The Heir & I: Taming The Billionaire (3 page)

Oh, I can control my daytime fa
ntasies well enough, I suppose. Discipline and self-control is my middle name, or would that be two middle names? Three, counting the hyphenated term? Oh never mind, the point, and I do have one, is that during my waking hours I can redirect my wandering, somewhat fevered thoughts to my current work projects, duties and responsibilities, along with occasional, very warm and sentimental notions of my mom and dad back home, my poodle Riley, and just how darned well the Yankees are doing right now.

Yet when I lay ensconced in my nice warm bed and my eyes drifted shut, I could do nothing to control the romantic, sometimes downright sensual dreams of Oliv
er Clark that flooded my psyche and, I hated to admit it, aroused my body to no end.

OK Ashton, time for a cold shower and
a big, harsh dose of reality
, I told myself, sitting down hard in my chair and resting my forehead in my hands. I cannot even think of getting involved with that man in any way, shape, form, or—um—position.

I’d always vowed never to get inv
olved with anyone I worked with, especially not an employer that I (ahem!) worked directly under; of course, that promise was a lot easier to keep back in college, when I interned as a page for a 75-year-old senator with false teeth, chronic halitosis (possibly related to his previously stated lack of natural born teeth) and eight kids, 14 great grandkids, and five great grands at home. A gorgeous, single gent like Oliver was just a bit tougher to resist; especially when he insisted on flirting with me and flattering me on a daily basis. That is, when he bothered to come into work at all.

So it was time for me to make my daily list of reasons as to why I really, trul
y should not consider a serious, or even casual, involvement with my employer. And it generally ran, as follows:

1. He’s my employer.
It would be professional suicide for me to mix business and pleasure. 2. I’m not his type. Not that I could rightly be compared to the Creature from The Black Lagoon, mind you—it’s just that I’ve never rightly seen him with a woman whose bra size exceeds her IQ. Plus I choose to maintain my natural hair color, which doesn’t happen to be platinum blonde, and a somewhat natural make up aesthetic that doesn’t involve the use of false eyelashes, siren red lipstick or glitter eye shadow. If I was a stranger he passed on the street, I doubt that he’d even look my way. 3. I’m sure the man charms every mortal female who crosses his radar on a daily basis; from his accountant to his father’s maid to the gal who carries out his groceries at Costco. I should not take his attentions to heart.

There, then; I had reasoned and stated, in no uncertain terms, three solid reasons as to why I should never even think about sparki
ng a romance with Oliver Clark. Then why, I wonder, did I find myself making this same list almost every single day?

Chapter Two

~

Oliver

“And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is why we need to clos
e this deal and make the merger as soon as possible.”

Taking my seat at the front of the conference room, I folded my hands before me and offered a genial smile to the associates that now applauded me; a smile that dissolved as I
noticed that my father, seated tall and erect at the opposite end of our polished cherry wood meeting table, did not join his employees in their apparent enthusiasm for the ideas and concepts I’d just offered. Quite the contrary, I was now being pinned with a cool, hard stare I’d come to know all too well; one first directed at me sometime during my high school years, and that seemed to appear just like clockwork every few weeks or so.

Soon our co-workers and clients approached me one by one, both to engage me in light, friendly conversation and to ask questions about the ideas I’d presented during the
course of the meeting, some of which I was proud to say I could actually answer. Well, in part, anyway… the rest I pretty much bluffed my way through before making plans for dinner, tennis dates, evenings at the opera and theater, and (or so was the case with one junior executive who boasted an inordinate amount of cleavage and blonde hair, in that order) a late night rendezvous to be enjoyed at a later date, but not much later, or so we both fervently hoped.

All the while, though, my father continued to pin me with a cold, hard stare that chilled me to the bone; causing me to turn away from him and try to lose myself in my conversations with our colleagues.

I tried my best to prolong these interactions, talking about everything from the weather to the previous night’s Tampa Bay Rays game before resorting to really lame Dancing with the Stars and American Idol episode recaps; lame, not because of the overall quality of these shows, but because I never had caught more than 5 or so random minutes of either program.

Finally as our colleagues said their goodbyes and cleared the meeting room, my father approached me with a small, forced smile as he said, “Good job, Son.”

I nodded.

“Thanks, Dad,” I grinned.
“For being fashionably late this morning, I still managed to seal the deal.”

“Actually, Son, you were a half hour late,” Harry told me,
folding his arms before him. “And this isn’t the first time… not even the first time this week. And while you did deliver a polished, very slick presentation, you brought fluff to the table, not facts. Apart from the market research that Lily has done on your behalf, you did not bring a single solid statistic, original idea, or cohesive game plan to this project meeting.”

I laughed.

“Well what can I say?” I smirked, adding with a ca
reless shrug, “They ate it up. The crowd seemed to love me.”

Dad sighed.

“They loved you, sure enough,” he confirmed
, folding his arms before him. “And who wouldn’t? You’re handsome, you’re well spoken, and you could sell a Vogue subscription to a nudist. I, meanwhile, am the grisled old man that stands behind the scenes and does all the real work. What’s going to happen when I retire, son? Your sly smiles and perfect hair alone aren’t going to carry our company into the future, especially not in this economy.”

That famous smile went down a few watts as I considered these dark words.

B
ut only briefly.

“With all due respect, Dad,” I squared my shoulders, staring my old man straight in the eye
. “Most of the ideas I presented today did not come from you.”

Dad nodded.

“Oh believe me, I’m well aware of that,” he snorted, adding a
s he rolled his eyes, “I do believe it was Lily who came up with those facts and figures.”

I shrugged.

“Well, for the most part you’re probably right,” I conceded in a low voice, adding with a second shrug, “Isn’t tha
t pretty much her job, though? She is, after all, my personal assistant, and we pay her very well to support me.”

Dad had heard enough.

“We pay you a lot more, Son,
and for a job that you don’t do, not very well or thoroughly anyway,” he scoffed, adding as he pointed an authoritative finger in my direction, “And I’m sure that Lily shares my viewpoints. Sometimes I wonder why she doesn’t just get up and leave.”

I said nothing in response,
I just swallowed hard as I considered this unsettling possibility; as I actually tried to consider life without Lily. The very prospect, I realized, struck fear in my heart.

But wait a minute. I was Oliver Clark. I didn’t need anyone else
to survive; though the absence of Lily would make it mighty difficult.

“I’ll be just fine, Dad,” I said aloud, adding as I forced a smile and clapped him on the back, “Listen, why don’t we just forget we had this conversation and go out for a pizza this weekend—or maybe dinner and a show?”

Dad shook his head.

“I would like for you to dine with me, son, but tonight,” he told me, adding as he pinned me with a sideways glance, “I only hope that you’ll break character by being on time for dinner this evening.”

I froze.

“Were we supposed to
have dinner together tonight?” I asked, straining to remember which young female I’d have to call to cancel this evening’s planned rendezvous. “Oh, yes, now I remember, 6 o’clock at Le Jardin, right?”

Harry shook his head.

“Five o’clock at my house,” he correct
ed me, adding with a hard look, “Be there.”

Returning in silence to my office, I closed the door tight behind me; the harshness of his tone ringing in my head as I considered
my father’s dinner invitation. At least once or twice a month my father and I got together at one of our favorite restaurants to talk both business and personal matters.

He almost
never asks me out to the house. The way he was out and out glaring at me during the meeting, maybe I should insist that we meet in a public place.

***

Despite my reluctance (read: out and out terror) I headed out that evening to the Clark family manor; a three-story ivory stone mansion that boasted stained glass windows, broad balconies and a sprawling front porch, vines of entwining ivy adorning the smooth, sandstone walls, and a luminous roof of domed crystalline.

Not a bad place to grow up
, I thought as I unlocked and opened a side entrance to access the family dining room.

I smiled as I immediately recognized the lush gold brocade wallpaper and the French Impressionist watercolors that lined our family dining room; my grin broadening as I paused to think about the wonderful woman who had raised m
e between these elegant walls. I still could picture my mom seated on the edge of her favorite floral print couch, watching me with a smile as I played with blocks and super hero figures in the middle of the floor; or as we shared a special movie or TV show that we’d watched umpteen times—memorizing every line and singing every song.

I thought tenderly about the close relationship I had shared with my mother as I stared
out the panes of some elegant French doors to the back yard area where she and I once played and had long conversations about everything from school to our family life to my future. A future that I always thought would include her.

I also paused to remember all of the delicious meals that we shared in our family dining room; I turned now to step into this room, adorned as it was with plush mauve carpeting, as well as a long table lined with a lace cloth, ivory linens and hand embroidered placemats.

How I wished I was sitting down to enjoy one of Mom’s famous chicken dinners, with her by my side as we clinked our glasses together and shared one of our many private jokes.

Instead I approached our table alone; drawing a deep sigh as I prepared for what I feared woul
d be a far less pleasant meal. Taking my usual seat at the side of the table, I greeted Ellie, the adorable grey haired woman that had served as my family’s maid for the past 30 years, and thanked her profusely as she presented me with a silver platter topped with a steaming serving of turkey and dressing; along with some generous sides of seasoned vegetables and cranberry sauce.