Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club Book 2) Page 7

  “If he gets handsy, I’m breaking his fingers.”

  She laughed. “Just watch your drink and don’t let him get you alone.”

  “He’s picking me up.”

  “Oof. That’s tricky.” She smiled at me, trying to be reassuring, squeezing my knee. “It’ll be fine, Autumn. He’s probably a perfectly nice person. A bit entitled, sure, but he was raised a billionaire and got even richer as an adult. That’s to be expected. It’s going to be fine.”

  “If it’s not, I’m holding you at least partially responsible.”

  She laughed. “That’s fair.” She pointed at me. “If you’d just swallow your stupid ego and call Seven, you could be going out with him instead.”

  “It’s not ego, it’s dignity. I only have so much left where he’s concerned, and I’m not sacrificing that just because he’s interesting as hell, has the voice of a sex god, and the body of a superhero.”

  Lizzy gave me a droll stare. “I don’t know, Autumn, if I were single, I might sacrifice a little of my dignity, if he’s everything you’re saying.”

  He’s everything I was claiming and more, so why, oh why, was I being so stubborn about this?

  I want more than that with you, Autumn Scott.

  That was why.

  Stupidly, it was also a major contributing factor to my decision to go through with a date with Charles Barrington the Third, Esquire.

  An azure sheath dress, off the shoulder, with enough décolletage to catch the eye without giving him the impression, hopefully, that I’d blow him in the limo or something. It wasn’t my fanciest, most expensive dress, and certainly not my sexiest, but it looked damn good on me. It was elegant and classy, the kind of thing I wore when I wanted to impress with my looks but not necessarily my sex appeal. Manolo Blahnik flats, diamond earrings for some bling, and a Chanel clutch with my phone, ID, credit cards, emergency cash, and keys.

  I was in the lobby by six-twenty, and Tommy took one look at me, raised his eyebrows, and kept quiet. Was it nerves? Anger? Anger at whom? Myself? Seven? Charles Barrington the Third, Esquire? And why the esquire, by the way? That was a law thing. Sure, he had a law degree and was a fully accredited lawyer who’d actually practiced for a few years before taking the reins of the Barrington empire from his father, but his real bag was finance. Why insist on the esquire in introductions?

  Ugh.

  6:29 on the dot, one minute early, a big blocky SUV slid to a stop outside my building. At first glance, it appeared to be merely a run-of-the-mill Mercedes G-Wagen, which you see a bazillion of around town. But then I looked closer. The brush guard and running boards were either actual gold or something meant to look like it, and there were certain other cues that said this thing was anything other than a run-of-the-mill G-Wagen.

  Tommy opened the door for me, whistling.

  “Oooh son, that’s some fly shit, right there.”

  I glanced at him. “What, the car?”

  He nodded. “It’s armored. Like, bulletproof. Damn near rocket proof.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My cousin is a luxury car importer. Sometimes, he lets me help out moving them around—I’ve seen one of those before, but only once. That whip there costs serious bank.”

  I sighed. “Better than one of those ridiculous stretch limousines.”

  “This the same guy that picked you up the other day?”

  I shook my head. “No. Someone else.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  I inhaled deeply, held it, and let it out.

  The driver’s side door swung open, and a uniformed driver emerged, tall, well-built, dressed in a full tuxedo, complete with driving gloves and mirrored aviator sunglasses.

  “Thanks,” I breathed, as much to myself as to Tommy. “I’m gonna need it.”

  I headed for the SUV, and the driver moved around to the rear passenger side door, which was a subtle indication of which side I should go to. When he went to open the door, I noticed he used the same hold as the Secret Service, one hand on the top of the door frame, and the other on the handle, meaning, that door was heavy.

  “Miss Scott.” The driver gave me a terse nod as I approached.

  “Um, hi. Mister…driver.”

  His faint, there-and-gone smirk made me feel a little better. “Ma’am.”

  I was tempted to ask him if he was strapped, like with a gat, but something told me my penchant for inappropriately timed jokes when nervous would not win me any favors. So I held my tongue and glanced into the interior of the vehicle. Within, two huge bucket captain’s chairs wrapped sumptuous hand-stitched, quilted black leather, with thick-pile cream carpeting underneath. The backs of the front seats featured fold-down trays, airline-style, but done in ultra-luxury style—piano-gloss polished black wood, so shiny it was nearly a mirror finish. Overhead, the roof was panoramic glass, not openable for maximum safety but letting in light, if not heavily tinted. From the outside, all glass except the front windscreen was as darkly tinted as legally allowable.

  A console between the rear seats appeared, at a glance, to contain controls for climate, a privacy screen between passengers and driver, sound, and who knew what else.

  I gleaned all this at a glance; the vehicle screamed money, but the kind of money that not only doesn’t ever ask the price of anything, but doesn’t even think about it. The kind of money that shows up at a multimillion-dollar estate and buys with literal, actual cash, without so much as a first thought, let alone a second.

  Obscene, mind-boggling wealth.

  The occupant of the armored SUV equally displayed understated but extreme wealth. He would be medium height when standing, and average build—neither tall nor short, neither overweight nor skinny, nor was he noticeably athletic. Sandy blond hair, expensively cut, swept back and to the side, clean-shaven, firm jawline, blue eyes—the quintessential all-American boy next door. He wore a bespoke black blazer open over a perfectly white, ironed V-neck T-shirt, tucked in behind a black belt, classic wash blue jeans, glossy black Italian leather loafers, barefoot.

  That there, the barefoot/loafers thing, that was an immediate no for me. Shallow it may make me, but if you’re barefoot and wearing loafers, I’m out. Nope. Hard no.

  But yet, I continued my assessment, because according to Lizzy, this was as much about business as anything else.

  An expensive, heavy, silver watch peeked out from under his blazer cuff, worn loose. A class ring of some sort on the ring finger of his right hand, and a gold insignia or family coat of arms ring on the pinky finger of his left hand. Mirrored aviators hung from the V of his shirt, and he had an unlit, half-smoked cigar casually held between the index and middle fingers of one hand.

  “Autumn,” he said, his voice that same smooth, cultured, authoritative tone I’d heard on the phone, with a distinct New York accent that was for some reason more noticeable in person than it had been on the phone. “Please, sit.” He gestured at the other empty chair.

  “Hello, Charles,” I said, as I slid into the seat, tucking my dress under my thighs. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He took my hand, smiled at me as he brought it to his lips and ostentatiously kissed the knuckles with a brush of his dry lips. “The pleasure is mine, I assure you.”

  His manners spoke of breeding, culture, but for some reason, felt…off-putting.

  I pushed that impression aside and renewed my smile. “So, where are we going?”

  He rolled the cigar between his fingers, regarded it as if it held the answer to my question. Then his eyes cut to me; I felt him assessing me, felt his eyes raking over my hair, my facial structure, my cleavage, my waist, hips, legs. Then back up to my eyes, finally, as if the openly scrutinizing journey of his gaze had been merely part of an introduction.

  “Urasawa,” he said, his tone suggesting that I be impressed.

  Which, it was hard not to be, as one of the most expensive restaurants not just in LA, but anywhere.

  I smiled dutifully. “A
client took me there, once, a few years ago. Quite an experience. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Quite an experience,” he echoed, with a faint smile. “Indeed.”

  At some point during this exchange, we’d begun moving, although I hadn’t even noticed at first, so smooth was the acceleration.

  “So,” I said, feeling the weight of silence between us like a burden. “Did you conclude your business?”

  He nodded. “I did. I signed the final papers for an acquisition I’ve been working on for some time. I wouldn’t like to bore you with details.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “What did you acquire?”

  “It’s a biomedical research firm. They’re on the cutting edge of research, with a specific focus on novel treatments for Alzheimer’s and dementia, which are particularly close to my heart. My grandfather suffered from Alzheimer’s, and my mother is showing signs of early-onset dementia.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Are they seeing success in their research?”

  He nodded. “I can’t go into detail as most of their research is still in the secret, classifieds stages, but yes, I can say unequivocally that they are seeing success. Their research could, possibly, see the eventual eradication of those diseases.”

  “That would be remarkable.”

  “It would indeed be remarkable,” he said. “I plan on redirecting a lot of additional funding into the firm, to speed up their research.”

  “Well, best of luck to you and your new company.”

  “Thank you.” He regarded me. “So, Autumn Scott. Tell me about yourself.”

  This felt like an interview.

  I tamped down irritation. “Well, um…I’m thirty-eight. Single. I have one sister, whom I’m very close to. I’ve worked at Six Chicks Real Estate for over ten years, and I love it. Zoe and I both left UC Berkeley to get our real estate licenses.”

  “Have you ever been engaged or married?”

  I frowned at that question, which felt rather direct. “Um, no. No, I haven’t ever been engaged or married.”

  “Children?”

  I swallowed hard at that. “No. No children.” Not a lie, exactly, but not the whole truth. But then, this guy wouldn’t be getting the truth. Nobody did. “What about you, Charles? Married, children?”

  He shook his head slowly. “No, to both. I was engaged once, but it…didn’t work out.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Not at all,” he said, “otherwise I wouldn’t have the pleasure of being here with you, this evening.”

  “And do you frequently answer ads on social media?”

  “By no means. Do you frequently post ads on social media requesting wealthy men to impregnate you?”

  “As a matter of fact…” I considered telling him it had been a prank of sorts. “No. That would be the first time for me.”

  “Why did you post the ad, Miss Scott?”

  Again, I felt like I was being interviewed. By a detective. Or a dean of students for a prestigious university.

  “It’s rather complicated, Mr. Barrington.”

  “Perhaps there’s a simple, if incomplete, version of the answer?”

  Meaning, he wanted an answer of some kind.

  Rather demanding, wasn’t he? Used to being obeyed, to getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it.

  “Not really.” I smiled, a bland, curve of my lips, mostly devoid of any real emotion.

  “What is your timetable?”

  I frowned. “My timetable? For what?”

  “Conception, pregnancy, and birth.” He kept his expression neutral. “Being a businessman, I do like to get down to the nuts and bolts of things, so I know where things stand.”

  “How about first you tell me why you answered the ad.”

  He frowned, brows pinching, eyes narrowing. He exuded a distinct impression of One Does Not Ask Questions of Charles Barrington the Third, Esquire. “My family is rather traditional, you see. I am the eldest of three, and while my younger sister and brother both are married with children, the reins of Barrington Consolidated Industries can only pass to my firstborn offspring. It’s written into the bylaws of the corporate structure, as a matter of fact. Unless I were to die suddenly, without a will and without heir, the operational control must pass to my child. I am forty-five this September, unmarried, and, to be perfectly blunt, Miss Scott, unlikely to find myself married at any near juncture. I dislike entanglements, you see, and marriage is the ultimate entanglement. But yet, I must have an heir, and that heir must be brought up properly. Educated to Barrington standards, taught manners and comportment, brought up in the family business, that kind of thing.”

  I blinked. “Does the child have to be male, as well?”

  He missed the narrowing of my eyes, the sharp edge to my voice. Or, he simply didn’t care. “No, we are not so traditional as all that. A female heir will do just as well.”

  “And if you dislike…entanglements, as you say, where does the mother of this heir fit into the scheme of things, if I may ask?”

  He hesitated, thinking. “That is yet to be determined. If she and I were to…get along well enough, there could be some kind of domestic arrangement, I suppose. Primarily so my child will have the benefit of motherly presence and upbringing, but certain rules would have to be adhered to.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well. Of course, I would choose all educational institutes, tutors, au pair or nannies, and the like. Living quarters would be separate. Playmates would be chosen with extreme care.” He twisted the cigar again. “A certain…discretion…would be assumed, regarding how I and the woman in question spend our…personal time. If you take my meaning.”

  “I see.”

  “But, she would have access—not unlimited access, but significant access nonetheless—to an expense account. To pretty much anyone, it would feel like an unlimited expense account. Within certain reasonable parameters, that access would be totally free of any and all oversight.”

  “Meaning? In plain English.”

  “Well, merely for example, there would be a housing allowance of several million per month, a cash allowance to match for casual spending. Housing would include staff, of course. Access to Barrington private travel conveyances, such as jets, yachts, and the like. No oversight essentially just means as long as no eyebrows are raised, total spending freedom.”

  “Just out of curiosity, what would raise eyebrows?”

  This got me genuine amusement. “Oh my. What a question.” He tapped his armrest with a fingertip. “Well, by way of example, my brother, the youngest, just turned thirty-one. When he was, oh, twenty…two? Twenty-three? Twenty-three, I think. He purchased an island. A rather barren but beautiful little place in the Orkneys.”

  I coughed. “He bought an island?”

  “It was idiotic. He had an idea he’d set up an off-grid estate. All solar, wind, geothermal—he had a whole plan. Problem being, he neglected to take into account that of the seventy islands in the Orkney Archipelago, only twenty are inhabited, and there is a rather good reason for that. They’re inhospitable in the extreme, and the one he purchased was…not livable. He discovered this when he tried to get builders there.”

  “This raised eyebrows, I imagine.”

  He laughed. “Well, more because it was such a poorly executed plan.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He tried to give it back, but of course he got nowhere with that. He still owns it, I believe.” A sigh, of long-suffering amusement. “He bought a different island. In the South Pacific, if I’m not mistaken. He got his off-grid estate, and he spends much of the year there with his wife and daughter.”

  I shook my head. “He just bought an island, twice?”

  Charles nodded. “If you think you can top that level of expenditure, then you might manage to raise eyebrows.”

  I snorted. “My idea of big spending would be a new Birkin every year. Maybe a really nice house in Malibu overlooking the ocean.�
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  He rolled his eyes. “I think my driver has a larger miscellaneous expense account than that, Autumn.”

  I felt a little dizzy. “So this woman. She’d be a…what’s the term? Kept woman?”

  He shook his head. “Rather the inverse, I think. A kept woman is more…a woman on the side of a marriage, kept in a certain lifestyle so as to be available for sex.”

  “So, once you have the child, you wouldn’t really be interested in the mother anymore.”

  He rolled a shoulder. “Not in the sense of marriage. Friendship, companionship, certainly, sexual liaisons now and then, of course, as suits each of us. I’m not saying I’d lock her away in a tower and never visit again.” He smiled at me. “I think perhaps this discussion is getting away from us, Autumn. For now, I think all we need to focus on is establishing compatibility.”

  “Compatibility,” I repeated. “In what sense?”

  “Attraction, physical and otherwise.” He smiled, and it was the first time his smile contained real warmth, but it was predatory, hungry warmth. “And I must say, so far, I see immense compatibility in our future.”

  “Is that so?”

  At that moment I felt the merest of bumps as we came to a halt, and the thunk of a door opening; Charles’s door opened first, and he slid out, tugged the lapels of his blazer, shot his cuffs, and then turned to me. Held out his hand, and I was clearly expected to transfer from my seat to his, and then out. I did so, endeavoring to minimize awkwardness. He took my hand and held it as I rose out of the vehicle. His hand was only slightly larger than mine, and it felt as if he took as rigorous care of his hands as I did, for his hand was smooth and soft in mine, warm and dry.

  We entered the restaurant, and were immediately greeted by an obsequious host, brought to a private room where we were greeted by the owner and master chef himself. The discussion of dishes and wines occurred without any input needed or requested from me. Our courses were determined, a suitable wine to match with each course, all of it discussed with ostentatious decorum, as if the whole process were an elaborate social dance.