Five Minutes Late: A Billionaire Romance Page 2

  Whoa, wait up – the tall, gorgeous billionaire thought my ass was luscious? Did I wander into an alternate universe this morning?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of the executive types staring at my allegedly luscious rear and then turning to raise an eyebrow at the guy standing next to him, who responded with an indifferent shrug. Apparently, those two gibbons did not share Mr. Killane’s high opinion of my ass.

  “ – and is your attention wandering, Ms. Daniels?”

  My deadly boss now stood two steps back from my desk. His arms were crossed, his head was cocked to one side, and he looked every bit of his imposing six feet and five inches. His voice dripped with acid, his body language vibrated with contained anger, and if the look in his blue-violet eyes could kill, I’d be bleeding out on the floor with a dozen knives sticking out of me.

  “Even your modest pay grade should be enough to compel you to pay attention to me when I’m talking to you – Mr. Covington, just what sort of salary am I paying her, anyway?”

  He whipped his head around to stare at the herd of suits hovering a few feet away. They backed away a step like a single frightened animal, leaving the unfortunate Mr. Covington to stand alone.

  “Sir, main reception is not a salaried position – it’s paid at a straight wage of … $14 an hour, I believe?”

  I chimed in, “More like $13.25 an hour, Mr. Killane, and no benefits.”

  “Really? I don’t see how a church mouse could live on that kind of money, not in this city – if you were going to remain employed here, I’d have to do something about that, but as matters stand … oh, and Mr. Covington?”

  The suits took another step back, and the fidgeting Mr. Covington looked as if he’d rather be standing on the surface of the sun than under the withering glare of Devon Killane.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “In future, Mr. Covington, I expect accurate information from you. Is that clear?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  Mr. Covington shrank back into the herd. At the same moment, another of the executives stepped forward, sliding her eyes from Mr. Killane to the elevators and back again. I noticed she held the handle of her briefcase so tightly that her knuckles were white.

  “Sir, whenever you’re ready to wrap this up, we have the negotiation team from Botetourt & Rockbridge waiting for you in the main conference room on the thirtieth floor.”

  “And how long have I been letting them cool their heels up there, Ms. Buchanan?”

  Her eyes flicked to the digital clock mounted over the bank of elevators. “One hour and twenty-three minutes, Mr. Killane.” No inaccuracy from Ms. Buchanan – she at least could probably count on still being employed at the end of the day.

  “Very well – I suppose I should start drifting up that way, but let’s take our time about it, shall we?”

  Then he walked away from me without another word. He strolled out from behind my reception desk, he sauntered in the direction of the elevators, his executives and aides closed in around him like scavengers trailing after a shark, and he was gone, just like that.

  Almost.

  Mr. Killane and his retinue approached the elevators. The crowd of employees and visitors already waiting there melted away in an instant, suddenly remembering urgent root canal appointments, or feeling the need to take lunch a few hours early, or coming up with any activity at all that involved avoiding the notice of the CEO of Killane Corporate Holdings.

  The executives and aides stood staring like an array of expensively dressed and very important statues at the floor indicator lights above the middle elevator. Mr. Killane waited at the center of the group, still as death and staring up like the rest. He stood out as the tallest man there by at least a few inches, looming over his underlings like a lion in the company of house cats.

  The indicator lights flickered, the elevator bell dinged – and as the doors slid open and the crowd of besuited gibbons surged forward, Devon Killane turned and stared right at me.

  He stayed where he was as everyone else crowded into the elevator, and he kept staring at me. His expression was – confused? Bewildered? Edgy, unsure, at a loss? Where was that blazing anger from a minute ago? I had no idea what he was thinking or why he was staring at me – I just stared right back at him, utterly lost as to what the hell was going on here.

  A few brave aides finally emerged to herd him into the elevator with everyone else, but Mr. Killane was still staring at me as the doors slid closed.

  ***

  Who was she? In a world of shadows, why was she so real? Why did I care?

  ***

  So was I fired or what?

  I spent the next eight hours asking myself that question. I slipped behind my desk on shaky legs, I retrieved my chair, I plopped my theoretically luscious ass into its cushioned embrace, and I wondered when the other shoe was going to drop.

  For the first couple of hours, I assumed that someone from security would be by any minute to take me by the scruff of the neck and hurl me out into the street. I entertained visions of fighting back, of standing on my desk and issuing heroic declarations about management’s abuse of the humble working class – but I nixed that idea, seeing as how I didn’t want everyone’s mental classification of me as ‘that fat girl’ to be amended to ‘that crazy fat girl.’

  Eleven o’clock rolled around, and still no security goons. Well, my former boss did have that meeting with the representatives from Rockbridge & Botetourt to get through, and terrorizing those poor bastards would burn up at least an hour or two of the Chief Executive Asshole’s time. He probably planned to fire me right before lunch, so he could go out to celebrate afterwards at some trendy restaurant in the keep-the-disgusting-common-riffraff-out part of town.

  Twelve-thirty, and it seemed that I was still an employee of Killane Corporate Holdings. My own lunch ran from twelve-thirty to one, but since I’d fronted Jerry that five to advance his drinking career, I had to be satisfied with feeding some change to the vending machines in the basement break room used by the housekeeping staff. Yep, there was nothing like a ceremonial last meal of pretzel twists and Pepsi to remind me of my pending status of extreme poverty.

  I was back at my post just before one, and security still had not arrived to escort me out of the building. It had to be just a matter of time before Devon “Your Luscious Ass Is Mine” Killane got around to giving me the boot, though, right?

  One, two, and three o’clock came and went, and I was still being left to twist in the wind. Like a hard-working sap, I stayed on duty, answering the phone – “Killane Corporate Holdings, main reception, how may I help you?” – directing visitors to whatever busy and important person they’d come to see, and watering the ferns and orchids and triffids and whatever as I waited for Devon Killane to strike me down.

  Four o’clock saw some welcome company come through the door. Sure, under the circumstances I probably shouldn’t have let three of Jerry’s buddies from the Salvation Army shelter come in for coffee, but what could it matter at that point?

  “Guys, I didn’t get a chance to buy doughnuts this morning, but you’re welcome to coffee – and I’m probably getting fired, so you’re going to have to find somewhere else to supply your sugar and caffeine needs in the future.”

  Lobby traffic was pretty slack at that time of day, so what the hell, I came out from behind my desk and sat with the guys for a few minutes.

  Bob didn’t talk much, but he didn’t need to – he was as tall as an NBA player, as wide as an NFL tackle, and covered in garish tattoos. When he came ambling along, people suddenly felt like sliding over to the other side of the street, and so they never had a chance to find out that the big guy was as gentle as a kitten.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Ashley. You’re really nice. Will the next lady be nice?”

  “Knowing this place, I doubt it, Bob.”

  Eduardo was so neat, quiet, and inoffensive that he almost wasn’t there. He’d done landscaping and general yard work i
n another life, and always liked to commune with the lobby’s exotic plant population whenever he came by. He poked around at one of the ferns before joining the rest of us for coffee.

  “Miss Daniels, that French staghorn fern needs to be misted more often.” He looked as if he had more to say on the subject, but felt it would be rude to belabor the matter further.

  “I’ll leave a note for whoever replaces me, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

  He sloshed his coffee around in the chipped ceramic cup and stared down at his work boots. “Are you sure you’re being fired, Miss Daniels?”

  Wow, he hadn’t said this many words to me in the first six months I’d known him. “Well, my boss got pretty mad at me for being late, Eduardo, and he chewed me out in front of a whole bunch of people – I really don’t think he’ll let me stay here after that. Plus, Jerry showed up and hollered at him in front of everybody about how nice I was, so that probably hammered the last nail into my coffin.”

  Eduardo sipped his coffee and reserved comment. Bob sighed.

  “Of course she’s fired – a capitalist oppressor like Devon Killane never misses a chance to beat down the working classes.”

  That was Michael. His entire world view revolved around how various capitalist oppressors were smiting us working folk in the name of assorted political theories that no one other than Michael understood. He said he enjoyed the ‘freedom’ of living on the streets, but I suspected it was more a matter of his being a confused and not entirely sane nineteen-year-old who couldn’t cope with reality well enough to hold a job – and of course, that fit neatly into his political rants.

  “Well, seeing as how he’s worth umpteen billion dollars, Michael, he can pretty much do whatever he wants, regardless of the social injustice of it all.”

  “Ashley, you’re just buying into the corporate mindset of profits over people, it’s as simple as that. Say, are there any of yesterday’s doughnuts left?”

  “Nope, just the crumbs Jerry didn’t finish after I gave him my last five dollars to get out of sight – I’d spot you guys some cash too, but I’m down to two nickels in my pocket and whatever scrapings are left in my checking account. Assuming I am fired, I’ll need to watch every last penny until I can find another job.”

  But the clock over the elevators said it was now four-thirty. Wouldn’t they have fired me by now, if they were going to? Or had Mr. Killane just forgotten about me?

  The guys saw me eyeing the clock, and by an unspoken agreement they all stood at once. Bob mumbled something about missing me, and shook my hand. Eduardo said, “Thank you,” in his quiet, barely noticeable voice, and Michael advised me to wipe all my personal information from my work computer before “the drones of the managerial class acting on behalf of the financial-information complex abrogate your privacy rights.”

  I watched Michael lead the way as they filed out of the lobby and back into the streets. If I was fired, I might never see them again. Where would they get their coffee, their doughnuts, a place to get out of the weather for a few minutes?

  But was I fired?

  The lobby began to fill with workers leaving Mr. Killane’s corporate megaplex for the day. They chattered, they smiled, they waved to each other, and more than a few glanced my way – word of my public shaming must have gotten around. Swell, another reason for the beautiful people to pity the big girl.

  But now it was fifteen minutes until the building closed for the day, and still no official word that this big girl was unemployed. Hell, if I didn’t hear anything by five I’d just duck out the door, show up in the morning, and see what happened – if worse came to worse, at least I’d get the additional bit of pay for however long it took them to notice that I was still around.

  I waited until five-thirty, just to be safe. A few ambitious sorts would still be bent over their monitors, but the humble working folk like me were now all well and truly gone, and still that phone on my desk had not lit up with the news of my doom. Holy jumping welfare, it looked like I was going to survive this catastrophe, at least until tomorrow – and hey, by then Mr. Killane would probably have forgotten my existence altogether. Sweet.

  It stayed sweet until 5:32 p.m.

  I cleared my browser history and flipped my laptop closed, I dumped out the old coffee and shut off the brewer, and I was just pulling off my headset when a chime sounded in my ear.

  A light flashed on the automated phone system’s console.

  It was the red light that indicated Mr. Killane’s office was calling.

  I answered the call in my smallest voice. I told his receptionist that yes, I would come immediately to Mr. Killane’s private office.

  I tossed the headset onto the glass desktop and watched it land with a skittering clink next to Lester, my dead jade plant.

  The other shoe had just dropped.

  3. Spitfire

  I rode the elevator up to where my doom waited on the 103rd floor.

  I stood in the center of the car, staring up at the emergency access panel overhead. I treated myself to a quick and hopeless fantasy of climbing up there, removing the access hatch with my nonexistent MacGyver skills, and squeezing through to freedom. I’d shinny up the cable, I’d slip unnoticed into an emergency stairwell, and – um, yeah.

  The floor of the car pressed upward beneath my feet, hurrying me along to my ghastly fate. Faint strains of classical music – Vivaldi, maybe? – echoed from the speakers, the muted lights gleamed off the teak paneling and brushed steel handrails, and if I summoned the nerve to press that emergency stop button over there, I could pry the doors open –

  Ashley, stop. Stop this right now.

  I had to get a handle on this situation and I had to do it right here in this elevator car – once the angry, unpredictable, possibly unstable and definitely stunning Devon Killane was standing in front of me, I’d be way too intimidated and rattled to come up with a winning battle plan for the conversation.

  Okay, just what were the possibilities here?

  One, I was fired, and he wanted to rant at me about it in person. In that case, I was free to wing it and say whatever came into my head, because I was already doomed anyway.

  Two, I was still employed, and my still-boss felt the need to issue a stern, ranty sort of warning about tardiness and hobo-feeding. If that was the case, then I had to keep quiet, project my best sorrowful, I’ll-never-do-it-again persona, and wait out the storm of his rage.

  Three, he hadn’t decided what to do with me. That was the thorniest possibility of all, because it meant he’d determine my fate – my ability to pay my rent, to take care of my mom, to indulge in foolish luxuries like food and clothing – based on how I reacted to his conversational sparring.

  If it went down that way, should I be Meek Ashley? Witty Ashley? Rational Ashley? Confrontational, Fuck-You-To-Hell-And-Back Ashley? He probably didn’t get that response often, judging by how his underlings had reacted to our little head-to-head down in the lobby – maybe he’d respect my having the courage to stand up to him? Maybe?

  I jerked out of my thoughts and back to reality when the elevator chimed and the doors opened, releasing me onto the 90th floor. From here, it was just thirteen more floors up in Mr. Killane’s private elevator, and then I’d be ushered into his presence. If I read his turbulent emotions, his body language, his tone, and his racing thoughts just right, I’d know how to react, and I’d be saved.

  Or I was already doomed. Whichever.

  The hallway I now stood in was deserted. The lights had dimmed with the closing of the work day, and with no signage and without a guide and since I’d never been up here before, I had no idea which way to proceed to find his private elevator, or how to access it once I did.

  I looked left, then right. I chewed my lip, trying to decide. I turned in front of the mirror that took up the wall opposite the elevator, and glanced at my reflection.

  Normally, mirrors and I are sworn enemies – I’m also not on speaking terms with cameras, fi
tting rooms, or fashion designers – but this one provided a welcome reminder that at least I didn’t have to worry about the possibility that Mr. Killane’s intent in calling me up here was to pull some kind of sex-in-exchange-for-your-job threat.

  Tall, slinky girls probably have to fend off crap like that all the time, but when you’re big, you don’t even register on the sexual radar of guys like Devon Killane. I thought my curves were damn appealing, but not many men had the taste to appreciate a lush, classical body like mine – and seeing as how Devon Killane had unlimited access to as much actress, model, athlete, and any-random-girl-he-set-his-eye-on sex as he could stand without his heart exploding, he sure didn’t need me for that sort of thing.

  My hormones didn’t want to hear that, though. Just the impossible thought of being ravished by a towering hunk of man candy like Mr. Killane was enough to send a warm flush through my lower body, and … oh my god, was I getting all hot and bothered just standing here thinking about him? Jesus, Ashley, could you possibly be more pathetic?

  I issued an order. Body, I said, you are to cease all sexual thoughts about unattainable billionaire studs as of now. Be a good body and let me handle this, and I promise you a vigorous vibrator session tonight, featuring the fantasy sex partner of your choice. Deal?

  My negotiations with my inner sex fiend were interrupted by approaching footsteps.

  “Ms. Daniels? This way, please.”

  Mr. Killane’s personal receptionist, Dana … Something, stood a few feet away, peering down at me from her height of way-taller-than-Ashley. She looked at me sidelong, glanced over her shoulder down the hall, then back to me again like a blonde metronome. Her fingers knotted together, working and twisting against each other, and she worried her lower lip between flawless white teeth. Nervous much, Dana Somebody?

  I followed Dana Whoever down the darkened hall, and wondered if her nerves were anything I should worry about. She must know more about what went on around Mr. Killane than I did – did she know I was fired? But why would she care? Or did she know he had something a whole lot worse in mind for me than just unemployment? Was my impending fate so terrifying that she automatically felt sympathy for me, as a fellow owner of two X chromosomes?