Come and Get Me: The Magister Series, Book 2: A Billionaire Romance Page 3

  “Are you sure?” Sandra asked, echoing his thoughts. “I mean, I want to, but it’s risky. Right?”

  “Charles?” Stephen pressed over the intercom.

  One thing was for certain, he didn’t want to go out for a fucking drink. Charles mashed the button and said, “You go on ahead. I have” —what?— “a few more matters to take care of.”

  If Stephen noticed this was unusually vague, he gave no sign. “Well, if you’re sure. I think I’ll call Craig. If you want to meet us there, just give me a ring.”

  “Yes, of course,” Charles said, looking at his watch. It was nearly eight. “If not, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “All right. Good night. I’ll be gone in a few.”

  Charles wondered if he could march across the lobby and physically throw his brother into the elevator. “Good night, Stephen.” He took his finger off the button. “Right.”

  “How do we do it?” Sandra asked anxiously. The need in her voice made him throb. “I mean, has everyone else gone home already?”

  “Not everyone. Not enough.” Charles ground his jaw. “How long will it take you to get here?”

  “On the subway? If I take the 2…”

  “I’ll pay for a goddamned cab. That’s faster.” He frowned. “Isn’t it?”

  “Wow,” she laughed. “You really don’t know. Don’t worry about it. Just let me take care of it and I’ll get there as soon as I can. I’ll call you when I’m across the street, and you can tell me where to go.” Charles would prefer to tell the rest of the world where to go, and fast. “Bye!”

  She hung up, and Charles looked at the bridge again. He tapped his foot, feeling as if he couldn’t keep still, restless in his own skin. Maybe he really was coming down with something. He couldn’t stop looking at his watch.

  Then he remembered that he and Stephen weren’t the only people on this floor. Damn. He strode to his desk and pushed the second intercom button. “Violet?” he said.

  “Yes, sir?” his personal secretary replied.

  “Has my brother gone home yet?”

  “He just left in the elevator. Shall I call him back?”

  “No need,” Charles said at once. “I won’t be much longer myself. You can go home too.”

  After the briefest pause, Violet said politely, “Yes, sir. I’ll see you in the morning. Will that be all?”

  Next to Stephen, Violet was the person Charles trusted most at Magister Enterprises. Keeping this in mind, he didn’t tell her to get the hell out. Instead he said, as he would say on any other day, “Yes, thank you, Violet. Good night.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  She must be suspicious. Charles had, on occasion, sent her home before he left himself, but those occasions were usually when he stayed at the office overnight. Otherwise she was there with him, ready to leap into action—if a fifty-seven-year-old woman felt inclined to leap anywhere. She was even on call on the weekends, and was obscenely well remunerated for her efforts. Charles paid senior managers less than he paid Violet.

  And she knew better than to question him. She’d only done so once within recent memory—the last time Sandra visited his office. He certainly didn’t need her interference now.

  After five minutes, he opened his office doors and looked into the lobby. She was already gone. Violet never wasted time.

  That was clearly more than he could say for himself. Every passing second felt like torture. He knew there was something he could do. There was always something—reports to read, e-mails to send, calls to make, meetings to convene, something.

  But now there was Sandra, and that felt like everything, because love turned men into idiots.

  Love. Charles pursed his lips as he walked restlessly across the lobby with his hands in his pockets. He’d stepped in it this time. Of all the ridiculous things, love for a young girl he’d just met and who could ruin him. He felt like a caricature. Or a joke.

  But there was no sense in denying the facts as they were, and now he really was wasting time. He needed to have a plan for when Sandra arrived.

  Charles frowned at the elevator. It serviced only one floor. A security guard waited by the doors one floor down; from there, you exited the elevator and took another one that serviced the rest of the building.

  Or you took the other elevator, which didn’t. It was for executive use only, his and Stephen’s, and why not? It was their building. It would have made far more sense for the executive elevator to go all the way up to the top floor, but the impractical arrangement had been his father’s idea. Leon Magister had insisted it would be more “democratic” if everyone took the same elevator to get to the CEO’s office, as if that was supposed to fool anybody.

  The executive elevator connected directly to a side entrance to the building that was guarded by a manned security gate. Behind the gate, below ground, hid a garage with only two spaces. This was where Charles’s and Stephen’s cars waited with drivers always on call.

  Sandra was right. He didn’t know all that much about public transportation.

  Charles frowned again. He usually told his driver to drop him off at the front door of the building. It was important to be seen by his employees, to set a good example. Stephen preferred the private entrance—small wonder, perhaps, because he’d hidden his private life for decades. Maybe if you lived like that for so long, you got used to scurrying in and out of the shadows.

  Maybe Charles should get used to it too.

  He tapped his chin. Good God, why was this difficult? He could mastermind a hostile takeover with both hands tied behind his back, but he couldn’t figure out how to get a woman into a building without alerting all of New York.

  He didn’t need to alert all of New York. Just one person. There was always a security guard down at the private door who monitored the gate and let people—well, Stephen—inside the building. Charles remembered a conversation he’d had with Sandra only a few days ago: she’d asked him if he bribed people, and he’d told her it was expected.

  Indeed. Charles went to Violet’s desk, flipped open the directory, and called down to the security desk. After one ring, the guard picked up. “Hey, Miss Violet,” he said. “What can I do you for?”

  “This is not Violet,” Charles said, reaching for patience. It was none of his business how Violet built a rapport with the worker bees. “It’s Charles Magister.”

  After a pause, the guard said, “Oh! Um, yes, Mr. Magister. How can I help you?”

  Much better. Charles looked down again at the directory, which Violet had thoughtfully ordered by work shift. “You are Lewis Brown, correct?”

  “Uh, yes, sir,” Lewis Brown said, sounding alarmed.

  “A young lady will need to be let through the private door in…” How long would it take? The minutes were crawling like years. “Soon. She’s twenty-five years old and has long, red hair. Escort her inside to the private elevator.”

  “Ah, yes, sir. I’ll do that.”

  “I expect your full discretion. If I get it, you’ll be rewarded.”

  “Not a problem at all, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Fine.” Charles hung up. It was no different than corporate spying, he supposed. He hadn’t needed to resort to those tactics in a long time, but while his father was still in charge, Charles had greased the palms of many an underpaid chauffeur and custodian at rival companies. He’d had no choice, if he was going to save Magister Enterprises from Leon Magister’s incompetence.

  He’d have to figure out the current going rate. Once upon a time, it was enough to slip anyone a hundred, but he might have to adjust for inflation.

  That was step one. Step two would be avoiding the security guard one floor down. He’d rather not bring two other people into this, not yet. He thought for another moment and then texted Sandra: Have cab drop you at Old Slip. Guard will let you in. Text me and take private elevator to floor 32. I’ll meet you there.

  Within a minute, she replied: Got it. omw

  He realized hi
s heart was racing with excitement that was not merely sexual. This was a literal backdoor maneuver, the kind of stunt he hadn’t pulled in twenty years. Not since he was Sandra’s age. She made him feel like a young man again, in more ways than one.

  After what seemed a ridiculous span of time, his phone pinged with another text. On the elevator!

  Charles smiled, crossed the lobby, and did something that his fellow Americans seemed to consider immoral. He took the stairs.

  8:23 p.m. As Charles exited the stairwell onto the main corridor, not far from the executive elevator door, floor thirty-two appeared deserted. Good, although he only intended to be here for a few seconds.

  The elevator door opened with a faint chime. Sandra stepped through it, wearing a burgundy coat trimmed with fur, her cheeks reddened from the air outside. Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

  Christ. Of course he loved her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  She must look a mess. She’d dragged a brush through her hair on the elevator, but Sandra was pretty sure she appeared far less than her best after a subway ride and then a long walk down unfamiliar sidewalks in her high heels. Maybe heels had been a stupid idea, but dammit, they made her legs look so good, and…

  The elevator doors opened, Charles stood there waiting for her, and she stopped caring how she looked. At the sight of him, Sandra felt a big dopey smile spreading across her face.

  He wore a three-piece suit in charcoal gray, perfectly tailored but conservatively cut, the opposite of Arnaud’s of-the-moment style. It didn’t detract one bit from his tall, slim build. His dark hair and short-trimmed beard showed hints of silver. But what grabbed her, what had sealed her fate from the beginning, were his green eyes. Charles had the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.

  Now they burned with desire as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She melted at once. All she could think was, oh thank God, finally, as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed herself close to him. Not close enough. Her coat and his suit jacket added too many frustrating layers between them.

  After much too short a moment, he pulled away, his face flushed. He glanced back down the hallway. Oh, right—they had to be careful, didn’t they? Sandra couldn’t see anybody from here, but from the street she’d noticed that a lot of the building’s windows were still lit, just like every other skyscraper in New York.

  “Come with me,” he said, taking hold of her hand. He led her to a door directly to the left of the executive elevator: a stairwell.

  “Stairs,” Sandra whispered. “A classic.”

  “Never goes out of style,” he agreed. He looked down at her heels. “Are you all right to—”

  “Oh, yeah,” Sandra said. Her toes had felt squished by the time she was walking up to the private gate, but now she felt like she could fly if she had to.

  She followed him into the stairwell, which smelled faintly of cleaning solution. Charles closed the door behind them as quietly as possible, but it still seemed as if every sound echoed off the concrete walls and steps. Her high heels would definitely make noise.

  Sandra hmm’d thoughtfully. The stairs looked clean. She’d be careful not to step on anything sketchy. She took off her shoes and bounced on the balls of her feet when she felt the cold of the concrete. “Where are we going?” she asked, making sure to keep her voice low.

  “My office,” he replied in the same way, though his deep voice was harder to hide. “We’ll bypass the guard on the thirty-third floor and enter into the lobby. My key card should get us in.”

  Sandra pressed her lips together, but it wasn’t enough to stop a grin. “I can’t imagine you with a key card.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I used it,” he admitted. “But I always keep it in my wallet.”

  “What about the cameras in your lobby?”

  “There are ways around them. They don’t cover every angle.”

  Sandra giggled and then put a gloved hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, it’s like we’re in Mission: Impossible.”

  Was that actually a twinkle in his eye? “Whatever works,” he said, taking her hand again.

  Sandra followed him up the stairs, holding her shoes and purse in her free hand. This should feel ridiculous, and it did, but somehow it also felt great. She’d never been the kind of teenager to sneak out of the house so she could meet her friends or a special boy. Maybe this was why kids did it—not just to get around Mom and Dad, but because the escape itself was fun.

  Apparently she was just a late bloomer. She stifled another giggle as Charles led her up the stairs, but she couldn’t stop smiling.

  He whispered, “Your lips were cold.”

  “Well, yeah,” she said. “It’s chilly outside.” Sort of. Really, it wasn’t unusually cold as far as October evenings went. She was just a little…underdressed.

  “How cold can it be when you get out of the cab right at the gate?” he asked, reasonably enough.

  Her silly feeling vanished. “Um, I didn’t take a cab,” Sandra said. She bit her lip, pretty sure how this was going to go over.

  She was right. Charles stopped at the first landing of the stairwell and gave her a disbelieving look. “You walked here from the subway?”

  “It wasn’t that far,” Sandra said weakly.

  The warmth in his eyes was turning into something much less welcoming. “It’s dangerous to walk around in the dark by yourself,” he said. He glared at her shoes, dangling from her hand. “Especially in those, for God’s sake. I told you I’d pay for the cab.”

  That was sort of the problem. Okay, maybe she was being foolish from a purely practical perspective. She could afford to pay for a cab, it wasn’t a prohibitive expense—she could have taken one here and avoided the cold, dark, solitary walk. He was right about that.

  She still felt weird about letting him pay, though. It just seemed wrong. Maybe it was because they had to be secretive. She didn’t want to feel like a package he was smuggling in and out.

  “Well, I’m here now,” she said, trying not to fidget like a guilty teenager who’d actually been caught. Her feet felt really cold now.

  Charles looked in her eyes, every inch the forbidding patriarch he’d been on the night they met. He said, “I’ll send you home in a cab. Don’t do that again.” Sandra set her jaw. Maybe he had the right idea, but that tone of voice was exactly the wrong one to use if he wanted to get her hot and bothered. Perhaps he saw it in her face, because his own expression softened a little. “I only ne—want you to be safe.”

  Sandra bit her lip. Ten years ago, Charles’s wife had been killed in a car accident. It made sense that he’d be a little cautious about safety, even though he didn’t love Sandra like he had Eleanor. “Oh,” she said. “Okay.”

  His expression softened further. He cupped her face and bent down for another kiss.

  He probably meant it to be brief, a little reassuring peck or something. It ended up with her free hand clinging to his shoulder and his mouth devouring hers. When they parted, she moaned, and he murmured, “Shh.” He nuzzled her temple, his breath warm against her skin. “Quiet.”

  “Right,” Sandra said, dazed. She tingled all over. No more problems with her cold feet. “Um, there aren’t cameras here, are there?”

  “No, not here.” Charles glanced upward. “One more floor.”

  “Then your leather couch,” Sandra said. He looked back at her, and desire blazed in his eyes again. “Or…maybe your desk? Or—”

  “Minx,” he whispered, and kissed her. “Wicked creature.”

  Before him, nobody had ever said she was anything like that. She was always a proper young lady, an ice princess who was uptight about sharing her body and even more uptight about sharing her feelings. Charles had seen through that façade in about ten seconds.

  She pressed a kiss against the sensitive spot where his throat met his jaw. She couldn’t wait to get her coat off. “Not a minx,” she breathed into his ear. “A fox.”

  H
e hissed. “That damned note. You wretched—” He cut himself off with another hard kiss. She didn’t object. It was taking everything she had not to climb him like ivy on a wall. “Fuck. Come on!”

  She stumbled up the stairs after him, wondering why nobody had invented teleportation yet. If they were on some science fiction TV show, they could already be tearing each others’ clothes off in the comfort of his office. Instead, she had to fidget next to him when they finally reached the top floor and he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He wasn’t even breathing all that quickly, damn him.

  Well, she was planning to change that any minute now. Sandra unbuttoned her coat. Might as well save some time. Then she wriggled her toes impatiently inside her wool tights. At least the lobby and his office were carpeted.

  Charles swiped his key card through the lock on the door. A blinking red light appeared on the lock.

  Charles frowned and swiped the card the other way. The lock blinked red again.

  “Um,” Sandra said, “how long has it been since you used that card?”

  “Goddamn it,” Charles muttered, jiggling the door handle, which remained stubbornly closed. He tried the card again, both ways, before giving up.

  It would have been funny if she didn’t feel like she was going to explode from sexual frustration. “I guess you can—uh—”

  He glared at the door as if hoping to melt it with his eyes alone. “Take the elevator and let you in myself.” He gave her a look that was almost apologetic. “Give me a couple of minutes.”

  Sandra meant to say, Sure, or No problem, or maybe even Get moving already, but she found herself reaching for him instead, pulling him down for another kiss.

  He hissed and pushed her back against the wall. She dropped her purse and her shoes. The ensuing thump seemed to reverberate off the walls, and she couldn’t make herself care.