To Want A Billionaire (The Billionaire's Baby Series Book 1) (4 page)

This morning, she looked up from her computer and stared at me in silence. She turned the corridor from the elevator to her desk beneath ‘Whitmore and Creighton’ sign into a catwalk. She started with my feet, nothing to write home about because flats had become my go-to with my swollen feet and ankles, but she lingered for a good ten seconds before she continued her evaluation. You’d think my slacks were Dior from the way she gaped. When she hit my white blouse and onyx colored jacket, she leaned forward, her complexion matching the ivory hue of my shirt, then deepening to the shade of my candy apple colored briefcase. That made me double take because I wasn’t aware that she was human enough to blush.

She scooted back in her chair, chewing on the end of her pen like she was trying to figure something out. “You’re back.”

I slowed my stride. “Yes?”

She pulled the pen from her mouth and pointed at me. “But you’re not tan.”

“I don’t tan, I burn.” I explained. I wasn’t sure why I was explaining anything to her. Or how to react to anything coming from her that wasn’t poison darts or attitude. Maybe she was finally warming to me and we could work on being cordial instead of just tolerating each other. “Hawaii was so beautiful-”

“Oh, I’ve been numerous times,” she interrupted putting pen to paper, her tone taking on its usual haughty octave. “To every island. And I certainly didn’t come back looking...” She trailed off, her eyebrows arching, eyes widening with her silent insult.

High on hormones and the fact I was back at work, I didn’t miss a beat. “Fabulous? It’s hard work, but someone has to do it.”

She glanced up briefly, her cold eyes registering a different kind of surprise. She was still shocked when her insults were met with poise and an edge of my own. Once upon a time, women like Natasha would get under my skin. If I was being honest, they still did, but I knew beneath the phony smiles and mocking was a person that was more insecure than me. Why else would she hurl insults engineered to make me feel small other than it made her feel powerful and important? She was neither in my book, and I made a mental note to never let my guard down with her again.

Putting aside the urge to spar with her to really kick off my welcome back, I cut right to the chase. “I’m assuming you forwarded all my messages?”

“That’s my job,” she said curtly, swiveling her chair away from me. “If there’s nothing else, I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do.”

There was a lot more I could say, a lot I’d fantasized about doing like flipping her desk over WWE style and demanding that she treat me with a modicum of respect, but I knew it would just pour gasoline on an already volatile situation. A reaction from me was her goal, so I did something that would
really
give her a reason to drop her jaw. I said thank you, complete with a smile, then headed to my office.

Once I clicked the door shut, some distance from the drama and in my zone, I exhaled. I kicked off my flats and made my way to the desk, sighing as I sank into the leather embrace of my chair. The blinds on the window were shut so I swiped my phone and opened the app that controlled everything in the room from the blinds, to the lights, to the massage function on my chair. When Jacob had the room retrofitted, turning my office into a ‘smart office’, I’d been skeptical and said it was too much. At the moment, walking over to the window seemed like too much so I felt zero guilt for tapping the icon that let sunlight into the room.

If the lobby (and Natasha) were as cold as ice and all business, my office was the exact opposite. I made these four walls a place of peace, productivity and inspiration. I’d brought in rugs I’d bought at a street fair outside of Venice. Allegra DeLuca, a bittersweet slice of Jacob’s past, had spotted the vibrant colors first. She’d grazed the intricate designs with her fingers, exchanging a greeting with the vendor before she turned to me with a smile that lit up her face. She’d commented that the green that weaved throughout the rug matched her eyes.

Then there was the ivory colored throw, marked with gold thread and memories. I’d found it in Dublin, when I was left to my own devices while Jacob paid Cole a surprise visit. The books that lined the shelves on the far wall told stories that inspired me, worn selections from high school and college tucked in between books on celebrity culture and crisis management. Notebooks were filled with laminated copies of write ups I’d secured for clients. Photos that were perched around the room grinned from behind the glass. Wedding pictures, nights out with Jacob...my heart swelled in my chest when I glanced at two in a single frame. One was Jacob and I. It was the morning after the wedding, me in his white button down shirt, him in boxers, standing ankle deep in the sand, our backs to the camera. The other picture was smaller, with a black background, fuzzy gray and something amazing forming in the center. It was the first picture of our baby. The ultrasound image that changed my life forever.

Ultrasound pictures, honeymoon and trip knick knacks, even the heels my mom forced me to wear to my interview at Whitmore and Creighton, were tucked in the nooks and crannies of my office. They were pieces of me and the people I loved. These things were my fuel, my story. My foundation. It kept me grounded, so I could help others tell the story they needed to tell.

Scooting up a few inches and resting my palms flat on the desk, I got to work. I cycled through my emails, my guilty pleasure, classic boy band tunes, oozing from my computer speakers. The rest of the world didn’t stop turning because I stole away for a few weeks and I had quite a bit of catching up to do. Mia Kent, once written off as another child star cautionary tale, was in London, working on a new studio album, and her boyfriend Liam was in the market for a publicist. I fired off a message to her, smiling to myself when I opened the attachment. It was a picture of Mia and Liam at a concert; Mia beaming on his shoulders, his grin telling me that things were well with the two of them.

Jessica Lenoir was up next, her email all business, just like she was nowadays. Gone was the party girl with a bottomless bank account, lighting up social media with her reckless antics and hungover smiles. After her father’s passing a few months ago, I’d worried she’d revert back to old habits, but she stayed the course and took the reins of the company. She was being heralded as a ‘CEO To Watch’. She congratulated me on the baby and while she’d be in Tokyo on business during the baby shower, she assured me that she was sending me ‘the best present ever, naturally.’

I shuffled through a few more press releases and ideas compiled by my assistant, Jessa Blake. I approved some prospective events, ranging from benefit dinners to social media campaigns.

Pulling up the folder that contained the research and ideas for a benefit concert I was putting together, I made a note to ask Mia if Liam would be interested when a commotion in the hall outside made me freeze in place. My pen was forgotten, my hand shooting to my tummy. The fleeting moment of panic was quickly replaced by something Xena Warrior Princess-esque and I knew that whatever was going down, I could handle it.

Before I pushed away from my desk, I phoned security and wiped everything from my face except ‘I will take you down.’ My money was on some enterprising paparazzo who was trying to get a few pictures to hawk. Or maybe a fan who took their obsession to trespassing territory.

I twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open, Natasha’s agitation seeping into my office.

“I don’t care, ma’am! No one sees Mrs. Whitmore without an appointment. You can’t just stroll in and-”

“Look me up,” a thickly accented voice cut in. “I’m going to make your little company billions.”

Indignation put a little pep in my step and I hustled out of the office. I glared down the hallway, met with the statuesque back of some woman dressed in a slinky black dress that cradled her slender frame, jet black locks spilling past her waist. She had to have been at least 6 feet tall without any assistance, but her heels vaulted her to Amazonian heights. She squared off with Natasha and the strangest thing happened.

I felt the rumblings of respect for Natasha, because she didn’t back down one inch.

Minus the extra height and the flowing onyx locks, it had to have been like looking into a mirror for Natasha. Both women could have easily fit in backstage at Fashion Week with their stature, perfect skin, and angular noses in the air. Regardless of their similarities, Natasha looked ready to take the woman down by any means necessary, which was a far cry from past situations when she just let clients mosey on up to my office.

I didn’t overanalyze Natasha’s sudden concern for protocol and respect, following up the intruder’s obnoxious comment with one of my own.

“Maybe you’re unaware that this ‘little company’ is already worth billions, and if you were half as important as you think you are...oh my God!”

The woman spun on her heels with an effortlessness that told me she used to be a dancer. When I saw her face, I knew that she was more than merely important.

She was the Holy Grail of clients.

“Angelique Entoine,” I mouthed, glancing at Natasha, then back at Angelique.

Natasha’s frown didn’t budge as she gave Angelique a scalding once over. “Who?”

It was pretty rare that I found myself star struck, especially when faced with a female celebrity. I leaned toward the male idolatry end of the spectrum, probably because I would pick a popcorn, guns blazing action flick over a sweeping romance or heart wrenching drama any day of the week, but I’d made an exception for the foreign film,
Train
. It told the story of an actress, played by Angelique, who was at the top of her game, with everything in the world: awards, all the best movie roles, a husband who looked at her with stars in his eyes, and fans that worshipped the ground beneath her feet. One day, instead of getting off at her stop, fully disguised and incognito, she stays on and runs away.

Angelique had a screen presence that hypnotized. Me, and the rest of the world (minus Natasha, apparently), were entranced. She was Hollywood’s latest ‘It’ girl and she was here, at Whitmore and Creighton, outside my office. Making me stammer and blush because it was clear that her aura wasn’t limited to the screen. Her skin was like alabaster and the combination with her dark hair should have made her look vampiric, but instead, she looked ethereal. With her accent and black dress words like ‘gothic’ and ‘castle’ should have come to mind, but there was a glow that radiated from her intense blue eyes. It was 9 AM and she was dressed to kill, but when she took me in, I saw none of the repellant attitude she’d hurled Natasha’s way.

“You must be Mrs. Whitmore.” Her French accent turning my name into something sweeping with cursive letters. She took a step in my direction but froze abruptly, her cerulean eyes falling to the floor.

I followed suit, my cheeks reddening when I realized I forgot to put my shoes back on. “I just-” I cleared my throat and smiled tightly. “Let me grab my flats-“

“No,
S’il vous plait
,” she cut in gently, shaking her head. “You are pregnant, you should be as comfortable as possible. In fact-” She bent at the waist and unbuckled the straps on her heels and kicked them off with a sigh. “I think we should all take better care of ourselves and say ‘Fuck fashion!’” She righted herself, holding up a fist in solidarity. She peeked over her shoulder, remembering Natasha, who was no longer scowling, but still thoroughly confused. “You too.
Liberté
!”

Natasha just blinked, speechless.

No one said a word, the chime of the elevator breaking the silence. Frank, with his walkie talkie and warrior face of his own, marched into view.

Angelique turned her ire back to Natasha, her voice as cold as the grave. “You called this man?”

“I called security,” I answered quickly, taking a few more steps toward the trio, making eye contact with Frank. “I think there was a misunderstanding, Frank.”

He was unfazed by Angelique, looking right through her to me. “Is she the intruder?”

“Yes!” Natasha didn’t miss a beat, smiling triumphantly. She practically stuck out her tongue, for good measure. Frank had his walkie at the ready and I had a feeling if security had the clearance for tasers, Angelique would be convulsing on the floor.

“Ma’am, if you don’t come with me, I’ll have to call the police-”

“There’s been a mix up!” I interjected, trying to diffuse the situation.

Everyone turned to me. Natasha’s annoyance was aimed at me, and on full blast. Angelique looked grateful and more than a tiny bit perturbed by the fact that she was being treated like a trespasser, even if she technically was. Frank looked dejected because his services weren’t required.

“I forgot to mention that Angelique Entoine was coming in for a consultation.” The lie slipped off my tongue a little easier than it should have. I was still pinching myself because she was standing a few feet from me.

Geez, Lay. Didn’t you learn anything from the Cade fiasco? Publicist first, fan second.

I rolled back my shoulders and dusted off the front of my blazer, trying to seem professional even though I was wearing no shoes and five seconds ago, I almost asked for an autograph. “Shall we, Angelique?”

“Absolutely!” she answered smoothly. She scooped up her shoes with no concern for modesty. Frank was a perfect gentleman and looked away, blushing beet red. He bid us all farewell and shuffled back to the elevator. Natasha lingered, slowly chopping a hand through her bobbed white blonde hair, eyes narrowed in skepticism.

“You should get back to the pressing matters you mentioned earlier,” I told Natasha, as sweet as can be.

She scoffed and stomped back in the direction of her desk.

I led the way into my office, awkwardly shutting the door behind us and offering Angelique a seat. “Can I get you something to drink?” I cringed when I realized all I had to offer was room temperature ginger ale and bottled water. “I don’t have any ice. I could ask Natasha to grab some?”

“As much as I’d love to inconvenience that horrible woman, ice is an American thing,” Angelique replied with a smirk.