The Billionaire's Heart (The Silver Cross Club Book 4) (6 page)

When I got back to the office, Elliott was sitting at his desk, suit jacket slung carefully over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up to bare his freckled, ropily muscled forearms. It was amazing that he was so pale after spending—what had Carter said?—the last
year
, at least, in Africa. He must have used some high-octane sunblock. Or maybe he carried around a parasol like the Japanese tourists did.

“Coffee delivery,” I said brightly, walking toward him with the cups in my hands.

He looked up from his computer and blinked, brow furrowed like he wasn’t quite sure why I had interrupted him. Then his expression cleared, and he reached for the coffee. “Full of sugar, I hope,” he said.

“You’ll be bouncing off the walls like a toddler before naptime,” I said, and then wished I could stuff the words back in my mouth. Lord, couldn’t I ever shut up? “Uh, so can you tell me a little bit about the company?”

He nodded. “Pull up a chair,” he said. “I realize I didn’t give you many specifics when we spoke yesterday.”

No specifics at all, really, but I wasn’t going to quibble. I set my things down on my own desk and then wheeled my chair over and sat down. Elliott had pulled up some type of presentation on his computer screen.
Importance of Providing Clean Water to Sub-Saharan African Communities
, it read.

Oh boy. This was going to be dry.

I scooted my chair a little closer. He was wearing some sort of rich cologne, and I had a powerful urge to lean in and press my face against his neck and breathe. Who cared about a boring presentation when you had gorgeous eye candy to distract you?

“I want to build a better water filter,” Elliott said.

That wasn’t the opening I had expected. Maybe the presentation wouldn’t be so dry after all. “So you’re worried about water-borne diseases, right?” I asked. I had done some research over the weekend, and wanted to show off what I’d learned. I wanted to impress him. “I mean, I know that clean drinking water is a huge problem in many parts of the world, but what’s wrong with the water filters we already have? I’ve got one of those pitchers in my fridge and it works pretty well.”

“Right,” he said. He clicked forward a few slides, past pictures of sad African children and microbes. I’d passed that test, then. “You’re talking about commercial carbon filters. Those are excellent for removing bad tastes from water, but the one in your kitchen won’t filter out any microorganisms. Chlorine doesn’t kill protozoa, and boiling doesn’t remove chemical impurities, and it’s not very environmentally friendly. There are more options in urban areas, but in rural areas there are basically two solutions: dig a well, which is of course very time- and labor-intensive, or use a BioSand filter.” He clicked forward to a picture of a tall concrete cylinder. “These are very effective, but they have to be constructed and maintained, and it takes time for the water to filter through.”

He seemed like a different person when he was talking about his work: less inhibited, more animated. Even his hand gestures were more expansive. “Okay, that all makes sense,” I said. “So what are you planning to do?”

Mistake. His lips compressed. It was like watching a computer shut down. All of his eager openness disappeared. “I’m still working on the details.”

“You mean you don’t have a plan,” I said. Great. I’d be lucky if he could even afford to pay me for the four full weeks.

“That’s not entirely true,” he said, and rubbed one hand over his face. “I have some ideas. But I’m not an engineer, and I can’t afford to hire one right now. I need investors.”

“You need a marketing plan,” I said, realizing now why he had hired me. “So you want me to do a slick branding package, make you seem important, and then—that’s the conference you mentioned on Friday. You’re going to try to find investors.”

He nodded. “I need money before I can move forward.”

“Can’t Carter give you money?” I asked. “And aren’t you rich, too? Carter doesn’t know anyone who isn’t rich.”

“You aren’t rich,” he pointed out.

“That’s different,” I said. “He only knows me because of Regan. Hit him up for some cash, he’s got more than he knows what to do with.”

“He offered,” Elliott said. “But…” He trailed off, and shrugged.

“You’re too proud, huh?” I asked. I knew how it was. I was the same way. “Okay, let’s do it. I’ll get you some investors. What else do I need to know?”

“I’ll direct you to some existing clean water charities so you can see how they’re presenting themselves,” he said. “For now, I’d like you to focus on developing a logo and a general scheme for visual branding. We’ll go from there.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll send you some color palettes by the end of the day.” I tipped my head to one side and considered him. “How come you’re doing this, anyway? There can’t be a lot of money in clean water.”

“I don’t imagine there will be,” he said.

I waited for him to continue, but after a few seconds, it was obvious that was all he was going to say. He hadn’t answered my question, but I wasn’t going to push it. “Well, I’ll get to work then,” I said.

He grunted and turned back to his computer. Okay. Conversation over.

I wheeled my chair back to my desk and opened my laptop. I didn’t understand Elliott at all. I had spent the weekend reading about clean water and international development, and it wasn’t
interesting
, necessarily, but it was
important
. It might even count as meaningful. The sheer number of people who died each year from dirty drinking water had stunned me. Maybe Elliott’s business plan wouldn’t work and his plans would fizzle out, but at least he was actively trying to make the world a better place. It wasn’t what I expected from a rich boy. Carter was kind, well-meaning, and philanthropic, but I couldn’t imagine him devoting himself to something so unglamorous as water filters.

But Elliott had a fire in him. I barely knew him, but it wasn’t hard to spot. He was on a mission. I wondered what had happened in his life that made him the way he was: odd, focused, intense. He had a dry, subtle humor that I liked, but he also seemed like he was so involved in his work that it was hard for him to remember other people existed.

I glanced over at him. He was frowning at his computer, hands poised over the keyboard.

Well, he wouldn’t be annoying company, at least. I would get
a lot
done, as long as I could keep myself from wasting all my time gazing at him longingly.

We definitely needed a coffee pot, though. Caffeine fostered creativity. Everybody knew that.

* * *

My first week working for Elliott was one of the busiest and most productive times of my life.

When I showed up on Tuesday morning, brand new coffee pot in my arms, Elliott was already at his desk, and his rumpled shirt and the three cardboard coffee cups beside him told me he’d been there for quite a while. I glanced at my watch. I wasn’t late. I was actually a few minutes early.

“Burning the midnight oil, Mr. Sloane?” I asked.

He looked up at me, brow furrowing. “Sadie.” He stared at me for a moment. “Is that—”

“Yeah, I bought a coffee pot,” I said. “It was cheap, don’t worry. Consider it my investment in the company.”

“Hmm,” he said. He opened his mouth, and then seemed to reconsider whatever it was he had been about to say. “Please call me Elliott.
Mr. Sloane
makes me feel ancient.”

“You’re my boss, though,” I said. “I have to call you by your last name. It’s tradition.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Fuck tradition.”

The profanity was so unexpected that I burst out laughing. I’d thought Elliott was too buttoned-up to swear like that, but obviously I was wrong. I liked it. Strait-laced men were boring. “Okay,
Elliott
,” I said. “Whatever you want.”

His dedication to his work was infectious. I would have been inclined to slack off a little, maybe take fifteen minutes in the afternoon to look at cat pictures and text my brother, but Elliott spent all day sitting at his computer, barely moving, usually skipping lunch, and faced with that example, I couldn’t justify any wasted time. I had a set of preliminary logos drafted by the time I went home on Tuesday, and after a brief meeting with Elliott on Wednesday morning to select the best one and make some changes, I went to work on the full branding package.

Elliott was easy to work for. He didn’t have any irritating habits, like clearing his throat constantly or leaving used tissues crumpled on his desk to ooze pathogens. He was quiet. He didn’t try to talk to me when I was in the middle of something. But he wasn’t cold or aloof, either. We made polite chit-chat when I arrived each day and again before I left. And on Thursday, he actually ate lunch with me.

There was no lunch room, of course, so I had gotten into the habit of eating at my desk. On that particular day, Elliott had put on his coat and headed out a couple of hours earlier, for some mysterious errand he hadn’t bothered to explain to me, but just as I took out my lunchbox I heard the elevator doors open.

I watched him as he came in. The collar of his coat was turned up against the cold, and his face was flushed red, like he had been running laps. He looked cozy. I wanted to unbutton his coat and slide my hands inside. He would be warm and muscular—

I derailed that train of thought. “How’s the weather?” I asked.

He smiled at me, more with his eyes than with his mouth. His cheeks lifted and his eyes crinkled at the corners. It was a soft, intimate look, and I felt it straight down to the soles of my feet. “Frigid,” he said.

I was blushing. Just from him smiling at me. Oh, I didn’t stand a chance. I fumbled to remember what we were talking about. “It’s going to snow tomorrow,” I said.

“I heard,” he said. He was carrying a paper bag, and he set it down on his desk and shucked his coat. I looked away, refusing to let myself stare. Lunch. I was eating lunch. I unzipped my lunchbox, and he turned at the sound and watched me take out my leftovers and navel orange. “You’re eating lunch?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep the
no shit
out of my voice. I got the impression that Elliott sometimes stated the obvious just because he wasn’t sure what else to say. It was sort of sweet.

“Do you mind if I,” he said, trailing off and gesturing to my desk.

Did I mind if he
what
? But I knew what he was asking, and I said, “Of course. Pull up a chair.”

He joined me at my desk, and took a sandwich out of his bag. It was wrapped in wax paper and was leaking mayonnaise at one corner. It looked pretty gross.

My face must have reflected some of what I was thinking, because he said, “What do you have for lunch, then, that’s so much better than my sad deli sandwich?”

“Leftovers,” I said primly. “Chickpea salad with walnuts and balsamic dressing.”

“Sounds healthy,” he said, and smiled again. “But I’ll bet mine tastes better.”

I gaped at him, too surprised that he was teasing me to think of a snappy comeback. “Well,” I said.

Still smiling, he unwrapped his sandwich.

I decided it was time to change the subject, and grasped at the first thing that came to mind. “So what does the name of the company mean?” I asked. “Zawadi Ya Maji.”

I was sure I was mispronouncing it, but he didn’t correct me. “Hmm,” he said. “Gift of water, in Swahili.”

“That’s what they speak in Uganda?”

“Yes,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. Getting information out of this man was like squeezing blood from a stone. “I thought it was more of a lingua franca,” I said, showing off a little. “Don’t they speak it all through East Africa?”

He sighed deeply, like I was causing him indescribable amounts of pain with my questions. “That’s true. There are a number of languages spoken in Uganda. Each ethnic group has its own language, and they can be highly politicized. I picked Swahili because of its relative neutrality, although it’s less neutral in Uganda than it is in other East African countries. I thought of using Luganda, but that could be interpreted as aligning myself with a particular group.”

“I took an African history course in college, and the professor said that’s why the colonial languages are still used in so many countries,” I said. “Because every country has so many ethnic groups, and they all speak different languages, so if the president gives a speech in French, or whatever, it’s less likely to piss people off.”

“That’s exactly right,” he said. “That’s also why many countries have multiple official languages.”

“My international relations lesson for the day,” I said dryly.

To my surprise, he looked chagrined, and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to lecture.”

“You’re not lecturing,” I said. “I asked you a question, and you answered it. You happen to know more about this topic than I do. If you asked me a question about graphic design, you wouldn’t be able to get me to shut up before dinnertime.”

He chuckled. “I suppose that’s fair.”

So all in all, it was a pretty good week.

By Friday afternoon, I had enough of the branding work done to show him.