The Boss (A Billionaire Romance) Read online

  The Boss

  Naomi Adams

  The Boss

  Naomi Adams

  Copyright © 2015

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is for all those who believe in love… especially me.

  The Boss

  Naomi Adams

  Chapter 1

  ‘There are days when I want to run screaming to the corner of my bedroom and hide, and there are others when I want to run laughing through the streets, sun on my face and joy in my heart. Usually, the former is when I have to give a speech, and the latter is when you've sent me one of your insightful and entertaining emails.’

  Clara didn’t have to wait long until Anon wrote a reply:

  ‘The feeling's mutual. I loved the speech you sent me earlier. You'll do it justice, I'm sure. Imagine I'm in the crowd, watching, clapping, and grinning insanely.’

  ‘Um… Can I imagine you naked instead?’

  ‘I'm not sure. If we ever meet, I might not live up to expectations. *Wink* Best if you imagine everyone else is naked, and I'm dressed in a Tux sipping a Martini.’

  ‘Ha, I love that image.’

  ‘Be prepared, there will be some awful sights.’

  ‘No, I mean I love the image I have of you in a Tux. My imagination is pretty vivid, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, I got that about you.’

  Clara had fallen for a guy whom she had never met.

  Unsure when it happened exactly, it seemed to creep up on her like an invisible coating. He donated to her anti-gambling foundation anonymously, so she named him Anon for obvious reasons.

  For over five years, he donated ever-increasing sums, and the regularity of his emails increased too. After around a year, Anon also began texting her with funny anecdotes and observations.

  They clicked through their messages, but they never met.

  It bothered Clara that she knew so little about him.

  Not even his real name because her charity allowed anonymous donations.

  Regardless, they shared so much else so their relationship was as real to her as any physical one.

  ‘Honey, you have no idea,’ Clara texted back, sighing as she pressed the send button on her cell.

  She imagined him in a Tux - over six feet tall, with dark wavy hair, cropped short around the sides, but a little longer on top.

  He would be broad shouldered and strong, but not so muscle-bound as to distort a good suit.

  His eyes would be either intensely dark or interestingly pale--she didn't mind which.

  They would linger on her, whispering quietly, 'Come to bed.'

  ‘Oh, I dunno about that," he texted. "Shouldn't you be leaving now?’

  ‘Yeah. Someone's gotta stand up in front of strangers and appear confident. I feel sick already.’

  ‘Good luck, though you never need it. They all love you.’

  ‘Thanks. Chat later?’

  ‘Always.’

  The buzz he gave her made it all worth it.

  He just got her, and everyone needs to be got.

  She threw her cell in her bag and checked her makeup in the mirror. Applying her lipstick, she imagined his plump lips against hers, "Ah, if only."

  No matter how vivid her imagination, she couldn't imagine his face.

  Clara asked someone to trace his phone once, a while back, and to track his IP address.

  All to no avail.

  Since he gave generously and never asked for anything in return, she gave up trying to find him. She would hate to lose her charity’s biggest donor because of a crush.

  Instead, she respected his right to privacy and enjoyed their communications. Each word was something wonderful to treasure, and her normal life soon became a kind of interruption between the moments shared with him in cyberspace.

  Lisa, her friend, said this existence was unhealthy - 'Looney-Tunes,' and 'a waste of emotion.'

  She said he was probably over sixty, bald, and on his way to a heart attack too, but Clara didn't care about all those things.

  In her dreams, her robust, square jawed, smoldering-eyed guy was a honey-pot.

  And his mouth… ah, his mouth.

  But mostly, he was safe.

  Clara didn't do relationships well, what with her trust issues and all, but she could do this with him.

  One of the first emails he sent which touched her, she read repeatedly.

  And she still reads it.

  He'd sent it around four years ago, when things between them were still new, before they started texting each other.

  Morning Clara,

  I do hope your week was a fortunate one. Mine has been filled with danger and adventure, but mostly, I've been thinking of you and all you do for those less fortunate.

  Talking to my driver the other day, he said of me:

  'Sir, I think of you as a swashbuckling hero who fights for the woman he loves, only to discover she's never been in danger. That she's simply at home, drinking coffee, watching a movie starring Errol Flynn, waiting for him to show up.'

  My driver is wise. Perhaps too wise to be my driver?

  My monthly check is in the post.

  Have a wonderful day doing interesting things and meeting interesting people. You deserve to smile, Clara.

  Keep in touch.

  Anon.

  This email changed everything.

  It said, 'I hear you. I understand you. I respect you.'

  What more could a woman want from a man?

  An alarm buzzed from her bag.

  It was coming from her cell.

  "Oops, time to leave for another damned speech." She wanted to sit all day and read his words but worked called, and that wasn't the only thing she was nervous about.

  Lisa put her foot down a few days ago and Clara felt compelled to agree to her demands, if only to appease her and stop her whining.

  She wasn't looking forward to her lunch date and wondered whether she should have confessed to Anon about her blind date.

  Chapter 2

  She vomited before the speech, as usual, but it went well enough.

  There wasn't much of an audience this time thankfully--only around twelve gamblers and their group leader in an AA meeting, which helped. Still, it meant her nerves were on edge an hour later sitting in the restaurant, ready to entertain Lisa's choice of date.

  While waiting for her blind date to arrive, the obligatory recognition item - a white rose on the table next to her wine glass - Clara tapped her foot and decided to fess up to Anon about her date.

  He would be cool about it and offer her a confidence boost, she was sure.

  It might even make him jealous enough to reveal his identity.

  Oh, yes please.

  Keeping it as casual as possible, she texted:

  ‘So, I'm waiting for a blind date in a posh restaurant and he's late. I bet you're never late for anything.’

  Part of her wanted him to tell her she should walk away and never date another man because only he deserved her.

  She wanted him to walk through the door now and tell her he loved her.

  But another part of her liked the distance they had.

  She could handle their 'relationship' this way, however much she longed to be touched physically as well as emotionally.

  Her father was always late picking her up from school, or a party, or a sleep over, and that's when he bothered to show up at all.

  This
meant she hated tardiness in anyone, and what made her expect to be let down by everyone at some point.

  Sure, it was wrong to judge people by her father's behavior, but she couldn't help herself.

  His behavior shaped her, fixed her in place: a place where distrust came as standard.

  She straightened her skirt, squirming in her seat, wondering why Anon didn't reply.

  Maybe he was jealous after all?

  This was her first date in a long time, and her first ever date with someone from a dating website, of all things.

  Lisa set up her profile on 'LoveLessNoMore.com' without her consent, only telling her about it when the 'right' guy showed an interest.

  Lisa explained to her two nights prior to the date, "Don't be mad. You can't love an anonymous stalker—however wealthy—forever. He won't show up anywhere, ever. He certainly won't get you good and sweaty. You need to meet a real man. You need physical touch."

  Why couldn't she mind her own business?

  Clara was happy as she was.

  Why rock a well balanced, if imperfect, boat?

  Clara resisted the urge to growl when Lisa shrugged at her, in her usual, 'Don't be such a drama queen,' kind of way, before adding, "You should be thanking me--the guy I set you up with is seriously hot."

  At that point, Lisa had flicked open her cell to show her a picture of him from the dating website.

  Instead of looking however, Clara stormed out, furious at her.

  Of course, she regretted not taking a quick peek on her way home.

  That evening, she called Lisa to apologize for storming off, having thought over what she'd said. Perhaps a real life, skin, muscle and bone man in her bed now and again was . . . a good idea, after all?

  Maybe it's worth stepping out of my comfort zone to get a little sweaty?

  Waiting in a rather pompous choice of restaurant—her date's choice, not hers—for a stranger who frequents dating sites made Clara think again, however.

  Could a situation like this ever end well?

  And to top it off, he was already half an hour late!

  At least flicking through Anon's emails distracted her a little from the sense of annoyance growing in her.

  As she read, she imagined him speaking his words to her instead.

  She learned early on he was a man beyond reproach, benevolent, and beautiful—the perfect three 'B's.

  He had contributed millions of dollars a year to Clara's anti-gambling foundation for the past five years.

  It was clear to her that he possessed the same desire to support problem gamblers as she did, which was rare.

  People tended to think addiction was more a selfish character trait than a disease.

  Yes, her faceless benefactor featured heavily in her dreams; though she longed to put a face to the incredible torso she made love to each night.

  Eyes down, focusing on his words and the images they created in her mind, she sniffed something smoky and grimaced.

  Her gaze moved from her cell to a dirty pair of boots right by her table, and when she shot a glance at the owner of said boots and odor, she gasped at the stunning face smiling down at her.

  "Hi, I'm Fredrick. It's Clara, right?" He held out his hand, but all she could do was stare at it, a grimace distorting her face.

  His hair was a dark dusty mop, which needed a good wash, but his eyes were a glorious deep golden brown, and when he smiled, he flashed a good set of creamy white teeth.

  But as attractive as he appeared, she was pissed. "Lunch or dinner?" she said, checking her wristwatch, "I'm confused?"

  "Ah…" He studied his feet. "Yeah, I'm running a little late."

  Wearing a big friendly expression, a dark leather jacket, black t-shirt and jeans, and smelling as though he'd stopped off to smoke a cigar, she fidgeted in her formal suit.

  Not only is he late, he hasn't even made an effort to dress or wash for this ridiculous date.

  I need to leave.

  This was a mistake.

  "Did you say, 'a little late?'" Clara wanted to give him a piece of her mind, but couldn't be bothered. He was a stranger who made zero difference to her life, other than wasting a few hours. "At least you arrived . . . eventually. Guess I should be grateful."

  Anon would never leave a woman waiting.

  He would be the absolute perfect date, because he would be the very definition of respectful.

  Clara sighed at the guy she was left with.

  Sure, he was sexy to look at.

  But she new, deep down, no matter what she told herself earlier, her needs reached far beyond getting sweaty.

  How could Fredrick compete with the soul enriching relationship she had with Anon?

  Truth was, he couldn't.

  Who could?

  Chapter 3

  While Fredrick moved through the busy restaurant, searching for the radiant face of his not-so-blind-date amongst the tables—a face he'd only seen in pictures, and in videos of her giving eloquent but nervous speeches to charity donors on You Tube—his nerves yanked at his stomach.

  Already late and far from fresh, this was not going to plan.

  He didn't feel great about his chances, but he had to take this opportunity to meet her in the flesh while he could.

  A fresh layer of sweat dampened his torso when his eyes found the stunning red-haired beauty in the distance.

  Wrapped, angelic-like in candlelight, wearing a navy suit jacket over a cream silky blouse, she shone.

  The people around her slowed and silenced as she flicked her long, red hair over her slender shoulder.

  Her face, a pale and perfect sphere, featured emerald eyes and a rosebud mouth he longed to taste.

  For a second, the sight of her caught him like a backdraft in the gut, robbing him of breath. Yearning rushed through his soul like flames through a dry forest, stirring him. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

  Oh shit, you're more beautiful than your pictures.

  The countless times I've made love to you in my imagination and now, I'm about to meet you for real. It's almost too exciting.

  He restrained his blazing imagination.

  She didn't know him as he knew her.

  His gaze dipped again, briefly assessing the swell of her chest before shooting back up to her face.

  With only a few long strides, he approached her, removing his leather jacket on the way.

  "Hey, I'm Fredrick," he said, aware of the tremble in his voice. "You're Clara, right?"

  He held out his hand to shake hers, but she stared at it as though he offered her smelly shoes wrapped in a ribbon.

  Not a good start.

  He hung his jacket over the back of his chair, thinking what to say, what to do to make this right.

  Be cool.

  Be yourself.

  Be as honest as you can be.

  Partly from fighting fire at work, and partly from his rush to meet her, his black t-shirt was a little damp in areas.

  He hoped it wasn't too noticeable, that the pronounced pectorals he worked hard on were as distracting to her as her chest was to him.

  Clearly pissed at him, and who could blame her, he was sure she would understand once she heard his explanation.

  His cheeks itched from the smoky residue, though he'd attempted to remove the soot with a towel before he left the fire station.

  The emergency call-out they tagged to the end of his shift had made him late, but what choice did he have?

  The threat of casualties in a fire always trumps a date.

  Even this date.

  Clara glared up at him, her cell held tight between two hands.

  White knuckles more than hinted at her disappointment, though her scowl had already screamed it.

  The more he studied her expression, the more her beauty captured his mind.

  It glowed from within her, like sunshine's warmth.

  In fact, the auburn depth of her hair and the bold bright green of her eyes struck him dumb when he should hav
e been explaining himself. He smiled down at her while she grimaced silently up at him.

  He rarely found himself lost for words, and he feared she'd get up and leave before he found the right ones.

  She glimpsed at her wristwatch, "You arrived finally. Guess I should be grateful?"

  Fredrick sat at the table, "Sorry." His dry mouth made it difficult to speak so he drank a mouthful of water from the half-filled glass on their table. "Please . . . accept my apology. I . . ."

  She raised her hand, interrupting him, "Please," she said, with a sarcastic bite, "Do help yourself to my water."

  Although her attitude was not as compassionate as he'd expected, and although she came on a date dressed like an executive rather than a woman, her delicate features and petite frame allowed for a delicious softness he found deeply attractive.

  But boy, she was unwilling to budge an inch.

  Her crossed legs and folded arms said: no matter what you say, you blew it.

  Again, she flicked her long silky hair over her shoulder, which happened in slow motion to Fredrick, and emitted a kind of vanilla and musk fragrance, which made his mouth water.

  Dammit, he couldn't give up on her, not yet.

  Not now he'd seen her in the flesh.

  Now he wanted to know more.

  Much more.

  "Look, let's start over." He held out his hand, but once again, she glared at it blankly. "No?"

  How can someone so sweet be so impossibly stubborn?

  Clara didn’t answer.

  "Really?" He lowered his hand again, and sighed, "Shame, I was looking forward to meeting you, Clara."

  "Shame indeed. Listen, I should . . ."

  Crap, she wants to go.

  Okay, so she isn't interested in excuses.

  Maybe . . .

  He beckoned the waiter who loitered in the wings and received a much more positive response from him when he rushed over. "Your finest Champagne, please, and make it snappy; I have held up this beautiful lady long enough already."