Stingray Billionaire: The Complete Series (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) (20 page)

This kind of thing
happens all the time, and for the very select few that plan “wardrobe
malfunctions,” it’s just good publicity. For everyone else, and especially for
someone like
Ellie,
who never asked for
the spotlight, it’s the sort of thing that ends too often with a bang.

Ellie sits.

I turn to Amelie. “Tell
her what you did,” I command.

Amelie’s crying now, but
I have no sympathy.

“Last week,” Amelie
starts, her voice small, raspy, “a man gave me a call—”

“You can get to why you
did it in a minute,” I interrupt. “First, tell her what you
did
.”

Amelie looks up at me.
Her eyes are big and bloodshot. She’s not crying, but that’s just the same
old-fashioned stoicism my mom had when things went south with dad.

“You were sleeping,”
Amelie says to Ellie. “I knew you would be here because of the message Mr.
Scipio sent me.”

Just so there aren’t any
misunderstandings, I tell Ellie, “I told her
not
to worry about cleaning the guest room when she got here this
morning.”

“You were asleep,” Amelie
says again.

“Just spit it out,” I
demand.

“Nick,” Ellie says,
holding up one hand to me, “let her talk.”

“At first, I just wanted
to take a picture showing you asleep in his room after everyone said you two
were …” she trails off. “The man who called me, he told me that it was more
important to keep the story alive than to catch you doing something
wrong
. I swear, I don’t know what story he was
talking about.”

I’m seething, “Even if
that were true, how would that possibly justify—”

“Nick,” Ellie says again,
her voice remarkably calm.

“I saw you were sleeping
without your clothes on,” Amelie continues, “the sheet
was pulled
up your shoulder, but I could see enough. Please,”
Amelie pleads. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Continue,” Ellie says,
her voice monotone.

Amelie starts again, “I
thought if they’d pay me so much—”

“How much?” Ellie
interrupts. I can’t read her face, so I don’t know what I should be doing right
now. I’ll keep that to myself, though.

“Two,” Amelie says. “Two
million dollars.”

“Are you kidding me?” I
ask
though I’m no longer
shouting
. “You make
that
what everyone’s going to think every time they look at her
from now—”

“Nick,” Ellie says.
“Maybe you should sit down, too. You don’t look well.”

How is she so calm?

“I thought if they’d pay
me that
much for proof
the two of you
hadn’t stopped … you know,” she says. “They would have to pay me more for
something like that.”

“I would imagine,” Ellie
says. “So, you were in the bedroom, I was sleeping, you could tell that I was
sleeping without clothes, but that a sheet was over me. What happened next?”

Amelie looks at me, and
it’s almost like she’s expecting some help. She won’t get it.

“I took the top of the
sheet,” Amelie says, gesturing. “I pulled it
down,
and I took the picture.”

“Uh-huh,” Ellie says like
she’s working technical support and she’s just trying to understand the
customer’s issue. “And I’m assuming from the fact that everyone in the world
has supposedly seen it already that you’ve already sent the pictures and it’s
been leaked to the press?” Ellie asks.

“Yes,” Amelie says,
taking half a step back as Ellie stands.

Ellie walks over, slowly.
“And so I’m assuming the story is going to be that Nick beats me or something
because I got
into
a fight with my sister
and my face is—”

“I covered your face with
your hair,” Amelie says. “I know it was bad of me to take the picture, but
I
know Mr.
Scipio,
and he would never hurt anyone like that, especially not you. I didn’t want to
hurt anyone, I just—” Amelie’s voice catches in her throat. “I just wanted the
money.”

Ellie turns to me,
asking, “Have you seen the picture?”

I nod. “On TV, they
blurred it, but the full thing is easy enough to find online. It’s everywhere,”
I tell her.

“Just how covered is my
face?” she asks.

“I didn’t see any signs
of your fight,” I answer. “I don’t know if we could get away with a denial,
though. Maybe we could say it was Photoshopped?”

Ellie titters. “I’m
sorry,” she says. “I just can’t believe this is how this stuff
actually
happens. To be honest, I liked the
view from the other side of the fence better.”

“I’m glad you’re taking
this so well,” I tell Ellie, “but—”

“It was hot last night,”
Ellie says. “Yesterday was the first time I set foot in this place, and there
hasn’t been
a second
yet.”

Amelie glances at me
before responding, saying, “What?”

“That’s why I was naked,”
she says, walking right up to Amelie until the two are less than a foot apart.
“Even if I
were
sleeping in Nick’s room
with his penis inside of me, though, that wouldn’t make it anyone’s business.”

Ellie’s pulling her phone
out of her
pocket,
and she’s tapping on
the screen. A few seconds later, none of us has said anything, but Ellie holds
up the screen to Amelie.

“Wow,” Ellie says. “This
picture isn’t that bad.”

“Ellie, we need to find
out who’s behind this so we can hit back,” I start. “This thing’s going to
backfire on
someone,
and I want to make
sure it’s the right—”

Ellie
spits
in Amelie’s face.

I’m too stunned to move.
Amelie’s too stunned to wipe her face.

Ellie just walks back and
sits on the couch. She says, “Now, I believe Nick was asking you a
question,
and I interrupted. Now that I’m up to
speed on everything else, why don’t you tell us both all about it?”

Chapter
Seventeen

Variables

Ellie

I’ve never had an enemy
before. There are plenty of people I’ve met that I didn’t like. There are even
more people, I
bet, who’ve met me and didn’t
like me, but when I came out into that living room and heard what had happened,
something inside just cracked.

Never have I felt
anything like the cold hatred I felt for that woman as she looked to me for
sympathy while she described exactly how she violated me. I didn’t want the
money she got from the picture and Nick sure as hell doesn’t need it, but it
seems the cops don’t allow a person to profit from
their crime.

So, these two ladies on
my chest are responsible for the state of New York being two million bucks
richer, or at least they will be once they convict. I don’t mind that part, I
guess. I never cared about the money.

Now, I’m just waiting
for Nick
to get home.

The night I got here, I
was tired and achy. After Amelie
left to go do
whatever it is people in custody do, I didn’t feel much like leaving my guest
room for a few days.
Now it’s been a week, though, and I’m starting to
get curious.

The beach house was
gorgeous with
its
enormous and open main
room, and I
would
like to tour those
hallways and see if there’s any justification for having so many rooms in a
vacation home. It’s the penthouse, though, where Nick’s wealth is a bit more
apparent
.

I pull out my phone and
search the internet to see if there’s anything about Nick’s homes. When it
comes back with multiple articles, each claiming and inside look at the home of
the
Nikolai Scipio, any doubt I had
left that I was now in a different world evaporates.

Nick’s told me about his
different places, but he never went into that much detail. He was always more
interested in telling me what’s
around
the various
locales
he rests his head
than the mansions, penthouses—apparently there’s another one in Seattle—beach
homes, and vacation homes themselves.

I’d better start getting
used to this if it’s going to become a larger part of my life.

Scrolling through the
many articles, I find one about “The New York Penthouse,” and I open the page.

It seems the floor isn’t
just a floor; it’s also pressure sensitive and heated. I hadn’t noticed it
until I’m reading about it on the internet, but there is an unnaturally natural
feel to the temperature of the floor. The article says the pressure sensitivity
is a security feature, though I’m less interested in that.

The shower I’ve been
using since I got here comes with a few features I had no idea even existed. My
personal favorite is how if you touch one area of one wall, just a bit above my
shoulder height, a
n LED
menu comes up on
the shower glass.

From the menu, you can
control anything from the shower pressure or
temperature
to a stereo with hidden speakers but incredible sound, and even catch a live
stream of the inside of Stingray’s board room, though that’s password
protected.

That
one’s not
in the article.

I’m running through the
eight different kinds of marble contained in each tile around the hidden pool
area—that might have been more a secret if Nick hadn’t shown it to everyone
with a video camera and a website—when I hear the sound of footsteps coming
down the hall.

“Ellie?” Nick calls, and
I slither my way through the hidden door and through the walk-in pantry I first
mistook as a prototype minimart. Closing the pantry door behind me, I walk
through the palatial kitchen, go down the hall, take a right and come out,
finally, in the living room where Nick is hanging up his suit coat.

“Hey, you,” I say. “How
was work?”

“Oh, you know,” he says,
loosening his tie, “just another day closer to my inevitable banishment and the
justifiably angry mob that’s probably going to blame me for some reason when
Stingray fires all of them. How was your day?”

“It was okay, I guess,” I
answer.

“You didn’t turn the TV
on, did you?” he asks. “I’m telling you, the first few days are always the
worst, but if it helps at all, there’s some good news.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever
heard you say the words good news before,” I smirk. “What happened?”

“Well,” he says, “you
remember how I said the whole thing was going to backfire?”

“Yeah,” I answer. It was
right before the most disrespectful, yet strangely gratifying thing I’ve ever
done.

He says, “Well, it looks
like the public is
so
upset that this
happened, they’re blaming it on the board. I don’t even remember the last time
anyone in the news talked about a board of directors, but there they are going
through each and every one of them, listing possible motives. It’s all
hypothetical, so the board can’t do anything about it.”

“I’m glad my humiliating
ordeal has been so beneficial for you,” I say.

The smile fades from
Nick’s face, and he’s sputtering, “That’s not what I—that’s not the way I
intended it. I just
meant
, you know, it’s
a small amount of vindication. Everyone’s on
your
side. Even the tabloids have shifted their focus
away from the picture
itself or any statement
about you and me to the bastards who—”

“Nick,” I say, “relax.
You got more than your fair share of jabs when I first got here. I’m just
taking my pound of flesh, cut by cut.”

“We have some stuff to
work out, don’t we?” he asks. “Are you ready to go to dinner? We can cancel and
eat in if you’d prefer to talk, just you and me.”

“Weren’t we going to meet
some of your friends tonight?” I ask.

The last time I met some
of Nick’s friends, it was one of
the most
thrilling experiences of my life. Of course, I hadn’t really begun adjusting to
this life, so maybe now I’d be less impressed.

Who am I kidding? I
wonder if Ryan Reynolds is going to be there.

So we go to dinner. I’m a
little disappointed when we walk up to the table and I don’t recognize anyone,
but it’s probably better that way. Now I don’t have to worry so much about
making an idiot of myself.

“Ellie, I’d like you to
meet Tim Pratchett, he owns Minder Media and can’t hit a golf ball straight to
save his life,” Nick says. “And this is his wife Darla, who you may know from
the World Health Organization. Tim, Darla, this is Ellie.”

I shake two deceptively
important hands and Nick pulls out my chair. Nick and I sit down at the table.

For a while, I’m just sitting
there, not quite sure what to say or how to add to a conversation between these
people.

Oh, so the last time you
saw the President of the United States, he neglected to give you a pen from
that historic bill he signed, huh? Well, I recently replaced the front window
of the junk shop I own in a place you’ve only heard of because Nick seemingly
upset the whole world when he wanted to move
his
multibillion dollar company there.

Yeah, I know what
that’s
like.

After a few minutes,
though, I realize that when I do speak, nobody looks at me like an idiot or as
if I’m missing some massive part of what they’re talking about. No, Tim and
Darla speak and act surprisingly like regular people.

Until the food arrives,
Nick, Darla, and Tim are just catching up, but as soon as the first fork goes
into the first piece of real Japanese Kobe beef, the conversation, strangely,
turns to me.

Darla leans forward
saying, “I was so distressed when I heard what that cleaning woman did to you.”
She says it in a whisper as if there’s anyone at the tables around us who isn’t
aware of the scandal.

I’m a part of a scandal.
That’s actually kind of cool, except for the obvious.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Yes,” Tim says, “I heard
they had that woman arrested, but I say she should have been shot doing
something like that, and in your sleep!”

I’m being bucked-up by
two of the more important people on the planet. It almost makes up for
everything.

“Well, I asked Nick here
if that would be a possibility—having her shot—but he told me there’s all kinds
of paperwork,” I answer.

They laugh. I’m actually
making these people laugh.

“How charming!” Tim says,
and while it’s not exactly how I’d characterize my remarks, I’m more than happy
to be called charming by this man.

I look over at Nick, who
gives me a nod of approval, and in spite of everything, I feel pretty good
about myself right now.

Tim says, “I don’t know a
great deal about what kind of work you do, but if you’re ever interested in
changing careers, we could use someone like you on the board at Minder. The
people we have now are among the most apathetic, timid masses of quivering
flesh in the media business. What we could use is someone with your type of
gumption.”

“You know, Tim,” I say,
“if I weren’t certain you were just trying to hit on my boyfriend’s pocketbook
the long way round, there, I’d consider it.”

Whoa. Oh, please tell me
I didn’t just say that. Here we are having a perfectly amicable dinner and
that’s what comes out? “Hit on my boyfriend’s pocketbook.” What does that even
mean?

The table is silent for a
second and Nick places a hand on my upper thigh. The gesture is hidden by the
table, but I feel no less exposed.

Then it happens. It
starts with Darla, but within a few moments, Tim and even Nick are boisterously
guffawing. I smile and squeeze out a few chuckles, but I’m the death row
prisoner getting a last minute call from the governor.

Under the table, I find
Nick’s hand with my own and give it a squeeze.

Wiping his eyes, Tim
says, “Nick, she’s a firecracker. You hang onto her.”

“I plan to,” Nick says
and smiles.

The rest of the dinner is
me finding not just my confidence, but my
ability
to feel confident. It’s funny how people draw these imaginary lines between
themselves and anyone they see as somehow different, but after sitting down to
dinner with the kind of people that are supposed to have everyone peeing their
pants, I’m finally starting to feel like there’s somewhere I belong.

When we get home, I’m not
thinking about the picture. I’m not thinking about the store or what I’m going to
do with it, and I’m not thinking about all the fickle people who find it so
easy to hate me. For the first time since that shopping trip on Fifth, I
actually feel comfortable in my own skin again.

Nick’s quiet, though.

I go to the kitchen and
fix up a couple of drinks and Nick follows me into the kitchen.

“You all right?” I ask
after a few minutes pass without a word spoken between us.

“Yeah,” he says. “I don’t
know, I guess I just didn’t expect dinner to go the way it did.”

I stop pouring the vodka
and look up at him.

“What do you mean?” I
ask. “Were you hoping the evening was a disaster?”

“No,” he says, “not at
all. I just mean, you know, you were different tonight.”

“I know,” I say, “isn’t
it great?”

He says, “I’m glad you
got along with Tim and Darla, but—”

“But what?” I ask. “I
thought it was a wonderful evening.”

“It was fine,” he says,
“it’s just—” His cell phone starts to ring in his pocket. He pulls it out and
looks to see who’s calling. “I’m sorry,” he says. “This should just take a
minute.”

Whatever’s got his
panties all in a bunch, I feel great about the evening.

Nick answers the phone
and moseys out of the room while I finish up making what I’ve decided to call a
vodka sunrise martini. I was shooting for something else, but mixing drinks
isn’t quite my forté.

I’m sipping and cringing
when Nick comes back into the kitchen. “That was Marly,” he says, “there’s a
problem at the office and I’m going to have to get over there for a little bit.
Are you all right here?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Me
and this place are becoming fast friends.”

Nick leaves and I’m
finally able to pour out my drink. All of the flavors would have been okay
individually, but together—I don’t even know how it happened, but it tasted
like a cat burp.

Blech.

I spend a while looking
at the amethyst countertops in one of the bathrooms, but the liquor I did
manage to choke down is making me lightheaded.

I’d probably be fine, but
the floor in here is a bit disorienting since an article I found guided me to
the floor projection control. There’s no reasonable excuse for me to select a
live feed from an orbiting satellite for my floor-viewing pleasure, but the
Earth is spinning beneath me. Twice.