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

  “I love him,” Stephen blurted. He turned bright red. “Christ, I love him. This time last year, I hadn’t even met him, and now I can’t live without him. Is that crazy? Am I crazy?”

  For a second, Charles’s ears rang, as if someone had hit him on the head. He cleared his throat. “Everyone who falls in love is a little crazy. It…can happen even more quickly than that. Or so I’m told.”

  Stephen blinked at him. “You and Eleanor knew each other for over twenty years before you figured it out. Long after the rest of us did, by the way.” Charles’s breath caught, and Stephen’s eyes widened as he realized what he’d said. “Hell, I’m sorry. That was insensitive.”

  Indeed. Charles’s feelings about his late wife were murkier than ever. He loved Sandra—whom he’d met significantly less than a year ago—but that didn’t mean he hadn’t mourned Eleanor for a decade.

  And yet. And yet. Charles cleared his throat again. “Never mind. If this is what you want, then of course I’ll support you—presuming he doesn’t fight us on the protocols.” Protocols that strongly encouraged Magister Enterprises senior executives to sign prenuptial agreements if a divorce would impinge on their shareholdings.

  “He’s no babe in the woods, Charles. If he says yes, he’ll know what that means.” Stephen took a deep breath. “I must be out of my mind.” Then he took another swallow of Scotch.

  Good idea. Charles followed suit. “Cold feet already?”

  “No. Oh God, no, and that’s the scary thing. I never wanted to be married before. I mean, I hated that I couldn’t, but it wasn’t something I really wanted, either. I watched Rosalie get married at seventeen, and then you at twenty-five, and I didn’t want it. But now I do. I want to be married.”

  Charles couldn’t help but be touched by the look on Stephen’s face: bafflement and eagerness all at once. “Luckily, there’s a solution to that,” he said.

  “If he says yes,” Stephen repeated.

  “As you say.” Charles swirled his glass, listening to the clink of the ice. “But once he does, Rosalie will manage everything. You’ll want it in the church, I’m sure.” The Magisters had donated vast sums to Grand Hill Episcopal for generations. It was part of the family tradition.

  Yet again, Stephen looked stunned. Why? “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Magisters always get married at Grand Hill,” Charles said, his brows drawing together.

  “Well—this is different, isn’t it?”

  “No,” Charles said, looking his brother firmly in the eye. “It isn’t.”

  Stephen looked down into his Scotch again. He seemed to need a moment to compose himself. Charles fought not to shift uncomfortably in his chair.

  Stephen cleared his throat and raised his head again. Thankfully, he looked and sounded quite normal when he said, “The Episcopalians support gay marriage, but Bishop Newsome…I mean, you know how conservative…” He shrugged. “Well, he could make things unpleasant, even if he couldn’t stop it.”

  “Bishop Newsome couldn’t make things a tenth as unpleasant for us as we could for him,” Charles growled. “He can be on God’s good side or mine, and I have better asset allocation.”

  Though he’d spoken seriously, he’d expected Stephen to laugh. Instead, Stephen tilted his head to the side and observed, “You’re a cynical man, Charles, but lately I think you’re getting cranky.”

  “What? Cranky?”

  “Yes.” Stephen leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, never looking away from Charles’s eyes. His own eyes were hazel, not the famous Magister green; Eleanor had often said they made Stephen look deceptively harmless. “You’ve always been an old soul, but don’t get too old before your time, all right?”

  Old? He wasn’t old. He was older than Sandra, true, but he was still only forty-fucking-five. And he could crush Stephen’s young fiancé-to-be at squash. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded.

  “No, don’t get angry,” Stephen said quickly. “It’s just…I know it’s easy for me to say. I know you’re sick of hearing it. But you want to see me happy, and I want to see you happy too. You knew what it was like once. You can know it again.”

  In his mind’s eye, Charles saw Sandra giving him the wicked smile that she surely gave nobody else, while she slid her arms around his neck and offered him paradise.

  “I mean it,” Stephen insisted. “Anything is possible.” His eyes widened with sincerity, and he seemed ready to counter Charles’s usual objections.

  But now Charles was thinking about Chantilly lace, and he said vaguely, “Yes, of course.”

  Stephen blinked. “Really?”

  Wait, what? Where was he? Charles fell back to earth with a jolt. “Oh. I meant—”

  Stephen slapped his palms on his knees, looking absolutely delighted. “That’s the spirit!”

  Shit. No. “Stephen—”

  “You leave it all to me. I know just the thing.” Shit. “An escort for the wedding. We’ll find one for you. If there is a wedding. If Craig says yes.” Now Stephen looked like a deer in the headlights. For once, Charles was sure he did, too. “Do you really think he’ll say yes?”

  Just then, the doorbell buzzed. Charles twitched and looked at his watch. 8:05 p.m. Rosalie was early, by her standards, and thank God. Dealing with this Bradley nonsense would be a cakewalk compared to fending off Stephen in a matchmaking mood.

  “Here we go,” Stephen muttered as they heard footsteps approach the sitting room. Charles sighed, wondering how Rosalie was going to try to soften him up before her prodigal son arrived. She’d been badly shaken when Charles had told her about Bradley’s little prostitute habit, but by now she would have forgiven him. She always did.

  But Rosalie was not alone. When she swept into the sitting room, Bradley followed close on her heels. Charles and Stephen exchanged a quick, surprised look.

  “Good evening, Charles,” Rosalie said, gliding forward to give him the usual air-kiss, and then giving Stephen the same. Her dark hair was swept up in a loose chignon, and her green sheath dress emphasized her lithe figure. She’d been the greatest beauty in the city once, and wasted on a whoring drunk. “Stephen.”

  “Rosalie,” Charles said, already turning his attention from her as he scrutinized his nephew. Like both of his uncles, Bradley was still dressed in his suit. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets.

  “Hello, Rosalie,” Stephen said. “Bradley. How are you both doing tonight?”

  Bradley straightened up and took his hands out of his pockets, like a soldier snapping to attention. “Pretty good, thanks. You?”

  Stephen opened his mouth. Charles overrode him with, “Let’s all sit down and get started.”

  Rosalie blinked. “Can’t we get a drink?” She looked pointedly at the glass in Stephen’s hand.

  “Of course you can, Rosalie,” Charles said, looking Bradley straight in the eye. Bradley paled. Surely he knew that he wouldn’t be allowed one drop of alcohol under this roof.

  “Oh, never mind, I don’t really want one,” Rosalie said quickly, sitting down on the overstuffed sofa. She patted the cushions next to her. “Bradley, darling, let’s sit down.”

  “Not yet, Mom,” Bradley said. He took a deep breath. “There’s something I want to say.”

  Here we go, Charles thought. Here came the excuses, the empty promises for the future. He was already prepared to call them out for the lies they were.

  “I screwed up,” Bradley said. “Big time. I can’t pretend otherwise. I messed up a good thing, and I know it.”

  Charles blinked.

  Bradley linked his hands behind his back and kept making eye contact, alternating between Charles and Stephen as he said, “Sandra was good for me. She never did anything wrong, and I treated her badly. I’m sorry for that. I did try to make things right, but—”

  “Have you contacted her?” Charles demanded. Surely Sandra would have told him if that was the case, unless she didn’
t want to be further involved in his family squabbles. He might not blame her.

  “Of course not,” Bradley said, still looking him dead in the eye. “You warned me away from her.”

  Damn right he had. Charles said, “How long has this been going on? Your…addiction.” He sneered at the memory of how Bradley had tried to sell his misbehavior, blaming his father for his bad habits. “And have all the women been professionals?”

  “Charles, stop,” Rosalie said, leaning forward on the sofa. “This isn’t necessary. He’s sorry.”

  Though he’d gone red in the face, Bradley held up a hand. “No, Mom, it’s okay. I can’t blame anyone for being pi—mad. It’s sort of been a problem, um, off and on.”

  Charles noticed that he was deliberately avoiding his mother’s eyes. Rosalie went red, and her lips trembled. Her marriage to Robert Cliffe had ended when she’d learned he was screwing prostitutes. She’d come to Charles in tears, believing it was her fault somehow. Would she blame herself for Bradley’s idiocy too?

  Even Charles wasn’t stone hearted enough to put her through that. An itemized list of Bradley’s sins might not be necessary. “Well,” he said through his teeth, “maybe there’s no need to go into the details. When were you last tested?”

  Rosalie looked down into her lap. Bradley cleared his throat but lifted his chin instead of squirming. “I went to my doctor yesterday afternoon,” he said, to Charles’s surprise. “I really was safe. Every time. But I understand I need to prove it. The lab results should be in next week.”

  “I’ll want to see them.”

  “Charles!” Rosalie snapped, raising her face to glare at him.

  He could have caught something, Sandra had said, her own face red, her eyes glittering with fury. He could have given it to me. Only her own caution, it seemed, had prevented that.

  “Rosalie, I’m sorry,” Stephen said before Charles could reply. Just as well. “But I think he’s right.”

  Rosalie snorted. “Oh, what a surprise.”

  “Come on,” Stephen said, his voice unusually firm. “This could have turned into a crisis if Sandra had wanted to make trouble. We need to know where we stand, and Bradley, you’ve betrayed a lot of trust here.”

  “I know,” Bradley said. He looked squarely into Charles’s eyes. “You’ve been telling me my whole life—there’s nothing worse than exposing the family to scandal. Or ridicule.”

  The boy sounded sincere, but Charles had heard that tone too many times to be fooled. Bradley might have been told his whole life, but he’d relied on charm and good looks to carry him instead of wise advice.

  Charles, on the other hand, knew full well the sacrifices required to protect the family name. It would be a long time before Violet could reserve a table for two anywhere on his behalf. Bradley didn’t appreciate how lucky he’d been to take his girl out for nights on the town.

  Bradley didn’t appreciate much of anything. “Maybe this time you’ll listen,” Charles said, hearing the edge in his own voice. “Sit down. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  Bradley kept his obedient smile on. “Sure thing, Uncle Charles,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

  * * *

  In the end, it hadn’t gone too badly. Rosalie had fumed the whole time, but she’d understood the seriousness of the situation. Bradley had nodded in all the right places and said mostly the right things, which was nothing new. The real test would be how he behaved from here on.

  The only hiccup had come at the end of the night, when they were all saying their farewells and Stephen let the word “proposal” slip. Rosalie had seemed happy for him, but Bradley—for only a moment—had rolled his eyes. Stephen had seen it. Ordinarily, Charles would have ordered Bradley to apologize, but the night was close to being over, and everyone just wanted to go home.

  Besides, Bradley already faced consequences for his stupidity. The stakes were higher now. He was on probation. One screw-up and Charles would fire his own nephew, edging him farther and farther away from the top floor. Rosalie had demanded: in that case, who would take charge one day when they were all gone?

  I don’t know, Charles thought as he sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his hands over his face. I don’t know.

  The boy had held all the power, the power of being the only heir, for far too long. He thought it made him invulnerable instead of responsible for the family’s future. Charles blamed the Cliffe genes. Robert was just as bad. And now what?

  Charles looked at the box of lingerie that sat on his bed, Sandra’s present, and decided that now what could wait until tomorrow. He’d texted her the moment the door had shut behind his family, and she was due to arrive any minute. He wanted to see her in Chantilly lace and silk, and then he wanted to fuck her through the mattress. The rest could keep.

  The intercom on his nightstand buzzed. “Your visitor has arrived, sir,” Emilia said.

  Charles pushed the button and replied, “Thank you. You can go home for the night.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Like all his staff, Emilia was discreet. Charles took off his waistcoat and tie, and by the time he arrived back in the sitting room, she was gone.

  Sandra perched on the sofa. A small duffel bag lay at her feet. She looked up at his approach and gave him a radiant smile.

  Whatever she saw in his face made her smile dim. “Uh-oh. It didn’t go so well, huh?”

  Charles blinked. Then he shook his head and sighed. “It didn’t go badly. It’s more that we had to do it at all.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead again.

  They looked at each other in silence for a moment. The meeting had been about how Bradley had screwed prostitutes while dating Sandra. She knew that. This could get awkward.

  But instead of saying anything, Sandra rose to her feet. Tonight she wore a pair of skinny jeans and a fetchingly low-cut top. She walked up to him and combed her fingers through his hair.

  Then she kept on stroking his hair, gently rubbing her thumbs against his temples. Charles heard himself sigh as the tension in his neck and shoulders began to lift. He hadn’t even noticed it until now.

  “Long day?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he admitted. It was nearly ten o’clock, and he’d been up since five thirty, as usual. Add to that the aggravations of tonight’s meeting, and…

  Sandra bit her lip, and then gave him a hesitant smile. “Well, maybe a good night of sleep is what you need.”

  She looked appallingly sincere. Charles clamped his hands on her hips. “That is absolutely not what I need.”

  Her eyes widened. For a moment, pure wickedness gleamed there before she put another innocent look on her face. This one was much less convincing. “You sure? I don’t mind. I can just take off my clothes and cuddle up next to you all night. Would you like that?”

  “Eventually,” Charles agreed. “That’s certainly the plan.” He bent down for the kiss they hadn’t exchanged yet. Her lips were so soft…

  “Are you sure?” she whispered against his mouth. “I told you, you’re going to have to work for it.” She dragged her fingernails down the side of his neck, and he shivered as arousal prickled his skin.

  “I doubt that,” he managed. She huffed but didn’t deny it. He chuckled and tried to get a little self-control back. It seemed rude to drag her by the hair into his bedroom right away. Besides, he had missed her.

  “How was work?” he asked.

  She blinked, and then said, “It was fine? I mean, it was good. I’m going back out to your house on Friday to check on the progress.” She tilted her head to the side. “Uh, how about you?”

  “Hmm?” He had little interest left in his own affairs tonight. He was much more intrigued by how she went through her days, what lit the professional fire in her belly. Sandra loved order and design, putting everything in its place.

  But now she just smiled. “Never mind. Let’s forget about work.”

  “I will if you will,” Charles said dryly.

  She lifted her chin and
appeared resolute. “Hey, I’m learning all kinds of new skills with you. I can learn to—to live in the moment, or whatever, if you can.”

  “You’d be surprised by how little trouble I have living in the moment.” Especially when lace and silk were involved. Which reminded him. “I have a present for you.”

  She stiffened in his arms and looked hesitant. “Oh? Um—I was joking about the coat. I really…”

  Talk about tiresome. He couldn’t wait to get past this particular phase. “Nothing in fur,” Charles said. He rubbed his thumb against her cheek. “I promise. Come take a look.”

  A few minutes later, Sandra sat barefoot and cross-legged on his bed while she opened the box and sorted through the tissue paper. She had given the two replacement blouses her stamp of approval, but seemed a little more apprehensive about this.

  Then she saw the lingerie, and her eyes widened. She carefully lifted it out and held it up to get a better look. “Oh, Charles,” she breathed, sounding awed.

  He couldn’t blame her. The chemise was a lovely piece of work. The pale-blue silk would bring out her eyes. Some men would say it wasn’t particularly provocative, but then again, some men didn’t have the opportunity to put Sandra Dane in a skimpy nightgown. Their loss.

  “This must be handmade,” she whispered, trailing her fingertips over the cream-colored lace. Her auburn hair glowed in the soft light from his bedside lamp. “It’s gorgeous.”

  He lay comfortably on the bed, also barefoot and watching her. “You might as well keep it,” he said. “I lost the receipt and it doesn’t fit me.”

  Sandra looked him up and down. “You’re a little flat for a V-neck,” she agreed. She reached out and stroked his chest, and then his stomach, all the way down to the waist of his pants. The warmth of her hand seemed to burn through his clothing. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Satisfaction raced through him. He caught her hand and kissed her palm. “You’re welcome.”

  Sandra blushed and looked back down at the chemise. She stroked her fingertips over the silk. Charles thought about not sounding eager and then gave up. “Why not try it on?”