Billionaire Brothers 2 : Love Has A Name (3 page)

That I did.

And now, PSFC was San Fran’s most famous luxury gym.

Three storeys high, PSFC was sumptuous and inviting with top-of-the-line equipment: ENEN, no less. Under one roof there was everything from spa to swimming pool to sauna to basketball courts. Professional fitness teachers of every kind from martial arts to kickboxing. Proud Sweat Fitness Center had it all and I absolutely loved it.

A timid knock sounded outside my office door and I mumbled for the knocker to enter. It was my assistant, Tish.

“Axia, the representatives of both Sweat2Forget and Fitness on Air have called again…” She hesitated. “They’re rather persistent. Are you sure you’re not interested?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

For the past two years I’ve been nagged non-stop with proposals to star in workout DVDs or have my own television program. Sweat2Forget and Fitness on Air were more persistent than others and seemed to hold the belief that one day I’d give in. Apparently, a body and fitness drive like mine would be perfect for reeling in the cash, making their asses wealthy and the consumers healthy. But for some reason, as good as it sounded, I wasn’t interested. I was quite contented with my stance in life and I didn’t dig unnecessary attention. ‘Twas the prime reason why I’d moved to San Fran from Los Angeles where my family resides — it’s just an hour-long soar away, but I don’t get harassed as much here.

Being the daughter of Vince Blacksille, proprietor of multi-billion-dollar armament company, Blacksilles’ Protekk
,
I inadvertently garnered unwanted attention in Los Angeles. Paparazzi kept snapping my photo and plastering me all over the Internet just for being Vince Blacksille’s daughter. At one point I was even asked to film a reality show. Ha! Laughable. People sure as hell would turn away if they knew the darkness of my life. Therefore, I moved to SF where people are somewhat more work ethical and less starry-eyed. People here kind of, well, didn’t give a shit.

“Okay,” Tish replied with a look of disappointment. “I’ve added four new members to your five o’clock spinning class and two to your 7am Quicksand class. So expect some new faces. All the staff have been alerted to the meeting tonight but Meredith, the yoga instructor, has come down with the flu so she will be absent all week —”

“Then how —”

“No worries. Hanna has agreed to do double time and fill in for her this week. There’s some malfunction with two of the treadmills so I’ve called the repair guys who’ll be here at 3pm. Oh, and there’s yet another complaint made about the new girl in the Juice Bar. That I’ll leave to you.”

The lean brunette who stood before me never disappointed. She was the most efficient assistant I’d ever had and I appreciated her more than she knew. Half the time when problems popped up, they were solved before I was even aware of them. “With an assistant like you around I’ll never have to worry about much, will I? You deserve a breath-depriving hug and a big slobbery kiss.”

Tish blushed as her eyes fell to the floor.
Oops, wrong choice of words.

“I’m just tryna tell you that I like having you around. Don’t wanna lose your assistance. So anything you want, just let me know.”

She didn’t look at me when she muttered, “I think you already know what I want,” before disappearing through the door.

Yeah, me.

Shaking my head, I reached for my cellphone and texted
“I’m sorry”
to Trudy for that little tiff with her boss, then got up and headed downstairs to the Juice Bar to mend this reoccurring problem.

As I entered the cool, all-glass space of my Juice Bar & Lounge, a fresh island breeze fragrance traveled on the air; the air freshener that I insisted the cleaners used. Oversized gray sofa chairs were organized neatly around cherrywood tables with fitness magazines strategically scattered in the middle, and blessed sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Once again, I commended Tish. She knew I liked everything clean and organized.

Set on righting this new employee who had managed to stir one too many complaints about her negligence even though she’d only been here four days, I strode up to the counter of the bar. Unaware of my presence, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor inside the bar, flipping through the pages of a magazine and bobbing her head to whatever music was pouring from her earplugs. My previous bar attendant of three years had left a week ago in migration to London. So this dark-haired, lip-pierced, tattoo-marked, Gothic-looking attendant was an emergency hire.

Still oblivious to my presence, she sucked on a straw from a large cup of smoothie until the cup made a gurgling sound, moaning that all its contents were consumed. With my eyes unmoving from this impossible girl, I pulled a bar stool beneath my rump and rested my elbows on the counter with my fingers steepled under my chin. Curious as to how long it would be before Gothic Girl realized that a possible customer was at the bar, I remained quiet. Surely she would have to look up some time within the hour.

Seven minutes ticked by before Gothic Girl finally stood up, but only to dance her way over to the ice machine and blend herself another smoothie, her head still bobbing to music that only she heard. When she was finished, she turned, saw me, and froze with her mouth on the straw. So it took her all of twelve minutes to notice I was there.

Unblinking, hands steepled, intimidation in effect, I glared.

Nervous — which was the usual effect I had on people — she hastily set her cup down on the counter and yanked the earplugs from her ears as her face flushed a deep shade of crimson. “Miss Blacksille, I’m so sorry, I —”

“Four days, six complaints,” I cut in a chilled tone. “Will I receive another, Marsha?”

“No. No, Miss Blacksille. I promise. I never —”

“Good.”

Cool, self-possessed and oozing intimidation, I stood up and held my hand out to her. Understanding, she wrapped her earplugs around her iPod and placed it in my hand. With one last pointed glare, I turned and left.

Unlike the average person, it took little to no effort for me to get people in line. To employee or non-employee, I tended to be quite intimidating. It was not something I tried, nor have I practiced to be this way. It was intrinsic; it was in my blood, my veins. My mother and father both carried the domineering gene, and through birth, I have been execrated with a double dose. Only a few were able to elicit a laugh or a smile from me, and Tish has recently become one of those persons. But most of the time I was serious and commanding, which is something I’ve been fighting to vanquish, but to very little avail.

No less than a minute after I re-entered my office and threw the confiscated iPod in my desk drawer, a knock sounded on the door and Tish entered with a huge
Victoria Secret
goody basket.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It was just delivered for you,” Tish answered with a disapproving frown. She added, “The sender is unknown,” when she deduced what my next question would be.

Obviously peeved by the gift, Tish set the basket down on my desk with unnecessary attitude and left. I stared in amusement at the door long after she’d vanished through it. Tish was the perfect assistant, but her ridiculous expectations and hopes of me suddenly becoming a dike one day were what I believed would ruin the good work relationship that we had. It was all I could give and no more, and trying to get her to understand that was a task. Had she not been so efficient at her job, she would’ve gotten the sack ages ago.

Turning my attention to the goody basket, I opened the small card that hung from a twirl of purple strings.

Sweet rack.
Amazing ass — um, back.
Pretty Positive that I guessed your correct cup size,
‘Cause I excel at that.
P.S. Your command was heeded. There better be a reward.

An eyebrow arched as I read the absurd words on the card. What the hell did this even mean and who the hell sent it? A combination of lacy lingerie, bras, frilly boy-shorts, moisturizers, body wash, body splash and colognes overflowed from the basket when I opened it. A sigh flowed through my nostrils as I sat back in my chair and stared at the commotion on my desk.

It’s been over a year since I’ve dated anyone, and I sure as hell haven’t given anyone the impression that I was searching. The sender — whoever the loser was — seemed to have gotten inside info that I was a sucker for
Victoria Secret
. The words on the card made no sense, and I was far from impressed. So I stood from my chair, grabbed my water bottle from the fridge, a towel from the cabinet and headed off to instruct my spinning class.

II

“
M
oving on to the most hated: hand stepping! Down, down … hands in position. Be sure your arms aren’t locked, guys. Keep ‘em soft. Don’t want anyone leaving here injured … ready … now go!”

From person to person, I panted out corrections as we neared the end of my early morning Quicksand class. Tish had informed me yesterday that she’d added two new members to this class, but I’d recorded only one new face when I started. As the exercises grew more rigorous, I’d stopped searching for the second new face, assuming they’d backed out.

“Up! Toss those steps aside and let’s conquer our last sixty seconds by sending those heartbeats into a frenzy with my favorite 100 meter sprints … Nuh uh, no groaning, guys. I
hate
groaners! Groaners are quitters and quitters are freakin’
losers.
You want that dream body? Then you should be doing these workouts with an earsplitting grin on your face. Keep your eyes on your goal, and that grin will never fade.
Never
groan in my class!”

I waited for everyone to put their steps to the side as they huffed and panted, sweating buckets, but never throwing in the towel. In these classes, everyone tried to impress, even when it was obvious they were spent. They’ve learned that going further and digging deeper during exercises was what really gave that desired body. And I was, indeed, impressed.

“On your marks … Get set … Go, go, go!!”

The room pumped with energy as they all sprinted as if their life depended on it — well, their bodies did. At thirty seconds, I yelled, “Impressive! Again, on your marks … get set … go! … This is your last thirty seconds, people, put all you got into it! Your body will be thanking you, believe me!”

It was then that I spotted the second new face, because he’d thrown in the towel and was propped up against the back wall guzzling hard at his water bottle. When the bottle was finally empty, he scowled at it as if cursing it for not having held more water and then tossed it to the side.
How dare that water finish on him
, I sarcastically mused.

Bending at the waist, he rested his hands on his knees, his chest heaving as he hustled for air. As if sensing my stare, he glanced up and narrowed his eyes at me.

With a smirk, I yelled, “Eight seconds, people … seven … six … five … four … three … two … one! Whooo! Well done! Now grab that water bottle, rejuvenate and come back in position for a rewarding cool down.”

As I instructed the class into relaxing stretches, the wonder of what
he
was doing here lingered in my mind. Why? I was sure he had his own in-house gym. Also, had he lent Trudy his ear? I hoped so. Since yesterday’s encounter, I hadn’t heard from her and she hadn’t returned my calls or text messages, so I held the assumption that she was still pissed at me and decided to give her some time to cool. And now
he
was here …

Once the class was dismissed, I sat cross-legged on the floor with my back against the all-mirror wall and sipped at my water, waiting for everyone to clear out. But this morning it was a slow process due to the attention that Pretty Boy Nelson garnered. The women gawked at him as if they’d never seen a man before and I felt like puking.

Everyone soon exited the room
except
him, and when he forwarded his steps in my direction, I knew I was in for annoyance. His tall, chiseled frame that dripped with sweat was clothed in red basketball shorts and a black, sleeveless tank that exposed the mature brawn of his long arms. He tossed his white towel around his neck and used one end to dry the sweat from his face.