The Billionaire's Assistant Read online

  My silence is answer enough. But surprisingly, August’s tone softens. “Good for you, bro. Seriously. It’s about time you found someone who balances you out. But hey, I have to go. We’ll talk soon, all right? You need to come visit me.”

  August lives in San Francisco. It’s been years since I’ve visited him. He’s also a successful businessman, except his company is real estate.

  “Maybe over the summer,” I say.

  “Sure. Right. Talk soon.” Then he hangs up.

  With a sigh, I scroll through my text messages. Rose sent me one during my phone conversation. I’m here. Wearing a royal blue dress. My hair is curly and brown, pulled back into a ponytail.

  Shit. She got there before me.

  I check my watch. Should be arriving in less than five minutes.

  The car rolls up the building. I thank Tony, then slide out. Except I don’t approach the restaurant, which takes up a corner space of a sleek glass and chrome skyscraper. Unbelievably, my stomach clenches.

  Am I… nervous?

  Fuck. I think I am. Rose, a woman I’ve never met. Rose, a woman who I’ve had filthy sex with over the phone. What do I know of her? She has a fantastic body, she loves pizza with pineapple—blasphemy if you tell me—and she seems like a down-to-earth person.

  The worst part is I want her to like me.

  No time like the present. I shove my nervousness down and stride through the doors, my gaze immediately zeroing in on the bar. Glass is old-world elegance. Soft jazz plays in the background. I search for a woman wearing a blue dress and spot her at the far end of the gleaming, wrap-around bar. I blink, do a double-take.

  You know, for a minute there, I think the woman in profile almost looks like Leila.

  The woman in question turns her head slightly. She speaks to the bartender and smiles. It’s not enough for me to get a clear view of her face, but I definitely like what I see so far. Then she tips back her head and laughs at something the bartender says, and I go cold.

  No.

  It can’t be.

  I know that laugh.

  Her head turns. I catch a glimpse of a full mouth, snapping hazel eyes.

  Holy fuck.

  Leila is Rose.

  Rose is Leila.

  I had phone sex with my personal assistant.

  The same woman who’s been driving me out of my mind with lust is the same woman I see every day at work, the same woman whose shapely ass I stare at when she leaves my office, the same woman whose skin I enjoy getting under just so I can watch her eyes spark in irritation.

  My entire body flushes hot, then cold. Turning around so she can’t see my face, I consider the next step with a pounding heart. I can’t approach. I can’t. Keeping my identity a secret is far more important than getting to know Rose—Leila—on a personal level. From Leila’s perspective, it’ll look like her precious Pizza Guy stood her up, but it’s better than revealing my identity.

  Pushing back through the entrance doors, I stride out into the night.

  Chapter 15

  Leila

  The bartender sets my drink on the counter with a wink. He’s a younger man in his twenties with a snazzy haircut and an adorable bowtie. I smile in return and take the smallest sip of my wine, though want I really want to do is knock it back like the closet drunk I am.

  I’m supposed to be meeting Pizza Guy here. Glass is a swanky place to meet with someone who delivers pizzas for a living, but who am I to judge? Two months ago, I was plunging toilets. Actually, scratch that. I’m still plunging toilets, thanks to my asshole boss.

  But I’m not thinking about Mr. Billionaire right now. I’m perched on the edge of my stool, trying to look like I frequent joints such as these, even though there’s nary a television in sight.

  I hold out for two minutes before looking at my phone. No response to the text I sent Pizza Guy earlier. That’s cool. He’s probably driving and doesn’t want to be irresponsible by texting.

  As soon as I slip my phone into my purse, I yank it out again and give it a bug-eyed look. Still nothing. Cool your jets, Leila.

  This time, my phone stays in my purse. The ringer is on. If he calls, I’ll hear it. Everything’s fine.

  “Can I get you another wine, ma’am?”

  My glass is empty. Shit, I didn’t even realize I’d drunk it all. I nod, and the empty glass is replaced with a full one not ten seconds later. I give this place an A+ for service.

  What am I going to say when Pizza Guy arrives? I hope he’s attractive. I’ve said it before, but there’s no way a voice as sinfully deep as his belongs to an ugly duckling.

  Please, please be attractive.

  In my peripheral vision, I notice the front door opening. A man steps into the building. I straighten. He’s pretty good-looking. He wears a stylish coat and dark slacks. About a day’s worth of scuff coats his lean jaw.

  I watch him as he searches the room. His eyes pass over me and lock onto someone behind me. Before I can turn, a woman hurries toward him and plants a kiss on his mouth.

  Drat.

  “Everything okay, dear?” the bartender asks as he polishes a wine glass.

  “Eh.” It could be better. I set down my wine and order myself not to take another sip until Pizza Guy arrives. The last thing I want is to greet him with a sloppy kiss. I’m thirty years old. I can hold my alcohol intake. “My date is late.” I check my phone. Yeah, I said I wouldn’t, but promises were meant to be broken. Only ten minutes have passed. I hope he would inform me if he was running late. “His phone might have died,” I venture hopefully. My plan was to end this night getting laid, and damn it, that’s going to happen one way or another.

  “Sure,” says the bartender easily. “Happens to the best of us.”

  My eyes narrow. “Are you just saying that so I’ll give you a bigger tip?”

  He grins. My eyes water from how white his teeth are. “Anything to please the customer, darling.”

  “Hmph.”

  The minutes crawl by. Customers flow into the restaurant, and the bar fills up. At this point, almost twenty minutes have passed with no word from Pizza Guy. I’m no rocket scientist, but I’m guessing he’s standing me up. Maybe he never planned on meeting me. Or maybe he did, but chickened out. It’s happened to me before, but it’s not a pleasant feeling. It feels pretty crummy, actually. I can’t even get a date from a stupid pizza delivery driver. Is this my life?

  Rising to my feet, I pay and tip the bartender.

  “No word?” he asks pityingly.

  “No. Figure I dodged a bullet.” My smile is forced. “Have a nice night.” I head for the front door.

  That’s when a tall, attractive man steps into the restaurant. And not just any man. Byron Schaffer.

  Holy—!

  My heart stops. Literally, it stops. Then it kicks into overdrive, like it knows I’m about to run for my life. He hasn’t seen me. He can’t see me. Then he’ll ask questions I’m not willing to answer. My humiliation is not up for public display.

  I do the only thing I can think of: I dive to the floor and scramble under one of the cloth-covered tables. Only problem is, it’s currently occupied by an older couple wining and dining.

  “Excuse me!” screeches the woman, whose hair is about the color of a moldy banana.

  “You’re excused!” I reply, my voice muffled by the cloth. Under the table, it’s dim. I can see the shadows of the waiters moving from place to place. I’m eye-level with the man and woman’s knees and crotches.

  “Ma’am,” says someone, a woman’s voice. “Ma’am! You cannot stay here.”

  I scramble to come up with a believable excuse. Poking my head out from under the table, the cloth settling on my head like a scarf, I whisper, “I lost my earring. I think it dropped somewhere in this area. No need to worry about me. Move along now.”
/>   “Leila?”

  That voice: deep, amused, sexy as sin. All the hair on my arms rises to attention. It’s a voice that tells you to pay attention.

  “Mm, no, sorry, you must have the wrong person,” I say to the very expensive, plush carpet as I crawl out from under the table and stand, only I suddenly ram into a hard body and am forced to look into blue eyes that pierce my very soul.

  All the air evaporates from my lungs. I legitimately stop breathing for a few seconds. Hours ago, I said goodbye to him at the office. Now he’s here, only it doesn’t feel like he’s my boss and I’m his assistant. It feels like he’s a man and I’m a woman, and we just happened to run into one another at the same place. Electricity shimmers in the air between us. I certainly feel it, but does he?

  No. No, no, no, not even going there. Who cares if he feels the chemistry? He’s my boss. The end.

  Wait. He’s my boss, and he made me plunge a toilet.

  Now it’s the end.

  “Mr. Schaffer, what a surprise! Do you come here often?” My humiliation crawls across my skin. “That was definitely not a come on. I was just, um, wondering. Also, you probably do frequent places like this because you’re rich, but I was just leaving so, um, I’ll see you Monday morning, mmkay?” Darting around his solid build, I make my escape.

  “Leila.”

  I’m not going to stop. I’m almost to freedom. The doorman even opens the door, seeing as I’m tripping in my haste to escape this place.

  “Leila.”

  The command in his tone halts me in my tracks. The restaurant has gone completely silent except for the classy jazz playing softly in the background. Slowly, I turn.

  He holds my coat up and looks like he’s trying really hard not to laugh. “Forgetting something?”

  I actually debate letting him have it. The only problem is, it’s my only nice coat.

  Biting back a grimace, I grudgingly return to him. “Thanks.” I reach for it.

  He pulls it out of my grasp.

  My mouth drops. “Seriously?”

  “Have a drink with me.”

  Ooookay, what is happening?

  “I think,” I whisper, “hell has actually frozen over.”

  His blue eyes take me in. The skin around their edges crinkles. Then he bursts out laughing, and I swear it’s even weirder than seeing him here. Not weirder. Worse. Because the sound is starting to turn me on and it definitely shouldn’t. Byron Schaffer is the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, and no hot-blooded woman would be able to work with him day after day and not stare at his hard, delectable ass. I’ve accepted those thoughts because I know nothing will ever come of them. He’s my boss and I’m the custodian/assistant/coffee person.

  Yet standing here, there’s no barrier between us. It’s gone. We are a man and a woman. Not employer and employee. It shouldn’t matter. It will never happen. It can’t happen.

  I give him my nicest smile, like I’m letting him down easy. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m actually supposed to meet someone.”

  Mr. Billionaire lifts a single eyebrow. He scans the restaurant, then the bar. Most of the patrons have returned to their meals, my earlier performance forgotten. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s here.”

  I clasp my hands in front of me. “Well, there’s a very good explanation for that.”

  “Really? Do tell.” His smile is all teeth.

  “His name is Horace. He’s a banker. A fine, fine banker. Young, fit. Well, sort of. He kind of has a dad bod going on, if I’m being honest. But that’s not the point. The point,” I say, “is that he has a yacht, you know. A big-ass boat in Palm Beach. Yep. And the boat, as it turns out, sank, so he had to go deal with it. A last-minute thing.”

  “Of course,” he agrees too easily.

  My eyes narrow to slits. A moment stretches, stretches…

  I cave. “Okay, fine. I’m meeting Pizza Guy. I mean, that’s not his name. Just what I call him. He owns a pizza parlor, you know. Businessman like yourself. So move along now.” I shoo him with my hand. That’s when Mr. Billionaire’s eyes darken, and I know I’ve made a mistake. “Um.” I gulp.

  He sighs, though I swear it’s a sigh of affection. “Please have a drink with me. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

  His voice deepens ever so slightly. My panties grow damp at the seductive timbre. How? I want to ask. But that would be crossing a line. Do I want to cross a line with my boss? Mr. Billionaire?

  I like to think there’s more to him than he lets on.

  Lifting my nose, I reply, “I will allow us to sit next to one another. But I’m paying for my own drinks.”

  At this, he quirks an eyebrow and looks very close to laughter. “As you wish.”

  I gasp, and my heart flutters in pleased surprise. “You did not just quote The Princess Bride at me.” It’s only my favorite movie of all time.

  “Oh, Ms. Engleton, I believe I did.”

  I shake my head. “Inconceivable.”

  His eyes dance, and I swear the temperature in the room skyrockets ten degrees. “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

  Oh, he’s turning my heart into a puddle of goo. The Princess Bride is the way to my heart. My grin threatens to split my face, and I bite my lip to hold in a giggle. I feel like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

  Byron offers his arm, and without thought, I place my hand atop his forearm, the heat seeping through the silk of his shirt, and then his hand is over mine, warm fingers clasping. My face flushes as I feel the scrape of his calluses. This, I decide, is a mistake, because the truth is I’m desperately attracted to Byron Schaffer. I don’t want to be. Who wants to be attracted to their boss?

  We reach the bar, and the bartender steps back as he takes Byron in. The man catches my eye and mouths, “Wow.”

  “This isn’t him,” I clarify to the bartender. “It’s someone else. My date couldn’t make it, unfortunately.”

  Byron says to the bartender, “I’ll have a bourbon, neat. Get Ms. Engleton here whatever she wants.”

  My mouth drops open. “I said I was going to pay for my drinks!”

  “And I say you’re not,” he says, handing the bartender his credit card. It’s likely one of those exclusive, uber expensive ones that are made of crushed diamonds and smell like lilies. He probably has half a dozen of them, one for every day of the week.

  I’m suddenly uncomfortable about what it means that he’s paying for my drink. “This isn’t a date,” I say in a rush. “I’m already here for a date with someone else.”

  “But he’s not here,” Byron says, “is he?”

  He almost smiles. Almost. But why?

  “Don’t you think it’s awkward you’re calling me Ms. Engleton when we’re not at work?”

  He nods, like this make sense. “You’re right. But I didn’t want to overstep any boundaries.”

  “You can call me Leila. The world isn’t going to end.” At least, I don’t think it will.

  His face lights with pleasure. “Then I will call you Leila, and you can call me Byron.”

  The sound of his name sends an elicit thrill through me. My body is confused, that’s all. It’s disappointed Pizza Guy ditched me, yet happy an extremely attractive man is showering me with attention.

  “Sounds good… Byron.”

  At this, his eyes darken to the color of the deep ocean, and I think I like this hue better.

  I also think I should be very, very afraid.

  Chapter 16

  Byron

  “You’re beautiful,” I say, my gaze sweeping over her dress. It hugs her body like a fitted skin, just as the blue brings out the flush in her cheeks.

  “Thank you,” she says, eyelashes lowering demurely. It’s a satisfying sight. I’m fighting instinct right now. The urge to drag h
er into my lap and suck those soft, pillowy lips into my mouth. I can’t forget she dressed up for who she refers to as Pizza Guy. This dress isn’t for me. Or rather, she doesn’t realize it’s for me.

  “You’re welcome.” My voice comes out as a purr.

  Leila bites her lip. It’s driving me crazy. “I was going to wear a different dress, a black one, but my cat destroyed it.”

  “The one who likes pastrami, right?”

  Surprise flashes across her face. “You remembered?”

  “Of course I remembered,” I say smoothly, though I’m irked by her doubt. I suppose I haven’t exactly given her reason to view me in a positive light. But starting now, that’s going to change. It was never Rose I was speaking to over the phone. It was always Leila. She’s the one who turns me on, who makes me laugh and sigh in exasperation. I want this woman in my bed.

  It won’t be tonight. No, tonight is just a taste. A test, even. She doesn’t know it, but before the evening ends, all thoughts of Pizza Guy will disappear from her mind.

  Three drinks and two hours later, Leila is sufficiently buzzed. Her eyes are shiny, bright, her cheeks pink. She keeps staring off into the distance for random stretches of time. Her words are beginning to slur.

  “Excuse me, bartender?” she calls, then hiccups and almost falls off her stool. “Can I have another one of those frilly drinks? Like, with an umbrella?” She burps and covers her mouth. “‘Scuse me.” She waves to get the bartender’s attention.

  Reaching over, I curl my hand around hers and lower it back onto the bar top. “I’ll have the check,” I tell the man when he wanders over.

  “We’re leaving?” Leila asks, pushing a strand of hair away from her face. She doesn’t quite succeed, so I do it for her, tucking it behind her ear. It’s slow, her surprised reaction, but it makes her face crease in even deeper confusion. I’m touching her freely—a first. But most definitely not a last. I want to do so many filthy things to her.

  “Yes,” I say, smiling gently. “Time to get you home.”

  “Oh.” She looks a bit put-out over that. Then Leila shrugs and hops off the stool, grabbing the bar for balance.