The Billionaire's Hotline (Men of the Capital Series Book 1) (7 page)

              “There’s a woman back home,” Jasper found himself saying.

              “You must put aside personal concerns for now. I mean no disrespect, Mr. Cates, but you must pull yourself together.”

              Jasper nodded, retreated to his room and messaged Hannah.

             
Hannah
,
you must stop emailing me. I sent you a picture of the mosque and started the correspondence, but it is interfering with my business here. I will speak with you upon my return. Regards, Jasper Cates.

              Three minutes later, his phone lit up with a call from her.

              “Fucking REGARDS from Jasper Cates? What does THAT mean?” She demanded.

              “It means a twenty-eight-year-old VP just told me to pull myself together because I’m texting and emailing in meetings and the board of directors is offended and thinks I need a doctor,” he blurted out.

Her laughter rippled through the phone, sending a chill down his arms. Her voice was honeyed and he gripped the phone unnecessarily tight, holding it closer.

              “If you think I’m distracting you by email, imagine what I could do if I were there with you,” she teased.

              “Believe me, I have, mockingbird.”

              “That’s more like it. Calling me ‘Hannah’ and signing shit ‘regards’ makes me crazy. Don’t do that to me. I can’t reach you from here.”

              “You can reach me from there. I wish—“

              “What?”

              “I wish I could hold you.”

              “So do I, Jasper. When do you get home?”

              “Three days. What are you doing that day?”

              “Seeing you.”

              “Good answer. My flight gets in around ten at night.”

              “Can I meet you at the airport?”

              “I wish you would.”

              “I’m a little nervous about seeing you.”

              “Why?”

              “I feel like I know you now. Like, your mom was a secretary, which explains why your admin staff is paid so well. Things like that. When you left you were just this guy I kept thinking about…now you’re Jasper. You’re my friend.”

              “I have no desire to be your friend.”

              “I hope we’re about to be lovers,” she said, and he was surprised again by her frankness and that smoky voice.

              “If I were there, we would be by now.”

              “You kicked me out of your apartment.”

              “You were too close. I’m not accustomed to that level of scrutiny.”

              “You’re used to dating women who like the idea of you—billionaire CEO—but never bother getting to know you and how picky you are and how demanding and how hard on yourself.”

              “If you decide to hang out a shingle as an analyst, let me know and I’ll make an appointment.”

              “Fair enough. I’ll stop. I’m saying you deserve better than women who only think of
what
you are, and not whom.”

              “You said
whom
. No one has said
whom
since about 1890. How’s your Southern accent coming?”

              “’What is straight? A
lahn
can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh
naw
, it’s curved
lahk
a road through mountains,’” she breathed in a perfect Georgia drawl.

              “Tennessee Williams, I presume,” he said a little breathlessly.

              “The man himself. I’ve been practicing. Maybe when you get back I’ll let you hear some of my lines. If you’ll play the cello for me.”

              “Sing to me.”

              “You said once I sounded like Nina Simone, so ’If you knew how I need you/you would not stay away, today. Don’t you know I need you/Stay here, my dear, with me,’” she sang softly.

He could hear the earnestness, the slight tremor of self-consciousness in that supple voice, could hear that she meant every word.

Jasper’s hand covered his mouth to stop a sound he felt in his throat, something like a sob, a cry. Something unmanly his father would have beaten out of him and set him three more hours of the cello for penance. The phone went silent as she waited for his praise, his sarcasm, for any response to show that he heard her. He hung up the phone without a syllable, unable to tell her anything she would understand.

His meetings were successful, his application for expansion in the UAE was approved, and the VP even remarked that he seemed to be feeling better. He didn’t speak to her or message her again. He might have downloaded a few Nina Simone tracks and played them in his room when he couldn’t sleep, but he never contacted her. A brown-haired girl with too many opinions and a voice like hot molasses would not vanquish two decades of drive and ambition.

When he cleared the TSA check at the airport and headed for the exit, she was there. Hannah, standing with a paper sign that read “Virgo.” He didn’t rush to her, swing her into his arms and kiss her until she was laughing and crying with relief. She saw him and broke into a run, nearly knocking him over with the force of her embrace. She was there, live and warm, in constant motion, a flurry of hair and sleeves and lips engulfing him. She had on a long patchwork skirt, a tank top, a headband totally inadequate to the task of taming all that dark hair. He framed her face with his hands, looking at her as if he couldn’t believe his luck. He leaned his forehead against hers, pressed his eyes shut.

“What?” she asked nervously.

“Just you.”

“Yeah, it’s just me.” She shrugged and pulled him toward a taxi. He gave the driver his address as she snuggled against him, burrowing catlike until she found the niche where she fit just right beneath his arm.

“I liked your song,” he said finally. “I meant to say at the time, but I wasn’t sure what my linguistics professor would make of my tone. I wasn’t—myself.”

“Well, that VP thought you were sick,” she pointed out teasingly.

“It was lovely, but I couldn’t put it into words. I liked it.” He faltered, losing ground.

At his apartment, he turned on the oven and set her to slicing enoki mushrooms. He took a shower, returned with a white t-shirt clinging damp and transparent to his back, droplets of water flicking off the ends of his wet hair as he moved. He grated cheese, his arms flexing.

“What are we making?” she asked.

“Omelet.”

“Isn’t that eggs with maybe some cheese?”

“No, this is a good omelet. Not something you ate at Denny’s,” he chided, putting the mushrooms in to roast, rinsing and chopping the spinach.

Hannah sat at the table, watching him cook. When he turned to offer to make her coffee, her head was cushioned on her arms and she was asleep. He quietly took black truffle oil from the cupboard, whisked the cheese and mushrooms into the eggs, and put the mixture into a skillet. When the omelet was done, he sliced it and put it on a plate, which he slid in front of her. The clink of his fork against the china plate stirred her. She inhaled the nutty Parmesan, the earthy mushroom, and the truffles’ rich odor, and her mouth watered.

“I had you pegged for someone who ate out every night,” she said around a mouthful of food.

“You were wrong, Miss Singapore Noodles.”

“You ridicule me, but if they had an award for that, I would win. For, like, most frequent customer. They’re delicious…curry. I love curry,” she enthused. He wrinkled his nose. “What? The idea of curry…the very
name
of curry disgusts you?”

“Eat your eggs and give me my phone back.”

“What would you have done in Dubai if I hadn’t had that phone?”

“Paid attention in meetings, more than likely,” he said, forking a mushroom and examining it. “Slice them thinner next time. Too thick and they overwhelm the truffle flavor and they don’t roast evenly.”

“It’s a good thing you’re cute, because sometimes you’re begging to be punched, do you know that?” she said, flicking a mushroom at him playfully. It landed on the table with a greasy slide and he swiped it into his napkin and threw it away.

She rolled her eyes. “You got in trouble with the foreign office, but I got yelled at by my sister,” she offered. “She says I’m acting like a moron over you.”

“I thought that was your ordinary demeanor and considered it improper to point it out,” he said coolly, and she stuck her tongue out at him. “Do tell me more about your antics, though.”

“I said our date was romantic.”

“That’s it? Your sister may be more exacting than I am.”

“Never. The omelet was great. Seriously, the best thing a guy’s cooked for me before this was a frozen pizza.”

“You’re going out with the wrong guys,” he remarked.

“Not anymore.” Again, the frankness like a slap, reminding him this wasn’t a game, but far too serious.

“Cello?” He offered.

She nodded and followed him into what appeared to be an office, lined with books, but dim except for a single lamp. Jasper sat on a low stool, held the cello loosely, and started his bow across it with swift, lively strokes, the low notes long and plaintive. Long fingers pressed the strings at the top while the graceful arc of his arm powered the bow across the body of the instrument.

For perhaps two or three minutes, she hovered at the door, spellbound, as he played. His eyes fixed on some point on the carpet, head nodding slightly, muscles tensing and extending as his whole body seemed consumed by the music.

When he finished, he laid the bow aside and stood, gave a jerky half-bow as she applauded. He felt his face flush from the exertion, from exposing himself in this way.

“Bach?” she inquired, unable to hold herself back. She embraced him, engulfing him in warmth and softness and that tang of apple. She kissed his forehead almost proudly. “Beautiful.” She stepped back and regarded him with new respect.

“Cello Suite 1, Prelude in G Major,” he said.

“Was it a competition piece you had to learn?”

“I didn’t compete. I lacked the necessary skill and discipline,” he said as if reciting a lesson.

“That did not lack skill, Jasper. So who did you play for?”

“I told you, my father taught me and I practiced.”

“Twelve years, and you never gave a recital or played in a contest?” He shook his head.

“Your father was arrogant,” she said evenly.

“Yes. I suppose in that way I take after him.”

“Did you play for—anyone else? Other women?” He shook his head again, a smile curving his mouth, transforming that grave face.

“Never.”

“So this was your first time.” She smiled back.

“I get where you’re going with the whole Virgo metaphor.”

“I’m jealous of your cello. All those hours alone with you.” She closed the distance between them, standing near enough that she had to look up at him. “You said on the phone you wished you could hold me.” Taking his hands, she put them on her hips and wound her arms around his shoulders, resting her head on his chest. “So hold me tonight.”

He knew what she expected, but he felt resistant. Perhaps the thrill of the chase had diminished, or perhaps he felt depleted from playing Bach for her, letting her see a part of him no one else had. Jasper’s arms tightened around her and his mouth dipped to meet hers. He felt the tension uncoil, the tightness that came from being away from her, from fighting so hard for control. Hannah felt him relax and burrowed into him.

“It’s about time you calmed down,” she teased, kissing him. He led her to the couch, pulled her down beside him.

“I’m tired, but I don’t want you to go,” he admitted.

“So I’ll stay. Here on the couch or in bed with you?”

“Couch,” he said decisively. He laid his arm across the top of the sofa so she could scoot closer. He gathered her against him. She pulled a cashmere throw over her legs and made a contented sound high in her throat as she settled in to sleep on his shoulder.

Hannah stirred in the night, a crick in her neck, and when she opened her eyes, disoriented, Jasper stroked her hair soothingly. He was there, solid and strong, beside her. She felt a relief she didn’t dare analyze for fear she’d embarrass herself. He whispered into her hair. “Sleep well, mockingbird.” For once in her recalcitrant life, Hannah did just as she was told.

Chapter 7

Hannah

Hannah woke up alone on Jasper’s couch, hair across her eyes and a fairly strong conviction she’d been snoring. By her phone it was only seven, but he was long gone. She tried to shake the anxious feeling all the way home. The instinct that kept telling her he didn’t want her. He wanted her from a distance. In Dubai, he couldn’t get enough of her…but in person, he kept her at arm’s length.

She knew she’d thrown him off his usual pattern, but he was obviously capable of resisting her. She knew she wasn’t the knockout her sister was, but she hadn’t been turned down a lot in the past and she found that she hated rejection.

At home, she found a Zumba video online and did the whole thing, feeling like an uncoordinated jackass the entire time. Maybe, she thought, if she was in better shape. Maybe if she waxed her eyebrows, highlighted her hair. Maybe if she were polished and blonde and after his money instead of a mouthy brunette gunning for his heart. By noon, all she had to show for her day was a mountain of self-doubt and not a minute of work, but she had identified the truth and decided to confront it. She was only significant to Jasper Cates as a novelty, a challenge. Now she was a sure thing, his interest waned.

She crept under the duvet and cried a little. When the phone rang, she seized it and then spent the entire call whining to Becca, who had the misfortune of not being the person her sister really wanted to talk to.

“Even I decided not to get mixed up with him. Anyone who does that phone thing is inherently damaged, babe. Give it up,” Becca counseled. Through her tears, Hannah nodded. She hung up with her sister and texted Jasper.