The Wolf’s Billionaire by Layla Silver

Chapter 2 – Bastian

I purposely didn’t turn my phone back on until I was once again well within Tucson’s city limits. My father might have thought I didn’t know that he had tracking apps set up on every phone the company issued, but he’d never given me the credit I deserved for anything. I knew what apps he had and how to work around them and I had a burner phone for private use besides. When I was off the clock, my time was my own.

It would take a minute for my phone to connect and for all the programs to update, so I stuffed the device in my pocket and slid out of my rented SUV. The coffee shop I’d parked in front of was an independent, eclectic little place tucked between a hardware store and an electronics outlet in a crowded, low-slung plaza just off the main road.

Ambling inside, I ordered a café breve then tipped the barista generously when they made it perfectly. There were a few tiny round tables in vivid shades of red, yellow, orange, and blue in front of the shop. They were too inviting to pass up, so I carried my drink outside and plopped down into a seat at the farthest one.

Unlike the depressingly wet and bleak conditions I’d been enduring back east, Arizona sported remarkably fine weather despite it being the middle of March. I stretched out my legs and slouched into a comfortable position that would have horrified my posture-conscious father and let myself enjoy the sunshine and the warm breeze.

After a few indulgent sips of my breve, I finally fished my phone back out of my pocket. Everything had updated and, as expected, both my text messages and my voicemail were full of irritated messages from Meredith. She’d even sent a few emails.

I scrolled through them, finding nothing unexpected, then deleted them en masse and punched in her number.

“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded the instant she picked up.

“Out,” I drawled lazily, just to annoy her. “What’s up?”

“We had meetings today,” she growled. “Meetings you were supposed to take part in.”

“I sent an email last night saying I wouldn’t make it,” I pointed out reasonably. “And we both know there wasn’t any point in me going. I told you before we came out here that I think the applicant’s a creep and the project isn’t worth funding. But Father’s already decided to give it the green light so the entire presentation was just a formality anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean you can just skip it,” she huffed. “For fuck’s sake, Bastian. You’re a VP! Act like it!”

“I don’t see why I should if no one is going to treat me like one regardless of how I conduct myself.” I pointedly did not whine. I kept my voice entirely calm and neutral and let the statement stand on its own merit.

Meredith sighed. “Bastian—”

“Let’s not,” I cut her off. I wasn’t rude about it—the situation wasn’t her doing and she didn’t deserve to be the brunt of my rancor—but neither did I have any intention of wasting what remained of a very nice day rehashing the same problems we’d gone around and around about approximately a million times.

The simple facts were that I had a Master’s degree in International Finance Analysis from MIT and I’d earned my place in the family venture capital business fair and square. My father and I, however, had very different priorities when it came to choosing projects. Since he was the CEO and had the authority to veto any project without explanation as he saw fit, the result was that I routinely got shut down. He’d personally veto projects I’d fought for and then force projects he knew full well that I didn’t want into my lap.

This trip was a prime example.

“As it happens,” Meredith said after an extended pause, her tone resigned, “we did fine without you. I’m not covering for you if Malcolm asks but I won’t bring it up, either.”

“You’re the best step-sister a guy could ask for,” I told her sweetly.

“And you are a pain in my ass,” she returned. Still, I could hear the reluctant affection in her voice.

We’d had a lot of time to make friends since our parents got together when we were in high school. I was lucky that we’d made it work, despite the messiness of things in those early years.

“Are you coming to breakfast tomorrow or should I schedule myself an early-morning massage?”

“Go for the massage,” I advised. “I’m thinking of going out tonight.”

“Oh lord,” she muttered under her breath. Then, louder, “please stay out of trouble.”

“I never get in trouble,” I objected, offended. “Except when I drink rum, and I promise I will stick to other things tonight, how’s that?”

“Good enough. Now get lost. Some of us have work to do.”

Laughing, I hung up and pocketed the phone.

As I finished my drink, I watched people walk by and considered my options. I’d spent the morning exploring Kartchner State Park with my camera, capturing the stunning colors and intricate whorls of the stalactites dripping from the soaring cave ceilings. I’d wait to develop that film, though. Hold onto it until I could savor the pleasure of developing it in my private darkroom at home.

For all that I had been thinking of going out, I decided I was more in the mood for a nice steak and a good bottle of wine than a proper bar. Maybe I’d just stay at the hotel. Its restaurant wasn’t five-star but it was respectable. Staying in meant I wouldn’t have to dress up and maybe I could get a table in a corner and do some more people-watching. Next to photography and geeking out over absurdly complex finance theories, that was my favorite pastime—one I didn’t get to indulge back home nearly as often as I’d have liked.

I went to take a last swig of my breve and found it empty. Taking that as my cue to get moving, I rose and strode toward the nearest public trash can. I’d let myself wander a bit longer, then go back to the hotel and get cleaned up for dinner. Maybe, if I was very lucky, I’d even run into attractive company along the way somewhere and I wouldn’t have to eat dinner alone.

***

When I arrived at the hotel’s restaurant, the maître d’ informed me regretfully that the table I wanted would be open but probably not for around half an hour.

“No problem,” I assured him with a smile. “I’ll be at the bar whenever it opens up.”

Sleek and modern, the horseshoe-shaped hotel bar was largely unremarkable. The only thing about it that was even remotely of interest was a single patron sitting on the far side.

It was her hair that caught my eye first. Longer than average and a thick, lustrous russet color, it fell in gentle waves over her shoulder. Her cocktail dress was a striking shade of plum and draped gracefully around her in an appealingly classical style reminiscent of Grecian gowns. The fingers of one hand toyed idly with the stem of a wine glass still three-quarters full of what I guessed was rosé. With the other hand, she sketched something in a small notebook spread open in front of her.

Approaching the bar, I glanced at both the woman’s hands again. No rings. Well then. I might have just found the appealing company I’d been hoping for.

Motioning to the bartender, I ordered a glass of Malbec and had him open a tab for me. When he handed me my wine I thanked him and then sauntered around to the other end of the bar.

As I got closer, I could see that she was drawing what appeared to be an enormous stately home in a classical style.

“That’s beautiful,” I said, taking the liberty of leaning in to see it better.

“Oh!” She startled, dropping her pencil and jostling her wine.

My free hand shot out instinctively to steady the glass before its contents could slosh all over her lovely work. The woman darted a glance at me, giving me a glimpse of unusual blue-gray eyes. Her cheeks instantly flushed a fetching shade of pink and she sucked in a breath.

Realizing abruptly that stabilizing her drink had put me squarely in her personal space to a degree she might not appreciate, I released her glass and took a step back with an apologetic smile.

“Forgive me,” I said, giving her my best sheepish look. “I’m a photographer but a complete nightmare at drawing. Whenever I see someone with actual artistic talent, I can’t help but shove my nose in to admire it.”

Her blush spread, the delicate line of her throat and the pale skin of her décolletage turning rosy.

“Oh, I don’t—I’m not—it’s just a hobby.” She quickly flipped the notebook shut, her hands dropping to twist in her lap nervously. “My sister has the real talent—she’s an illustrator—was. We’re terribly proud. I just—” her eyes darted furtively to the sketchbook, “scribble, sometimes.”

Charmed by her flustered protests, I pulled out the stool next to hers and sat down, setting my wine on the bar with a thunk. “Nonsense. I can’t draw a stick figure—that’s scribbling. What you had was art.”

Taking a chance, I plucked her notebook off the bar and flipped it open. She gave a squeak and started to reach to stop me, then snatched her hands back. Flipping open to the page she’d been on, I admired it. The chiaroscuro was rough, like a hasty warm-up piece might be, but every line was lovingly drawn.

I opened my mouth to compliment her work and realized that she’d gone pale beneath her rapidly-fading flush, her lower lip caught between her teeth and her eyes huge with something far too close to terror for my comfort.

Shit.

“I’m being a thoughtless bastard, aren’t I?” I quickly closed the sketchbook and put it back down in front of her. Raising my hands by my chest, palm out, I made a face. “My sister would have my head on a platter for acting like this.” I shook my head. “Can I try again?”

She stared at me as if I had two heads but I watched her breathing slowly level out.

“I’m Bas,” I said, extending my right hand. “Freelance photographer and extroverted idiot extraordinaire.”

I’d long ago figured out that giving people my real credentials outside of work was a losing proposition. Too many people got weird the instant they realized you had money… a lot of it. Some instantly made assumptions about how you’d gotten that money and wrote you off as a rich asshole who trod cravenly on the working class. Others got cartoon-level dollar signs in their eyes and tried to take you for all you were worth. A few ran hard and fast in the other direction just to avoid the drama they assumed would follow in your wake.

I didn’t like lying as rule, though, so to soothe my conscience, I played the middle ground. I shortened my given name to Bas and used my middle name, Wilder, instead of my last name. I also told people I was a photographer, which was technically true. I had sold a few photos for profit under the table which theoretically did make me a freelance photographer.

If people inferred that freelancing was my primary job, well, that was on them, wasn’t it? I was under no obligation to clarify. To date, the minor misdirection had never hurt anyone and it certainly made my life work much better than it otherwise would have.

“Ainsley,” the woman replied, tentatively shaking my hand. She blew out a breath, obviously embarrassed. “Hard-core introvert who probably shouldn’t be sitting at a bar at all if she’s going to react like that to someone bearing compliments.”

“Everyone should be free to sit at a bar if they want,” I countered firmly. “I assure you I do have manners—I even know how to use them, most of the time.”

She smiled cheekily. “Just not around art?”

“Just not around art,” I agreed, grinning. “While we’re on the topic, may I ask if that was somewhere you’ve been?” I pointed to the sketchbook. “The place you were drawing?”

“Oh, it isn’t real.” She shook her head and her expression went fond. “It’s Manderley. From the novel Rebecca. I’m sure it’s not your style—”

“Guy killed his wife, right? Dumped her in a boat or something?”

Her eyes lit up and my heart skipped a beat. If she’d been lovely while flustered, she was captivating when happy.

“You’ve read it!”

“A long time ago,” I hedged, scouring my memory for anything else related to the book. “I think I helped a cousin with a book report? It’s fuzzy.”

Her expression fell. “I suppose most people do read it for school,” she said self-consciously. “And hate it because of that. But it’s really quite wonderful.”

Movement to my right made me turn my head. The maître d’ stood there, glancing between me and Ainsley with an almost regretful expression.

“Sir, your table is ready.”

“Thank you.” Turning back to Ainsley and mentally crossing my fingers, I asked, “have you eaten?”

“Not yet.” She glanced at the clock over the bar. “I didn’t realize it had gotten so late.”

Delight blossomed. “Join me then.” I smiled. “Let me make up for my atrocious manners.”

Her eyes widened and she leaned back subtly. “I couldn’t impose—”

“It’s no imposition,” I insisted, sliding off my stool. Grabbing her notebook, I tucked it under my arm, then skillfully collected both our glasses in one hand. I held the other out to her. “I very much enjoy conversations about how disastrous our modern education system is at teaching the classics, and I’d love to hear your thoughts on how it has failed gothic literature in particular.”

She hesitated for just a second, then timidly slipped her hand in mine. “I can’t really refuse an offer like that, can I?”

Squeezing her hand gently, I let the maître d’ lead us toward the dining room. There were two shallow steps up from the bar area to the dining room proper and I automatically shifted my hand from Ainsley’s to the small of her back when we reached them. It didn’t occur to me until I was halfway through the motion that it might be a mistake. I knew more than a few feminists who considered the gesture condescending rather than chivalrous.

When Ainsley stiffened, I mentally cursed. Then the tension evaporated, her muscles going as soft under my palm as the fabric of her dress. I swallowed a sigh, relief pouring through me. I took the liberty of keeping my hand where it was, too, as we crossed to the out-of-the-way table I’d requested. When we reached it, I was quick to set our glasses and her sketchbook down and pull out her chair.

She looked surprised, then beamed shyly at me.

Manners, I thought exultantly. My dinner companion had a distinctly limited tolerance for brashness, it seemed, but responded beautifully to manners. I could work with that.

We made small talk about the menu for a few minutes and Ainsley confided that the fish wasn’t very good but the steak was.

“How long have you been in town?”

“Just a few days. I accepted a new job recently,” she confided. “And I came out to attend a conference related to that.”

“Really? Congratulations. We should get champagne!”

“I don’t think that goes with steak—” she backtracked quickly.

“Champagne goes with everything,” I laughed as the waiter appeared. “Dinner and champagne are on me, so get whatever you like.”

When we placed our orders Ainsley looked more than a little alarmed at the cost of the champagne I’d selected. If I didn’t want to blow my cover by revealing that I could more than I afford it, I needed to distract her. Promptly.

I didn’t waste any time. As soon as the waiter left, I leaned in, propping my elbows on the table.

“Now,” I grinned. “Tell me about Manderley.”