Reckless Hearts: A Billionaire Romance (7 page)

He might call again, though. Eventually I would give in and listen. So why not save some time and do it now? That was my reasoning, at least.

So with that hot and cold excitement dripping off the bottom of my heart, I pressed play. As I did, I wondered if it would be his secretary again, or him.

"Allison, I want to see you again. I think you want to see me, too. Give me a call back. I think I have just the thing in mind. And I'd like to discuss something with you." He sounded different over the phone, the phone line between us stripping away some of the resonance from his voice.

But it was him. I knew that. And he had just thrown the ball back into my court. Though he did so knowing I wanted to play the game.

Just for that I considered not calling him back. But I couldn't do that. I could feel my life unraveling around me. All the things I'd held dear before, my performance at school, staying on my course. It seemed unimportant now. Or at least less so than before.

That frightened me. How could one person, especially a person I kept telling myself I shouldn’t like, have such an effect on me?

And if that was all it took to shake me, were those things I thought were so valuable so dear to me after all?

I didn't want to think about it. Not at that moment, anyway. I hesitated a while before finally snatching up the receiver and punching his number in.

"Hello," he said, his voice walking down my back giving me goosebumps again (no one in my life gave me as many goosebumps as he did!).

"Hi. It's me. It's Allison, I mean," I said. I put my hand over the microphone and swore under my breath.
Try to be a little more awkward, would you?

"I know," he replied.

Of course he knows! Rich people can afford Caller ID, remember?

"Okay, I give up. I'm curious about you and whatever it is you'll think I'll like. But just remember that this doesn't mean anything.."

I reached for the telephone cord, wanting to twirl it around in my fingers to give them something to do when I remembered that this was a cordless phone. Sighing, I clenched my free hand and shoved it down into my pocket, lest it start to play with my hair.

I wouldn't stoop that low, even though he couldn't see me.

"So what is it?" I asked after a pause

"That would ruin the surprise. You're available tomorrow morning, right?"

I only had one lecture the next day, at 3:00 in the afternoon. "Tomorrow is fine."

"Great. I can send a car..."

"Don't bother, just tell me where to go. I'm a big girl. I can find my own rides to places."

"Of course you can," he replied. I could pretty much hear him smirking. I wanted to wipe it from his face. Or kiss it off, maybe. My feelings on the matter were conflicted.

He told me the address, which I wrote on the pad beside the phone.

And then he added, "If you have any good boots, wear them. And by good I mean sturdy, not pretty."

"Why?" I said, wishing the phone was closer to my desk so that I could Google Maps the address. I'd first thought that maybe he meant some fine dining. But you didn't need "sturdy" boots to go to a nice restaurant.

He couldn't possibly mean hunting, could he?
That seemed like something the idle rich might do to pass all their time. If we had to shoot our meal ourselves, I was out.

"Listen, I'm really not into the whole wildlife, getting in touch with nature thing. I like my food already dead."

"What? No. It's nothing to do with hunting."

"Hiking?" I hazarded.

"You only have to wait until tomorrow to find out. Not even 24 hours from now. I think it takes longer than that for suspense to kill someone. Trust me on this."

I had to admit that I did feel a spark of suspense deep inside. It complemented the curiosity and the anticipation of seeing him again.

"I don't believe I have any reason to trust you, Georgie," I said, trying to make it sound playful and feeling like I’d failed. "Or Owen, if that is your real name."

"You don't have to trust me. You just have to show up. You can see it with your own eyes, then."

"See what?" I said, hoping he might slip and let some detail loose.

He chuckled. "Waiting is always the most difficult part of anything, I find. I wish you luck. And I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early. Don't forget."

"I won't."

He hung up. The first thing I did was to curse myself for forgetting to ask why it took him so long to call. The second thing I did was tear the sheet off the notepad and run the address through Google.

It was a forest with a winding road through it, the grey of the pavement standing out against the green of the canopy. There was no street view, either. Just the overhead satellite shot.

What could possibly be out there?

I admitted with some reticence that Owen was right about one other thing, too. Waiting was the hardest part.

"Y
ou want to go
where
?" the driver said.

I still held up the sheet of paper I printed off before leaving the dorm. I typed the address on it and even a bunch of directions, figuring that being out in the boonies it might end up difficult to find.

SNYUC provided students with a free shuttle service anywhere they wanted to go up to a state or two over. I figured you could even get them to take you up to Canada if you wanted.

Of course they did, given the nature and wealth of their benefactors. There was even a landing strip long enough for private jets with its own dedicated shuttle service a few minutes from campus.

But these usually took students back to their parents' places in the Hamptons, or down to Manhattan like I had been last week. Not to some random forest. So I could understand the man's confusion.

"I want you to take me to the address written here. I'm sure the GPS can take us right there," I said, giving the in-dash display unit a pointed look.

"I heard you. You're sure of the address, though?"

"Yes," I said. I wasn't, though. Last night I dug up a few tidbits, finding that particular piece of forest owned by a logging company. Nothing else. It was all very mysterious, just like a certain man I knew.

The driver took the sheet of paper, pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and peered at the typed lines, his jaw working.

He was well-trained, though, putting his reservations aside and punching the address into the GPS.

The car clicked into gear and we started off. This was the second time I had used this service. The first being the Manhattan trip. It was an extravagance.

More than anywhere else on campus, it made me realize just how out of place I was. Though the car itself tried to subdue me with comfort. Cooled and heated leather seats with plenty of back support. Screens built into the rear of the seats in front of me. Individual climate control.

All things designed to set me at ease. They put me on edge though, each little luxury telling me I didn't belong.

My clothes didn't help, either. Blue jeans again, this time with a long-sleeve shirt and a light jacket to cut the breeze. And boots. Sturdy ones. They were lace-up work things, purchased last summer when I spent my time between semesters picking apples at an orchard to make up for a shortfall my scholarships didn't quite cover.

Little grass stains still marked the toes, and some dry dirt still caked the treads. Some of that dirt came off while I watched, dotting the pristine black carpet of the foot well.

The driver glanced at me in the mirror, and I could see the curiosity in his eyes.

I knew that the school frowned on the hired help fraternizing with the student body. They were certain standards of decorum to be maintained, you see.

"Curious?" I asked.

"
Make your next left
," the robot voice of the GPS said, barely audible to me in the back. The driver took the turn, the angle letting the morning light stream in through my tinted window.

He glanced at me in the mirror again. "Just wanting to make certain that I'm not taking you anywhere dangerous, ma'am."

"You aren't." Another thing I couldn't say for certain.

He nodded, then kept his attention on the road. I tried engaging him a couple more times, but each attempt gave me only brief, necessary responses.

He obviously wasn't used to his passengers making small talk with him. I figured most of them probably pretended he was some sort of driving robot.

I swear, if having this school on my resume wasn't going to get me pretty much any job I wanted, I wouldn't have been there. But it would get me anywhere I wanted to go, so I needed to grin and bear it.

"Nice day out," I said, leaning against the armrest and watching the trees flash by. All the morning sunlight brought out the vibrancy of the New York countryside in early fall.

"Indeed," he said, making a quick merge after hesitating for a moment behind a yield sign.

From the campus, it took us half an hour to reach the address Owen gave me. I knew because as we pulled up I took a quick look at the GPS, which displayed the elapsed trip time.

The driver pulled onto the shoulder, even though no other traffic came down the road in either direction.

The address was for a gated road. Not some fancy gate, just one of those single arm affairs you might find on any private driveway out in the country. It even had a NO TRESPASSING - PRIVATE PROPERTY sign flapping gently in the breeze, the sharp noise of the steel on steel muted by the car.

It was a dirt road, too. In the rear view mirror, I saw the look of concern on his face. This wasn't a car meant for dirt roads.

"Don't worry," I said, "This will be fine. Thanks for the ride!"

I hopped out of the car, the air warmer outside than in. I squinted at the sudden brightness, my eyes used to the artificial dimness of the interior.

The driver rolled his window down. "Are you sure, ma'am? I'm not sure I should be leaving you here, all by yourself."

He was right. I peered down the dirt road and saw nothing but its tree-lined path.

Maybe it was all a joke
, I thought. Maybe Owen wanted to know if I would fall for it. While part of me wanted to believe that, the cynical part that said his type were all the same, the rest of me couldn't believe it.
He wouldn't do that. Would he?

"Should I take you back to the campus?"

I walked over to the gate, grabbed the metal tube of its upper arm, and gave it a tug. Locked. The whole thing clanked in my grip, moving an inch forward or backward but not opening.

The smooth stainless steel warmed quickly against my palms and I shook it again, thinking that maybe Owen wanted me to come down this road and if I could just get it open I could go farther. It stayed locked, though.

Disappointment weighed down on me, heavy in my stomach. I should have been glad to be proven right about him, but I wasn't.

"Maybe it's the wrong address?" I said, wondering why I bothered trying to justify him.

The driver leaned over and grabbed the paper from its resting place on the passenger seat. He pulled his glasses down and looked at it again, then scrutinized the GPS screen. "Only if you gave me the wrong address. This is the place."

I didn't want to spend all day standing out here, so I decided to go back. Then I heard the distinct sound of gravel crunching beneath tires. A jolt of excitement shot up the front of my stomach.

Soon a plume of dirt appeared on the dirt road, a Jeep materializing from the dusty cloud. It pulled up short of the gate and Owen stepped out from the driver's seat.

He looked ready to go for a hike. A pair of sturdy boots of his own on, khaki pants with a plain collared shirt tucked into them. He was trim, his shoulders and waist forming a pleasant V that made me want to learn what was going on under that shirt.

That thought brought some color to my cheeks, and I turned away, pretending I hadn't experienced that jolt of delight at his finally showing up.

"You're late," I said.

"I don't think so," he said. He came and unlocked the gate, swinging it open. It swung inward, and I realized that was why he'd stopped short, so he wouldn't hit the Jeep.

He was familiar with this place, then. Been here before enough to know about the gate. But what was so special about it? It just looked like a bunch of trees to me.

"I'll wait for you here," the driver said.

"You won't need to," Owen said.

The driver ignored him, waiting for me to give him some instruction. I considered. It would be another little act of defiance to have the driver wait.

But I didn't know how long we might be. And I didn't want to be so cruel so as to make the man sit out here in the sun for who knew how many hours. He didn't deserve that. He had been kind to me, showing concern. That didn't deserve meanness in return.

"I'll be fine, really. You can head back to campus. Thanks again for the ride, I appreciate it."

He watched us through the open window, his eyes inscrutable behind his reflective sunglasses. Finally he nodded. "Very well, ma'am. Don't hesitate to call if you do need a pick up."

"I won't," I said.

"She won't need one," Owen said at the same time.

We watched the sleek black Town Car, the trees reflecting in its glossy paint, pull a three-point turn and head back down the road. "A bit presumptuous, aren't we?"

"Not at all," he said. Then he went back to the Jeep and opened the passenger door for me. I sat down in the bucket seat and he closed the door as well. I admired him for a few moments while he rounded the hood, watching the interplay of muscles beneath his shirt.

Control yourself
, I thought. This was nothing more than a diversion. Nothing more than filling an idle morning.

I tried not to think about how I still had a paper to write, a lecture to prepare for. Or about how nice a figure Owen cut no matter what he wore.

He sat down and pulled his door shut. Then I noticed that the Jeep had a third pedal and a stick shift. He shoved the clutch in and cranked the engine.

"You drive stick?" I asked. I didn't know why it surprised me, but it did. I guess I thought rich people liked convenience. Like the convenience of an automatic transmission.