The Billionaire's Hotline (Men of the Capital Series Book 1) (9 page)

She had embraced him, told him he didn’t lack skill, had pressed her lips to his brow like a benediction. He thought, absurdly, that it might have freed him from its grip, but here he sat, sawing out the same sequence of notes, Sisyphus incarnate.

Jasper combed through paperwork from legal, looking for any irregularities because he was in the mood to hand someone their ass. He knew all about displaced anger and it didn’t bother him one bit. He paid these people enough that if one of them had to play the whipping boy on occasion, it was hardly more than they were compensated to do.

Fortunately for his employees, there was not a comma out of place in the documentation, and he signed off on it grouchily. Although he didn’t drink coffee, he found himself absently assembling the French press and making himself a cup. He loaded it with raw sugar and held the steaming mug, inhaling the smell that he knew reminded him of someone he ought not to consider.

He wrote to Miss Hollingford, telling her to buy more phones and have them distributed as soon as possible. He assured her he was only redoubling his efforts to find his soul mate, a woman he could squire around to society functions for years to come. Corporate arm candy, even, but with all sorts of romantic emotions that appealed to women.

Even the seemingly no-nonsense Miss Hollingford wanted him to succumb to a fairy tale ending. She herself was engaged to her childhood sweetheart who worked nights as a hospital orderly and was going to school to become a diesel mechanic. Jasper wondered idly how diesel mechanics found decent women…he expected they wasted many evenings in bars drinking overpriced bourbon and chatting up impossibly stupid girls until they found one who annoyed them less than the others. He hoped that the soon-to-be mechanic appreciated the gem he had in Miss Hollingford, who could probably have him killed and make his death look accidental without ever employing anything more nefarious than her speakerphone and her forceful personality.

Later, he sat at his desk and listened to the voice mails. Not thirty as he’d derisively suggested, but five messages, her low, sweet voice rising on the register with strain and misery in each successive recording.

Good morning, Jasper. You were gone when I woke up, and I missed you. I know you had to get to work and I just want to apologize for my behavior. I don’t drink very often and obviously I can’t handle it when I do. It won’t happen again. Have a good day and I’ll talk to you later. Call me, okay?

Hey Virgo, I know you’re busy ruling the world, but I’m pretty embarrassed over here and I was too out of it last night to pay attention to your intonation when you said goodbye…IF you even said goodbye. Give me a call and let me know I haven’t driven you away with my drunkenness and lack of refinement.

It’s Hannah. I’m sorry. If you’re mad, come yell at me and I’ll apologize again. If you’re just busy, take a break and call me. I need to hear your voice, and not just for research. Bye.

I never should have thrown away the phone or acted like that yesterday. I know that’s the real problem, not the sloppy drunk-dialing clusterfuck. I panicked and I unloaded all that on you and I know it’ll take time to rebuild your trust in me. I’m so sorry and I’ll work on this relationship. I’m in this for the long haul and I want to make you happy, probably more than I ever wanted anything in my life. I’m sorry I messed up. Forgive me, Jasper.

Work on the relationship? Long haul? That kind of shit was why he took off for greener pastures. She was reaffirming every suspicion he had about how hard she’d be to get rid of. He went to the freezer and pulled out the emergency vodka, poured himself a glass and drained it. It was a good excuse for the burn in his eyes and throat.

Her voice was softer, thready in the last message. He had to turn up the volume and replay it to be sure what he’d heard.

’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.’

              When he shut his eyes, he was back in Dubai, pacing a lavish hotel room and coaxing her to sing. He had known he shouldn’t have messaged her so much in meetings, known he should hang up. He willed her to stay on the phone with him, the sound of her voice like a transfusion flowing through his veins, restoring him. Shaking his head to clear it, he checked his email, expecting a tirade from Hannah. There was only a single message from her.

You told me all along what you were, a ruthless creature of efficiency and convenience. I built up a fantasy that you were someone else and fell in love with my own creation, I guess. I accused you once of stalking me, and I won’t have the same allegation lay at my door. I won’t call you again. I’m sorry I wasted your time.

Hannah Largent

              Jasper was almost relieved to head to Tokyo the next day to start the Far East swing of annual visits to the Cates Corporation satellite offices. He’d make four stops in ten days, inspecting production facilities and doing meet-and-greets with executives. He would have no occasion to think of sound engineers with messy hair, or listen to soul music and eat noodles. When he opened his bag to throw in some clothes, he found the shawl he had bought Hannah in Dubai. He’d forgotten about it, and about the long necklaces from the Gold Souk and the CD’s of Arabic lounge music he’d wanted her to sample because of the ethereal string arrangements. He deposited the lot into the floor of his immaculately organized closet, where it sat like a vibrantly-colored, reproachful cancer.

              Two weeks in the East and he didn’t buy her a thing, hardly even considered for more than half a minute the cheong-sam dress in acetylene blue. He bought a bunch of bright bangles from a stall on the street in Bangkok, thinking he’d give them to Shannon and Miss Hollingford, or dole them out as pseudo-thoughtful souvenirs for future blondes, but that had nothing to do with Hannah. The picture he took of songbirds swinging in cages in the marketplace wasn’t an instinct related to mockingbirds that almost became a forgetful email. It was just a picture.

*                                                                                    *                                                                      *

              It was the most productive month in Hannah’s voice over career. She finished looping the dialogue, did some commercial narration, dozens of PowerPoints, and two movie trailers. She got a contract to do sound effects editing on an indie flick out of Toronto and stayed up all hours finishing it. It was a terrible movie, a low-rent road trip coming-of-age with skinny, spotty youths seduced by bombshells in Mexico, but she didn’t have to approve the content to clean up the sound and put in door slams and engine revs where needed. Her sound equipment was paid off and she was two months ahead on her mortgage. When the check came in from the edit, she snagged Becca for some retail therapy.

              The play had folded before Becca ever got to take the stage, so she was broke but game for window-shopping. She did her best to steer Hannah away from the long, crinkly patchwork skirts she favored and toward something more presentable, but Hannah rebelled.

              “That’s not why he left me, Bec. Even if I’d dressed in head to toe—I don’t know, name a designer—it wouldn’t have worked out. I’m not trying to attract another corporate type, so I can wear what I want.” She mutinously grabbed for another garish purple dress that looked like the result of a flour sack mating illicitly with a gypsy’s tablecloth.

              “Intervention time, sis. If you ever get a cat, it would have to be color blind to tolerate this crap. You deserve better than to look like a street person who used to work in a carnival,” Becca protested, wresting the dress from Hannah’s grasp. “Get something decent. I’m taking you out tonight.”

              “I don’t want to go out. I want to stay in and order noodles and work.”

              “If you keep doing that, you’ll wake up one day and you’ll be fifty years old and fat and walking around in very ugly clothing stained with curry sauce. I love you too much to let that happen to you. This way.” She frog marched Hannah out of the bohemian sacks and toward a maxi dress that was more body-con and had a subtle black and white print. “See, this is your style, but nicer.”

              Two thankless hours later, Becca had bullied her sister into a few decent articles of clothing, with only a latte to show for it. She’d managed to talk her into the maxi dress, a pair of cigarette pants with a cold-shoulder top, perfect for clubs, and a pair of shoes that didn’t look like they were made for an eighty-year-old with heel problems—black patent sandals with a tiny kitten heel. Becca would’ve liked to have seen Hannah in a pair of legitimate stilettos, but she decided to quit while she was ahead. After stopping for fruit salad and smoothies, they returned to Hannah’s apartment. They took a disco nap and got up at eight to get dressed.

              “There’s a party in the meat packing district. I got a flier when I was downtown last night. We’re going.”

              “Do you know the people?” Hannah asked skeptically.

              “It’s not that kind of party. There’s a cover and a band.”

Becca looped a strand of beads around her neck and pivoted before the mirror, surveying her reflection, all long legs and golden waves. She transformed Hannah into a slightly grouchy but entirely dateable seven and a half on a scale of ten. She lost a full point for refusing to change her flip-flops for heels, which made the maxi dress drag the ground. She scratched at her head where the pins dug into her scalp, although she admitted the artful pile of tresses that Becca had fashioned was better than her ponytail.

“Watch what I’m doing with the ends, or you’ll never be able to duplicate it.” Becca scolded.

“I’ll never be able to duplicate it because I’m scared of the flat iron. Get that thing away from my face. You could blind me. It’s too hot!”

“Quit whining. You’ll be gorgeous.” She put down the flat iron and sprayed her sister’s hair, satisfied with the results.

“I miss Jasper. I want to put on my pajamas. And I want noodles!” Hannah moaned. “THAT’S whining. Before I was just expressing a reasonable fear for my sight as you wielded a very dangerous beauty implement best left to professionals.”

The party was a crush, too loud to make out the music very clearly, and drinks cost a fortune, which helped Hannah limit herself to two. It was full of people much younger than she was, shiny and slender and actually enthusiastic to be there. She felt old and exhausted and her bra itched. She sat, feeling faintly humiliated, alone like some sad woman in a 70s singles bar.

At last, as if by mercy from heaven, she was chatted up by a broker from Louisiana whose honeyed drawl made her wish for a do-over on some of her dialogue loop from the southern movie. She basked in the attention pitifully, thinking that at least she no longer looked like the old broad playing with her phone because she couldn’t pull a man. She liked his accent but he talked too much about exchange traded funds and she didn’t have any spare capital to invest.

The flat vowels of a New Englander assaulted her trained ear after she brushed off the broker. She wondered what grade she had been in the year he was born… she guessed ninth or tenth by the looks of him, surfer tanned and unabashedly youthful in a robust way that made her feel wrinkled, pale and elderly. This one was called Luke, and looked remarkably like a Ken doll. She guessed from his accent that he’d been on the rowing crew at Princeton and amused herself with teasing the truth of it out of him. When he offered her a ride, she declined. She knew she needed to put herself out there, but it had only been a few weeks, and she just wasn’t over Jasper.

“Can I at least have your number? Make it another night?” Luke offered. Hannah shook her head, once again amazed that her hair remained securely coiffed and no one was assaulted by flying jeweled hairpins breaking loose from their appointed stations.

“No. Thank you. Here, you can finish this.” She handed him back the repulsive melon-flavored drink he’d bought her and tried to remember if she had enough mouthwash at home to rid herself of the wretchedly artificial taste. She was fairly sure he was old enough to drink, she mused, wincing as her hip popped when she slid off the barstool.

When she tracked down Becca, dancing with a group of girls, she told her she was leaving.

“Stay! There’s supposed to be another crowd coming later. A bunch of people aren’t even here yet. And they’re doing s’mores at three,” Becca protested.

“You stay, honey. You’re having fun. It’s just too soon for me. And I’m not sure I could stand a bigger crowd. I’ll catch a cab. I love you.” They hugged and Hannah took off for the blessed silence of the street outside.

Once she’d gotten home and removed all that eye makeup, she thought she’d feel better, but it was a bone-deep misery that even a hot bath couldn’t reach. She flipped listlessly through a catalog and reached for her phone to call the noodle shop.

An alert was flashing on her phone, informing her that she had a voice mail message. She flicked it onto speaker, assuming it was a client.

I want to see you. I tried to put you out of my mind. I nearly had sex with a gymnast… at least that’s what I think it was. It could have been a new Cross Fit routine with all that equipment. I told Miss Hollingford the shred the list from the phone project. I’m done with that. Anyway, I’ll be back from Hong Kong tomorrow. If you’ll talk to me, if you’ll sing to me, I won’t leave again, Mockingbird.

Hannah threw the phone across the room and started to cry. It had been a week and a half since she’d burst into tears over Jasper and the bastard had just ruined her record. When she mopped up her face and managed to take a drink of water, she picked up the phone from where it had landed and listened to the message again. Only Jasper would mention his freaky foreplay with a gymnast in an apology…the man had no communication skills whatsoever. He was a hopeless case. He had practically no redeeming qualities, she reminded herself sternly.