Come and Get Me: The Magister Series, Book 2: A Billionaire Romance Page 2

  Sandra poked glumly at the pieces of grilled chicken with her plastic fork. New York City had over eight million people in it, but somehow it was still a lonely place. Where was her patchwork gaggle of friends who hung out in coffee shops and got up to wacky hijinks?

  Through the door, she heard somebody in Kristen’s group laugh. If she sniffed, she could smell the weed. Maybe having a patchwork gaggle of friends was overrated.

  She reached into her purse and unzipped the inner pocket so she could pull out Charles’s note. The words hadn’t changed. This is yours, as am I.

  Sandra rubbed her thumb along the heavy cream paper. She wasn’t alone. She had somebody, somebody wonderful, somebody who lit her up like the sun. She had him. Didn’t she?

  Her rational brain reminded her that it had only been twenty-four hours since she’d seen him. The rest of her screamed that it had been twenty-four whole hours since she’d seen him, and after two days of basically fucking him nonstop, the transition was a little rough.

  She took her phone out of her purse and chewed her bottom lip. She probably shouldn’t call him, not with the Harold-and-Kumar crowd just on the other side of the door. Besides, it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet, and he was probably still at work. She could text him, but she couldn’t think what to say. It would seem so banal to ask how his day was, and she was pretty sure she shouldn’t sext Charles Magister, so that was out too.

  Besides, he was busy. He wouldn’t exactly be waiting on her call. He stayed late at the office, and he’d have to deal with all the bullshit from the Bradley situation too. The last thing he’d want would be Sandra distracting him.

  “Ugh,” she groaned, totally disgusted with herself. This wasn’t like her at all. She wasn’t going to sit around and bitch and moan because she couldn’t be with her lover and she didn’t have any friends. She could make friends. She could chase down some Pratt alumni on Facebook, or check in with Pattern Drift, or find a goddamn book club or something.

  And she could do what she’d been planning to do all day. Sandra took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and glanced toward her old writing desk, where she’d placed the pretty little shopping bag from Blacker & Kooby. The stationery store was one of her favorite haunts in the city. When she’d arranged events at Pattern Drift, she’d used them for all the invitations, and she got her own personal stationery there as well.

  So it had seemed like the natural choice for unmarked paper too. She couldn’t exactly write to Charles on paper and envelopes engraved with her full name and address, and really, she’d take any excuse to shop at B&K.

  Feeling a little better about life, Sandra finished the rest of her salad, and then went to rummage through her desk drawer for the fountain pen her dad had given her six years ago. This would be a good way to finish up her day.

  Well…almost finish. There was one other thing to take care of. She should call her parents and tell them she’d broken up with Bradley. She wasn’t sure how they’d take it—they’d seemed to like him okay when they’d met him, but not long ago, Sandra’s mother had said he took all the fight out of Sandra. It obviously hadn’t been a compliment.

  Just then, on the other side of the door, music began to blare. She heard Kristen’s friends laughing again. They sounded loud, dumb, and happy.

  Well, Sandra thought as she fished out her pen, there were worse things to be.

  CHAPTER TWO

  How long did it take for Stephen to go the hell home?

  Charles supposed this was his fault. He’d created what the last round of consultants had called “the corporate culture.” Employees of Magister Enterprises knew that even if the workday officially ended at five, they’d be fired if they went home before six. This didn’t count during times of crisis or major change, of course, when everyone was at the office until ten, or even overnight.

  Charles had always felt that one should lead by example, and something constantly demanded his attention, so he usually found himself leaving the office after eight. He would return the next morning at seven thirty. And why not? He had no wife or children, no family to make demands on his time.

  Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He had family. Two siblings and one very troublesome nephew. And right now, his brother was—oh, what was the term?—cockblocking. That was it. A quarter till eight and Stephen was still in his office, hard at work with his usual good cheer. If Charles left now, Stephen would know something was up.

  Charles looked down at the note in his hand and ground his jaw, wondering if a man could actually die from impatience.

  It had arrived with the afternoon mail, one day after he’d sent Sandra her barrette. His secretary Violet had presented it to him with a raised eyebrow. “I didn’t recognize the name,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if I should open it for you.”

  Charles had flipped the envelope over, and his heart had nearly stopped. The name on the return address was L. Fox.

  Everything was written in Sandra’s unmistakably neat hand. He recognized it from the thank-you note she’d sent him after the dinner party where they’d met.

  “No, this is fine,” he’d said, keeping his face and voice perfectly calm. “Thank you.” Violet had nodded and left.

  The rest of the afternoon had been excruciating. He’d decided that he wouldn’t look at the note while he still had work to do. He’d wait until he had time to read it in privacy and then call her, because it had been a day and a half since he had heard her voice.

  Pathetic. He’d gone without sex for three years, and the last week had seen him ruled by his cock. Enough already. He’d vowed not to open the note until he went home.

  He’d broken the vow at 2:36 p.m. precisely, when he’d come back from lunch with a subsidiary CEO, idly picked up the envelope, and caught the whiff of Sandra’s perfume. Now the envelope lay in his waste bin, its flap ripped apart because he’d forgotten all about his letter opener.

  Sandra’s previous thank-you note had been written on heavy stock paper with her name and address embossed at the top. This stationery had no such identifying information. It did have a little dandelion in the bottom right corner.

  I received your kind present this morning, the note read. Thank you so much. I’m sure I’ll find a use for both items.

  Items? He was an item? His momentary indignation had vanished when he continued to read:

  I’d like to give you something too, but I don’t think you need jewelry. Think about what you do need…or at least about what you’d like. If you’re stumped, I’ve got a few ideas.

  Ready when you are.

  He was ready, all right. When he’d finished reading it, he’d had to drink a glass of ice-cold Perrier and count backward from one hundred by prime numbers. And then he’d had to run a conference call with the Los Angeles office and try not to think about being up to his balls in the most beautiful woman on Earth. The minx. She’d pay for this.

  He’d made it through the rest of the day. Somehow. And now here he was, unable to leave. He could fake a sudden illness, but he never got sick. Stephen and Violet might actually call an ambulance.

  Prisoner of his own mystique, that’s what he was.

  At 7:52 p.m., Charles said to his office, “Fuck it,” and took out his BlackBerry. He’d think of something else going forward. He’d start encouraging Stephen to go home earlier, spend more time with Craig, have a life of his own. Whatever worked. But for now…

  Sandra picked up on the second ring. “Hi there,” she said softly.

  Charles actually had to close his eyes. It was the same tone she would have used to greet him in person; he could imagine her little smile, followed by a kiss.

  He clenched his free hand into a fist, dug his fingernails into his palm, and wondered how it had come to this. “Good evening,” he managed.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  Besotted, beguiled, and weak. “Perfectly adequate,” he said. “And you?”

  “I’m…” She sounded a little taken aback.
“I’m, um, adequate too. Did you get my note?”

  Charles picked the note from where it lay on his desk and brought it back up to his nose. “Yes.”

  “So…what did you think?”

  “I think you’ve got beautiful handwriting,” he said, eyeing the elegant script. “And I’m glad you don’t write with a ballpoint. That always shows a certain lack of appreciation for the finer things.”

  Silence. He could picture her dropped jaw.

  Then she said, “Well, I use ballpoints at work all the time. I save my fountain pen for special stuff. You know, when I want to make a good impression. Did I make a good impression?”

  This could not be happening. He could not be getting hard while talking about office supplies. Charles cleared his throat. “I was intrigued.”

  “Oh, good,” she said. “I know you’re busy. It probably takes something really interesting to get your attention. I bet you haven’t even thought about anything but work all day.”

  His cock twitched. “No, not at all,” he agreed. “Not today or yesterday, either.” Yesterday, the longest and most tiresome day he could remember in a long time, when he’d ordered himself not to call her because that would just be sad. Might even frighten her off. Surely the last thing she’d want would be a man so desperate for her that he pestered her night and day.

  And she had a life of her own, work of her own. He must remember that.

  Hearing the strain in his voice, he said, “What have you been up to?”

  “Just work, really,” she said. “That and trying to dodge my sister. She was stoned when I got home yesterday. Jesus, she’d already told all her friends that I broke up with Bradley.”

  “How irritating.” Charles paused for maximum effect. “There’s a solution to that, you realize.”

  “You’re not setting me up in a love nest,” she said firmly.

  “No, of course not.” He strode to the window that overlooked the East River. “Don’t think about it for a minute. Don’t think about privacy…”

  “Nope.”

  “Luxury…”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Your own bathroom…”

  “I’m not—oh wow. I mean, no!”

  He smirked at his own reflection in the glass. It would only be a matter of time. He was tempted to go ahead and buy something, but he’d find more satisfaction in letting her shop around, knowing she could pick out whatever she liked. She’d see for herself what he could do for her. “As I said, don’t think about it.”

  “I’m not. I’m thinking about you. Kristen’s watching TV with the volume turned up, and I’m thinking about you.”

  Charles got goose bumps everywhere. He’d never heard a clearer invitation to phone sex in his life. And while part of him yearned for Sandra any way he could get her, the rest of him remembered that he could be interrupted at any moment, and he’d rather not have his hand down his pants at the time.

  Besides. Even if he was safely alone, phone sex wouldn’t be enough. It would be torture, actually. Unable to touch her, hold her, do all the things they talked about? Why not just walk on a bed of hot coals?

  He’d gone without for too long to be satisfied with less than the whole.

  “I’m still at the office,” he said between his teeth. “Let’s not start something we can’t finish.”

  After a pause, she said with an uncertain laugh, “You know what I almost said? I almost said ‘maybe you can’t finish,’ and then I was going to…” She gulped.

  He’d been wrong. If there was anything more tortuous than phone sex, it would be listening to Sandra having an orgasm halfway across town without him. “You are a cruel, cruel creature,” he growled.

  “You said I wasn’t cruel,” she reminded him, sounding wistful. “You said I was sweet.”

  Charles closed his eyes again. “Yes, I did.” So sweet. With a mouth like honey. Why wasn’t she here in his arms, and damn all the rest? “If you want to prove you’re not cruel, talk to me about something else.”

  Yes, talk to him. Even if he couldn’t have more, he’d have her company for a little while, and that might make the night bearable.

  “Uh…okay,” she said. “Well, let me see. We could talk about your house? I’ve got people going in tomorrow to take down the wallpaper, and on Thursday to sand and polish the floorboards. I’ll e-mail you pictures of the new patterns I’d recommend, see if you have an opinion.” Her voice became more teasing. “Though I can’t imagine you having opinions about things.”

  He could see the Brooklyn Bridge from here. She was just on the other side. Cobble Hill was near the river. At the moment, it seemed as if she was an ocean away. “Not me,” he agreed. “That’s what people say about me all the time, that I never speak my mind.”

  “That Charles Magister, he just can’t make a decision to save his life,” Sandra said.

  “Exactly,” he replied. She laughed. “When are you going back to the house?”

  “Once you choose the wallpaper and I get it ordered. I’ll go in to check on the progress, but of course Warrick’s also there to keep an eye on things. I’ve also picked out a couple of pieces to add that I think you might like, but I’m not ordering those without your say-so.”

  Choosing wallpaper and knick-knacks sounded both tedious and a waste of time. Charles hoped this whole process wouldn’t take long. Eleanor had taken care of this sort of thing once upon a time. Sandra’s jokes aside, he’d always known his opinion was nice, but not necessary, and could be safely ignored.

  In a perfect world, Rosalie would be taking care of this on his behalf, working with Sandra while Charles paid for everything. But this wasn’t a perfect world, and his sister saw Sandra as a potential threat to her son. She’d do anything to protect Bradley. Charles refused to put Sandra within striking distance.

  Why hadn’t he met her first? Why hadn’t their paths crossed in some improbable way so that he could have laid his claim at once? It would have been much simpler.

  “Charles?” Sandra prompted. “You there?”

  He shook himself. “Yes, of course.”

  “Am I distracting you?” She sounded serious now. “It sounds like this could be a bad time.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up,” he said at once. “I’ve missed your voice.”

  Then he winced. Hell. He let down his guard for one single moment, and that’s what fell out of his mouth.

  “I’ve missed yours too,” she said shyly. Warmth spread through his whole body. “I really want to see you again. Soon. Can we?” Now she sounded a little hesitant, as if afraid she was overstepping her bounds. “Maybe I can arrange to be at the house again on Friday.”

  Another weekend with her, sealed away from the rest of the world. It would be heaven. With deep regret, Charles sighed and said, “I’ve called a family meeting in town on Friday night. I expect it will be long and very unpleasant.”

  “A family meeting? Oh.” She sighed too. “How’s it going with Bradley? I almost don’t want to ask.”

  “I almost don’t want to tell you.” Mostly because even thinking about Bradley set his teeth on edge. “But the truth is, there’s nothing to tell yet. He arrived at work on time both yesterday and today, which I think is some kind of record. He’s got a report due to me tomorrow, and he e-mailed me this morning, apprising me of his progress.”

  “So he’s behaving himself,” Sandra concluded. “You must have scared the shit out of him.”

  Charles smiled wryly. “I did my best.”

  “I bet your best is pretty good in that department.”

  “My best is pretty good in all departments.” It was a fact, not a boast.

  Sandra laughed. “Oh yeah? Then I can’t wait to see your best…I don’t know. Knitting?”

  “My best is pretty good in all departments within reasonable expectation,” Charles amended. She laughed again.

  God, he missed her. He fucking ached with it. It might be absurd, but it was a fact. “Come to my apa
rtment on Friday,” he said impulsively. “When it’s over. Spend the night with me.”

  Her breath caught. “Okay,” she whispered. “Three days. That’s doable, right?”

  She didn’t sound any more confident than he felt. “I hear it was good enough for Jesus,” he said. “We’ll manage too.”

  “Yeah. We will.” After a pause, she added, “I don’t want to sound pathetic or anything, but three whole days is a lot of hours.”

  She was right. Somehow it didn’t help to know that she was just as impatient as he was. It only made it worse. Here they were, two horses straining at the bit. “It’s not as bad if you don’t include the time you sleep,” he said.

  “You sound like you’ve been thinking about this too.”

  “Maybe a little,” he admitted. He wasn’t used to this. It had certainly been a novel experience to sit across from Bernard Hussman at lunch and try not to think about sex. Luckily, Bernard had a no-nonsense approach to business and revolting table manners, both of which had made it easier.

  “Think about this,” Sandra said, sounding strangely matter-of-fact. “Even if you don’t want to listen in, I’m going to get myself off after we hang up. I can’t help it. Your voice is driving me nuts.”

  His breath caught. “Cruel,” he whispered again. “I ought to drive over there and—”

  The intercom on his desk buzzed. “Charles?” Stephen’s voice called.

  “—and—hold that thought,” Charles said. He kept the phone at his ear as he pressed the call button on the intercom. “Yes, Stephen?”

  “I think I’m going to call it a night,” Stephen said, his voice a little crackly with static. “Want to throw in the towel with me? We can get a drink at the Union.”

  “Oh,” Sandra said in Charles’s ear. She sounded disappointed.

  Charles paused. “Just a minute,” he told Stephen, and lifted his finger from the call button. Then he asked Sandra, “Are you all settled in for the night?”

  After a second, she said, “I can get changed.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Where? Your apartment?”

  He looked out the window again, toward the Brooklyn Bridge. “My office is a lot closer.” Insanity. Stupidity. They’d discussed this fantasy before—hell, they’d wrestled together on the leather couch right over there—but he’d fire any employee for doing what he was about to do. It was beyond inappropriate. Besides that, there were security cameras at the doors and in the elevators, even in the lobby just outside his office doors.