The Billionaire's Command
Page 35
He sighed again, but I got the feeling he was more amused than annoyed. If he really didn’t want to answer me, he would just tell me to shut up or order me to go home. “My mother thinks that having my own secretary would make me lazy.”
It was strange to think of him having a mother. He seemed like he sprang directly from someone’s head, like a Greek god. I said, “My mother thinks that you catch a cold from going outside with wet hair, but that doesn’t mean I listen to her.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have that luxury,” he said, “seeing as how my mother is my boss.”
“Your what?” I asked. That was basically the last thing I had expected him to say. “You mean your mother owns a strip club?”
He rolled his eyes. “Sassy, the club is only a small component of our larger real estate and business holdings. You have very strange ideas about how corporations operate.”
“I didn’t know you were a corporation,” I said. “I thought you were just some rich guy who owned the club for kicks.”
“For kicks,” he repeated, with a look on his face like he had just smelled something bad. “Hardly. The club was my mother’s idea, actually.”
I tried to imagine his mother: a woman who wouldn’t let her son have a secretary, and who bought strip clubs as—what, as investment properties? She probably made grown men cry in the board room every day of the week. “So you have a company,” I said.
“A private equity firm. Yes,” he said. “Leveraged buyouts, primarily.”
I didn’t know what that meant. Yolanda could explain it to me. “And your mother runs it,” I said. “The firm.”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s a family business. My father’s family, actually, but he has little interest in finance. He was happy to turn operations over to my mother after they married.”
Christ, a mother and a father? Next he would tell me he had eight siblings and a love-child stashed away somewhere. “So you’re like, old money,” I said.
“Something like that,” he said. “Yes. My mother intends to retire soon and transition me into a leadership role. That’s why she won’t let me have a secretary. She thinks it’s important for me to know how to do everything myself.”
“Your mother sounds like a smart lady,” I said.
His face creased into a wide, genuine smile. It made him look younger than he was, and somehow innocent. Like he was just a regular person underneath the suits and the cold demeanor. “She is,” he said.
As long as he was in a chatty mood, I was determined to keep him talking. I wanted to know everything about him: all of his childhood memories, all of his secret dreams. “Do you get along with your parents?” I asked.
“Yes, very well,” he said. “They’re both terrific people.”
That was sort of surprising—I could imagine Turner having distant and strained relations with his parents, but a warm family life was harder to summon up. “You grew up in the city?” I asked, and he nodded. “What was it like?”
He thought for a moment. “I don’t imagine it was very different than growing up anywhere else,” he said. “Where did you grow up?”
My heart stuttered. I really didn’t want to talk about my past with him. His life was so glamorous, and my family was—well, we were hicks. I’d been a pretty happy kid, and my parents had loved me very much, but I knew that our life—a double-wide trailer in backwoods Appalachia—would sound pitiful and grim to someone like Turner, who had probably grown up with every luxury imaginable. So I said, “It’s not very interesting. Where did you go to school?”
“Oh no you don’t,” he said. “If you’re going to interrogate me, I should get a turn as well. Let’s see. I can tell from the way you talk that you aren’t from New York.”
“I don’t have an accent,” I said, feeling defensive. I knew I didn’t: I’d worked hard to get rid of it.
“Hmm, but you used to,” he said, fixing me with the laser-like intensity of his gaze. “Or you wouldn’t feel the need to deny it. No, you don’t have an accent. But there are certain things you say. Certain turns of phrase. Somewhere in the South, I think.”
I didn’t like where this was going. “Well, that was a long time ago.”
He laughed. “How old are you, Sassy? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Nothing in your life was a long time ago.”
I frowned at him. “Yeah, because you’re so old and wise. You’re such a condescending jerk!”
“I’m twenty-eight,” he says, “which means I’m slightly older and wiser than you. Don’t provoke me; I’ll void our contract and make an offer to someone more biddable. That Poppy seems like a pleasant girl.”
I stared at him. His mouth was twitching. “You aren’t funny,” I said. “Actually, you know what, go for it. I’m sure Poppy will make you very, very, very happy.”
“There isn’t a chance in the world that I’ll fall for that,” he said. “I walked in on her arguing with Germaine once. She could peel paint off the walls with that high-pitched shriek.”
I grinned. “That’s Poppy,” I said.
“Repellent,” he said. “Tell me where you’re from, Sasha.”
Hearing him say my name, my real name, made something warm and glowing settle in my belly, right behind my navel. I wanted him to say it again and again. He was manipulating me, and I knew it, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. “Fine,” I said. “I’m from southwestern Virginia. Coal-mining country.”
“That explains it,” he said. He leaned back in his seat and gazed at me. “How did you end up here?”
“It’s a long story,” I said firmly.
He must have heard the finality in my voice, because he nodded and said, “That’s usually the way of things.” He looked at me for a moment longer, and then he picked up a pen and returned his attention to the stack of papers in front of him.
Okay, conversation over. I sighed and folded my arms across my chest. I still wanted to know more about him, but I didn’t want to have to talk about myself, and it didn’t seem like he was willing to spill the beans unless I did the same. And we were both too stubborn to give in.
It was strange to think of him having a mother. He seemed like he sprang directly from someone’s head, like a Greek god. I said, “My mother thinks that you catch a cold from going outside with wet hair, but that doesn’t mean I listen to her.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have that luxury,” he said, “seeing as how my mother is my boss.”
“Your what?” I asked. That was basically the last thing I had expected him to say. “You mean your mother owns a strip club?”
He rolled his eyes. “Sassy, the club is only a small component of our larger real estate and business holdings. You have very strange ideas about how corporations operate.”
“I didn’t know you were a corporation,” I said. “I thought you were just some rich guy who owned the club for kicks.”
“For kicks,” he repeated, with a look on his face like he had just smelled something bad. “Hardly. The club was my mother’s idea, actually.”
I tried to imagine his mother: a woman who wouldn’t let her son have a secretary, and who bought strip clubs as—what, as investment properties? She probably made grown men cry in the board room every day of the week. “So you have a company,” I said.
“A private equity firm. Yes,” he said. “Leveraged buyouts, primarily.”
I didn’t know what that meant. Yolanda could explain it to me. “And your mother runs it,” I said. “The firm.”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s a family business. My father’s family, actually, but he has little interest in finance. He was happy to turn operations over to my mother after they married.”
Christ, a mother and a father? Next he would tell me he had eight siblings and a love-child stashed away somewhere. “So you’re like, old money,” I said.
“Something like that,” he said. “Yes. My mother intends to retire soon and transition me into a leadership role. That’s why she won’t let me have a secretary. She thinks it’s important for me to know how to do everything myself.”
“Your mother sounds like a smart lady,” I said.
His face creased into a wide, genuine smile. It made him look younger than he was, and somehow innocent. Like he was just a regular person underneath the suits and the cold demeanor. “She is,” he said.
As long as he was in a chatty mood, I was determined to keep him talking. I wanted to know everything about him: all of his childhood memories, all of his secret dreams. “Do you get along with your parents?” I asked.
“Yes, very well,” he said. “They’re both terrific people.”
That was sort of surprising—I could imagine Turner having distant and strained relations with his parents, but a warm family life was harder to summon up. “You grew up in the city?” I asked, and he nodded. “What was it like?”
He thought for a moment. “I don’t imagine it was very different than growing up anywhere else,” he said. “Where did you grow up?”
My heart stuttered. I really didn’t want to talk about my past with him. His life was so glamorous, and my family was—well, we were hicks. I’d been a pretty happy kid, and my parents had loved me very much, but I knew that our life—a double-wide trailer in backwoods Appalachia—would sound pitiful and grim to someone like Turner, who had probably grown up with every luxury imaginable. So I said, “It’s not very interesting. Where did you go to school?”
“Oh no you don’t,” he said. “If you’re going to interrogate me, I should get a turn as well. Let’s see. I can tell from the way you talk that you aren’t from New York.”
“I don’t have an accent,” I said, feeling defensive. I knew I didn’t: I’d worked hard to get rid of it.
“Hmm, but you used to,” he said, fixing me with the laser-like intensity of his gaze. “Or you wouldn’t feel the need to deny it. No, you don’t have an accent. But there are certain things you say. Certain turns of phrase. Somewhere in the South, I think.”
I didn’t like where this was going. “Well, that was a long time ago.”
He laughed. “How old are you, Sassy? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Nothing in your life was a long time ago.”
I frowned at him. “Yeah, because you’re so old and wise. You’re such a condescending jerk!”
“I’m twenty-eight,” he says, “which means I’m slightly older and wiser than you. Don’t provoke me; I’ll void our contract and make an offer to someone more biddable. That Poppy seems like a pleasant girl.”
I stared at him. His mouth was twitching. “You aren’t funny,” I said. “Actually, you know what, go for it. I’m sure Poppy will make you very, very, very happy.”
“There isn’t a chance in the world that I’ll fall for that,” he said. “I walked in on her arguing with Germaine once. She could peel paint off the walls with that high-pitched shriek.”
I grinned. “That’s Poppy,” I said.
“Repellent,” he said. “Tell me where you’re from, Sasha.”
Hearing him say my name, my real name, made something warm and glowing settle in my belly, right behind my navel. I wanted him to say it again and again. He was manipulating me, and I knew it, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. “Fine,” I said. “I’m from southwestern Virginia. Coal-mining country.”
“That explains it,” he said. He leaned back in his seat and gazed at me. “How did you end up here?”
“It’s a long story,” I said firmly.
He must have heard the finality in my voice, because he nodded and said, “That’s usually the way of things.” He looked at me for a moment longer, and then he picked up a pen and returned his attention to the stack of papers in front of him.
Okay, conversation over. I sighed and folded my arms across my chest. I still wanted to know more about him, but I didn’t want to have to talk about myself, and it didn’t seem like he was willing to spill the beans unless I did the same. And we were both too stubborn to give in.
