The Billionaire's Runaway Fiancé (Invested in Love) Page 4

  “Let’s make it harder. No press this week.”

  “Curtis, really. You’re being unreasonable. This is a huge honor. Your father really worked to make sure you were on that list.”

  “John made this happen?” He shook his head. He should have known. John Frye would pull any string to get his children further ahead. Scholarships, school admissions, internships, interviews, recognition—he took personal pride in their every accomplishment.

  “He wanted you on the list again, and the editor-in-chief of The Times is a golfing buddy of his. You made all ten. They want the publicity on this, too, so declining interviews is a slap in the face to them and your father.”

  Right. She worked the guilt angle well. Which was why pictures of him with debutantes he could barely name graced the society pages, and rumors of relationships with actresses he’d hardly met ran rife through social circles he avoided like the Ebola virus.

  John Frye wanted him to be a success. Truly, being successful was the least he could do to repay the man who’d given him a chance at life. A real life.

  “Kendra, it’s late. I’m tired. Robyn will call you about the interviews I’ll have to postpone.” He clicked off before she could argue, then turned off the phone. No doubt she’d try calling back. Tenacity made her great at what she did but problematic when he needed to get away from her.

  There was nowhere he could go to escape. The New Orleans restructuring deals were too important for him to put off while he hid out somewhere and waited for it all to blow over. He had to show up and shoulder the stress of the media hounding him. Maybe he could use the attention to bring more investors into the project. Something positive had to come of this.

  He trekked up the stairs to the master suite, a room as big as his entire house before he’d come to live with the Fryes.

  Lindsay, the designer the Fryes used on their vacation home in Malibu, had shown him so many options, and he’d thought she’d known him as she selected things to his liking. Everything had seemed to fit his idea of what the house should look like. Masculine. Rich. Warm.

  She missed the last one by a mile. Especially in the bedroom. He laughed to himself at his own joke. The last woman he’d taken to bed had been cold, had wanted to be part of a family he was only a guest in, and as soon as she’d learned the truth she’d set off for bluer blood.

  Just as well. He hadn’t needed the personal detour, and it was best things had ended before she rejected him and not his lack of lineage. The room had been set up after she’d gone, leaving him alone in a sea of black and white.

  Discarding his clothes in the hamper, he set to work on the piles of pillows on the bed. Even going to sleep was a chore in this room. Each pillow zoomed toward the white chaise he’d never sat on, the different patterns of black-and-white chunks of fabric landing mostly where he planned.

  From the microfiber bedspread to the black headboard to the curtains, everything matched. And he hated black. It was the only color Jason Curtis Sr. would allow either of them to wear after his mother died. People thought it chic, classic, but to him, it represented death and the darkest period of his life. A loss so deep it had turned his cop father into a drug addict, then dealer, then taken him altogether.

  Curtis climbed beneath the sheets and tried not to think about those years, about how a man who’d respected the law had twisted it, used it to ease his pain. About paper routes, walking dogs, mowing lawns just to keep food in the house.

  When things went sour and his father wound up in prison, it was Mrs. Rutledge who asked her employers, John and Camille Frye, to take him in instead of letting him be sucked into foster care. How she convinced them to agree, he still didn’t fathom. The Fryes were wonderful, but they’d never taken in children before, or after, him. He’d simply gotten lucky.

  He rolled to his stomach, pulling a pillow beneath his head and wishing for sleep. Maybe in his dreams he’d come up with a way out of the public eye before some reporter dug too deep and wanted to talk about Jason Sr. He’d never been asked before, and if he could get out of the media spotlight, maybe he never would be.

  If he completely removed himself from the public eye, he’d tank his career, which he couldn’t do. Way too many people depended on the projects he developed. The Fryes would be so disappointed in him if he did something drastic to change his appearance. Camille Frye made a career out of her children, and so she took every success personally, including how they looked. It had bothered him in junior high, but now that he was busy, he appreciated that she ordered his suits every season. The only option left was to attach himself to someone out of the public eye, make himself less of a story, and perhaps throw the press a juicier bone to chew.

  If his personal life was seen as sewn up tight, all the articles and accolades would focus on his work. He had no problem talking about his projects, just the personal life that was a front. If someone chiseled hard enough, it might crack and hurt people who depended on him. The Fryes first, but like the proverbial snowball, it would gather dirt and momentum as it sped downhill. Investors would question the son of a felon, and God forbid, could pull their backing.

  Announcing his engagement might make a line in gossip columns, and then he’d be done with them for good. His muscles relaxed with the idea. He needed to find a suitable relationship. That should be simple, right? He’d have to find someone he could trust completely, someone he could depend on. Someone like Robyn.

  The smile came without warning. He tried not to think of Robyn outside of the office. He’d wondered what she must be like, the dichotomy of spunk and formality she juggled. She wasn’t seeing anyone now since her relationship at the office seemed to have soured.

  She was the perfect assistant, and she’d provide the perfect escape.

  Chapter Three

  Curtis climbed three flights of stairs, all the way to what once must have been the attic of the converted Victorian house. From the single door at the end of every flight, he guessed each floor housed one apartment. At the door, he paused to check his watch. Five in the morning. He knew Robyn got to work sometime during his East Coast conference call, but he had no idea when she left. Or even if she was awake.

  Some women took hours to get ready, others no time at all. He didn’t think Robyn was the type to fuss with time wasters like makeup and hair products, but she never looked disheveled, either.

  Maybe he should wait downstairs. But then if there were another way out of the building and he missed her…

  Oh forget it. He stepped closer to her door, the warm smell of cinnamon and apples lingering in the air. His mouth watered as he knocked.

  He straightened his jacket, smoothed his hands on his slacks, and tried to relax. When he couldn’t, he knocked again.

  The door swung open, and a stunned-looking Robyn stood in the darkened doorway. With her hair wrapped in a lime-green towel and a bright orange terry-cloth robe trimmed with blue stitching, he almost didn’t recognize her. Not to mention that without the glasses, her eyes were as large as the other features on her face, bringing everything into balance.

  “Close the door,” a female voice croaked from inside. “It’s letting in light.”

  “Is something wrong?” Robyn whispered, glancing nervously at the darkness behind her.

  “No, not wrong.” Curtis cleared his throat. “I brought the SUV. I thought we could drive in together and then you could keep it.”

  She blinked, her lashes long and feathery without the distraction of her glasses.

  “Robyn, please,” the voice croaked again. “I have to get some sleep. This isn’t fair.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered in the darkness. Turning back to Curtis, she looked him up and down. “I just got out of the shower. I need to throw on some clothes.”

  “And don’t burn those turnovers.” The voice was muffled this time.

  “Right.” Robyn nodded and shook her head with a silent laugh. “Follow me, but be quiet.”

  He stepped carefully
into the dark room, wishing she’d turn on a light. He could barely make out a countertop that must be the kitchen. Robyn moved with stealth and precision, not making a sound as she opened the oven, the cinnamon scent intensifying. She shuffled about, but he couldn’t tell what she did until she thrust a plate into his hands and walked past him.

  He fell in line behind her, not knowing where they were headed until she closed the door after them and turned on a light.

  “Carmella worked late last night, and Stacia’s boyfriend is over, so she had to sleep on the couch. I’m sorry about bringing you in here. I know it’s not terribly professional, but neither is showing up at my apartment.” She sighed and smiled up at him, setting down two steaming mugs. Her hand fingered the towel. “I’m going to get dressed, and then we can scoot out of here.” She pulled out the chair to a pink-painted desk and motioned for him to sit. “Stacia is the pastry chef at Pazzo’s. The apple turnovers won’t disappoint.”

  With that, she spun into what he guessed was her bathroom, giving him a chance to absorb the reality around him as he sank into the chair.

  Robyn was not black and white at all. She was Technicolor. From her bright robe and towel to the gold four-poster bed draped with pink satin and covered in iridescent stripes of raspberry, cherry, and cotton candy.

  He tried to take in this new version of Robyn, wondering if she still fit in his plan. On top of her desk sat two photographs in glittery frames. Robyn not long ago in a cap and gown. Somewhere it registered she’d graduated college a little over a year ago, right before coming to work for him. Which might mean she wasn’t jaded enough to agree to his plan. But then, she’d also be young enough to start over as a very wealthy woman when their arrangement ended.

  Not that he planned on giving up before she said yes. Projecting a relationship with Robyn to the public was his way out of the spotlight. She’d understand, probably offer to help before he had to ask. He’d make sure they both got what they wanted, and the matter would be settled quickly.

  Aromas of cinnamon and apple from the plate tempted him. He lifted the warm, flaky turnover and took a bite. The pastry crumbled onto the plate, and he leaned forward, careful not to cover the desk and his suit in crumbs. Sweet, gooey apple filling flooded his mouth.

  Between bites, he pondered the next photo. A little girl, dressed up like a princess complete with tiara and full tulle skirt, stared at him expectantly, her bright green eyes full of innocent hope. Large features and long limbs made the little girl gangly and awkward, except for the expression of total confidence.

  “I was Cinderella four years in a row for Halloween.” Robyn emerged from the bathroom, looking like she did every day. Glasses hiding her eyes, hair pulled tightly back, matching black pinstripe jacket and skirt.

  He stood, brushing the nonexistent crumbs from his slacks. “You look nice.”

  Her cheeks pinked, and she bit her bottom lip, reaching for the other turnover. “Thanks for waiting.”

  “No problem.” He lifted the picture frame, smiling at the hopeful girl. “So which princess is Cinderella? Some day my prince will come?”

  “That’s Snow White. Even as a kid I couldn’t see the upside of being a maid to seven dirty boys.” She cupped her hand beneath the pastry to catch crumbs as she bit into it.

  “What was it about Cinderella that got you? Does the prince ride in on a white horse and carry her away?”

  “Not exactly.” She set down her half-eaten turnover and reached for one of the mugs. Tea by the looks of it. “Besides, I’m not Cinderella. She had ugly stepsisters and an evil stepmother. My sisters are gorgeous, and my mother is a saint who thinks I hung the moon.” She sipped her tea and nodded at the other mug. “You should try this tea. Carmella, my roommate from the living room, is the sous chef at Typhoon, and their tea menu is larger than most restaurants’ wine list. This is cinnamon vanilla. It makes the pastry taste even better.”

  His gaze snagged on her full lips as she sipped her tea. When he caught himself staring, he picked up his mug and took a long swallow. Not bad, for tea.

  “So what was it about Cinderella?”

  Robyn shrugged and set down the mug. She made the few steps to the other side of the small room and opened her closet. When she turned back around she held her black purse in one hand and a pair of heels in the other.

  “Probably the shoes,” she said as she sat down on the bed and slid on hers. “The magic of a fairy godmother annoyed me because it ended at midnight, but the shoes lasted. And the prince took one look at the shoe and knew she was his woman.”

  Robyn stared down at her boring black sling-backs, department store staples, not even knockoffs, and winced. Curtis Frye was in her apartment, in her bedroom, watching her put on her discount clothes and listening to her prattle on about fairy tales. She couldn’t fathom why he’d show up at her apartment at the crack of dawn with no warning. He just assumed she had no life outside of him. She could have been staying with a boyfriend and woken half the building. Well, she couldn’t, but someone her age might. Someone who he didn’t put in a genderless box labeled “assistant.” It really would be self-preservation to find another job.

  “I’ll never look at shoes the same again.” His voice vibrated through the room, tickling her ear.

  She stood up to let him know she was ready and found herself chest to chest with him, toe-to-toe. In all the months of working together, he’d never come this close to her on purpose. Even when she’d bowled him over, his rigid posture had made her quick to scamper away. But here, in her room, he stood still. Standing there, he seemed so much broader, firmer, more sculpted and muscular than even she’d imagined.

  This is Curtis Frye, your boss, an annoying voice niggled in the back of her mind, but she refused to listen. Something was different, something had changed. The sea-blue gaze on her was warm and inviting, and she wanted to dive in, indulge the fantasies she’d been hiding since coming to work for him. She tried to look away, to protect what was left of her resolve not to fall for him completely, but his stare held her so firmly, she couldn’t.

  “Are you ready?” He reached for her, his hand on her arm making her skin feel tingly and alive beneath his touch.

  She nodded, wondering if he realized all her assent meant. She trembled as they made their way to the door and out of the apartment, no longer in fear or dread that he might learn of her crush, but with heart-pounding excitement that if he did, he’d take full advantage of it, and of her.

  …

  The email stated what he wanted. Dinner. 8. Luxe.

  If only Luxe weren’t closed tonight for a private party, Robyn could surely get a reservation for Curtis and his dinner companion. Who she really hoped was Alan Morgan, the bushy-haired riverboat magnate he’d spent another day with locked in his office.

  Curtis preferred long meetings, keeping the conversation going until everyone saw things his way, not giving his business partners a chance to sleep on it and change their minds. He never ended a meeting until all decisions weighed in his favor, playing upon people’s vanity like a concert pianist. Everyone who left his office thought they had swindled him into a deal that was too good to be true.

  Usually, it made Robyn want to laugh, the way such powerful people were so skillfully played, made her proud to work for a man who knew what he wanted and made it happen. Except ever since this morning he’d been so different with her, attentive and tossing compliments at her every time they were in the same room. It was a dream come true, and yet she didn’t believe it. Was he charming her because he wanted something? Or because she’d had a crying fit yesterday, and he didn’t want her to break? The latter would be mortifying.

  Her fingernails scratched at the tops of the computer keys, trying to think of how to phrase pick another restaurant. She hated to disappoint him, especially on a day when he was being so friendly and considerate.

  On the way to the office, he’d driven to a coffee kiosk, ordered his Americano and a blended iced car
amel mocha with whipped cream for her without asking her what she drank.

  She indulged in the calorie bomb only when chocolate and caffeine were an absolute necessity for sanity. After he’d parked the SUV in his reserved spot, he hopped out and rounded the car so fast he managed to open her door before she could do it herself. His hand on her elbow as she climbed down, on the small of her back as they walked to the elevator, ignited her imagination.

  She hadn’t known what to say when he handed her the keys. The meek thank-you seemed totally inept. The entire situation felt…otherworldly. As if a real-live fairy godmother had waved her magic wand, said bibbidi-bobbidi-boo and poof…Curtis Frye saw her as a woman.

  Only to take it all away again with the chiming of the elevator doors.

  As soon as they left the elevator, he was all business, dialing into his conference call and changing his clothes. By the time she made it to his office, he was already on the treadmill, his lean body hidden behind the latest sweat-wicking fabric, the tailored Italian suit hanging on the back of the bathroom door. She set the newspapers on the table at his side, his gaze already glued to CNN and the closed captioning as he talked investments with his New York cohorts.

  She’d been invisible to him again an hour later when she announced the arrival of Alan Morgan. When she delivered coffee to them, Curtis hadn’t so much as looked at her.

  So it was no wonder she felt as if she’d spent too long on a Tilt-a-Whirl, at once thrilled at his attentions and dizzy with the worry it could all be in her head.

  She typed out the message about dinner and hit send with a tinge of regret. She’d hoped to work late tonight, wait for Morgan to leave, and then thank Curtis for allowing her to take over the lease on the SUV, rather than having to shop for a car. It had been his idea and she’d agreed quickly. The company might be springing for a car, but the SUV worth her annual salary would never have been on offer.