Jennifer Greene - The Billionaire’s Handler

After moonlight came that long, dark stretch, where she could barely see him, even the shadow of him…but she could hear his deep, quiet breathing. Feel the weight of his arm, his hand, when he tucked her close to him, almost inside of him…and how, even in sleep, he stroked. Soothed. Enticed.

Maguire was ultraskilled at locking up his emotions-when he was awake. He’d revealed so much, making love with her. She hadn’t guessed before… that Maguire was as vulnerable as she was. That he was risking as much as he was.

He’d been counseling her to go after what she wanted and needed-but had he ever done just that with his own life?

At least she’d risked opening her heart to people. Maybe too much. But Maguire was so, so alone.

Except for last night. She had no doubt at all about the love inside the man. The heart inside the man.

And now, after darkness came that predawn color, not gray, more like a slow seeping yellow, pearling the air, turning charcoal shadows back into inanimate things with color and life and depth. Dawn showed the stubble on Maguire’s chin, the pleat of a sun-wrinkle around his eyes, the paintbrush-thick eyelashes. Even in the cool of the night, he hurled off the blankets and sheets. Somehow even in sleep, he’d kept her covered, but for himself, he kicked off any warmth-except for her. Out of nowhere, she’d find his arm sneaking around her again. Then his sigh of relief, as if finding her still there enabled him to go back to sleep again.

He slept nude. So did she. But he sure looked better in dawn light than she did. Which was when he suddenly opened his eyes and found her staring at him.

Maguire-her Maguire-wasn’t a blusher. But a little alarm seemed to shoot up his neck as if she’d caught him doing something…wicked.

Which of course she had.

“We didn’t really do that,” he said, his voice still night-thick.

“Oh yeah, we sure did. Twice, I believe.”

A fingertip touched her cheek, his tenderness a direct contradiction to the sudden scowl ruffling his brow. “This wasn’t in the game plan, Carolina.”

“Well, feel free to wallow in guilt, if you want. I won’t stop you. But you might want to consider that…well, maybe I needed this. To heal. Maybe I needed to be made love to, specifically by you. You can just think of it as part of the job. Part of the project you signed up for.”

“You’re not a job or a project, Carolina.”

She shrugged. “I don’t want to hear a bunch of integrity-and-responsibility stuff. I want breakfast. A decadent breakfast. A seven-cheese omelet, overloaded with cholesterol, like real butter, and French toast, and fresh orange wedges…”

“Where are you going?”

She could see from his expression that he wanted a further serious morning-after discussion, so she slid out of bed. “The shower. My shower. While I do that, I’m hoping you’ll order our decadent breakfast.”

“We will be leaving the room for breakfast.”

She didn’t wince. Her brilliant smile didn’t falter either. But she got the message. He wasn’t going to be alone with her if he could help it, not after last night.

He’d liked it, Maguire. Her. The sex. Being loved by her, with her. She didn’t doubt that.

But he wanted her long term in his life like he wanted a sliver. He was here to fix her. That was all. To do the responsible thing and get her healed, before dropping her back in her real life and out of his hair again.

She got it, she got it.

But after last night, she was going to have a lot harder time pretending it was that simple for her again. Or ever could be.

Downstairs, one of the hotel restaurants served breakfast in the open patio overlooking the bay. The tables were dressed as elegantly as last night, with gleaming silver and crystal, accenting an impeccably perfect day. Guests milled everywhere, all ages, many looking glamorous and foreign, some dressed casually, fresh off their boats-or yachts, as it were.

Personally, Carolina thought she was appropriately dressed for a hot sunny morning, in a linen skort and shimmery-cool tank top and, of course, her red shoes. So did Maguire, judging from the way he kept looking at her.

But he kept her talking about serious issues as if the sky might fall if he let down his hair. There was no way he was stepping off the mentor role this morning. Even when he sipped the delectably tangy OJ. Bit into the lightest, softest, richest omelet ever made. Lingered on bites of toast dripping with hot, wild blueberries.

“So, we’re going to talk about some of the things you want to do,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Part of your stress load was so many people asking you constantly for things. Everyone in your life wanting something from you. So let’s start with your parents. Are there some things you actually do want for them?”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely.” She could love up Maguire with her eyes and still do this serious-talk stuff. She valued his advice and ideas, besides. “I want to make their lives easier. Give them security. I loved setting my mom up with a new kitchen, giving my dad the car of his dreams. I would have loved to give them treats like that forever…”

“But then it wasn’t so easy. Instead of giving, they started having expectations. Until there seemed no end to the expectations.”

When she reluctantly nodded, he went on. “So here’s the deal, Cee. You want to give your parents security? Do it. Pay for great health insurance, if they don’t already have it. Pay off their mortgage if you want. Then, set up a trust. Establish the trust to supplement their retirement income. And then that’s it. You’re done.”

Reluctantly she leaned away from the plate. If she ate any more, she’d turn into a balloon…but damn, the food was good. “Only in theory, Maguire. Because that’s what I was discovering. No matter what I do, it seems like it didn’t stop them from asking for more-”

“I get that. Trust me. But what you have to get straight in your head is what you want to do for them, then do it. And then you draw the line in the sand. You need to know, in your heart, that what you set up is generous and fair and right. So you know, absolutely, there’s no reason to feel guilty.”

All right. Maybe she felt loverlike and cuddly and turned on. But nobody seemed to reach her like Maguire. This stuff mattered. She frowned. “That isn’t how I’m used to thinking about things.”

“Yeah, I know. You don’t think ‘selfish.’ And you’re a lousy student at learning selfishness, if you ask me.”

“Hey! I’m plenty selfish! Look at the shoes!” She lifted a leg, just to illustrate.

“Okay, okay, I admit it. You did good on the shoes. But we have to work a little harder on your getting tougher with the rest of it.”

“Like with what?”

“Well…” Maguire leaned forward, poured them both fresh coffee from the carafe. “You said that your father wanted to handle your money.”

Her stomach instantly knotted. “And his feelings were terribly hurt when I didn’t leap to say yes. In fact, I cried-”

“Hey. No. No crying. Listen to me.” For a second his voice almost took on a panicked tone. “Your father is no more capable of handling big money than you are. That isn’t an insult. It’s just a fact. Would you go to a plumber for brain surgery?”

“No.”

“Repeat after me-No, of course not.”

“No, of course not.”

“Would you go to a brain surgeon to fix a leaky faucet?”

She knew her line. “No, of course not.”

“Exactly. So you get people to help you with the money who are, so to speak, brain surgeons with money. Reputable brokers. Finance people with established reputations. If your dad can’t understand that, he’ll have to get over it. That’s not on you. It’d be stupid to let the plumber to do the brain surgery, remember? You can’t make your parents’ lives easier if all that money goes down the drain because of poor management.”