Tempted by the Billionaire (Forbidden Confessions 9)

Boston, Massachusetts

February 1

1 p.m.

Savannah

“Excuse me? Would you mind repeating that?”

The older woman, though seated behind the tall counter, manages to look through her bifocals and down her nose at me. “Your interview has been moved to Mr. Force’s secondary location. Did you not receive the message?”

I dig through my secondhand purse, held together by shoe polish and grit, and find the pay-as-you-go phone. The screen says I have one message…and I’m out of credits. That’s why I didn’t listen to the voicemail. It would have cost me money I don’t have.

I gulp as I look back to Mrs. Turner, according to the placard on her desk. “I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

She purses her mouth in displeasure, then jots something on the back of a business card and hands it to me. “You’re supposed to be at this location in five minutes.”

With a shaking hand, I raise the card and read the address. I’ve been in Boston exactly two days. The street name doesn’t ring a bell.

Mrs. Turner’s glare tells me I can’t admit that to her. I’m already in grave danger of losing this interview. “Thank you. I’m sorry for the mix-up. I’ll be on my way immediately.”

“I suggest you hurry. Mr. Force doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

I know that well. His reputation is exacting. He’s difficult, cold—and utterly brilliant. He doesn’t suffer fools and he’s even more harsh with those he considers lazy.

Why has our interview been moved and how can I possibly reach this alternate location on time?

With a bob of my head, I back away from Mrs. Turner, nearly bumping into a pair of suits carrying their lattes. After a profuse apology, I see the older receptionist shaking her head as I dash through the lobby and push my way out the revolving door, into the freezing Boston afternoon.

I should have listened when my best friend, Renee, told me not to move to Boston without a good coat.

Fighting a shiver, I extract Grandma Lienna’s gray sweater from my oversized purse and wrap it around me tightly, but the freezing air is humid and the wind gusts. I feel the chill down to my bones.

“Do you need a taxi?” a doorman besides me asks.

I wish. “No, thank you. I just need to know how to get here, preferably using public transportation.”

He peers down at the address proffered on the back of the card, then looks up at me with something painfully like pity in his eyes. “There’s no public transportation to the high-rent district. Sorry.”

“Something that will get me closer, then? I need to be there in”—I glance at my phone—“three minutes.”

“Sorry, miss. There’s nothing, and if you walk, you’ll be about an hour late.”

I don’t have time for panic, but logic isn’t helping. I need this job. I was so shocked to get a call from Force Financial the week after I blindly sent a résumé. I’m not even sure what their job opening entails, but if it gets my foot in the door at one of the most venerable financial institutions on the East Coast, I want it.

More importantly, I can’t survive without it.

“Can you give me directions?” I don’t need to compound my tardiness by wasting time being lost.

The guy, who’s probably my age, eyes me. “New to Boston?”

Is it that obvious? “Yes.”

He mutters something under his breath, then calls out to one of the nearby cabs. “I’ve been there, too, miss. This one’s on me.” As the cab stops, he opens the back door and pokes his head in. “Hey, Gus. Would you take this one to Mr. Force’s place?” He hands the driver twenty bucks. “She needs to get there fast.”

“You got it.” Gus smiles.

As I slide into the seat, I look back at the kind doorman. “I don’t even know how to thank you… What’s your name?”

“Dan.”

“I’ll repay you. As soon as I get my first paycheck—”

“Don’t worry. Consider this paying it forward. Just promise you’ll do the same for someone in need when you can.”

“Done.”

He smiles my way and shuts the door, then taps the roof of the car before Gus lurches forward.

Traffic is a snarl, and the driver doesn’t ask for the address. I’m biting my nails and lamenting every moment we sit at a light or in a jam, but finally the office and government buildings of downtown give way to a very swanky residential district that doesn’t just smell like success but old money.

That’s no shock since Mr. Force isn’t too many generations removed from American royalty, and he’s managed his cash flow even better than his ancestors.

Joy Street gives way to Mount Vernon. The row houses are old, stately, and unbelievably elegant. But then we turn the corner, and Gus stops in front of what I presume is Chad Force’s residence.

“Holy shit.” I gape.

The turn-of-the-century brick building is enormous and stately, five stories topped by a rooftop deck that clearly isn’t seeing any action in the dead of winter. The huge, glossy black door faces a private park that’s dormant this time of year. Rows of big, traditional windows are flanked by shutters that match the door. An old-fashioned, wrought iron gas light stands in the brick sidewalk, along with a discreet sign proclaiming this private property and that all trespassers will be prosecuted.