The Heir & I: Taming The Billionaire (9 page)

“I’ll have what she’s having.”

Bolting upright and out of Oliver’s arms, I bounded toward our table;
collecting my purse and turning for the door.

“I’m taking a cab home,” I said over my shoulder, avoiding Oliver’s probing gaze and vigorous words of protest as I trotted acro
ss the floor. “I do believe, Oliver, that we’re doing too good of a job enacting this charade. It’s starting to feel just a little too real.”

These words echoed in my mind the next morning, as I walked with slow, trudging steps into our office suite; groaning aloud as I spotted a shiny gold bracelet await
ing me at the center of my desk, its gleaming surface catching the light as it seemed to await my arrival. This sight came as an unwelcome capper to a long and nearly sleepless night; one dotted with forbidden dreams of the man for whom I was beginning to develop a genuine affection. That is, when he wasn’t annoying me to no end.

“Oliver!”
I called aloud, rolling my eyes heavenward as my boss sauntered casually around the corner. “What did I say yesterday? I really do appreciate the gifts, but this gold bracelet is just too much…”

“This is one of the bracelets I bought for you yesterday, at Dalton’s Department Store,” he interrupted me, making a broad gesture in the direction of the con
troversial bauble. “You wore it to dinner then, after our dance, you wrenched yourself so violently from my arms that your bracelet came off in my hand.”

I froze.

“Oh, I see,” I let loose with a self-conscious chuckle, quickly retrieving the lost baubl
e and affixing it to my wrist. “Sorry about that.”

Oliver chuckled.

“And I in turn am sorry if I came on a little too strong last
night,” he allowed with a nod. “We’re having such a wonderful time together, and sometimes I get lost in the moment.”

I sighed.

“I’m having a wonderful time too,” I admitted, adding with a shrug, “I think we just need to remember to
keep our heads about ourselves and, furthermore, to think with those heads as opposed to other, more delicate body parts.”

Oliver nodded.

“Never an easy proposition for me,” he mutt
ered, tone completely serious. “I think I have an idea, though. Why don’t we have a day date this Saturday? I could meet you at the Remington Country Club, where my family has a running membership, and treat you to some tennis lessons.”

I thought
for a moment, then nodded.

“It’s a public place, we’ll be out in broad daylight, and our only vigorous physical activity will involve a tennis racket and some—um—balls,” I finished weakly, adding with a curt nod, “Sold.”

Chapter F
ive

~

Lily

Driving up the tree lined boulevard that fronted the Remington Country Club, I basked in the vision of the ebullient florals that lined my route; the ruby red roses, golden hibiscus and lavender lilies that filled the meadow beside me.

And in the midst of all this fragrant greenery was a man that himself resembled a sprite of the forest, with his thick, flowing cinnamon hair, round cocoa eyes and flawless features; if, that is, forest sprites ever made it a habit of wearing skintight blue jeans and a partially buttoned shi
rt. Oh, and freshly polished cowboy boots.

“Sheesh,” I said aloud, grinning through gritted teeth as he waved to
me from the midst of the meadow where he sat in the center of a checkerboard blanket lined with what appeared to be various food items. “He doesn’t have to be quite that hot, does he? I mean, really…”

Just briefly I lowered my gaze to regard my own apparel for the day; a crisp white tennis dress delivered to me just that morning via the nice folks at Dalton’s; who, I’d noticed, had gotten a heck a lot nicer since my ‘benefactor’ had sta
rted paying my tab at the store; indulging my every whim and buying me just the perfect outfit for every occasion, including this one.

My lovely white cotton tennis dress bore a V-necked pattern of pearl pink beads at the collar and f
lared flatteringly at the skirt; highlighting and accentuating my curvaceous form.

Sure, the outfit is cute enough,
Let’s just hope that my terminal cuteness somehow makes up for the fact that I can’t play tennis. Indeed, I can assure everyone that even Oliver is not going to ‘love’ my loves out there on the court.

Pulling up to the side of the curb, I parked my car
and made my way into the meadow, coming to an abrupt halt at the border of the blanket.

“So you asked me to meet you on the tennis courts,” I told Oliver, adding with arched eyebrows, “It looks like you only made it half way to the courts before collapsing exhausted in the middle of this blanket.”

Oliver laughed.

“Actually Lily,” he revealed, spreading his arms across a spread that included thick, succulent ham slices, brie with crackers, succulent chocolate bon bons and a bottle f
illed with sparkling champagne. “I always prefer to have a bit of lunch before I play. Care to join me?”

Soon I found myself sipping champagne and chomping on brie as Oliver proceeded to quiz me about pretty much every aspect of my earthly existence.

“So Lily,” he asked at one point. “Did you always want to be a personal assistant?”

I shook my head.

“When I was kid, Oliver, I spent all of my time writing stories,” I to
ld him, smiling at the memory. “All through my childhood, I swore to everyone who would listen that I was going to be a world famous novelist. My parents indulged me to a point, but always suggested that I have a plan B, which quickly shifted to plan A when I turned 16. My dad was starting his own business and couldn’t afford to pay someone minimum wage to answer his phones and schedule his appointments. I became his PA and what little money I did make, I saved away for college.”

“And you did brilliantly at school, from what my father tells me,” Olive
r praised, tipping a crystal champagne flute in my direction. “Still I wonder… do you still write stories?”

I shook my head.

“When it comes to fanciful, romantic stories, I’m afraid I haven’t had much inspiration throughout the course of my adult life,” I snorted.

I took in my breath as Oliver sur
ged across the blanket, covering my hand with his as he said, “Well perhaps we could change that, my dear. Perhaps I could inspire you.”

Eager to change the subject instead, I cleared my throat and sai
d, “So what about you, Oliver? Did you always want to take the reins of your father’s business?”

Oliver shook his head.

“Actually, much like yourself, I always had an artsy side,” he revealed, pulling his hands back
as he seemed to take the hint. “I loved to draw and paint, and even had some work featured in some student art shows. My subjects basically included anything that didn’t move, from high school girlfriends to fast sport cars, usually ones I owned. Sometimes, though, I just liked to sit out in my mother’s garden and paint the roses and lilies.”

I shook my head.

“Honestly, Oliver, I never knew we had so much in common,” I declared, g
racing him with a gentle nudge. “I myself used to pen poems about these very same subjects… the flowers, that is. I never had any hot girlfriends or sports cars to speak of, and since my mom never did maintain a personal myriad of plants, I usually ended up out in a field somewhere, penning verse about violets.”

Oliver nodded.

“At one time, Lily, just about anything could inspire me to draw, sketch or paint,” he admitted
, tone soft and almost wistful. “My mom always encouraged and supported me, bless her heart, she came to every art show and even bought some of my work to put up in her study at home. She also encouraged her friends to check out and even buy my work. For a while I had a nice little business going, doing what I truly loved.”

I smiled.

“Your mom sounded like a wonderful woman, Oliver,” I told him.

Oliver nodded, ducking his head as he seemed to reflect on the woman he’d lost too soon.

“She was the absolute best,” he agreed finally
, tone soft and sincere. “And when she died, so did my dreams. Dad basically told me to throw away my paints and get my mind on the family business. He even went so far as to throw away the paintings and drawings that Mom kept in her study. He said he wasn’t about to support some artsy type who was afraid of a hard day’s work.”

I shook my head.

“Oliver, I’m so sorry,” I to
ld him, voice low and sincere. “I didn’t know.”

Oliver nodded.

“It explains a lot, doesn’t it?” he pressed me, adding as he raised his arms in a long, lazy stretch, “Maybe if I had been a
llowed to do what I really love, or at least give it a try,then I would be more committed to my work.”

I nodded.

“Perhaps
. On a general basis, people are always at their best when they’re doing something they love,” I agreed, adding with a smile, “Though I must say it, Oliver. Now that you have managed to apply yourself at work, you’re doing a great job. I’m really beginning to wonder if there’s anything you can’t do. You’re a financier, an artist, a connoisseur of fine food and wine… and, from what I gather, you play a mean game of tennis. Care to demonstrate this last skill for me, out there on the courts?”

Taking this as a definite hint, Oliver stood from the grass and offered me his arm; letting loose with a slow, very flattering wolf whistle
as I also rose, giving him his first good look at my fetching new tennis dress.

“You’re beautiful darling,” he praised, pressing two warm, full lips soft against my cheek as we cleared our green space.

“Thanks,” I nodded, adding with eyebrows arched, “Do I look cute enough to di
stract you from your game today, thus lending me a mere sliver of a chance to win one match? Or at least tie?”

Within moments I found myself standing on the green clay courts of the Remington Country Club; my plain white tennis shoes pounding the pavement as I ran back and forth; managing to strike every ball that Oliver shot in my direction—returning it clean and clear over the net, in the direction of my impressed opponent.

“Excellent!”
Oliver applauded me, all the while trying to keep up with my long, strong strokes and quick moves. “You’re a natural. And compared to many of my other dates, most of whom are scared senseless of chipping a fingernail or messing up their hair while playing, you bear a dangerous resemblance to a Wimbledon champion.”