Defying Dorian: Bad Boy Billionaire Romance (27 page)

B
y the time
I finished the conversation with Katy my mind was clouded with a mish-mash of to-do’s.

Frantic, I pulled up the proposal I’d sent, grabbed a pad of paper, a pen and immediately began to scratch out a list of calls I’d have to make all over town. I rolled the hard plastic of the pen back and forth in my fingertips as I brainstormed. However, only a few minutes into my note taking, my email notification chimed once again.

“Uh, now what?” I groaned.

Knowing I’d never get anything done with it incessantly alerting me all day long, I picked up my tablet to silence the distraction. But before doing so, I checked to make certain nothing urgent needed my attention. As it turned out, the email was a notice from my bank that the deposit went through.

Thank God.

Now at least I would have the money I needed to put down on his transportation and hotel not to mention grease a few palms at some of the better restaurants and nightclubs around town, if required.

I was hoping it wouldn’t be necessary but since most of the people holding those jobs were Trevor’s friends to begin with, I needed every little bit of help I could get. God forbid there was somewhere Mr. Sinclair wanted to go and I couldn't make it happen. That would probably be the end of my entire business right there. Too much was at risk not to take whatever measures I had to, even if that meant cutting into my profit margins to do it.

With that bit of financial reassurance now in hand, I spent the next few hours making what seemed like a million calls. For whatever reason, things were going my way and because of that, time flew by. In fact, it was past one o’clock by the time I realized I still hadn’t eaten anything all day. In the wake of my breakfast disaster and the ensuing conversation with Katy, I’d worked straight through the morning. Now famished, I’d reached my low blood sugar limit.

The kitchen stool groaned on the linoleum floor as I pulled it up to the counter and sat down to grab a quick bite before I made the final arrangements for transportation to the airport. And last, but certainly not least, I had to figure out what the hell I would wear when I picked up Mr. Sinclair.

Like an idiot, I assumed I would have time to shop for an outfit or two before I got my first job. But now I’d have to throw something together I could get away with wearing during the day and night, if it came to it. Hopefully it wouldn’t. In any case, I had to come up with something and quick.

With that, I plopped down over a savory meal of canned tuna and crackers. As the salted fish lingered in my mouth, I looked at my list and checked off the items I’d managed to get done. To my surprise, I’d made some decent progress.

Maybe Katy was right after all. With a little hustle I could pull this off.

Just then, my phone rang. With my mouth half full of crumbs and bits of fish, I grabbed it from the counter and flipped it over.

It was Katy.

I swallowed a dry, hard bite and pressed talk, “Hey.”

“How’s it going? You doing okay?” Katy asked.

I spent the next few minutes recounting my series of minor achievements to her and finished by explaining the dilemma I now found myself in when it came to what I would wear.

Unfortunately, even though she and I had similar styles, we didn’t have the same shape whatsoever. Katy was quite a bit shorter and curvier than me, which meant wardrobe sharing was out of the question. About the only thing she could offer me was my pick of her abundant accessories. Before we hung up, I thanked her and promised not to lose or break any of her things I chose to wear.

As I disconnected, I glanced down at my pitiful excuse for a lunch and decided I’d had enough. Besides, by that time it was closing in on two o’clock and I needed to get moving if I was going to get the car and get myself ready in time to meet Mr. Sinclair's private jet at Van Nuys airport.

After a hasty shower and an even worse attempt at shaving my legs, I wrapped a towel around myself and ran a comb through my wet hair as I made my way to the closet. As I walked, tiny droplets of water rolled from the rounded teeth of the comb down between my shoulder blades, causing me to shiver. I stopped in front of my sorry excuse for a wardrobe and sensed a deep-creased wrinkle form between my eyes. I scowled at the underwhelming choices that hung from plastic hangers of every color in the rainbow and as I did, a single thought dominated my mind.

What the hell do you wear to pick up a billionaire?

After a few more minutes of deliberation, I reached my decision and selected a low-cut, crimson cocktail dress and a cute pair of sling-back pumps. It was the closest thing I had to a power ensemble. The dress had enough sex appeal to capture any man’s attention but concealed what it should to command respect. I wanted him to remember me in one sense and forget me entirely in another.

Everything was going smoothly when about halfway through blow drying my hair, the power went out.

Seriously?

When does the power go out in LA?

Never is the answer. Well, hardly ever.

Shit, shit, shit.

As if losing power wasn’t bad enough, Katy’s apartment was in a section of the complex that only got direct sunlight in the morning. The only chance I had to get ready on time now was to use the flashlight on my phone.

My phone! It was nearly dead when I plugged it in before my shower.

I scrambled across my bed like a hillbilly sliding across the hood of his supercharger before climbing in through the driver’s side window and roaring off down a dusty country road. Nearing the far edge of my bed, I wrapped my fingers around my phone and spun it back towards my face.

Eighteen percent charge left. Damn…

At this point there was nothing I could do except move as fast as I could and hope to get the limo driver on the phone and here to pick me up, before the power drained from the battery for good. Fifteen minutes later, I hopped down the hall in one heel while trying to slip the other one on at the same time. I nearly had it when I hit a soft patch in the linoleum and my plant foot slid out from underneath me.

The next thing I knew I was flat on my butt.

Okay, Maddie. This is the part where you need to calm down. Breathe girl. Let’s take it down a notch.

Still clutching my remaining shoe in my hand, I blew a bunch of hair out of my eyes and checked the time and remaining battery on my phone.

Twenty minutes to four and eleven percent remaining.

With a final shrug of resolve, I tossed my hair back from my face altogether. I flipped through my address book, located the number for the car service and pressed ‘talk’. As I waited for an answer, there was no question I’d be at that airport in time to pick up Mr. Sinclair.

This was going to happen and nothing was going to stop me.

* * *

I
’d pulled it off
.

After calling in a last second favor with the car service, I was
just
going to make it. At five minutes to five o’clock, the limousine pulled along the frontage road to the Van Nuys airport.

“What terminal ma’am?” Armando, the driver, asked from the front seat.

“Terminal One.”

Reaching down, I smoothed the fabric of my dress. If nothing else, I hadn’t eaten much all day so I looked as good as I could under the circumstances. Otherwise, I hoped my still half-wet hair wouldn’t be too off-putting. When the car swung around towards the runway, I reached into my purse and as a last ditch measure pulled out a tube of texturizing taffy. A quick pass through my hair would hopefully stave off the inevitable flyaways that were sure to come.

“Terminal One just ahead, Miss Olsen. It looks as if the plane is arriving right now.”

The driver’s words jarred me back into awareness. My half-empty stomach gurgled as the vehicle began to slow and then, a few moments later, came to a full stop. As the driver got out, I flipped my compact open and took one more look when a final horrifying thought hit me. I felt the slightest twinge of moisture in my armpits.

Oh my God… No deodorant!

And so it was, clammy and disheveled, I would meet a billionaire for the first time in my life. Just then, the door cracked open and the driver’s hand passed through as he reached to help me out. At the last instant, I managed to wipe the palm of my hand across my lap, ridding myself of the moisture I was certain it contained.

“Thank you, Armando,” I said, as I emerged from inside the vehicle.

Though it was noisy, I found myself caught off guard by the relative calm of the airport. As Mr. Sinclair’s plane approached, I cast my gaze down the rows of private aircraft, which extended as far as I could see. The late afternoon sun reflected hues of blood orange and fire engine red off the multi-million dollar fuselages.

There was a sense of order to it all.

Powerful men with expensive toys commanding their slice of the universe, bending it to their will. A smile crept to the corner of my mouth as the largest plane of them all neared our position. Swallowing us with its shadow, the aircraft came to a halt as two men with neon yellow ear protection scampered to brace the plane’s wheels with bulky rubber chocks. Just then, a rogue gust of wind generated by the plane’s final stop blew past my face and sent my hair flying.

A blessing in disguise. Now at least I have something to blame that rat’s nest on.

A time period equivalent to
forever
seemed to pass before there was any noticeable activity from inside the plane. At last, the cabin door slid open with a hiss. Lifting my hand to shield my eyes from the setting sun and get a better view, I half expected a cloud of stage smoke to billow out as well.

It was quite the spectacle.

“That’s some plane isn’t it, ma’am?” Armando asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, sure is.”

“Have you met him before? Mr. Sinclair?”

I shook my head and began to reply when I noticed a shadow draw across the open portal. I squinted a bit harder, cutting through as much of the sun’s glare as I could when he appeared.

The late afternoon sun cast an angular shadow across his square jawline. Easily more than six feet tall, his muscled, lean frame cut a masculine presence at the top of stairs. For a moment I watched as he scanned his surroundings before angling his view down towards us. After turning his head to deliver what I assumed was some last minute instructions to the flight crew, he flicked his arms at the elbow, repositioning his suit coat with precision. Straightening his tie as he descended, Greyson Sinclair sauntered down the stairwell leading from the side of the plane to the ground, mere feet away from the waiting limo and… me.

As he approached, he gave a curt nod to the driver and then stopped, perhaps no more than a foot from my face. Unsure, and not used to strangers invading my personal space, I stepped back a bit as the hint of smile came to the corner of his mouth.

“Miss Olsen?” he said, as he once more closed the distance between us.

I sensed the sun-warmed metal of the car through the sheer backside of my dress as he moved me towards it with his approach. Unable to side step his advance, I instead thrust my hand in his direction to stop him in his tracks. He paused for an instant, looked down at my hand, fingers ramrod-straight in defiance. The scent of his cologne, a heady mix of pine and musk, wafted into my nose as his eyes drew upwards to meet mine.

The peripheral world around me blurred as I found myself transfixed, completely unaccustomed to such a greeting. When his eyes at last locked with mine, I became aware my mouth had dropped open, enough so he’d notice. The dry air of hot runway sent my tongue towards my lips as I swallowed and gathered what little moisture I could from the narrow space between us.

“Miss… Olsen?” he said once again. Only this time his tone didn’t carry an inquisitive tilt but rather a challenging edge bordering on a demand.

Sensing the hint of impatience in his voice, I smiled, just as Katy had instructed. I flashed the biggest mouthful of gleaming white I could muster and replied, “Yes, Mr. Sinclair, my name is Madeline Olsen but you can call me Maddie.”

Still refusing to shake my extended palm, he instead lifted his hand towards his chin and pinched it between the thumb and forefinger. Small tufts of his hair threatened to shift out of position as a breeze stirred the stillness between us. He narrowed his gaze on me for an instant, nodded in a deliberate manner and said, “When I ask you a question, I expect an answer. Don't let it happen again.”

With that, he broke eye contact with me and nodded towards the driver, who hustled to the car and opened the door for Mr. Sinclair to get inside. I watched as he vanished from sight. My hand went limp as my arm fell back to my side.

Great job Maddie. Really great.

I puffed my cheeks and blew a deep exhale as I turned to follow him inside the car. As I did, I closed my fingers against the inside of my palm.

The clamminess had returned.