The Heir & I: Taming The Billionaire
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Authors: Lara Hunter
The Heir & I
Taming The Playboy
By Lara Hunter
Copyright 2015 by Lara Hunter
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents:
Chapter
One
~
Lily
“No, I’m sorry Sir.
Oliver isn’t in yet; he has a full schedule of business meetings this morning and some very important commitments. The moment that he arrives, though, I’ll be sure to have him call you. Thanks, bye.”
With a prim smile I replaced my ivory phone receiver to its place in a crystalline cradle; the beam abandoning me moments later as I considered the subject of my abbreviated conversation: Oliver Cl
ark, my employer of two years. Someone whose overall approach to life seemed very ‘abbreviated’ indeed, most of the time.
This
wasn’t the first time that I’d had to make an excuse on behalf of my tardy boss; it wasn’t even the first time this week. It was indeed the third time during a seven-day interval that Oliver was running late for work and his tardiness had nothing to do with an all-important business meeting.
Unless, of course, you consider a fling with an emaciated blonde whose name he probably doesn’t even remember to be an all-important conversation
, I seethed in silence. Of course, I probably shouldn’t be so cynical. His date might just be a redhead, and she may indeed have enjoyed one meal of some sort in the past month or so. And he might at least remember her initials, or at least spend the entire day referring to her as ‘babe,’ just to be safe. Here’s hoping.
My friends often praised my incredible good fortune in landing my position; a well-paying job in which I served one of the most handsome and eligible bachelors in our tropical community of Bennington, Florida—not to
mention one of the wealthiest. Harry Clark, Oliver’s father, was the CEO of Clark Industries, a billion-dollar company; and at the tender age of 28, Oliver was poised to take over the reins of a firm that made the vast majority of Fortune 500 companies look like thrift stores.
It was Harry Clark, in fact, that had originally interviewed me for my personal assistant position; and while I’d been endlessly impressed by his polished, professional demeanor, I couldn’t help but question as to why my prospective employer wasn’t t
he man conducting the interview, as opposed to, well, the gent that probably helped change his diapers as an infant or, at the very least, hired someone to perform that all important duty.
“Well the answer is simple,” he’d told me, suddenly grimacing as though he’d just been struck by an inexplicable but very powerful headac
he. “Oliver’s last personal assistant didn’t know how to type and she refused to learn, seeing as how a vigorous round of typing might imperil the state of her newly applied press on nails. The girl before her had very poor phone skills; she kept the office line tied up throughout the day, making repeated phone calls to a close female associate known as Buffy to share soap opera recaps and timely make up tips. And when she did answer a business call, she seemed to have a little trouble mastering the name of our company; the name Clark, it seemed, was just a bit too complex for her to enunciate. And, in lieu of classifying our mission statement under the heading, ‘financial services,’ she instead referred to Clark Industries as ‘the place where people make lots of dough’—in essence likening us to a fully functioning bakery.”
“Let me guess,” I interrupted, pursing my li
ps in a show of keen curiosity. “Between them they
had roughly no related experience for the jobs they were supposed to perform—though I strongly suspected that they performed very well in other areas, totally unrelated to their job descriptions but nonetheless very important to your son.”
Harry
Clark, a distinguished grey-haired man in his early 50s, pitched back his head and let loose with a sharp guffaw as he considered my all too accurate words.
“Exactly,” he affirmed, pointing a conf
irming finger in my direction. “My son was basically allowing his hormones to choose his personal assistants for him and while he seemed to enjoy calling these girls into his office on a regular basis, I couldn’t help but notice that very little actual work seemed to be getting done throughout the course of these little work sessions.This is why I insisted on hiring his next assistant myself and based on your resume and excellent qualifications, Ms. Ashton, I do believe that you are the right person for the job.”
I smiled.
“Please call me Lily
. And thank you very much for your kind words. I would very much like to accept this position.”
Harry shook his head.
“In my business, Lily, I can’t afford to hire someone as a sheer act
of kindness,” he reminded me. “You just graduated cum laude with a degree in business and you also worked full time as an office clerk to work your way through school. That, coupled with the fact that you’re not as likely to distract my son from his everyday duties, makes you more than an ideal candidate for this position.”
“Oh.
Um, OK.” My beam dissolved as I wondered just how to respond to these last words. “Thank you, I guess?”
Harry bit his lip.
“You know, Lily, when my dear wife was alive
she was always encouraging me—OK, demanding me, in no uncertain terms, to think before I speak. I’ve got to start doing that, especially in the presence of fine young ladies who emulate her sense of grace and decorum,” he offered, pinning me with an apologetic smile. “What I meant to say is, you’re a lovely young lady that dresses like a young lady. Most importantly, you’re a bright, well-spoken individual whose academic record is nothing short of excellent. You show a maturity and work ethic that certain people with a better head start in the business, not mentioning any names, of course, seem to lack.”
“Not at all your son’s type, in other words,” I beamed a
new, nodding in understanding. “Gotcha.”
Harry said nothing; only leaned forward to engage
me, his new employee, in a warm handshake and a conspiratorial wink.
“I have the feeling you’re going to get alon
g just fine here,” he told me. “Lily Ashton, do allow me to welcome you to Clark Industries.”
Two years into my current assignment, I wasn’t altogether sure that Harry’s optimistic prediction had fully realized itself; not when I had to spend every other morning explaining my boss’ absence to clients and colleagues, and every afternoon making good
and sure that the frequently idle Oliver returned his phone calls, answered his e-mails, and attended his business meetings.
I never hesitated to display my firm and assertive side when dealing with Oliver, who in
my opinion had a few too many ‘yes’ people lining his pay roll and filling his personal life. If I had to make him to-do lists every single day, and check back with him repeatedly just to ensure that the to-do did indeed get done, then I would—well—do it.
Of course I realized just how fortunate I was to have any kind of sustainable, well-paying jo
b in this economy. A job that allowed a single woman to afford a respectable home, a pretty nice wardrobe along with regular meals and essential toiletries and hygiene products was a bonus. I knew a good number of people my age who were still working retail, holding down at least two jobs just to survive, or living with Mom and Dad as they continued with their job hunts. I, on the other hand, had paid off my college loan just to trade it in for a new one; a down payment on a new car. And while my new set of wheels never would be coveted by James Bond or featured on the cover of ‘Wondrous Wheels Monthly’ (was there indeed such a ridiculous sounding publication currently in print?), it got me safely to work and back home again; also transporting me with grace and ease to and from the grocery store, the local library and the occasional movie—yep that’s right, I actually could afford to attend a matinee, first run showing of the film of my choice, with popcorn included, and an occasional side of licorice or even fudge drops. Not half bad, at that!
