Reckless Hearts: A Billionaire Romance (5 page)

He pushed the button for the 25th floor and the elevator hummed to life.

"So what did you think of my speech back at the school?" he asked.

"It seemed pretty canned to me. It makes me wonder why you even agreed to do it," I said, trying to regain some of my composure. Some of my wit.

"Because I like to get out sometimes. See how the next generation is coming along. That sort of thing."

I found myself on familiar ground again, the relief palpable in the way my shoulders relaxed. "Really? Are you sure it wasn't to build up that mystery of yours a little more?"

I wasn’t about to tell him that that mystery intrigued me as much as it did any other student back at SNYUC.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him turn to face me. I started to turn as well, but resisted, keeping my vision fixed on the descent of the elevator.

"You know, someday that mouth of yours is going to get you into serious trouble."

"Who says it hasn't already?" I retorted. The amusement rolled off him in waves. I realized that he was goading me, forcing the responses he wanted.

He thought he knew everything I might possibly say. I searched my mind for something, anything that might shock him. That might get a real human response out of him.

Then I remembered. I turned, smiling. The slightest of frowns creased his brow.
Good
, I thought.

"I think this whole thing is an act," I said.

"Everything is an act," he replied.

" I'll tell you what wasn't an act, though," perhaps unconsciously, I moved closer to him, the space between our bodies shrinking. I had to tilt my head back farther to look him in the eye.

The air around me seemed to crackle with all the nervous energy coming off my body.
I hope I don’t say anything too stupid
, I kept thinking.

"What?" he asked.

"When I saw you pick up that earthworm and throw it back into the dirt." I waited for his reply, but it didn't come. There was only the steady sound of our breathing and the gentle him of the elevator motor underscoring that.

I expected him to backpedal, to accuse me of lying, to deny it or make some sort of excuse. He didn't.

So I pressed forward, wanting a reaction from him. Needing one, even. "If this haughty, enigmatic billionaire thing was the real you, you never would have done that. You never would have even noticed it was there, let alone decide to save it from the sun."

I stabbed a finger at his chest, stopping short of touching him (even though part of me wanted to). "So tell me, why are you pretending and who are you really?" I bit off the part where I almost called him George again.

When I finally paused for breath I noticed then the jackhammer beat of my heart. I noticed how close we were. And then I noticed how nice he smelled. Clean and masculine and fresh.

I noticed his lips, too. The way they curled up slightly at the corners. The barest hint of stubble on his cheeks. I caught myself wondering how soft those lips would feel. I wondered if they would feel as hot against me as his hand did.

"Like I said, Allison," he put a special emphasis on my name, "We all pretend to one degree or another."

Then he took my pointing, accusing finger in one hand and pushed it down, as though he were disarming some reluctant robber.

And then I knew he wanted to kiss me. His eyes flicked down to my lips and then back up.

I wanted him to kiss me as badly as he wanted to. He started closing the gap between us, his face looming large in my vision so that I could see only him. He didn't let go of my hand, either.

But then the elevator chimed. The doors slid open and broke the spell, letting all the magic slip out and dilute in the air of the 25th floor. He dropped my hand and faced forward.

We stepped out and I wondered if any of it actually happened or if I imagined it all in a day dream.

This particular floor was your bog standard cubicle farm. Lots of those ubiquitous grey modular wall sections, signs on the walls with arrows pointing the drones to the copy room and the employee lounge. That sort of thing.

On the other side I saw the wall with its windows looking out onto the Manhattan skyline.

The place buzzed. Men in shirts and ties and women in skirts or pantsuits moving around with reams of paper gripped in their hands or phones pressed to their ears.

Again, I felt underdressed. I really should have opted for one of those skirts in my closet.

The only thing to set it apart from any other workspace was the Utopia logo on the wall.

"I know," he said, noticing the way I examined the place, "A pretty normal office. Except these people aren't making me any more money. They're spending it, actually. Spending it as fast as I can get it to them."

"Buying up other companies? Eating up the competition?" I said. The old adage of
you gotta spend money to make money
kept flashing through my mind like a neon sign.

"No. This office is dedicated entirely to charity, actually. And I have the accounting files to prove that Utopia donates far more than is worth it for any tax deduction. Come on, I'll show you."

I was almost disappointed when he didn't put his hand on my back to lead me around again. Almost. I wondered if maybe he didn't want his drones to see.

We went first down one row of cubicles, then the next. And I noticed something. None of the office workers really took notice of him. They didn't suddenly drop their coffee or donut to make it look like they hadn't been slacking off.

I got the impression that Mr. X might come down to this particular office fairly often. That he was a regular sight for these people.

"There's a lot of money to be made in charity, actually. You'd be surprised how many of them are charities in name only, donating pennies on the dollar to the causes they say they serve. Half the people in this room just do research, finding the ones that actually do some good. The rest of them see that the money gets into the right hands, look at the spending reports that I require from any charity that receives funds. That sort of thing."

A nearly bald man, wisps of hair clinging to his scalp, a pocket protector holding several pens to his chest, saw us and came forward, a clipboard in his hand. He offered it to Mr. X, "The numbers you requested, sir."

"Thank you, Daniels. Not for me. For her," he said, nodding at me.

I balked. I knew what this was. He was calling me on my game, showing me that I had no idea what I had been talking about back during his Q&A.

It was what I’d been dreading Jennifer might say to me. She had been too nice to, I guess.

“How do I know this is real?” I asked, grasping at anything that might not make me look completely stupid. I wanted to wrap my arms in a comforting hug around my ribs, but I resisted. Instead, I planted my hands on my hips.

“I suppose that my word isn’t good enough?” he replied. I wished he would stop studying me. I felt analyzed, examined, my every reaction checked against some inner checklist.

“Maybe,” I said, not knowing why. I was at a loss. Mr. X was not who I expected at all. I wasn’t sure what his game was, but I knew that right then it made me again realize just how dumb I had been to say those things to him earlier.

And all because of that jerk Justin Rothsman and his stupid joke.

Unsure whether he was dismissed or not, Daniels stood looking uncomfortable in his own skin. One of those wisps of hair on top of his head chose that moment to un-stick from his scalp and it floated in the gentle breeze of the air conditioner.

The event was like a stone dropping into a still pond, the concentric rings of the wave washing outwards. The people closest to us took notice, quieted, setting their phones down or walking as slowly as possible towards their next destination.

I wanted to wilt under all that attention, my shoulders already sagging. I found some backbone somewhere, though, and I looked him in the eye. "It still seems like making so much money is wrong, somehow." Weak, but it was the best I could do.

I wanted to get back to where things made sense. Where enigmatic, and apparently charitable, billionaires didn’t look right into me. Back where my friend wanted to throw me a party for getting good grades. Back where I thought I knew myself.

"Perhaps. But shouldn’t you judge it based on how that money is made and how it is then spent? And here I am, trying to show you that Utopia does indeed practice what
you
preach."

I got the impression that it was important to him that he prove this to me. But why? I was just a mouthy co-ed. It shouldn’t matter what I thought of him.

Yet it did. I could sense that.

"Utopia is a weird name choice for a company," I said, grabbing for anything that wouldn't leave me standing there silently, watched by what appeared to be the entire floor.

"I know. An ideal place and no place at all. A double meaning. One well known, the other, not so much. I like to think it's representative of life as a whole. You see one thing, think it's one way, when it can also be another. Maybe even the complete opposite of what you think."

He caught my eyes up in his as he spoke, as though trying to impart some hidden meaning of his own, watching to see if I did or not.

He was enigmatic, all right.

Enigmatic and indisputably hot. I would leave that second part out, though.

All I wanted to do was get out of there. Before he could continue pointing out the flaws in my spur-of-the-moment rant. Before he could get me hooked on those eyes of his.

"Thanks for all this, but I have something actually important to get back to. The tour's over, right?"

I turned and started for the elevators again. Behind me, he handed Daniels the clipboard and came after me.

Involuntary excitement thrilled up my spine. Did I want him to catch me? I think that somewhere inside, I did.

At the elevator, I jabbed my finger against the Down button repeatedly. His blurred reflection came after me in the brushed steel finish of the doors. Lava and ice water both flowed through my veins at the same time.

The door started sliding open, revealing the empty car. Then his hand fell on my shoulder. "At least let me show you out."

"Fine," I replied, hoping this would be the end of it. I'd leave the building, catch the shuttle back to campus, and go to my apartment able to put all this behind me.

We stood in awkward silence as we began the descent. Why did elevators always seem to be empty at the complete wrong times? I kept hoping that maybe it would stop at the next floor down, that maybe someone could step in and cut the tension. But no one did.

"So, the Duvall Grant. That's pretty big. You transferred in from Columbia at the start of this semester. Playing a bit of catch-up with the required courses here, I understand. I think it's interesting how neither of your parents have a degree. Yet here you are. Not exactly the typical student for that sort of school."

"Have you been spying on me? Looking into me?" I said, rounding on him. Then I jabbed the emergency stop button and the elevator juddered to a halt, the inertia almost knocking me from my feet.

I wanted to get out of there, but something manic came over me. For all I knew, he’d asked Peabody to reconsider my funding.
What have I gotten myself into?

"Have you?" I said, looking into the inscrutable face of his.

"Allison, I look into everyone I find interesting."

"What?" That combination of ice water and lava flowed up through me again.

He shook his head, "You heard me perfectly well. You're an interesting person, Allison. You're different from the people I'm used to seeing. There's something about you I can't quite put my finger on. Maybe you feel the same way about me."

It wasn't a question. More like a musing, or a consideration.

I stepped in close to him again, into that musk of his light cologne. This time, I did push my finger against his chest. Well, his silk tie, anyway.

"Look, I’m sorry about what I said, all right? You’re right, I’m wrong. That’s the end of it. Can’t we just leave it at that?"

This close, I saw that strange warmth in his eyes again. It was like I, for that moment at least, I could see into him like he could see into me.

Suddenly, another desire pushed my anger aside. I wanted to kiss him. Or rather, I wanted him to kiss me.

A dangerous attraction existed between us. I could feel it, sense it lurking inside. It fought against my urge to get back to the campus and forget about all this. Forget about him.

He put his hand on my cheek, and I couldn't bring myself to reach up and tear it away. Instead, I wanted to close my eyes, to lean my face against his palm.

"I don't believe that. And I don't think you do, either."

If he chose to kiss me right then, I wouldn't have stopped him. His hand on my skin left me hot and flushed, my knees going weak and excitement fluttering at the front of my stomach.

He didn't kiss me, though. His hand dropped and he turned off the emergency stop.

"It isn't fair that you know all this about me and I don't know anything about you."

I didn't understand how he could stand there and look so calm and at ease when I might burst at the seams at any moment. How could he have such an effect on me and come out unscathed?

I leaned back against the wall, the rail pressing into the small of my back and the coolness of the metal leaching through my shirt. The sudden chill bunched every patch of skin from my back down to my wrists into goosebumps.

He smiled. "Everyone thinks I'm such a mystery, but it's that way because they want me to be. I use it to my advantage. Hiding things in plain sight. Utopia is registered under my name. My real name. Which isn't George, as you know. It's Owen."

"Owen?" I replied, fitting the name to the face.

"Is there something wrong with that? It's not so fancy as say Liam or Aiden, but it's me."

"Better than Mr. X, anyway." I did like the name Owen, but I wasn't about to tell him that.

He glanced up at the elevator screen. I did as well. Third floor. Almost to the bottom, now.