Tempted by the Billionaire (Forbidden Confessions 9)

I can’t even imagine what this place is worth. My guess? Somewhere around twenty million. I can’t even afford to stand on the sidewalk.

Why did he ask me to come here?

“You need anything else?” Gus prompts gently.

Of course he wants me out of his car. Time is money, and I’m keeping him from his next fare.

“No. I’m great.” I pull my sweater and my ratty purse closer. “Thanks.”

As he nods, I let myself out of the taxi and glance at my watch. Less than ten minutes late. Considering where I came from, I’ll call that a win.

Though I doubt Mr. Force will.

The moment I shut the cab door Gus drives away, leaving me alone. I have no idea where I’ll go when I leave here or how I’ll get there.

Worry about that later. You need this job first. Go knock him dead.

The self-pep talk is probably pointless. Chad Force is financial elite. No matter what I’ve accomplished, he won’t be impressed. Why should he be? He’s smart, wealthier than Midas, and more handsome than sin. He’s also a notorious recluse, so I’ll need to curb my habit of babbling when I’m nervous.

I square my shoulders and raise a shaking hand to the doorbell.

“What?” a deep voice barks through the discreet intercom on my right.

“Savannah Blythe to see Mr. Force.”

“You’re late. I don’t tolerate tardiness. Go away.”

“Y-yes, sir. I don’t, either. There was a mix-up. I didn’t receive the correct address in time.” Not entirely true, but I hope the lie will pass muster.

“That’s your problem.”

I wince. He’s the sort of man who wants results, not excuses.

“Give me ten minutes to prove I can be an asset. I’ll never be late again, and I’ll work tirelessly to make your clients money.”

“I’ve already got a hundred drones in the glass building downtown who work tirelessly for that purpose. You were interviewing for a position as my executive assistant, and you’re late, so we’re done.”

Shit. Shit. Shit!

I didn’t push myself academically to become anyone’s assistant, but I’m willing to work my way up. And a job reporting directly to Chad Force himself? Priceless.

“Unless you can wrestle a cat,” he adds.

Did I hear that right? “A cat, sir?”

“Yes. This feline is the bane of my existence. If you can make the damn beast behave, I’ll reconsider.”

“I’d certainly like the chance to try.”

“Do you have experience with cats?”

“A lot, actually.”

“All right. It’s your funeral, which I’m not paying for if you fail. Are those terms acceptable?”

“Yes, sir.”

Suddenly, I hear a buzz and a click. “Come in. Lock the door behind you. Find me upstairs and I’ll explain.”

“Upstairs?”

“Did I stutter?”

He didn’t, and I’m trying not to. “With all due respect, sir, I would feel more comfortable if we met downstairs.”

“No doubt, but I had knee surgery last week.”

So he can’t descend the stairs, and it’s unlikely there’s an elevator in a building over a hundred years old.

“I’ll be right there.” I push open the heavy black door and find myself in a tall foyer with marble floors and a half-barrel ceiling in pure white. A massive chandelier gleams overhead. At the end of the long passage sits a hall table with scrollwork legs that looks very Drexel Heritage, topped with fresh white hydrangeas in a simple green vase. The painting behind it is an original Chagall.

He has half a million dollars of art just hanging on a wall?

Of course he does. Stop gawking and start thinking.

I pry my gaze away from the splendor and shut the door, carefully locking it. Then I draw in a deep breath and search for the stairs. When I finally find the staircase, I blink up in awe. The architectural marvel is oval, with a dark walnut banister and traditional white balusters, that winds up as far as the eye can see, covered in pristine gray silk carpet.

Wow. But everywhere I look, the whole house is amazing.

Damn it, I should have asked Mr. Force what floor he was on. But I’m guessing that lower floors would be considered utilitarian and that the fine folk would want the park and city views available from the upper levels.

After I scale all five floors of the staircase, I’m breathing harder than I’d like. Gripping the dark railing, I try to catch my breath when a flash of black darts by.

What the heck was that?

“Are you going to huff and puff or get in here?” The deep voice sounds from the end of the hall, to the right.

I bite back the fact it’s easy to disparage my physical abilities when he doesn’t have to move a muscle, but I don’t dare. “Coming, sir.”

I swipe my suddenly damp palms on my blue wool dress—my singular splurge—wincing every time my black heels click on the tile floor and bounce off the high ceilings.

During my trek, I do my best to recall everything I’ve ever read about Chad Force. Age thirty-nine. Birthday: November first. Born in Boston to billionaire parents Jacob and Caroline Force, who divorced just before his third birthday. His father is a cousin of the Kennedys, and his mother kin to the Astors. He attended a fancy prep school, the name of which escapes me. He went on to Harvard for both his bachelor’s and MBA. All attempts to drag him into politics have been for naught. He’s never been married, has no children, and by all accounts is an unrelenting workaholic. And that’s a shame because in all his pictures he’s hot as hell.