The Boss (A Billionaire Romance) (2 page)

Chapter 3

While Fredrick moved through the busy restaurant, searching for the radiant face of his not-so-blind-date amongst the tables—a face he'd only seen in pictures, and in videos of her giving eloquent but nervous speeches to charity donors on You Tube—his nerves yanked at his stomach.

Already late and far from fresh, this was not going to plan.

He didn't feel great about his chances, but he had to take this opportunity to meet her in the flesh while he could.

A fresh layer of sweat dampened his torso when his eyes found the stunning red-haired beauty in the distance.

Wrapped, angelic-like in candlelight, wearing a navy suit jacket over a cream silky blouse, she shone.

The people around her slowed and silenced as she flicked her long, red hair over her slender shoulder.

Her face, a pale and perfect sphere, featured emerald eyes and a rosebud mouth he longed to taste.

For a second, the sight of her caught him like a backdraft in the gut, robbing him of breath. Yearning rushed through his soul like flames through a dry forest, stirring him. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Oh shit, you're more beautiful than your pictures.

The countless times I've made love to you in my imagination and now, I'm about to meet you for real. It's almost too exciting.

He restrained his blazing imagination.

She didn't know him as he knew her.

His gaze dipped again, briefly assessing the swell of her chest before shooting back up to her face.

With only a few long strides, he approached her, removing his leather jacket on the way.

"Hey, I'm Fredrick," he said, aware of the tremble in his voice. "You're Clara, right?"

He held out his hand to shake hers, but she stared at it as though he offered her smelly shoes wrapped in a ribbon.

Not a good start.

He hung his jacket over the back of his chair, thinking what to say, what to do to make this right.

Be cool.

Be yourself.

Be as honest as you can be.

Partly from fighting fire at work, and partly from his rush to meet her, his black t-shirt was a little damp in areas.

He hoped it wasn't too noticeable, that the pronounced pectorals he worked hard on were as distracting to her as her chest was to him.

Clearly pissed at him, and who could blame her, he was sure she would understand once she heard his explanation.

His cheeks itched from the smoky residue, though he'd attempted to remove the soot with a towel before he left the fire station.

The emergency call-out they tagged to the end of his shift had made him late, but what choice did he have?

The threat of casualties in a fire always trumps a date.

Even this date.

Clara glared up at him, her cell held tight between two hands.

White knuckles more than hinted at her disappointment, though her scowl had already screamed it.

The more he studied her expression, the more her beauty captured his mind.

It glowed from within her, like sunshine's warmth.

In fact, the auburn depth of her hair and the bold bright green of her eyes struck him dumb when he should have been explaining himself. He smiled down at her while she grimaced silently up at him.

He rarely found himself lost for words, and he feared she'd get up and leave before he found the right ones.

She glimpsed at her wristwatch, "You arrived finally. Guess I should be grateful?"

Fredrick sat at the table, "Sorry." His dry mouth made it difficult to speak so he drank a mouthful of water from the half-filled glass on their table. "Please . . . accept my apology. I . . ."

She raised her hand, interrupting him, "Please," she said, with a sarcastic bite, "Do help yourself to my water."

Although her attitude was not as compassionate as he'd expected, and although she came on a date dressed like an executive rather than a woman, her delicate features and petite frame allowed for a delicious softness he found deeply attractive.

But boy, she was unwilling to budge an inch.

Her crossed legs and folded arms said: no matter what you say, you blew it.

Again, she flicked her long silky hair over her shoulder, which happened in slow motion to Fredrick, and emitted a kind of vanilla and musk fragrance, which made his mouth water.

Dammit, he couldn't give up on her, not yet.

Not now he'd seen her in the flesh.

Now he wanted to know more.

Much more.

"Look, let's start over." He held out his hand, but once again, she glared at it blankly. "No?"

How can someone so sweet be so impossibly stubborn?

Clara didn’t answer.

"Really?" He lowered his hand again, and sighed, "Shame, I was looking forward to meeting you, Clara."

"Shame indeed. Listen, I should . . ."

Crap, she wants to go.

Okay, so she isn't interested in excuses.

Maybe . . .

He beckoned the waiter who loitered in the wings and received a much more positive response from him when he rushed over. "Your finest Champagne, please, and make it snappy; I have held up this beautiful lady long enough already."

The waiter smirked, checking out the swell of Clara's blouse with a sly glance, "Good choice."

Fredrick wanted to kick his shin or tell him exactly what he thought of his crude remark, but doing so would draw her attention to it and make her even more uncomfortable.

He didn't want that.

"As quick as you can, then?"

The waiter's eyes widened, "Oh. Of course. Right away, Sir."

He turned on his feet and moved quickly.

Fredrick returned his attention to the tight-lipped woman, determined to avoid eye-contact with him.

Picking up her white rose, he twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. "So, have you been here long?"

Her cheeks flushed and she finally rested her green gaze upon him.

A balloon of hope that she might have softened gave birth to the large smile he wore.

At least it did, until her jaw tightened, "I arrived almost an hour ago, ten minutes before we were due to meet. There are few things I loathe more than tardiness, Fredrick."

"Ah, yes." Balloon of hope popped. "I would have texted or called to let you know I was running late, but you preferred not to supply your number on the dating site. Probably wise, but in these circumstances - kind of inconvenient."

She frowned, "I caused an inconvenience? Are you for real? I don't know you, why would I give you my number? Don't blame my need for privacy for your lack of manners."

Fredrick was surprised by her poisonous attitude, "I wouldn't. I mean, that's not what I'm doing."

She huffed and looked away.

Dammit, he was ruining his one chance.

"Hey, but now I'm here, I'd love to explain why I'm late."

She's fiery, takes no prisoners, beautiful, strong, and moving me in all the right ways. Even though she's about as forgiving as a viper.

"If you let me, Clara. What do you say?"

Rather than listening to him, she raised her hand and shook her head, "I'd rather not because I have a headache now, too."

He stopped talking.

The peachy flush to her cheeks was in fact the flush of irritation, not attraction.

Still hoping Champagne might help her to relax a little, he did as she said and stopped talking, waiting for the waiter to deliver his last chance.

He had yet to meet a woman who wasn't impressed by expensive Champagne, although she hadn't mentioned it online.

Tension built between them in the silence, and when she went to stand, he feared his last chance would arrive too late. "Wait, please."

"Sorry," she said to him, all breathy, as though the whole ordeal had worn her out. "It's just . . . there are more important things I need to be getting on with than . . ." Clara checked the time on her cell, " . . . whatever this is. Truth is, I don't date much, and situations like these are why."

His stomach cramped, and reflexively, he clung to her hand, "At least stay for the Champagne. I bet you love bubbles."

Clara shot him a glance, her jaw clenched, snatching her hand from his grasp.

"Oh, because that's all it takes to bed a woman, right? A few bubbles and her panties will magically fall to her ankles, right along with her dignity."

She scowled at him.

He could kick himself for being so presumptuous.

"No, I don't want to bed you. That's not what I was . . . please, Clara?"

This is messed up and she is as stubborn as hell.

Chapter 4

Clara was livid.

Does he think he can show up late in filthy clothes, smelling like a pool hall with what can only be smudged cigarette ash on his face, and expect that just because he's hot and most likely rich, all he needs to do to compensate is flash his cash?

The nerve of him!

She was beyond disappointed, though she couldn't deny his tall stature, golden brown eyes and even his dirty dark wavy hair gave her goose bumps.

The glint in those eyes added to the struggle against the growing urge to walk away, but his honeyed voice was what held her there.

Loving the written word alone all these years seemed to add importance to a man's voice.

This man's voice.

"Champagne not your poison, huh? No problem, tell me what is and it's yours. Let me make up for keeping a beautiful lady like you waiting."

Why am I still here?

What could I hope to gain from this trust-fund playboy?

She fidgeted in her seat, imagining where this date might have ended had he not been so disrespectful.

He was delicious, but the inevitable emptiness she would get from this kind of man in the aftermath of casual sex—no thanks.

Men were generally cheating sex-pests; even the good ones like her father let her down.

She was better off alone, or romancing Anon in cyberspace.

The waiter returned with their fizz and went to pour them both a glass.

Clara covered her glass with her hand, trying with all her strength not to give her date eye contact. "Not for me, thanks."

"Can I get you something else?" asked the waiter. "The wine list, perhaps?"

Fredrick's gaze drilled into the side of her cheek.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a smile play around his plump lips, "Tell him what you want, it's yours."

Damn him for thinking I'm so easily appeased.

Damn me for needing sex, ever.

"You know what?" Clara stood and grabbed her jacket. "It's time I was leaving. The office called while I was waiting for you. And well, your tardiness ate into our date, so . . . enjoy your Champagne."

The waiter bit his lip.

Embarrassed for the high roller no doubt, he left the Champagne in the icebox and marched off to another table.

Fredrick gaped and stood up, standing so near to her, the scent of sweat on clean skin, of spicy cologne, of man, flooded her senses.

For a moment of intense arousal, it even overpowered the stench of smoke.

He held out his hand again, "Can we start over?"

He appeared sincere when she glimpsed his glorious brown gaze, but how could she trust him—especially a hedonist like him?

She thought aloud and although she meant it, she worried it was a little toxic. "I don't have the time to waste on you, sorry." His hand in hers, she held it tight, shook it once, and let go. "Bye Fredrick."

Leaving the restaurant without a second glance, a part of her, however small, wondered if she might have missed out on an incredible experience if only she had the courage.

She even paused at the reception area, partly wanting to turn back, but remained on course.

Instead of hot sex with a playboy, she would go home and text Anon.

Then she would take a long hot bath, alone.

She still had a little power left in those batteries to use up.

But while waiting for the valet guy to collect her car outside the restaurant, she studied her hand.

She had enjoyed his hot, smooth palm against hers, with his long fingers curled around it. He didn't grab on greedily like some, or weakly like others.

Would he handle me that way in the bedroom, given the chance?

With a firm, controlled touch?

She shook her hand, then shoved the offending limb into her pocket, just as her car arrived.