Jane Harvey-Berrick Guarding the Billionaire Page 10

  She smiles sympathetically.

  “Well, I bet you’re ready for a change from cold cuts, aren’t you? How about risotto with chorizo for supper?”

  “That sounds damn fine, thank you, Rachel.”

  She smiles that beautiful smile again.

  “And how is Mr. Anderson?”

  “Preoccupied.”

  “Oh, dear,” she sighs.

  And that’s all she says.

  Suddenly, the elevator call button rings: someone’s on their way up. One of Anderson’s family, perhaps? But I’d sure as hell better find out, so I jog back to my office and look at the CCTV. It’s a white male, late fifties or early sixties, and not Anderson’s father. I scan the very short list of permitted people who have access to the garage and elevator codes, and deduce that this is Frederick Landon: family friend.

  That’s part of the puzzle that doesn’t fit. He knows about Anderson’s kink but the family doesn’t?

  I pass Rachel on the way to the staff wing as I head to meet the elevator.

  “It’s Mr. Landon,” I tell her.

  Her mouth tightens slightly.

  “I see,” she says.

  Rachel really dislikes the man.

  I knock on Anderson’s office door.

  “What?” he spits.

  What a laidback, happy-go-lucky dude—much like myself.

  “Mr. Landon is on his way up.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake! What does he want? Fuck. Show him in.”

  He’s obviously delighted.

  The elevator doors open and Mr. Landon walks out. He’s rail thin, silver hair, ice-blue eyes, pencil mustache, designer suit. Cool, clinical and ice cold.

  His glacial expression chills further as he examines me from head to toe. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I wasn’t a Marine for more than a decade without recognizing a predator when I see one.

  His gaze never wavers. I don’t think the guy has blinked in his life.

  “Good evening, sir. Mr. Anderson is in his office.”

  “Trainer, I presume?”

  And he knows who I am.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He smiles, but his expression is reptilian and his eyes feel like they’re trying to see all the way through me, assessing, evaluating, but also greedy and hungry. I don’t get him and Anderson Senior being friends. At all.

  “Divorced.”

  “Excuse me, sir?” I think I saw a forked tongue.

  “Divorced. Ex-Marine.” He gives an icy smile. “Devon’s bodyguard. Lucky Devon.”

  There’s a faint emphasis, as if it’s a private joke. But he’s read my file and he wants me to know it. He’s pretending to be amused, but can’t quite mask the irritation in his voice. For some reason, he isn’t pleased by my presence.

  Gee, and I’m such a little ray of sunshine. Maybe he wants to hurt my feelings.

  Shame I don’t give a shit.

  I turn without replying and walk slowly to Anderson’s office, keeping Landon behind me. I hear a small huff of annoyance, and that makes me smile.

  I probably shouldn’t be pissing off the boss’s friends this early on the job, but sometimes it’s the small things that make life worth living.

  Besides, he reminds me of my ex. I think it’s the charm of a snake-oil salesman.

  I overhear the exchange as he enters Anderson’s office.

  “Good evening, Devon.”

  “What do you want, Frederick? I’m working.”

  The boss’s response is childish, bordering on hostile.

  “Just dropping in to see an old friend. I missed seeing you at the Farm the other weekend. If I’d known you were going to be there, I’d have put in an appearance. It’s the first time you’ve been in months. I can’t imagine work keeping you that occupied. Maybe it’s your new bodyguard.”

  He smirks at me as I turn away.

  “Are you going to offer me a drink?”

  Seems as though Hissing Sid isn’t intimidated by Anderson, unlike most people.

  The boss mutters something under his breath, then leads Landon back to the main room.

  “I could have found you a bodyguard if you really felt you needed one,” he says in a sharp tone.

  “Mason found him,” the boss snaps back.

  As I head to my office, I can hear the cadence of their voices, but not their words. Landon sounds like he’s scolding the boss and Anderson is taking it. I’m intrigued.

  I check through the files in the cabinet as well as the electronic files that I have access to for my work. There’s no personal file on the Master Viper, but a reference to a business arrangement that Anderson has with Landon. I’m surprised to see that the boss has a considerable stake in the exclusive Saint-Mars Cigar Bars that pepper Manhattan and other wealthy East Coast enclaves, such as the Hamptons. It doesn’t seem to fit in with the boss’s no smoking stance or his other business interests. Maybe he’s the silent partner. Or maybe I’ll get a box of Cubans as part of my annual bonus. Dare to dream.

  My stomach rumbles, reminding me of Rachel’s offer of food. I wander into the kitchen, lured by the delicious smells that emanate. But Rachel’s demeanor is stiff, and she’s crashing around in a very noisy, un-Rachel-like way.

  “I really can’t stand that man!” she hisses between clenched teeth.

  “Landon?”

  “Who else?” she snaps.

  I’m taken aback. Why is she mad at me? Women!

  “Oh, sorry,” she apologizes immediately. “It’s just that he puts me on edge. He always looks at me as if … I know, I know. It’s none of my business who Mr. Anderson entertains, but there’s something so cold and calculating about him. And the way he watches him, like … like Mr. Anderson is his property … pretending to be a good family friend, when really…”

  She stops.

  “Oh, just listen to me. I mustn’t talk out of turn. Please forget I said anything.”

  “Your secrets are safe with me, Rachel.” All of them, whatever they are.

  She sighs.

  “Thank you. I really shouldn’t talk about his father’s friend like this.”

  “Yeah, it’s hard to imagine Anderson Senior and Landon as friends.”

  “Apparently, Mr. Landon taught the piano to their children. I think that’s how they became friends…” She looks puzzled. “That’s right, isn’t it? Although maybe I’m wrong. I’ve never heard Mr. Anderson play.”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Mr. Anderson always seems … different when he comes back from the Farm … more distant.”

  She shivers.

  “The way he watches Mr. Anderson all the time. It’s creepy. I mean, he just stares at him, like … like…”

  Rachel’s words grind to a halt, but I’m really curious to know how she would have ended that sentence. Is the getting a pedo vibe from Landon? ‘Cause I know that I fucking am. Whatever she was going to say, she’s changed her mind. Interesting.

  Rachel frowns, and I fish around for a way to change the subject.

  “How was your weekend?”

  “Oh, restful, thank you. More so than yours, I think!” she says smiling and arching one eyebrow.

  I decide to probe further.

  “What did you do?”

  “Relaxed, read some books, went for a walk in the park, shopping with my nieces. Nothing much.”

  “Sounds real nice, Rachel.”

  She smiles at me.

  “Yes, it was.”

  She still hasn’t mentioned her husband. Okay, time to pay or play.

  “Were you with Mr. Smith?”

  She blinks up at me, her lovely blue eyes clouding over. Oh, shit!

  “My husband passed away five years ago. I would have thought you’d seen that in my file.”

  Not what I was expecting. And now I feel like a prick for asking her.

  “I … I haven’t read your file, Rachel.”

  “Oh.” She pauses, then smiles. “I see.”

  I re
alize I’m staring. Her smile fades slowly and her breath catches in her throat … and then the fucking kitchen intercom buzzes.

  Rachel blinks twice then answers.

  “Yes, Mr. Anderson. I’ll bring it through right away for you.”

  She busies herself over the stove, her cheeks pink. I shake my head. What are you doing, Trainer? She’s an employee! You’re an employee! Do you want her to lose her fucking job? Do you want to lose yours and all those lovely benefits for Lilly?

  I head back to my office and pull myself together. It’s a golden fucking rule: never, ever screw your coworkers. That wasn’t really an issue when I was in the Marines. Although there was that one Sergeant in the motor pool: great rack, knew her way around an oil change.

  To clear my mind, I think about what Rachel told me about Landon and what I’ve read in his file. He’s a family friend, he’s in business with Anderson, he’s not intimidated by him, he scolds him; he has his private access codes, he’s cold and authoritative, he taught him piano when the boss was a little kid; he’s one scary bastard, he knows about the meditation room and joins in orgies at the Farm.

  Rachel is right about one thing: Anderson Senior and Landon have known each other since before Anderson was married.

  Mason’s private report states that Landon worked as a private tutor and piano teacher in the homes of the upper middle classes on the East Coast.

  Since then, he’s become a wealthy and successful businessman, but only because Devon Anderson invested in his chain of Cigar Bars. Mason’s file says that Landon has never been known to be in a relationship but is assumed to be gay.

  I don’t know when he started teaching Anderson piano, but they’ve known each other at least twenty years. He visits unannounced and knows the boss better than his own family.

  And suddenly I’m wondering—the whole S&M thing, the reason Anderson has apparently never had a date, the reason his family knows nothing about his twisted lifestyle. It all adds up to one thing: Frederick Landon.

  Fuck.

  What are we talking here? Predator? Pedo? Or just opportunist?

  But it still doesn’t answer the question: why does Anderson call him a friend?

  Chapter 9

  Cosmopolis

  “OH, TRAINER! I’M going to ride you until you pop like warm champagne!”

  I look up into Rachel’s scorching blue eyes, my hands reaching up to touch her full, round, beautiful breasts.

  We move together like we were made for each other and I know I’m close, so close...

  A persistent ringing noise intrudes on the moment.

  What the fuck? My fucking alarm has gone off.

  And I wake up. Alone. And … oh what? Sticky. A fucking wet dream? I don’t believe this! Am I fourteen for fuck’s sake?

  I fight my way out of the knotted sheets and sit on the edge of the bed, calming my wild thoughts and ragged breathing.

  Just a dream. But a damn fine dream. I haven’t had a dream like that since … I’ve never had a dream like that. I blame Anderson and all the kinky shit that goes down. No pun intended.

  I stagger to my feet and into the shower, washing away the dream, the stickiness, the confusion. This is not me. This is not how I behave. I am not so fucking stupid as to screw the help. I will not cause Rachel to lose her job. No matter how much I might want her. Stop this now, you asshole. Get a fucking grip.

  I trail back into my room feeling slightly depressed. The bed is a mess and, oh shit, just a fucking mess.

  I dress quickly in my sweats and running shoes, then pull the sheets off and bundle them up to take to the laundry room, when I see…

  Shit! Rachel!

  “Oh, good morning! Did you sleep well?”

  Yeah, too fucking well.

  “Uh, yeah. Thanks, Rachel.”

  “You really don’t have to do that, you know,” she says, pointing to the sheets. “Let me take those from you.”

  Shit!

  “No, that’s fine, I can manage,” I say slightly too emphatically.

  Her face falls.

  “Really, it’s no trouble. It’s nice to have someone to look after as well as Mr. Anderson.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Nobody has looked after me since … well, my mom, I guess. My ex-wife certainly didn’t. But maybe I’m not being fair—we were both so young, and I was away saving the world on behalf of the US Marine Corps and Uncle Sam.

  I realize that I haven’t replied to Rachel, and she’s still watching, looking slightly hurt.

  “Old habits, Rachel,” I mutter, slinging the sheets into the washing machine and slamming the door.

  She smiles at me cautiously.

  “I understand. But please let me do that in future. You have enough on your plate with Mr. Anderson.”

  Her gentle reminder makes me look at my watch. Shit! 5:29AM—and the bastard doesn’t do waiting.

  “Thanks, Rachel!” I call over my shoulder as I jog out to the main room.

  I hear her laughing voice behind me.

  “You’re welcome!”

  Anderson is walking into the foyer at the same time as I arrive. Made it. He gives me a curious look.

  “Everything okay, Trainer?”

  Shit, the guy really doesn’t miss a thing.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He nods, and we ride the elevator to the ground floor in our usual silence. Then he says,

  “I’ve changed the schedule for this morning. I have an appointment at 8:30AM. The address details are on your desk.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He seems more distracted than usual, but it doesn’t stop him powering along at his usual rate for six miles, ignoring the glances he gets from other joggers, male and female. I suspect he knows that he’s a good-looking bastard, but he doesn’t give a shit. If I hadn’t seen him at the Farm, I’d think he was asexual.

  At 8:15AM, we’re in the car and off to the first meeting of the day. I’m taken aback when I realize that it’s an appointment with a shrink, specifically a sex therapist. I don’t know what to make of this: it can only mean that Anderson knows he has problems and is trying to deal with them. And for a moment, I try to imagine what it must be like to have untold wealth and responsibility for over thirty-thousand employees at the age of twenty-nine, to be haunted by demons that cause him to want to abuse himself and other people. But my imagination isn’t that good. I have no fucking idea what all that shit must feel like.

  I’ve seen a shrink a few times. It’s mandatory when you finish a tour, but I can’t say it was particularly helpful and they’re pretty much all the same and by the book.

  [The Introductory Phase introduces the team and explains the process.]

  Shrink: So, Sergeant, my name is Major Hoffer and I’m here to debrief you after your last tour.

  Me: Yes, Sir.

  [The Fact Phase reconstructs events in detail in chronological order.]

  Shrink: We’ll start with a timeline of your deployment.

  Me: Yes, Sir.

  [The Thought Phase is when you highlight ‘thoughts’ you had during key events.]

  Shrink: So you were in Kabul when seven of your team were blown up by an IED. What thoughts did you have on that occasion?

  Me: Harsh ones, sir.

  [The Reaction Phase is when you’re invited to identify and ventilate emotions.]

  Shrink: And how did that make you feel?

  Me: I fucking hate that question.

  Yeah, ad fucking nauseum. Then the shrink ‘normalizes and validates’ your stress responses, although when I ask what ‘normal’ looks like, the shrink says it’s not a word they use.

  It goes on, or as the textbook says, ‘transitioning back from emotional to factual’ (the Symptom Phase). Then he (and it’s usually ‘he’), then he tells you that PTSD sucks and it could take a few centuries to feel normal again, which is the Teaching Phase.

  And you know what? None of it stops the nightmares, but gee, it’s okay to shit your shor
ts at night because you’re so fucking terrified, because the shrink says that’s normal.

  I wonder what a sex therapist does.

  As it’s always useful to learn about a client, I Google ‘sex therapy’—it covers a multitude of sins:

  - Erectile dysfunction

  - Premature ejaculation

  - Sexual desire disorders

  - Sexual identity, orientation and fetishes

  - Sexual abuse or trauma.

  My dumb smile slides right off of my face as I think back to my encounter with the uber-creepy Frederick Landon. I’m not liking the picture I’m seeing as the pieces in this jigsaw start to come together.

  I close the search engine, not wanting to read any more.

  So while Anderson is having his brain excavated, or possibly other organs, I wait, going over the rest of his schedule for the week. I’d really like to get an afternoon off so I can go check out those schools for Lilly and spend some quality time with my number one gal. I need something clean and good after my dark thoughts.

  I’ll see what sort of mood the boss is in when the headshrinker/dick-shrinker has finished with him.

  He’s in there for ninety-three minutes, but seems calm when he comes out. So on the way to the office, I risk asking.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Trainer?”

  “I was wondering if I could take the afternoon off. I’d be back by 8PM to drive you to the fundraiser at the hotel.”

  He frowns. Oh well, it was worth asking.

  “Fundraiser. Yes, of course, Trainer. Take the Range Rover, if you like. Ask Mrs. Smith to send my Tom Ford tux to the office and we’ll go from there.”

  Once again, the bastard has surprised me: Take the Range Rover.

  I FUCKING LOVE driving this car. It rides high, so there’s good all-around vision, and it’s got every safety feature under the sun. Best of all is the fan-fucking-tastic sound system that Anderson’s had installed. It’s like having the musicians in the car with you.

  I flick through his playlist: it’s an eclectic mix including all the Rat Pack, Suzanne Vega, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Springsteen, Puccini, Chopin, and some modern classical music that I’ve never heard of and sounds like nails on a chalkboard. I put on Californication and turn it up LOUD.

  I’ve texted the ex to let her know that I’m coming. We try to keep communication to a minimum to avoid starting World War Three. But first, I’ve got to check out these schools. As soon as the boss gave me the afternoon off, I made appointments to visit them all, but since I have no idea what I’m looking for, I’m just going to trust my instincts. And I’m really looking forward to doing this dad shit.