The Billionaire’s Handler (6 page)

He sprang up when he heard the first knock on the door, and then the parade began. Almost all the vendors were men, carrying boxes and carts, with labels like JP Tod, Miu Miu, Fendi, Versace, Casadei.

Carolina—the precariously fragile woman he'd found curled in a hospital bed in a fetal position—started shrieking like a child on a playground.

The scene deteriorated from awful to worse. Maguire hiked to the bar, grabbed a malt liquor and hastily retreated to a corner, out of harm's way. It only took minutes for their serene living space to turn into Armageddon. Boxes were opened, splayed. Carolina was fitted, argued over, and encouraged to walk up and down the room in various shoes.

He had no idea that shoes had their own language, but he kept hearing terms he'd never heard before, like “Dorsay pumps” and “kidskin with a Swarovski buckle” and “burgundy strapper.” One Miu Miu was defined as a “feather shoe,” which is exactly what it looked like—a bunch of silly feathers—so Maguire was confounded how the pair could cost five thousand bucks. A lavender sandal from Versace almost made Carolina drool—she was groaning like a woman in the throes of orgasm—and then came something identified as a red patent-leather lace-up. One look at that pair and she started giggling. And dancing around the room with the swagger of a goofy drunk.

En route, he accidentally noticed that he'd vastly underestimated her legs before. Maybe she was generally built on the scrappy side, but her ankles and calves and thighs…. there was nothing wrong with those legs. They were toned, shaped perfectly, an erotic dream for a guy who had a leg fetish.

When his thoughts strayed in that direction, Maguire pulled those reins tight. This wasn't about him.
In fact, Carolina acting like a giddy, happy schoolgirl highlighted exactly what the real issues were about. She had a serious character flaw. That flaw was that she was a serious, hard-core, possibly unfixable softie. As far as he could tell, she was forever giving, always thinking of others, always looking to help others.

The world was going to kill her—particularly now that she had money—unless Maguire found ways to toughen her up. Her guileless warning that she could fall in love with him only echoed his own conscience. She had no defenses, not against feelings of the heart.

Only a manipulative user of a man would take advantage of that. He had to keep his hands off her.

Which was, temporarily, relatively easy.

“Maguire!” she shrieked. “What do you think?”

She paraded closer, lifting her robe to knee length so he had a better view of her right foot—in a purple crocodile heel—and her left foot, in a shiny red sandal thing.

“I think you're gonna kill yourself,” he said gruffly. Both heels were four inches high or more. No one could walk in those things and live.

“Don't you think they're beautiful?”

“Oh, yeah.” Maybe he hadn't seen it in the beginning, but now it was so obvious. When she smiled, she had an aura that lit up a whole room, a radiance that glowed from the inside out. He kept getting
glimpses of how Carolina had been before the crippling inheritance—a happy-on-the-inside woman, a giggler, a joyful, uninhibited fun lover. He'd bet the bank she sang at the top of her lungs when she was alone in a car.

She teetered back to the shoe gurus, and tried on another pair…when something abruptly went wrong. He couldn't hear what was said over the commotion, but she abruptly put down a shoe and her face went blank. He crossed the room at a breakneck pace, asked casually, “Did some kind of problem come up?”

Her eyes shot to his. “That pair of suede pumps…” She motioned.

“The purple ones?”

“Yeah. Maguire.” She put a hand on her heart. “I asked how much they were—$843! Holy kamoly. Holy moly. Holy smokes. Holy—”

He got it. Apparently she'd originally thought of Italian shoes as a luxury, but she never expected them to be this much of a luxury. “You can afford it,” he said.

“That's not the point. I—”

He swiftly hooked an arm around her, so they could at least have the privacy of a conversation away from the hot-eyed vendors. Good grief, she was trembling. Flushed.

“One pair would pay for two months of groceries.
That's ridiculous, Maguire. It's a stupid use of money. Especially for something this…selfish. Something I don't remotely need. Look, when I put Italian shoes on the list, it was because I tried on these flats that a friend had—they were Italian, and they fit like a soft glove, and I never forgot how wonderful they felt. But that's all it was. A fantasy. And I'd never actually priced them before, because—”

Easy enough to guess the end of that line. “Because it never occurred to you to spend money on yourself.”

“Well, of course I spend money on myself. But a ten-buck pair of earrings on sale at Kohl's is just a whole different world than this—”

He could feel the warmth of her skin, under his arm, the surge of protective instincts of a man for his mate, the instant strike of an erection just from being this close. Damn it. He said firmly, “Carolina. Buy one pair.”

“I can't.”

“Yes, you can. I dare you. Prove to yourself that the world will not end if you have a frivolous moment—”

“But—”

“I'll buy you
two
pairs—if you don't stand up for what you want yourself. That's wasting double the money.”

Her jaw dropped in alarm. “Don't do that, Maguire! Don't buy me anything. There's no reason—”

He gestured back to the numerous shoe boxes. “Well, then pick a pair yourself. Or two. You can do it. I promise, it won't kill you.”

“But, Maguire—”

“Go. Be strong. Be tough. Be mean.”

“But Maguire—”

“The cost of two pairs of shoes is not going to solve world hunger. You're going to have lots of chances to do serious things with your money. But that has to start with you, giving yourself permission to make choices. That includes permission to smile, to have some fun. Permission to make choices that have nothing to do with anyone else's opinion.”

Her shoulders sagged. “I hate it when you handle me. You're exhausting, Maguire.”

Yeah, yeah. Getting that woman to do something selfish was like getting a nun to try mud wrestling. It took bullying and cheerleading and taunting and threats.

And after that, the whole situation only got worse.

S
ipping on a pineapple-mango cocktail—minus the alcohol—Carolina looked out the jet window and reflected that she'd learned tons about Maguire in the last twenty-four hours. She already knew his flaws. He could be dictatorial, manipulative, pushy. When the man got an idea in his head, nothing could make the blockhead back down.

But his absolute, unrelenting kindness was the stunner.

My God, she was falling in love with him. But it wasn't her fault. If it hadn't been for that pain-in-the-keester inheritance, she'd never have met him. He was so one of a kind. She'd never known anyone who
worked so hard to hide positive character traits like kindness and compassion and caring. He put on such a strong front. How could she possibly have initially known that he was a man so worth loving? So full of love?

So alone.

“Hey, trouble.”

Maguire, for a blissful twenty minutes, had been napping next to her in the aisle seat. She glanced away from the window, back at him. “Could you conceivably be speaking to me?”

His grin was as crooked as a thief's. “Uh-huh. I just wanted to ask—do you ever plan to take those shoes off?”

“Don't be silly, Maguire. A girl doesn't buy shoes like this and hide them away.”

“Did you actually sleep in them last night?”

She heard the teasing. He thought the shoe thing was hysterically funny. Naturally she had to encourage him. “Let me put it this way. Where I go, the shoes go. If I'm not wearing them, then they're on their own pillow.”

He took a sip of her drink and grimaced when he discovered it was without alcohol. “I just brought up the subject of the shoes again—”

“Because you can't let it go?”

“No. Not that. Because I thought you might want
to consider that just possibly they don't necessarily go with every type of attire.”

“Of course they do.” She glanced out the window again, distracted when the jet dipped low and started circling. Below was Monaco. It looked far more like a fairy tale than anything real. The city of Monte Carlo was wedged between aqua sea and mountains, with big white yachts framing the curve of the Côte d'Azur. The late-afternoon sun had drenched the background mountains in wet gold. Castle tops came into view, with their turrets and turquoise roofs, and endless splashes of flowering gardens and fountains.

When she turned back to Maguire, Carolina realized yet again that she must have lost her mind…because she'd rather look at him, concentrate on him, than that fabulous scene below.

“You didn't tell me how long we were going to be here.”

“Because I'm not sure. The plan is only for a couple days, but we could stay a little longer, if you want. Tonight I had in mind dinner at the Ship and Castle restaurant, one of those landmark places right on the Côte d'Azur. The food's a little on the exotic side, but honestly, it's one of the best places on the planet. After that, I figured we'd make a run on the Monte Carlo Casino, where we'll see what a gambler you are.” He sighed. “You don't have to drip dia
monds at either place, but I'd say you'd feel the most comfortable in, like, a black dress kind of thing.”

“Believe it or not, Maguire, I could probably have guessed that without coaching.” She had to grin as he wiped a hand over his face.

“I was trying to help, I swear. I just wasn't sure if you'd want to wear those shoes with a formal black dress.”

“They're not leaving my feet, Maguire. Get used to it.” Her voice was firm, but her eyes softened when she looked at her feet. The red patent-leather lace-ups were Versace, cost in the ballpark of four hundred dollars. They weren't, even remotely, the most expensive shoes she'd looked at, but the cost still put them way, way up there in the Disgrace level. Still, they were the cutest thing she'd ever owned.

“Now,” she began, thinking that now Maguire was finally awake, she had things to discuss with him. Her brain hiccuped when she caught Maguire staring at her shoes, too. Or possibly not at her shoes. His gaze seemed downright riveted on her calves and ankles.

“Now,” she began again, but Maguire's fascination with her legs sent a ball of fire straight to her belly, distracting her. “I was wondering,” she started for a third time, “whether the woman in your life isn't having a problem with your spending so much time with me.”

Maguire didn't even blink. “Well, yeah, of course
she has a problem. But she's so well trained and obedient that she wouldn't think of expressing it.” He kindly reached over to thwack her back when she started choking.

Thankfully she recovered quickly, even magnanimously resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. “So,” she said, “there are no serious women in your life right now, huh. How could that possibly be?”

“Maybe…most women have better judgment in men than you do?”

“Can't be that. I have superior judgment in people,” she informed him.

“Right. Pit you and a lamb against a lion, and the lamb'd probably be tougher. Way tougher.”

“Good insult,” she praised him. “But you're digressing. Were you ever married?”

“Did I realize that you were nosy before this?”

“Really? Not even married once?”

He glowered at her. “You were way, way easier to handle when you were deaf.”

She was on to him. If she let him get away with his nonsense, it was the same as enabling the devil. So she stayed dogged on the subject. “I'll bet quite a few women gave you a run for their money.”

“For my money, maybe. I've never gone after a woman for hers.”

“Aha. You let some information slip out there,
Maguire. You're losing your edge.” She winked at him. “Want to look at my gorgeous legs again?”

“Hey, did your parents never spank you? No one ever said, honey, don't touch a hot stove? Don't open the cage door of a bear?”

“Did yours? Is that how you got so wary? You're just too adorable to be alone, Maguire. There should be women snapping at your heels, doing inventive things to capture your interest, thrilled to make sure you never have to sleep alone at night.”

He squinted at her in the sunlight, just as the pilot announced their imminent descent into Monaco. “You're getting way, way stronger faster than I thought you would, Cee. I'm beginning to think the shoes are a factor.”

“Me, too. Think what red shoes did for Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz.
Of course, all she wanted was to go home to Kansas.”

Maguire said quietly, “And that's all you want, too, isn't it? Your reference point isn't Kansas. But you want the same thing Dorothy did. To find your way back home.”

She thought about that on their drive to the hotel. Maguire was right. This crazy journey he'd taken her on was all about becoming strong enough to go home.

And the truth was…she felt stronger every day. Maybe she still had no clear plan about how to face
all the dragons waiting for her at home, but she was starting to feel. Starting to stand up. Starting to own her heart again.

But she wasn't ready to leave Maguire.

Even if a broken heart was at the end of this journey, she'd come far enough—become strong enough—to be absolutely certain how important he was to her. She had no illusions that he felt the same. She only knew she wanted whatever time with him she could beg, borrow or steal. Maguire at his worst challenged her heart more than any man ever had.

 

Carolina didn't expect to see Maguire at his worst quite so soon, but walking into the hotel turned into an
eek.
A half-dozen messages were waiting for him, all marked Urgent. The hotel rooms he'd wanted weren't ready. Nothing was right.

Maguire didn't do frazzled, of course, he just went into hypermanagement mode. She was given a temporary room, with a couple hours free to nap and change clothes before they met in the lobby for dinner. He took over an office somewhere. It all worked out.

Actually, it more than worked out. Four hours later she was seated in a magical place. The restaurant had the look of a castle, washed in glowing gilt as the sun went down. They ate outside, their table on the veranda with the bay just below. From the white tablecloths to the sparkle of crystal, the atmosphere
was elegant. Tables filled up, but conversations were muted, with others—mostly couples—enjoying the sights and sounds and smells of the fabulous scenery, fabulous meal. Carolina had never before seen more jewels in one spot. There were enough dazzling diamonds to cause neck and earaches.

Maguire, though, was his usual common-sense self. “You're certain you want to mix that Japanese sushi and the Thai curry?”

“I think the chances of my ever coming here again are nonexistent, so I'm trying everything they'll let me.” She tried to keep her eyes off him. His business glitches had been taken care of, and he'd lost the take-charge posture, even looked relaxed. But he still stunned her in the tux.

Apparently tuxes were standard Monaco attire, judging from the number of men wearing them—but it was only Maguire who glued her attention. The shock-white shirt and formal black tux did something to him. He looked all brash and blond. A rogue trapped in gentleman's clothes. There was something not quite civilized in the tilt of his chin, the way he walked, the arch of his brow.

She'd had a blast dressing for dinner, but it wasn't as if she could compete with this crowd. Maguire had had Henry pack a few of her own clothes before this trip, but she was still limited in what she could pull together. The black satin pants and top had been on
sale at T.J. Maxx the holiday before, and just happened to go perfectly with her red Versace shoes. Maybe the cowl neck could have used jewelry, but she didn't have anything for this sort of occasion or place, so her neck and wrists were bare. She'd stroked in some mousse to add body to her hair, used a simple crystal clip to make the style look more formal, but there was a limit to what she could do with the equipment she had.

Trying to impress Maguire wasn't a goal, anyway. Or trying to pretend she was something she wasn't. As far as Carolina could tell, trying to outthink Maguire was a waste of time. He didn't respect people who lied to him or tried to manipulate him.

So, she didn't have to do anything but be herself—a T.J. Maxx girl who intended to try everything on the menu—if they let her. The waiter, so far, had been a hundred percent on her side. “When I saw the menu didn't have any prices listed, I knew it had to be over the top. And since I'm on major greedy mode, how about if I pay for my own dinner?”

“Nice try. Not going to happen.”

“Have you ever been here before?”

“To Monaco, once. But not to this restaurant. It's got a reputation around the world for being stupendous.”

“It sure is.” Midway through the meal, though, Maguire responded to the vibrator mode on his cell.
He stood up, apologized and moved away from the other diners to take the call. It was business, Carolina could tell, because he immediately went on hard-face mode. He listened. Spoke crisply. He hadn't told her what business glitches he'd been dealing with that afternoon—she suspected he never would. But whoever he was talking to, Carolina was mighty glad it wasn't her.

The interruption gave her a chance to stand up. She wasn't sure how many courses they'd finished—surely six or seven—and she was comfortably stuffed. She carried her half-filled wineglass to the balcony edge. Night had dropped. Clouds skimmed past necklaces of stars, and the turquoise waters of the Côte had turned black satin. Just below, cars kept delivering patrons to the restaurant…. car models she'd never seen before anywhere.

She must have been there several minutes before she realized Maguire had joined her, and was leaning over the edge as she was. “You see down there…the first car, the one everyone's looking it? It's a Bugatti Veyron,” he informed her. “It's the most expensive car in the world, if I remember right. Under two million, but not by much. It's the only car that can hit four hundred miles an hour.”

“Where on earth could you drive four hundred miles an hour?”

“That's not the point.”

She motioned below. “What's the yellow one?”

“Porsche 911. This year's model. Right behind him is a red car… It's one of the newest Ferraris. You can buy that one for a cool million. Oh. Man.”

She glanced below, at the car that had finally brought Maguire to his knees. He wasn't drooling, but his tongue was all but hanging out. All she saw was a grayish car that looked like a long bug.

“The Pagani Zonda,” he identified it. “She can go from zero to sixty miles per hour in 3.2 seconds. I had a chance to drive one a few months ago. An idiot friend of mine bought one. Drove it to my place just to show it off, wanted to make me suffer.”

“Did you? Suffer appropriately?”

“Oh, yeah. Believe me, she's a honey. She could park in my driveway any time.”

Finally, a chink in his armor. Carolina was charmed. “So…were you tempted to buy one?”

“Well…no. She's wonderful. But she's not exactly a car you could take for a trek in the mountains, much less drive in a snowstorm.”

“Was it bad news?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“All those business calls this afternoon and then, just now. You looked…annoyed.”

“No. It was just some problems. Solving problems is what I do.” He straightened. “And right now we
have a problem to solve together—which is to find out how you take to gambling.”

“That's easy. I can tell you right now, I'm a wild gambler.”

“I'll have to see that to believe it.”

“I'll stake both of us, since you sprang for dinner,” she offered.

“I'll stake myself, Carolina…. but I'm all for you using your own money to play with. My thought would be to give you a little stake to get you started, until you learn what the games are about.”