The Billionaire's Hotline (Men of the Capital Series Book 1) (6 page)

His apartment was clinically neat and expansive, with high ceilings and pale wooden floors. She followed him to the kitchen and assembled the French press while he washed his hands at the sink.

“Do you have a thing about germs?” she asked.

“Excuse me? I thought washing one’s hands prior to food or beverage preparation was customary,” he said coldly.

“You’ve used hand sanitizer about twenty times tonight. Anytime you touched me, or a doorknob, or the car. It’s just an observation.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Oh, there’s plenty wrong with you. You’re misanthropic and controlling and almost criminally obnoxious. Somehow it’s an endearing combination to me, which makes me question my sanity, not yours.” She put down the assembly and put her hands on his shoulders. “Your blood pressure cannot be good with the level of stress you’re putting on yourself. I have never met anyone as tightly wound as you, and I work with actors and musicians, who don’t have a reputation for being Zen. You have GOT to calm the fuck down.”

He turned away.

“I’ve upset you. I’m sorry,” she said, laying a hand on his arm.

“Hardly. Here. Percolate away.”

She brought him coffee, setting a white mug before him. “Sugar?” she offered.

He shook his head, wanting her to leave. “No thanks,” he managed.

“Your place is really big,” she remarked. “Clean and angular.”

“Are you going to analyze my apartment size and tell me it reflects insecurity?”
              “I thought it had more to do with you having a lot of money,” she said simply, sipping her coffee and smiling. “This is really good. I’m going to have to get a French press.”

“Have that one. I don’t need it,” he said, more dismissive than generous.

“I liked the symphony,” she said, waiting for him to reply. When he remained quiet, she continued. “You said with a French press I was yours. So what will you do with me?” She looked up almost coquettishly, and the dark timbre of her voice nearly undid him with desire.

“Besides disinfecting you with hand sanitizer?” Jasper said wryly. He managed a half-smile.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think sometimes when I say something. I spend most of my time alone, working. I guess I have the social skills of a bridge troll sometimes, Jasper. I’m sorry.” Her gentleness rubbed him raw more than her scrutiny. The intimacy made him start to sweat.

“It’s fine.”

“So talk to me. I’ve missed you the last few minutes, since I pissed you off.”

“I’m going to Dubai tomorrow afternoon for a week.”

“That’s interesting. Have you been there before? I’ve seen it in the movies, the colorful markets and stuff.”

“I’ve been there for business, yes.”

“I don’t guess you’d bring me a scarf. I don’t wear scarves. I’d just hang it over a mirror and look at it and wish I had the kind of attitude that could pull off a scarf with regular clothes.”

“What color?”

“Purple,” she said instantly. “Or should I text it to Miss Hollingford?”

“I think you’ve alienated her for life.”

“I told her I was sorry. I thought you were stalking me and being pushy.”

“I’m assertive. You have to be in business.”

“This isn’t business.”

“Everything is business, Hannah.”

“Yeah, you’re a true romantic,” she scoffed, downing her coffee. “Do you have something I could wear? This is sort of binding,” she admitted, poking at the waist cincher through her dress resentfully.

Jasper brought her some clothes from a drawer. She went into his fancy marble bathroom and shucked off her borrowed dress and hateful corset, the softness of his t-shirt and shorts a relief. She took a fluffy washcloth and scrubbed off her makeup, making herself at home. Hannah padded barefoot into the cavernous living room.

He sat composedly on the black leather couch, not sprawled territorially like most men did on upholstered furniture. She curled up against him, catlike, and kissed his cheek, liking the rasp of stubble along his jaw when she pressed her lips to his face.

“Where were we in the car? Before the lights hit us and made us awkward,” he asked, nuzzling his neck. Jasper pulled her into his lap and claimed her with a kiss, his hands almost punishing in her hair. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m overdue for my five hours’ sleep.”

“I didn’t mean to waste your time.” She drew back, feeling bruised.

“No. That isn’t what I said. I said I was tired. Use your linguistic skills, Hannah,” he chided.

“I’ll go,” she said, wanting him to ask her to stay.
He knows he has me. He doesn’t even need to take off my clothes to consider the conquest complete,
she thought sadly. She kissed him full on the lips, not going gentle into that good night. He might be through pursuing her, but she hadn’t had all she wanted of Jasper Cates.

“You can keep the clothes,” he said against her lips, his tongue sliding into her mouth. She wound her arms around his neck, pulling him into her, his hand pushing up the back of her shirt, touching bare skin.

“What if I want to give them back now?” she offered, never breaking the kiss. “What if I could make you forget everything else?” Her hands opened the buttons of his shirt, rubbing her palms against his smooth, muscled chest. He cupped her bottom and kissed her neck, his teeth grazing tender skin. She understood why women would be lining up for those disposable phones as she shivered under his touch.

“It’s late.” Jasper said, a lilt of regret in his voice. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

The luscious chill his breath against her neck sent sparking down the length of her body tempered his disappointing suggestion. She could imagine a walk with him, their hands all over each other, restraining themselves just enough to avoid arrest for public indecency…most of the time. She nodded, finding herself unable to speak under his persistent hands, a touch that spoke a different message from the voice that told her to go home. Hannah melted into him, pinning him against the couch, her hair falling around them both as she kissed him thoroughly. She levered off him and collected the borrowed dress from the bathroom.

Their walk was decorous. He held out his arm for her and conducted her home as respectably as any maiden’s chaperone might have wished. At the door of her building, she tugged at his shirt.

“If you come upstairs, you might find a way to win back your phone,” she taunted.

“The hour is late for such negotiations. Sleep well, mockingbird.” Jasper brushed his lips against hers and left her at the doorstep.

Inside her apartment, Hannah flung herself down on her bed and dialed her sister’s number

“It’s two in the morning. What?” Becca grumbled.

“It was an absolute fairy tale. I have your dress. It’s unharmed, by the way. He took me to the symphony and we went back to his apartment and he had bought a French press because I love coffee and it was so romantic, Bec.” She sighed.

“So why are you home already?”

“He was a gentleman.”

“Really, the phone guy? Are you sure?”

“Yes. This is different for him, for us both. We don’t need to jump into bed. We have this connection…”

“Are you sure this is my sister Hannah and not some stranger impersonating her?”

“Shut up and go back to sleep.” Hannah laughed. She smiled even in her sleep.

Chapter 6

Jasper and Hannah

As he walked, he thought over the misguided attraction he had entertained for Hannah. It had been the evening from hell for Jasper. First he had to sit in the concert hall and not check his email even once. Then she caught him using hand sanitizer, and instead of just taking the piss out of him, she had unleashed a torrent of fond concern. It made him feel like his head would cave in.

He had wanted her to come to his apartment, had liked how much brighter and warmer his sterile, top of the line kitchen looked with her moving around in it, but he couldn’t handle letting her in and having her talk to him like that, like she could see inside his head. He had dodged the concern on her face. It was the same expression that Miss Hollingford had given him, one of sadness mingled with worry. He had sent the secretary back to her desk, but Hannah didn’t work for him, so he couldn’t order her around as easily. Ordinarily, the pointless chatter of his dates was grating. This had been worse because it was personal. He realized too late that he’d rather ignore girls talking about themselves than try to ward off one who scrutinized him.

Her motions were clean and purposeful, efficient, and she had hummed under her breath without realizing it. Not Bach, as he’d expected, but The Doors. For a moment, he had let himself enjoy her presence, the way she animated the space. Then his hands had itched for his phone, to check his email. He drummed his fingers to distract himself, stubbornly refusing to show any besetting habits.

Jasper couldn’t sleep, didn’t get his requisite five hours, or even three. He was in the gym at five as planned, but exhausted and muddled. This business trip was perfectly timed to give him some distance from a distracting, inappropriate woman. Normally, he didn’t like travel, but he found himself looking forward to time out of town.

He’d been on the ground in the UAE for half an hour before he texted her a picture of the Jumeirah Mosque, its pale domes and intricate stonework. He was in a meeting when he got her email, and he read it right there at the conference table.

What an ethereal building! All four-square and pure white. It’s no wonder it appealed to my Virgo. Thanks for the picture. Here’s one of my view.

She’d inserted a gif of a script in her studio.

I got a whole movie role! The actress sounds like Boston and the character has to be southern, so I get to loop all her dialogue. I’ve got to brush up on my Southern accent, but I’ll get my sound equipment paid off after this! See you soon. Hannah.

Somehow, Jasper was prouder of her movie role than he was of his profits in the expanding markets. He excused himself from the conference momentarily to reply.

Mockingbird, read some Tennessee Williams to reacquaint yourself with the patois. It’ll come naturally soon enough. It’s a wonderful opportunity for you. Do you want to expand into TV and film work, or are you happy narrating PowerPoints? I’ve heard that you sing a little. When I get back, I want you to sing for me.  Virgo.

              He got some work done before she messaged back and found himself wandering the Al Karama market, rebuffing the aggressive hawkers with a sharp “
laa
” and “
Ekhrass!
” if they persisted. In a conference, he might be the picture of politeness, but at the souk he was rude, disliking the crowds, the jostling and shouting. He passed over the purple and went straight to a tangerine shawl with a rosy sheen, the fabric beaded in gold and burgundy. He haggled, offered an obscenely low price, and threatened to leave before purchasing it.

              I braved the souk for you. Your present will come home when I do, Mockingbird. It isn’t purple, but it’s perfect for you.

              Jasper smiled at the thought of her anticipation, her childish excitement over the surprise. He imagined the glory of Hannah’s smile as he wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, its silky lightness and the surprising weight of the beading. He would fold her in his arms, inhaling the tart apple of her shampoo as it mixed with the scent of saffron that clung to the fabric. He had promised himself to stop thinking like that, but soon the image intruded…Hannah laid bare across the rosy orange fabric, her pale freckled skin like moonlight against the cool silk. Her arms reaching for him, her thighs opening for him, welcoming him. He swallowed hard, folding the shawl into his suitcase.

             
I can’t wait! And I’m excited to see the present, too. I miss you.

He read it six times, a private smile on his face.  This was perfect, he thought. Even better than his dial-a-blonde project. This was intimacy, closeness, but with distance and safety. He could reveal as much or as little as he wanted, control the encounter. An email relationship had its appeal.

They messaged off and on all day and night. At one in the morning local time, he emailed. She replied immediately because it was almost ten back home. She told him about her childhood, about the music she liked and the kind of birds she was afraid of. He told her things by email that he had never said aloud to anyone.

              My father was a music teacher. He started teaching me the cello when I was four. I practiced each night for twelve years. I was never good enough.

              My only real relationship was with Clare. She was very calm and rational, but she wanted me to talk about emotions all the time, or she wanted rose petals on the bed and candles all round. Nothing I tried was sufficient. I never knew what she wanted except for me to be a different man. I would still be with her if she had not left me.

Hannah had asked if he loved Clare.

I’m not sure. I thought at the time that she grounded me somehow or made a quiet space in my life, but nothing was quiet at the end. It became like a perpetual earthquake. I’m not entirely certain I’ve got my bearings again, even now.

Hannah asked what Clare looked like.

Tall, blonde, composed. Very Grace Kelly, although she thought herself a Lauren Bacall. Perhaps she was right, because she was more ruthless than I knew.

              On the fourth day, his VP in Dubai took him aside and asked if he were ill.

              “You have seemed distracted and unfocused. You have not attended to the reports of our directors. When the Abu Dhabi contingent arrives tomorrow, you will have to be on your guard not to offend. Do you wish to speak with a physician? Perhaps travel has disagreed with you,” the man suggested tactfully.