Serving the Billionaire
Page 23
He glanced up at me and gave me a rueful smile. “I’m sorry for ignoring you like this,” he said. “I have a conference call with the president at 11, and I need to review these files before I speak with him.”
“The president of your company?” I asked. I didn’t know anything about business, but I knew that companies had presidents. I was pretty sure.
His mouth did something that I couldn’t interpret. “The president of the United States,” he said.
I didn’t have anything to say in response to that. I curled my shoulders forward and sipped my coffee. What was I doing here with this man who had the President on speed-dial? I was a waitress. I was an ordinary person. I had nothing to offer Carter; I could only hold him back.
The realization washed over me in a flood of embarrassment. My face went hot. I couldn’t believe I had indulged a single fantasy, however far-fetched, of dating him, of getting to know him, of somehow becoming a part of his life. We were from two entirely different worlds. I had nothing to offer to Carter beyond sex.
We sat in silence for a few minutes as I sipped at my coffee and he typed at his laptop, brow furrowed in concentration. I wondered what he was going to talk to the President about. I couldn’t imagine a world in which I was important enough to talk to the leader of the free world. What would I even say? I wondered if Carter ever felt nervous, talking to the powerful, important people he knew. Probably not. He was a powerful, important person too.
Just as I was sinking into the benthic depths of self-pity, he shut his laptop with an authoritative snap and pinned me with a searching glance. “So, I suppose this is when we’re supposed to make stilted morning-after conversation.”
I laughed awkwardly and looked down at my coffee mug. “I wouldn’t know.”
He didn’t say anything, and I glanced up at him quickly, feeling shy. He was watching me with an expression that made me want to cover my face. He said, “You don’t have many one-night stands, I take it.”
“Not really,” I said. “I’m sort of... it’s not the kind of thing I usually do.”
“You can’t have lived in New York for very long,” he said. “You aren’t cynical enough.”
I took another sip of coffee, trying to hide my confusion. I wasn’t sure if I should feel insulted. “I’ve been living here for six years,” I said.
He held up his hands, the classic I’m-innocent gesture. “My mistake. Where are you from, then, if you’re not a native?”
He’d tricked me; I had to admit, now, that I hadn’t been born here. “Southern California,” I said. “The Inland Empire. Not very glamorous. I moved here after high school.”
“You’re a long way from home,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. I didn’t want to talk about it. I’d moved as far away from San Bernardino as I could get without actually leaving the continent, and I was never going back.
Carter must have sensed my reluctance, because he didn’t press the point. “Did you go to college here in the city?” he asked. He was leaning toward me now, arms folded on the table, intent on my response. I still didn’t know how to handle the intensity of his regard.
That he assumed I’d gone to college summed up everything that was different about us. “I did a couple of semesters at CUNY,” I said. “And then I couldn’t afford it anymore, so I had to drop out.” I refused to be ashamed. Not everyone was born into wealth. I was smart, and I read a lot, and I worked hard. Maybe someday I would finish my degree, and maybe I wouldn’t.
He looked surprised. Of course he was; it was probably unthinkable to him that a competent adult wouldn’t get a college education. But he just said, “Have you been working at the club for long?”
“I just started a couple of weeks ago,” I said. “I’ve had a lot of different jobs. I was a receptionist for a while, and a paralegal, and—some other things.” I was boring even myself. There was no way he was actually interested in my life history. He was just trying to be nice, to make conversation. I should have just invented some wild tale about running away to join the circus.
I didn’t want to talk about myself anymore. It was time to turn the tables. I set down my mug and looked at him. “What about you? You spend a lot of time at the club. What do you like so much about it? It seems like a strange place to hold business meetings.”
He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “Touché. Tired of being interrogated, are we? I’m sorry. It’s just that I find you fascinating, and I know next to nothing about you.”
I felt exactly the same way about him. I wanted to know everything: his favorite color, his childhood pet’s name, his favorite book. But that felt too intimate, somehow. Talking about the club was firmer ground. “You didn’t answer my question,” I said.
“You’re very astute,” he said. “The club is... well, you said yourself that you haven’t been working there very long. There’s more that goes in, in the private rooms, than just some drunken groping.”
I swallowed. I had already more or less figured that out, but I hadn’t expected him to admit it. “Go on,” I said.
He said, “I told you that I have particular tastes. And I like to watch, and the club presents plenty of opportunities for me to watch the kinds of things that I like. So.” He shrugged. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn he was a little embarrassed.
“But you take your clients there,” I said. “Co-workers? Whoever they are. Isn’t that sort of...”
“The illegality is what appeals to some of my associates,” he said. “If we’re doing something naughty together, they think I’m less likely to screw them over in a business deal.”
“Are you?” I asked.
His mouth quirked. “Not particularly. But I like them to think they have the upper hand.”
He was cut-throat. I wouldn’t want to face him across a boardroom table. “Being a billionaire sounds like hard work,” I said.
He laughed. “More than most people would think.” He reached across the table and covered my hands with his. “Did I satisfy your curiosity? Is there anything else you’d like to know? Shirt size, inseam?”
I looked away, embarrassed, and a little annoyed that he was calling me out on questioning him when he’d done the same thing to me.
“The president of your company?” I asked. I didn’t know anything about business, but I knew that companies had presidents. I was pretty sure.
His mouth did something that I couldn’t interpret. “The president of the United States,” he said.
I didn’t have anything to say in response to that. I curled my shoulders forward and sipped my coffee. What was I doing here with this man who had the President on speed-dial? I was a waitress. I was an ordinary person. I had nothing to offer Carter; I could only hold him back.
The realization washed over me in a flood of embarrassment. My face went hot. I couldn’t believe I had indulged a single fantasy, however far-fetched, of dating him, of getting to know him, of somehow becoming a part of his life. We were from two entirely different worlds. I had nothing to offer to Carter beyond sex.
We sat in silence for a few minutes as I sipped at my coffee and he typed at his laptop, brow furrowed in concentration. I wondered what he was going to talk to the President about. I couldn’t imagine a world in which I was important enough to talk to the leader of the free world. What would I even say? I wondered if Carter ever felt nervous, talking to the powerful, important people he knew. Probably not. He was a powerful, important person too.
Just as I was sinking into the benthic depths of self-pity, he shut his laptop with an authoritative snap and pinned me with a searching glance. “So, I suppose this is when we’re supposed to make stilted morning-after conversation.”
I laughed awkwardly and looked down at my coffee mug. “I wouldn’t know.”
He didn’t say anything, and I glanced up at him quickly, feeling shy. He was watching me with an expression that made me want to cover my face. He said, “You don’t have many one-night stands, I take it.”
“Not really,” I said. “I’m sort of... it’s not the kind of thing I usually do.”
“You can’t have lived in New York for very long,” he said. “You aren’t cynical enough.”
I took another sip of coffee, trying to hide my confusion. I wasn’t sure if I should feel insulted. “I’ve been living here for six years,” I said.
He held up his hands, the classic I’m-innocent gesture. “My mistake. Where are you from, then, if you’re not a native?”
He’d tricked me; I had to admit, now, that I hadn’t been born here. “Southern California,” I said. “The Inland Empire. Not very glamorous. I moved here after high school.”
“You’re a long way from home,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. I didn’t want to talk about it. I’d moved as far away from San Bernardino as I could get without actually leaving the continent, and I was never going back.
Carter must have sensed my reluctance, because he didn’t press the point. “Did you go to college here in the city?” he asked. He was leaning toward me now, arms folded on the table, intent on my response. I still didn’t know how to handle the intensity of his regard.
That he assumed I’d gone to college summed up everything that was different about us. “I did a couple of semesters at CUNY,” I said. “And then I couldn’t afford it anymore, so I had to drop out.” I refused to be ashamed. Not everyone was born into wealth. I was smart, and I read a lot, and I worked hard. Maybe someday I would finish my degree, and maybe I wouldn’t.
He looked surprised. Of course he was; it was probably unthinkable to him that a competent adult wouldn’t get a college education. But he just said, “Have you been working at the club for long?”
“I just started a couple of weeks ago,” I said. “I’ve had a lot of different jobs. I was a receptionist for a while, and a paralegal, and—some other things.” I was boring even myself. There was no way he was actually interested in my life history. He was just trying to be nice, to make conversation. I should have just invented some wild tale about running away to join the circus.
I didn’t want to talk about myself anymore. It was time to turn the tables. I set down my mug and looked at him. “What about you? You spend a lot of time at the club. What do you like so much about it? It seems like a strange place to hold business meetings.”
He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “Touché. Tired of being interrogated, are we? I’m sorry. It’s just that I find you fascinating, and I know next to nothing about you.”
I felt exactly the same way about him. I wanted to know everything: his favorite color, his childhood pet’s name, his favorite book. But that felt too intimate, somehow. Talking about the club was firmer ground. “You didn’t answer my question,” I said.
“You’re very astute,” he said. “The club is... well, you said yourself that you haven’t been working there very long. There’s more that goes in, in the private rooms, than just some drunken groping.”
I swallowed. I had already more or less figured that out, but I hadn’t expected him to admit it. “Go on,” I said.
He said, “I told you that I have particular tastes. And I like to watch, and the club presents plenty of opportunities for me to watch the kinds of things that I like. So.” He shrugged. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn he was a little embarrassed.
“But you take your clients there,” I said. “Co-workers? Whoever they are. Isn’t that sort of...”
“The illegality is what appeals to some of my associates,” he said. “If we’re doing something naughty together, they think I’m less likely to screw them over in a business deal.”
“Are you?” I asked.
His mouth quirked. “Not particularly. But I like them to think they have the upper hand.”
He was cut-throat. I wouldn’t want to face him across a boardroom table. “Being a billionaire sounds like hard work,” I said.
He laughed. “More than most people would think.” He reached across the table and covered my hands with his. “Did I satisfy your curiosity? Is there anything else you’d like to know? Shirt size, inseam?”
I looked away, embarrassed, and a little annoyed that he was calling me out on questioning him when he’d done the same thing to me.
