Billionaires Dollar Series

Cole Porter wears a resigned expression and a tailored suit. “They sure do. I take it you need a spare shirt, then?”

“If you have one.”

Mr. Porter rolls his eyes. “If I have one. Up the stairs and to the right-I’ll show you.”

Liam’s gaze shifts back to me, a crooked smile on his lips. “Sorry about that.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

He disappears up the stairs with his blazer in hand, muscles shifting under his tanned back.

Mr. Porter pauses with his foot on the step. “I apologize about him,” he says, like I’m the wronged party here.

“Not a problem at all, sir.”

“Please let Marco know that he outdid himself tonight. The bruschetta?” He lifts two fingers to his lips, smiling. “Delicious.”

My smile widens. “Oh, he’ll love hearing that, sir.”

Liam

“Sheila,” I say, holding my hands up in the universal sign of calm down. “I’d love to discuss this, but not right now.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not giving you the opportunity to not call me again.”

“I never said I would,” I say, unable to help myself. “We had a great time, but it’s been weeks.”From NôvelDrama.Org.

“You left me with a huge room service bill to pay.”

Had I?

Fuck. “My apologies,” I say, reaching into the inner pocket of my suit jacket. Any longer and I’ll be late to my meeting. I pull out my wallet. “How much was it? I’ll double it. Consider it payment of interest.”

Sheila throws back her shoulders and aims the remnants of her take-away coffee straight for me. A lifetime of playing tennis has given me quick reflexes, but I hadn’t expected this, so I only have time to turn my face.

Lukewarm coffee seeps through my shirt.

“What the hell?”

“I don’t want your money,” she spits, walking away from me on high-heeled boots. “Go to hell, Liam.”

“Shit,” I mutter, looking down at my pressed shirt. It’s gone from white to off-white, and it’s not that flattering shade interior designers keep yapping on about. I shrug out of my suit jacket to spare it the indignity of getting coffee stains too.

A man in a suit chuckles as he walks past me, but I ignore the onlookers.

And fuck it all, now I’ll be late, because I’m not walking into the biggest meeting of my career with a shirt that looks like it’s taken a swim in a French press.

A quick detour to Seattle’s Financial District and I’ve traded my old shirt for one devoid of stains, stuffing it in a trash can on my way back. Throwing away stained shirts is becoming something of an unfortunate habit of late.

Glancing at my watch tells me all I need to know.

I’m fifteen minutes late.

I fold up the anger and stow it deep inside, letting nothing but calm control show as I walk into the high-rise. That Walker Steel had agreed to a meeting at all came as a shock-I’m not about to let myself ruin it because of a foul mood.

No, I’m the guy they call when things are going to shit. When the Dow Jones drops five hundred points in an hour and the other traders are losing their minds. When a broker has made a terrible decision and we have to recuperate the losses before a high-end client finds out.

Making money is what I do best. Nurturing those zeroes and ones, doubling them and then doubling them again.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m great with people too-which had made me one of the youngest senior brokers on Wall Street.

Double-talk? I’ve tripled it.

Sweet-talk? So good you’ll get cavities.

“Mr. Carter,” a man a few years younger than me says, nodding. “Let me escort you to the meeting room.”

Albert Walker has an office on the top floor, not that he’s ever there to use it. Walker Steel conducts business at the sites and he’s notorious for eschewing traditional markets and big-city conventions.

In other words, he avoids men like me.

A middle-aged man with russet hair greets me as I emerge from the elevator. “Dennis Walker.”

“Liam Carter,” I say, my hand closing tight over his as we shake.

His is just as firm around mine, but his face looks like a scowl is its default mode. “Glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He lets go first. “My father has accepted this meeting as a courtesy to Cole Porter.”

“I’m aware,” I say. “We’re grateful for the opportunity.”

“We’ve yet to decide if there will be one at all.” Judging by the tone of his voice, I chalk up his vote in the no column.

So it’ll be a tough sell. My favorite.

Albert Walker rises from behind his desk as we enter. The old man looks just like in the pictures I’ve seen, in a suit that looks two sizes too big, a mustache, and eyes sharp like a hawk’s. They’d have to be for Walker Steel to have survived this long without taking in outside investment.

“Well, well,” he says, extending a hand across his desk. “I was wondering if you’d be a no-show.”

“Apologies,” I say, hand firm. “I was detained at my previous meeting.”

Albert’s lips quirk under the mustache. “Hmm,” he says. “Have a seat, then, and let’s hear your pitch.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Straight to business? You’re a man after my own heart.”

“I very much doubt that,” he says, “except in this regard, perhaps.”