The Billionaire's Assistant

“But I do require an explanation.”

For the second time, Nick leapt to my defense.

“Give her a break,” he muttered. “We had this whole shellfish defense going on—”

Mitchell’s voice cracked through the air like a whip.

“Nicholas, be quiet.”

For once, his son obeyed.

Normally, I’d gloat. Over-analyze the exact tone to see if there was any way I could harness its silencing powers for my own use. But there was something rather terrible about the way his father spoke to him. As if he were a portfolio, rather than a person. An investment, rather than a son. I’d noticed it the first time I’d ever met Nick, two years ago in this very room.

Nick had been quite unaware of the fact he was getting a publicist. Like most major decisions in his life, it had been made without either his knowledge or his consent. When he’d stumbled into his bedroom, a Brazilian swimsuit model draped on either arm, he had been as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

For a moment, the two of us just stood there. Frozen in shock. Then he turned to Mitchell.

“Thanks, dad.” Even then, I noticed the way his sparkling eyes dimmed a bit when they came to rest on his father. “We can always make room for a fourth.”

I’d sucked in a quick breath. Sure, the tycoon was about to pull out some sort of death-ray and electrocute the kid right then and there. But Mitchell never missed a beat.

“This is Abigail Wilder. She’s to be your new publicist.”

Nick froze again, as the models made themselves scarce in the living room.

“My new publicist,” he repeated slowly. “Did I have an old publicist?”

“Precisely my point. If you’re going to continue on living in this...manner,” Mitchell’s eyes coldly swept the room, “then it’s time we bring in professional assistance.”

Nick, then only twenty-two, had pulled himself up to his full height. Looking almost as intimidating as his nightmarish father. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Quite the contrary,” his father replied dryly, “you need twelve. But Ms. Wilder here comes highly recommended. She’ll do for a start.”

Nick’s eyes flashed dangerously, but he reined it in—looking me up and down as if measuring how much trouble I might be able to cause him.

“Then I’ll find my own publicist,” he said coldly, pacing to the window.

Mitchell stepped in front of him in an instant, looking like he was on the verge of doing something I’m sure would have made me quit right there on the spot.

“You’re incapable of finding your own pants—if half of what they say in the papers is true.” There was a bit of a snarl in his tone. “You will work with Ms. Wilder. End of discussion.”

But Nick had never been one to take these injustices lying down.

“End of discussion?” he quoted in a voice that sent chills down my spine. “Lest I remind you, Mitchell, the second I turned eighteen I was more than able to make my own decisions—”

But Mitchell just laughed. A sound that sounded like gravel scraping down a freeway.

“Oh, I’m well aware of the decisions you’ve made.” His eyes swept his son from head to toe, making him stand up straighter in spite of himself. “Look at you. Drunk. Thoughtless. Ready to jump into the first empty bed you see.” He shook his head slowly, as his dark eyes dilated almost entirely to black. “For one of the first times, Nicholas, you remind me of your mother.”

With that, he swept out of the room. Leaving me standing behind him. Leaving Nick looking like he’d just gotten slapped in the face.

Today was looking to be more of the same...

“I cannot imagine what possessed you to put on such a spectacle, but the days of such antics are behind you—do you understand?”

Nick said not a word. He simply glared at Mitchell through a pair of red-rimmed eyes.

“The company is in a state of transition,” the man continued. “In just four short months, we’re undertaking the largest merger Wall Street has ever seen. Until the ink is dry, all of our shareholders will be holding their breath. The board will be holding its breath. I will be holding my breath. The last thing we need is a picture of you on the front of the New York Times, splashing stockbrokers from the middle of a damn fountain! Am I making myself clear?!”