Tempting the Billionaire (3 page)

P
retty
.

 Wasn’t that how he’d categorized Crickitt when he met her at the club on Saturday? But now that she was standing in front of his office windows, daylight streaming into her curls, he realized “pretty” was a gross understatement.

Horses were pretty. Sunsets, pretty. Crickitt was gorgeous.

She looked up at him, bright blue eyes at odds with her olive-toned skin. Surprise choked out his ability to speak, so he simply gestured at the guest chair in front of his desk.

Crickitt wore a boxy button-down shirt, simple pant, and plain, square-heeled shoes. A far cry from the skintight dresses and expensive pastel suits he saw around the office. Her plain-Jane neutrals may be dull, but the outfit wasn’t quite able to conceal Crickitt’s tempting curves. He’d bet twenty percent of his stock she had no idea how beautiful she was.

He was surprised he noticed. There wasn’t a shortage of women in August Industries dressing to get attention, arguably his attention. The woman who’d graced the same chair moments ago wore a dress so short and so low cut he could practically see her navel. And she didn’t stir anything within him save for irritation. Again he thought of Crickitt’s blond friend at the bar on Saturday, how he’d overlooked her blatantly flashy clothing because he’d been so taken with Crickitt.

He skimmed the bullet points on her résumé before dropping it on his desk. Her work record was patchy and varied. Crickitt hadn’t stayed anywhere for very long, with the exception of the last place she worked…what was it called? He lifted the paper. “Tell me about Celebration.”

Crickitt shifted in her seat. “Celebration is a direct sales company with a thirty-two-year history. They specialize in in-home demonstration and high-end home décor…”

He listened, duly impressed, as she described her former career. It wasn’t so much by what she said, but how she said it. Shane didn’t know much about direct sales, but he knew sales. And he knew salespeople. Unlike the pompous braggarts he’d had the privilege to encounter in his ten years of business, Crickitt shared her journey from sales consultant to one of Celebration’s top earners evenly, and without embellishment. She highlighted the skills pertaining to the position as his personal assistant. And while she never said it outright, Shane picked up on the ribbon of pride beneath her well-formed speech.

“Celebration might sound like a hobby, or a lonely housewife’s distraction, but direct sales is a respectable way to earn an income.” A note of defensiveness laced her tone, and he sensed she’d had this argument before.

Shane smiled. “Sounds like a real business to me.”

Crickitt’s shoulders relaxed.

“So, you made good money,” he said, “and loved what you did.” But she’d left out a key bit of information. “Why did you quit?”

Crickitt swallowed. Hard. She’d expected this question. Had prepared for it. There was a perfectly planned, politically correct answer poised on the tip of her tongue. But she didn’t say it.

“I’m divorced,” she blurted, peering through her lashes to gauge his reaction.

Shane nodded rather than comment and waited for her to go on. He was probably wondering what her divorce had to do with leaving her lucrative career. Some days she wondered the same thing.

“After he, I mean we”—she hastily corrected—“separated, I took inventory of my life.” Crickitt paused under the guise of clearing her throat, but really, she was giving herself a mental talking-to. Take inventory of her life? She sounded like one of the self-help books on her shelf at home.

If she continued in that direction, she might accidentally admit the truth. That her confidence had slipped more than a few notches since she and Ronald separated. Lately she’d begun suspecting the career she’d worked so hard to build had more to do with proving she
could
, rather than because it was what she’d wanted to do.

“It’s…disingenuous,” she started carefully, “to continue to do something when your heart is no longer into it. And working for one hundred percent commission has its challenges.”

Shane’s lips tipped into a soft, utterly distracting smile, and forced herself to look at her lap instead.

“I’m not who I was six months ago,” she said in a burst of honesty. She faced him. “I’m Crickitt Day, not Kitt Wachowski.”

There. That speech might sound like a two-dollar fortune, but it was the truth. She watched Shane’s eyebrows meet in the middle and held her breath while she waited for him to speak.

“You don’t look like a Kitt.” Shane grazed her with a glance, and she swore parts of her tingled wherever his golden eyes touched. “Those sound like valid reasons to change careers.”

“They do?” she couldn’t help asking. She’d been so used to defending herself, it was a little off-putting to hear him agree.

“Yes. And I’m going to offer you the job.”

She blinked. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Crickitt twisted the handle of her bag, waiting for the catch. Or for the other shoe to drop…maybe both of them. It was too perfect, unless— “I’m sorry to be forward, but we should discuss salary.”

Shane nodded. “Okay.”

According to a book she’d read on negotiation, he who speaks first, loses. They sat for a moment in silence. Evidently, Shane had read the same book.

“We tossed around the idea of six figures on Saturday night,” she said, her heart lodged somewhere between her sternum and her throat.

“I remember.”

“I’m not sure what you typically pay, but PAs, even in a starting position, can earn up to—”

Holding up one hand to halt her, he clicked an expensive-looking ink pen with the other. He scribbled a figure onto the bottom of her résumé and slid it across his desk. She took the paper, read the number, and nearly did a face-plant onto his shining office floor.

“Plus bonuses,” he said.

She stared at the commas on the paper. Oh, how she wanted to sign paychecks with that many zeroes again. But that many zeroes would come at a cost. They always did. Standing abruptly, she returned the sheet to him, warning bells clanging in her head. She hoped she wouldn’t regret this, but chances were if she gave him the impulsive
yes!
dangling on her tongue, she’d live to regret it even more.

Righting her bag on her shoulder, she leveled with him. “I’m going to have to say no,” she said, extending her hand.

“Something wrong?”

“If this is what you’re paying”—she gestured to the exorbitant amount written on the paper—“you probably expect me to work eighty or ninety hours a week. Pick up your dry cleaning. Shine your shoes.” She thought about adding her mother’s favorite phrase about not falling off the turnip truck yesterday, but decided against it.

Shane’s eyebrows lifted. “Shine my shoes?”

Crickitt turned for the door. “Anyway, it was nice to meet you.”

“Wait,” Shane said, and Crickitt’s hand froze on the knob.

“I’m sorry, you did what?” Sadie asked over the phone as Crickitt exited August Industries.

“I turned him down.”

“Yes, I heard that,” she said flatly. “What I don’t understand is why. That is the closest you’ll ever come to your previous income in a starting position.”

“What I don’t understand,” Crickitt said, remotely unlocking her car and sliding into the driver’s seat, “is why I let him talk me into dinner.”

Sadie fell silent for a moment. “Like a date?”

“He called it a second interview.”

“So, a date.”

“It’s tonight at seven,” Crickitt said, refusing to entertain the distracting, slightly exhilarating thought.

“We should double. I have a date, too.”

“You do?”

“With his cousin.”

“Really?”

To the best of Crickitt’s knowledge, if Sadie ever took a guy home from a club, she rarely saw him again. Ever since her fiancé opted to marry her sister, Sadie made it a point not to get too attached.

“Yeah,” Sadie snorted. “I know.”

“You like this guy.”

“He’s okay,” she said, but some of the gruff edge left her voice. “Hey! Let’s get ready for our dates together.”

“How very preteen of you.”

Four hours later, Crickitt opened her front door to find Sadie waggling a bottle in one hand. “Red wine.” She held up a brown bag by the handles. “Margarita mix and champagne.”

“Champagne?” Crickitt shut the door behind her.

Sadie was dressed skimpily for the warm summer weather in a denim miniskirt and pale pink tank covered with pink rhinestones. Her knee-high cowgirl boots and dream-catcher earrings hinted at where she was headed tonight. Sadie never missed a chance to theme her wardrobe to an event. And the result was rarely understated. “Are you going to a rodeo?”

“Tex-Mex restaurant.” Sadie struck a pose. “What do you think?”

“You look gorgeous. But I thought we were going to get ready together.”

“We are. You’re going to try on outfits, and I’m going to make sure you wear the right one instead of the ultraconservative one you’ll probably choose.”

“So this is a setup,” Crickitt said.

Sadie paused in the middle of unloading the various spirits onto the breakfast bar. “Basically.”

Crickitt propped a hand on her hip. “And where are the outfits of yours I get to criticize?”

“A, you don’t criticize anyone, because you’re too nice,” she said, folding the empty bag. “And B, I can’t change, because it would compromise my artistic integrity.” Sadie screwed her mouth to the side. “Or something like that.”

Crickitt laughed.

“What’s your poison?” Sadie gestured to the minibar arranged on Crickitt’s countertop.

“Margarita.”

“That a girl.”

Perhaps two margaritas before dinner was pushing it. Somewhere between trying on outfits number five and six, Crickitt’s head began to spin.

“That’s the one!” Sadie announced, sloshing margarita onto her shoes as she jumped up from the couch. “Ah, crap! My new boots!”

“That was a test,” Crickitt slurred. “You failed.” Like she would dare wear the white sundress to dinner. The swinging, flouncy material swirled around her knees with each step she took. The spaghetti straps showed way too much of her shoulders, and the black strappy sandals were far too sexy, lacing up her ankles and setting off the black sash dripping down the back of the skirt.

“You have to wear that one!” Sadie held out her hands like she was trying to get Crickitt to lay down a weapon.

Crickitt lifted the tag hanging from the armpit area of the bodice. “I bought it last year on super clearance in case Ronald took me on a cruise.” She opted not to add,
for our ten-year anniversary
, which would have been this year.

“Well, that ship has sailed,” Sadie said with a snort. Then she placed her fingertips to her lips. “I’m sorry. Margarita talking.”

Crickitt waved her off. “I know what you mean.” Sadie was entitled to be a wee tad jaded after her near miss as a bride last year. “And anyway, you’re right. I shouldn’t have waited for him to take me anywhere, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” Sadie offered a careful smile.

Crickitt smoothed her hands down the skirt. “It’s not too much for a second interview?”

“Yes, definitely. But it’s perfect for a dinner date at Triangle.”

“It’s not a date.”

“I’ve never had a second date at Triangle.” Sadie added, “I’ve never had
any
date at Triangle. I’m insanely jealous that while you are having caviar and tiramisu, I’ll be hovering over a plate of nachos and a Mason jar full of beer.”

Crickitt shook her head; she knew her friend too well. “No, you’re not.”

Sadie’s face broke into a grin. “No. I’m not.”

T
riangle, Osborn’s premiere fine-dining restaurant, drew an upper-crust crowd. Crickitt had eaten here once before, with Ronald for their one-year anniversary. It was the only anniversary they celebrated extravagantly, come to think of it. She pulled into the lot, her blue Chevy Malibu out of place among the luxury cars.

She’d worn the dress. And the shoes. The prospect of air-conditioning paired with a dose of modesty had her throw a lacy black wrap over her shoulders. Sadie styled Crickitt’s curly hair into an updo, leaving loose tendrils to frame her face. She adjusted a few of them in the rearview mirror and checked her lipstick as a zip of adrenaline pulsed through her.

Which made no sense. What did she have to be nervous about? She had turned down the job once already; she could do it again. Though she could blame her nerves on Sadie, who kept insisting on this being a date.

And it so wasn’t.

The very suggestion that Shane August would ask her on a date was preposterous. Never mind the idea he wanted to hire her badly enough to woo her over dinner. She gulped as she rolled the word “woo” around in her head. Crickitt was woefully underprepared to date a normal guy, let alone a sophisticated billionaire.

She got out and shut the door, catching her reflection in the car’s windows. Did she look like she was trying too hard? Like she had dressed for a potential lover rather than an employer? Maybe she should run home and change into sensible black pants and a blouse. She’d only be ten minutes late. Fifteen at the most.

“Crickitt, look at you.”

She turned to see Shane stepping out of a long black limousine. He shut the door behind him and approached, adjusting the sleeves on his dark suit. He’d changed for dinner. And, oh, he looked good. The pale lavender shirt stretched across his chest, complemented by a plum-colored tie running the length of his torso. She dragged her eyes north before they unwittingly traveled below his belt.

He offered his elbow and she rested one hand on his forearm, pulling the shawl around her shoulders in a series of jerky movements.

“I was considering going home to change,” she said, her voice wobbling.

“Why? You’re stunning.”

Stunning? She blinked up at him as if he’d just spoken a word outside of her native tongue. Had Ronald ever accused her of being “stunning”? Had anyone?

Forcing her train of thought back on the tracks, she rambled rather than thanked him for the compliment. “I was worried I might be overdressed, but from what I remember, the restaurant is upscale.”

“I think you picked perfectly.” He sent her a warm smile, one that made her mouth go dry, and led them inside. Crickitt’s heart hammered her rib cage in time with their steps.

Relax, it’s just an interview.

She angled her head to glance up at him. His jaw was slightly shadowed with stubble, his eyes shrouded by thick lashes. He looked dark and dangerous, and it was all too easy to imagine the scrape of that five o’clock shadow against her neck.

She licked parched lips, forcing her thoughts down a more professional road. She’d hear him out over dinner, but if the position still wasn’t a good fit, she’d have to turn him down, regardless of how rich and attractive he was.

He glanced down at her, his mouth kicking up on one side.

Or maybe because of that.

This isn’t a date.

Shane dragged his eyes away from Crickitt’s creamy, bare shoulders. Ever since she’d uncovered them, he’d found it hard to concentrate.

Filling his wineglass to busy his hands, he dredged up another interview question for her to answer. After all, he was here to convince Crickitt to accept the personal assistant position.

That, and nothing more. He didn’t believe in dipping his pen in the company ink, especially not with a woman he’d be working with on a daily basis. It was disconcerting that he needed the constant reminder.

The moment Crickitt stepped into his office this afternoon he had known he wanted to hire her. And his instincts rarely steered him wrong. She was sharp and opinionated, charming and approachable at the same time. And attractive, he added, his eyes returning to her naked collarbone.

Not. A. Date.

The waiter arrived and delivered oval-shaped ramekins of sugar-encrusted crème brulée. Shane welcomed the distraction.

Crickitt eyed her dessert, then narrowed her eyes at him. “Bribery?”

“After you have a bite of that, you’ll fold like a paper airplane.”

She spared him a smile, then cracked the topping and dug out a spoonful. With a final, wary glance in his direction, she lifted the spoon to her mouth. Her eyes drifted shut and an
mmm
sound emitted from her throat. Shane watched her neck, particularly the tiny freckle on the right side, and wondered what it might taste like if he sampled it with his tongue…

“What’s wrong?” Crickitt asked.

He jerked at the sound of her voice, guilty of being caught ogling his almost-new-hire. He released the stranglehold on his spoon. “Nothing,” he said, brushing his thumb along his bottom lip in case his tongue was lolling out of his mouth. “There’s one thing I haven’t mentioned yet.”

Crickitt put down the spoon and patted her lips with her napkin. Sitting up straight, she trained her eyes on his. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Some travel is required.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Some?”

“About once a quarter. Most of our marketing and art department is in Tennessee.”

“Tennessee. Art Mecca.”

They shared a smile. He’d heard that before. “Angel Downey, my cousin and Aiden’s older sister, is an amazing graphic designer. I hired her remotely, and as August Industries grew, so did her department. In Tennessee.”

“Okay. Tennessee three to four times a year. Is that it?”

“There are occasional out-of-state trips since I’m looking to expand. Of course, you wouldn’t be required to go on all of them,” he added at the last second in case she was thinking of turning him down again.

She reclaimed her spoon. “Sounds great to me.” With a coy smile, she added, “I think I just accepted the position.”

Shane pulled his shoulders back, indescribably relieved.

Crickitt swallowed another bite and gestured with her spoon. “You’re right, this tipped me. Without the crème brulée, I don’t know if I would have said yes.”

He’d always been good at negotiation. Nice to know he still had it. “Thank goodness I didn’t order the tiramisu.”

Outside, they paused in front of Crickitt’s car. Shane offered his hand and she took it, and like the night at the club, his palm tingled on contact. It’d been a long time since he’d enjoyed himself this much at a business dinner…or
any
dinner, for that matter. His work was enjoyable, but it’d never before been…well, tonight had been almost…
fun
. Though he was pretty sure that aspect of the evening had more to with the brunette whose hand was warming his.

Crickitt thanked him for dinner, pulling her fingers away a few seconds before he was ready to let go. “Company write-off.” He shrugged, plunging his hands into his jacket. “One of the perks of being president.”

“That and all the responsibility,” she said, a hint of heaviness in her voice.

He blew out a surprised laugh. He wasn’t used to anyone thinking he didn’t lead a completely charmed life. Then again, Crickitt understood the pressures of running an empire. She’d built one of her own.

“How soon do you need me to start?”

“Yesterday.”

A throaty chuckle poured from her lips. “How about tomorrow?” She let out a deliberate sigh. “I suppose you want me there at the ungodly hour of eight. And to think I used to start my workday at the crack of ten. And in my pajamas.”

Eight? Shane nearly grimaced. His workday began between six and seven in the morning, and by eight, he was either in a staff meeting or on his way to see a client. He opened his mouth to argue, but heard himself say, “Sorry. I’m a bit of a tyrant that way.”

Pulling her keys from a tiny square handbag, she turned to him one last time. “Thank you. For not letting me walk away from this opportunity. I appreciate it, Shane.”

“Thanks for reconsidering,” he said, meaning it.

She frowned, a little line denting the space between her eyebrows. “Do I call you Shane, or Mr. August?”

Everyone called him Mr. August. His receptionist, the janitorial staff, even his cousin Angel, who insisted on doing so to set a good example. Until now he’d agreed. So why, all of a sudden, was he having trouble justifying the formal moniker?

“Shane, please,” he said, rather than mull it over. It would raise a few eyebrows at work, but he’d deal with the repercussions later. It was more important Crickitt feel comfortable around him, trust him. They’d be working closely, and the last thing he wanted was for her to feel nervous or intimidated by him.

She’s your employee
, came the terse reminder.

And that’s all she would be. That’s all she
could
be.

At home, Shane punched in the five-digit alarm code and locked his front door. An alarm system was superfluous in this neighborhood, but since it came with the house he made use of it. He’d purchased the place a year ago thanks to the former owner’s misfortune. Foreclosure.

The house, with its high rounded archways and wide-open rooms, was the result of a local home show. This one, the smallest model at three thousand square feet, was more than enough space for him. He’d had one of his clients, an interior designer, furnish the modern kitchen, sunken living room, and numerous other rooms. He hadn’t been much help, instructing her to “make it look less empty,” but she’d done what he’d asked, filling the space with neutral, comfortable furnishings that weren’t distracting.

He hung his jacket on the coatrack in the foyer, recalling the temptation to offer it to Crickitt when they stepped outside. Too bad she had worn that shawl. It was a crime to cover those shoulders.

Shane shook his head at his thoughts, which had been looping the same girl-crazy circles all evening. He liked women, especially beautiful women. And yeah, it’d been a while since he dated someone semiseriously, but Crickitt had burrowed under his skin deeper—and quicker—than most.

And as of eight a.m. tomorrow morning, she’d be his new PA.

He cuffed his sleeves and pushed them to his elbows, a wave of triumph washing over him. He didn’t take no for an answer, and not only did Crickitt say yes, around a bite of dessert that had clung to her lip for one tempting second, but she’d actually thanked him for his persistence. Then nearly buckled his knees when her tongue darted out to take the sugar from her bottom lip.

But
, that wasn’t why he’d hired her.

He’d been interviewing for three weeks and no one came close to possessing a fraction of Crickitt’s skill set. It didn’t help that the position had become something of a novelty. Thanks to a poorly timed
Forbes
article, his human resources director spent most of last month weeding out interviewees who were only there to get a look at August Industries’ CEO.

A bottle of Château Sedacca waited for him on the counter, and he grabbed it by the neck. Typically, he finished out his evening routine—workout, shower, an hour in his home office—before indulging. But he’d broken more than a few rules tonight. What was one more?

Shane poured the wine as the clock on the wall chimed the hour, pulling his thoughts in an even less desirable direction.

Shane thought of his father every time he heard the damned thing.

Sean August never did come around, stubbornly depriving Shane of his forgiveness until the end, as if it cost him to give it. He’d grown accustomed to the accusations, and his father had spouted them until the day he died. The man may have disowned him, but father and son were connected by more than helixes of DNA. They shared the same tragic past. And as much as Shane wished that past had died alongside his father, it hadn’t. It persisted, stymieing his breath like a lungful of accidentally swallowed bathwater.

The moment his butt hit the couch, the weight of the long day settled squarely on his shoulders. An hour ago, he’d been in the middle of the most relaxing evening since who knew when. Now his to-do list scratched at the back of his mind like a dog wanting in from the rain.

Should have known if he played hooky from his evening routine he’d pay the price. He could run, but he couldn’t hide. He gave a longing look to his glass of wine. Its siren song may hum, but his regimen wailed.

Relaxation would have to wait.

He headed for the kitchen, glass in hand, reminding himself that his regimen had gotten him this far in life. He dumped the wine unceremoniously down the drain and flipped on the faucet, watching the liquid swirl from red to pink to clear.

You should have been here, not out screwing around!

The disembodied voice of his father echoed in his mind before fading into the clock’s solemn ticking in the other room. What his old man didn’t realize was Shane hadn’t needed the constant reminders to know how greatly he’d failed.

He knew better than anyone the impact of a single choice, how a seemingly innocuous decision had irrevocably changed his mother’s life.

Or, more accurately, taken it.