Taught by the Tycoon

  Taught by the Tycoon

  Shelli Stevens

  Published by Shelli Stevens

  Copyright © 2014 by Shelli Stevens

  Cover by Vidette McDowall

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at shelli@shellistevens.com

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. www.shellistevens.com

  Acknowledgments

  Huge thanks to Megan for your fabulous editing skills. To L.K. Campbell for your mad formatting skills. To Christina Sol and Danielle Redmond for your fabulous insight and opinions while beta reading. And finally to my family, friends and readers for being so wonderful and supportive.

  Chapter 1

  She had to be out of her mind. What kind of woman went to her boss for dating advice? Besides her, apparently.

  As she walked the halls of Mantovani Luxury Goods, Rachel drew in a deep breath in an attempt to steady her nerves. It of course failed. The fact that she’d known Damiano since childhood could make things slightly less awkward, right? Or one could hope.

  Outside his office, she hesitated just briefly as she thought she heard him talking to someone. When it was again silent, she tapped on the door.

  A moment later came the brisk, “Come in.”

  She opened the door and stepped inside. The faint boom-chicka-boom rhythm from a Johnny Cash song floated around the office, and she smiled. It had always amused her that her work-driven, often broody Italian employer was such a big fan of the country singer.

  At the moment he had the phone balanced between his dark head and his shoulder, and his brows were drawn together into a scowl that was quite customary for him.

  He lifted his head abruptly, the irritation in his blue gaze fading to curiosity as he saw her.

  “I will have to call you later, Mama. Sí. Buonanotte.” He hung up the phone and directed his attention fully on her. “Rachel.”

  “Hello. Sorry, I hope I didn’t just interrupt a phone call with your mother.”

  “I’m grateful for the interruption.” He gave a wave of his hand. “Just a bit of family drama. I’m surprised you haven’t left for the evening.”

  “I was finishing up a correspondence from one of our clients in the Netherlands.”

  She knew most employees had fled the office early to enjoy the three-day Memorial Day weekend, but she’d chosen to stay late for this well-planned conversation. She’d had little doubt that Damiano would be here long past everyone else.

  He’d been a workaholic long before the day she’d been hired. Then again, he hadn’t earned the status several years ago as one of Forbes youngest billionaires by being a constant patron of the nightclubs.

  She gestured to the chair across from him. “May I sit?”

  “You never need ask. Please do.” He shook his head, but there was a shimmer of respect in his gaze. “You should not work so hard.”

  “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “As well you should.” He leaned back in his plush chair, his large frame seeming to dwarf it. “Was there something you needed?”

  Rachel knew that while he’d lived the last seventeen years in America, he’d spent his summers in Italy with his mother, and his Italian accent was only slightly diminished. The accent combined with his tall, dark, and foreign persona, made him a potent cocktail. One she’d always been immune to. Or so she’d thought until recently.

  And once again, in what seemed to be a new, and now frequent occurrence, her pulse quickened just by being near him. The sensation alarmed her each time it began to happen.

  Do it, Rachel, just ask him.

  She clasped her hands in front of her and bluntly asked, “Would you date someone like me?”

  The blatant shock on his face was almost comical. For the first time since she’d known him, he seemed at a loss for words. His mouth even flapped adorably like a fish out of water.

  But then just as quickly, he schooled his features back into control. He cleared his throat and arched a brow. “Sorry, come again?”

  Rachel grimaced and shook her head. “No need to look so terrified, I promise I’m not asking you out.”

  He gave her one of his trademark lazy smiles. “So then I shouldn’t acquire us theater tickets for the evening?”

  Her stomach did the weirdest little flipping movement. “Definitely no need for those.”

  He picked up a pen from his desk and began to rotate it between his fingers in a habit that was familiar to her. It was one he often used while analyzing a situation. Which meant that despite his playful response, she’d thrown him off. And his sharp-as-a-tack mind was already forming conclusions.

  Her gaze unwittingly followed the movement of his long, dexterous fingers. He had beautiful hands. And not for the first time, she found herself imagining the pleasure those hands could give.

  She swallowed hard.

  Many women around the world probably knew first hand, she reminded herself, which quickly doused ice water on her heated thoughts.

  Rachel tore her gaze away, perturbed to find a tiny ache in her chest. She’d never held any illusions regarding Damiano’s lifestyle. He might work himself to the bone for the luxury goods corporation he’d inherited from his father, but he was hardly a monk. It would be difficult for him to be one with the way women had always flocked to him.

  Which was why she’d sworn she’d never be one of those women. She was much too professional, and needed this job far too much, to mess it up by sleeping with her boss.

  “So please elaborate, Rachel. If you’re not ‘asking me out’ as you put it, just what is your question regarding?”

  Her palms grew damp, and she moistened her lips before answering. “I guess I should clarify. Would someone like you, date someone like me?”

  When his brows hiked, she quickly added, “Someone like you, but not you, of course.”

  “Of course,” he agreed in that languid way that always sent her pulse pounding. “So what do you mean, Rachel? Someone like me?”

  Oh damn, she really hadn’t wanted to spell it out so blatantly. “Umm, well...”

  “Do you mean Italian?”

  Her mouth opened and then shut. “No, that’s not at all what I meant.”

  “Hmm. Someone who works a bit too much?”

  “Someone with your magnitude of wealth,” she blurted, and then felt her cheeks flame with color. Had that sounded as horrible to him as it did to her?

  Yes, it certainly had. The amusement in his gaze was snuffed out and his eyes darkened, becoming unreadable. She had the feeling she’d disappointed him, which made her throat tighten with the need to explain.

  “It’s just that—”

  “And I suppose this someone would be powerful too?” he interrupted, almost pensive again.

  She hesitated. “I suppose power is relative.”

  “Those in power would argue that.” His mouth curved slightly, but there was no humor in his expression now.

  Rachel faltered, feeling suddenly out of her element. This was, exactly as she’d told herself, a bad idea. She cast a quick look at the door, wishing she hadn’t decided to come into his office tonight and have this silly conversation with him.

  But she was here now, and knowing Damiano the way she did, he would not allow her to lea
ve until she’d answered every last one of his questions.

  “Tell me. Who is this man, Rachel? Someone like me, but not me.” He threw her words right back at her, and they were slightly mocking. She resented it. It made her feel about nine again, when he’d teased her about being afraid of being stung by bees.

  They were from two different worlds, and always had been. Maybe they’d attended the same private school, but while Damiano had been there because of his family name and money, she and her brother had only secured a spot by having a mother who had been a long-standing teacher at the school.

  And now he asked who this man was that she referenced. Well, that was one question he wouldn’t get the answer to.

  Chapter 2

  Damiano watched Rachel literally squirm in her seat. He was rather fascinated by the twin stains of pink in her cheeks. She rarely blushed. Or he could never remember her doing so. If ever he’d seen her cheeks turn pink, it was due to anger. Like when she’d been learning to ride a bike without training wheels and kept falling off.

  He was amused by her discomfort. By her vagueness.

  If she’d come here to shock him tonight, she was doing a damn good job of it. Perhaps the most shocking thing was her interest in securing a boyfriend with money. Though why that should surprise him, God only knew. Women always seemed to want a man with a bottomless bank account. He shouldn’t have presumed Rachel would be any different. Yet he had.

  She’d never tried to come on to him. The very idea would’ve been ludicrous. She was the younger sister of his friend and now an employee. Fortunately she’d never shown the least bit of interest in him.

  And yet a memory pricked, one from a business trip to Paris six months ago. The image of Rachel covered in hotel sheets flashed through his mind. She’d been curled up in bed, skin damp with sweat and her eyes glazed with misery. He’d known she’d been feeling sick, and had left his dinner early to ensure her wellbeing.

  It had been purely platonic, except for that one moment when he’d briefly touched the back of his fingers to her forehead to check on her low-grade fever. The crackle of electricity that had pulsed between them had nearly made him stumble back in surprise.

  His blood quickened. Until now, he’d forgotten that night right after it happened, just as he’d assumed she had.

  Rachel was nothing if not professional. It had always been business between them, and as his P.A. she’d become as vital to him as an artery.

  And yet when she’d popped into his office with that question it had seemed his imagination had taken that as permission to explore the forbidden.

  He slid his gaze over her. What kind of lover would she seek? An aggressive one? A passive one?

  What would happen if he stood and moved to her side? If he plucked free the small tie that held her hair in its braid? Would those full, pink lips purse in disapproval? In shock? Or part in pleasure?

  His jaw clenched as he forced the images from his mind with grim resolve. There were plenty of women ready to fill his personal calendar—not to mention his bed—and he didn’t need to add Rachel to the list. She always had been, always would be, off the table.

  “No answer on just whom this man is?” he prodded, almost absently.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  Irritation pricked slightly that she wouldn’t answer. Being told no was not a common occurrence for him.

  He hadn’t realized Rachel was interested in anyone. Had never really given it a second thought. She’d always quipped that she was married to her job, and it nearly made sense with how much travel they did together.

  She’d usually retreat to her hotel room while he spent the evening at lavish parties or entertained clients. He’d never considered that she might be catching up with a lover on the phone or online.

  The sudden idea of it stirred something within him. Something not altogether pleasing. Ridiculous. He picked up his pen again and began to rotate it between his fingers. The urge to snap it surged through him.

  He couldn’t possibly be jealous of Rachel taking a lover. Because that would be absurd. For all he really knew she could’ve already had one.

  Maybe he was unsettled at the possibility of her getting married down the line, and what that could mean for her future at his company. Would she retire? Surely she would have no need to work if she sought to marry a man with significant wealth.

  And that was her goal. There could be no misunderstanding her intent, as she’d been so blatant in her statement.

  “If you’d rather not say, then why have you come to me today, Rachel?”

  The pink in her cheeks darkened and she looked terribly uncomfortable as she shot another yearning glance toward the door.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have,” she finally admitted, so quietly he nearly didn’t hear her.

  “But you did.”

  “I did.” She drew a slow breath in, and he could almost hear the pep talk in her head. “Because I need your opinion.”

  “And I’m never shy to give it.” He tilted his head. Waiting for her to elaborate.

  “I know you’re not.” She swallowed visibly, and seemed to stare at a point beyond his head. “I have an acquaintance who is of significant stature and wealth. Recently he expressed an interest in taking me to dinner. I knew the invitation wasn’t exactly made out of friendship.”

  So stilted. As if she were reading a script. “Did you go?”

  “No.”

  So she hadn’t yet started dating this wealthy fool, though there was still the possibility of it. Why did that relieve him?

  “Would you have liked to go?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, before she lowered her lashes and nodded. “Yes, I believe so. He’s charming, and attractive.”

  “Then why not accept his invitation?”

  Her gaze darted back to his, distress in their hazel depths now. “Because he wanted to take me to Masa. One of the most expensive restaurants in New York.”

  Damiano gave a nearly silent grunt. It sounded like whoever this man was, he was taking the quick route to impress and seduce.

  “They have more than just sushi, you realize, if you don’t care for it.”

  “What? No, this isn’t about the sushi,” she said quickly, and bit her lip. “Look at me, Damiano. Do I look like the kind of woman who eats at Masa?”

  He almost wished she hadn’t made the request, because it gave him permission to let his gaze explore.

  She looked like a woman full of surprises. A woman begging to be unwrapped from an ill-fitting suit. Had he never noticed this before, or just never allowed himself to? Maybe it was the fatigue over working long hours this week, but his mind was opening all sorts of doors right now.

  He slid his gaze over her. The blazer she wore was a bit too big, hiding delicate shoulders and a slender form he’d only rarely had occasion to see. The curve of her small breasts couldn’t be hidden beneath the white button-down blouse. And she’d never been able to hide her legs with skirts that stopped just at the knees.

  She looked like a woman who needed to lose control. And quite suddenly he was struck with the urge to be the one to make her lose it. Very injudicious.

  He scowled, thrusting the dangerous thought aside.

  “Are there types of women who eat there?” he answered, a bit terser than intended.

  Rachel blinked in obvious disbelief. “Of course there’s a type. They’re the ones who carry the most expensive Mantovani bags—and, yes, maybe I have one too, but only because you gave it to me the first Christmas I worked here. I could never have afforded it on my own.”

  She was talking quite quickly, and before he could get in a word edgewise, she continued on.

  “And they wear designer shoes that cost thousands of dollars a pair. They have amazing apartments on Park Avenue. And they barely eat.” She pantomimed in the most fascinating and charming way someone cutting her food. “When they do eat its just tiny, insignificant bites. And they know the difference betwee
n all those ridiculously silly utensils. Really, one fork should do.”

  Damiano couldn’t help but laugh. “You aren’t certain of which fork to use for your salad? I could help you learn.”

  Her lips twisted into a small smile and she relaxed again. “Actually, I think you taught me that last year. Perhaps I exaggerated a bit there. But I’m not like those women, Damiano. You must know that by now. My idea of a lovely meal is at a quaint restaurant in Greenwich Village.” She gestured to her feet and even lifted her leg slightly. “These shoes, I’m proud to say, I found on clearance for around twenty-five bucks.”

  She wanted him to observe her legs now? Somewhat alarmed by the turn of this discussion, he bit back a groan, grateful for his desk that separated them.

  “And I certainly don’t live in an apartment on Park Avenue,” she continued, her brows drawn together in a fierce scowl that only made him notice that her eyes were more green than brown at the moment. They tended to change with her temper. “I share a small, two-bedroom apartment with my best friend in Brooklyn.”

  Damiano’s attention snapped back to what she was saying at that last statement. “Pardon me? You share an apartment? I thought I kept your salary high enough to ensure you wouldn’t struggle financially.”

  “Oh.” Rachel paused, seeming stricken. “You have. You’re entirely too generous with me, Damiano. Forgive me, because I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I share the apartment with my friend, not out of necessity, but out of choice. It’s she who is struggling financially.”

  “I see.” It didn’t surprise him that Rachel would take in a struggling friend. It was in her nature. She was entirely too kind, chronically happy, and, though he’d never let on that he thought so, a bit naïve.

  Something about this conversation fascinated him. He was intrigued by the flustered, almost vulnerable side of Rachel he’d never really been exposed to before. She was always so confident and cheerful. Unflappable.

  And he wanted to know more about this mystery man of hers. Wanted to know why she wouldn’t let his name slide past the fullness of her pink lips.