathe properly. Ashley, might you also be ready to order your meal?”

“Big girls are always prepped and ready to eat, boss.”

Mr. Killane turned back to the waiter, who made the unfortunate mistake of saying, “Sir, if I might recommend –”

The big guy cut him off at the pass. “I’m sure the management encourages you to recommend some ghastly concoction or other, but we’ll have what we actually want.”

The chastened waiter scurried away moments later with our orders – broiled sea bass with sautéed asparagus for Mr. K, and bleeding-rare steak with Szechuan rice, scalloped potatoes, and breaded shrimp for me, because being nervous always makes me hungry as hell.

So there I was, left alone with my alleged lover.

And just why wasn’t I steaming mad about his proclaiming our non-existent relationship to the masses, anyway? Back home, I’d given that roomful of executives an earful about how we were not bed partners, and he’d torpedoed that by staging that little scene out front just now – now no matter what I said, everybody and all their brothers and cousins would be convinced I was sleeping with the guy.

Shouldn’t I be tearing his head off and feeding it to him for putting me in this position?

I still hadn’t figured that one out by the time a team of two different waiters arrived with his tea, my wine, and the decanter thingie that was apparently necessary in order for the wine to ‘breathe’ – which turned out to mean that the bottle had to be uncorked, the wine poured just so into the decanter, and then I wasn’t allowed to touch the stuff until it had been sitting there ‘breathing’ for at least fifteen minutes. Beer would have been a whole lot easier.

Once the waiters scurried off to go do waiter stuff elsewhere, Mr. Killane leaned forward, fixed me with his trademark compelling stare, and grinned. Oh god, what now?

“And so the hour of revelation is at hand – between this moment and the moment our food arrives, tell me everything there is to know about Ashley Daniels.”

I looked at him sidelong as I ran a fingertip through the condensation beading on the side of my water glass. Playing a conversational game is tricky when you don’t begin to know the rules – what did he want out of this chat, this meeting, this … relationship, if that’s what it was? For that matter, what did I want out of it?

“As in what do you want to know, exactly?”

“As in I want to know quite literally everything about you – your first thrilling moments as a zygote, whether you favored strained peas or apricots as an infant, where you lived when you attended middle school and what manner of music you listened to back then, your first sweaty and fumbling sexual adventure, your preferred pizza toppings, why you ordered wine despite knowing nothing about it, your views on Nietzsche’s theory of the Übermensch, which television shows you enjoy and which ones you would watch only at gunpoint, whether you’ve ever known the sweet thrill of being tied up and helpless during sex, and why you haven’t kneed me in the balls yet – you know, everything. Start with your conception.”

He planted both elbows on the table, laced his hands together, propped his chin atop them, and beamed his megawatt smile at me as he waited to hear all about the life and times of Ashley Daniels.

“Well, the zygote thing is a blank for me, since as a newly-fertilized egg I didn’t have any sense organs yet to experience it with. The same goes plus double for my conception – I guess you could call Mom and ask her about the conception part, but I’m pretty sure she’d find a way to reach through the phone and punch your lights out for asking her something like that. Baby foods I don’t remember, and even if it happened to be any of your business, my first stab at sex was way too embarrassing to tell anybody about. Also, I wouldn’t watch anything with a Kardashian in it if you paid me, and I’m not kneeing you in the balls in case I want to use them later. How’s that?”

He dialed up the wattage on that smile until it could have melted the heart of a statue. Man, I was in trouble here …

Then the crazy bastard put both hands over his heart, and announced in the sincere tones of an altar boy, “I promise to maintain my balls in the best possible operating condition, so that they may be ready at any moment for your viewing and fondling pleasure.”

“Swell.” I knocked back some of my ice water like a real man and slid my eyes to either side, wondering how many of our fellow diners had heard his promise regarding balls maintenance. The even mix of oh-my-god stares and fat-girl-and-nut-job-tall-guy-need-to-leave glares told me pretty much everybody was in on our private conversation.

He followed my gaze, and swerved his smile over into aren’t-I-the-naughty-one territory. When he spoke, he gave me a break for once by turning down the volume to a normal, non-broadcast level.

“Jealous souls, aren’t they?”

“More like mortified and offended, I’d say, but whatever – I don’t care so much about their delicate sensibilities being hurt, I just don’t want us to get thrown out of here before the food arrives.”

“Smart and practical, that’s my Ashley.”

Damn, there was that giddy feeling again, the one that came over me whenever he said those two words – ‘my Ashley.’ Those two words were going to be my downfall, those words and all the answers he was getting out of me – after all, what did I really know about him?

Knowledge is power, kid.

Meanwhile, Mr. K hadn’t let go of that bondage idea. “So, have you in fact ever enjoyed the bite of expertly-tied ropes against your skin? Do you ever – ”

“Wait up, big guy.”

He arched a single eyebrow. “Yes, lovely Ashley?”

I stared at him with my best mysterious smile. I said nothing. I let the silence draw out. He leaned forward, intrigued. I caught a whiff of his musky cologne. I stared into his eerie, off-color eyes. I fought the urge to reach out and touch his hand. My body squirmed for attention, and I worked hard to ignore the warmth surging inside me, the inconvenient and undeniable pulse of desire between my legs – not now, body.

“There’s a huge power imbalance here, boss, and not only am I on the wrong side of it, but now you’re trying to tip the scales even further in your favor.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I find whatever it is absolutely fascinating – do go on.”

“I call bullshit, because you know exactly what I’m talking about. Being my stinking rich boss gives you substantial leverage over me – you control my job, my standard of living, and my ability to pay bills and put food on the table. You also monopolize virtually every minute of my day, and you’re shining your trillion watts or so of sex appeal on me nonstop in a mystifying attempt to get me in the sack – are you hearing me so far?”

“I am hanging on your every word, and the situation you describe sounds to me like heaven on earth, except for the single horrifying fact that you haven’t actually slept with me yet.”