The Billionaire's Intern. Maisey Yates
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favorite former playboy who had retreated so far into the darkness he could only peer in on the world he’d once belonged to. Not because the door was locked, but because he couldn’t remember why in hell he’d ever wanted to be part of it. Because even if he wanted it, he wouldn’t be able to.
Just the thought of it made a cold sweat break out on his neck, made a sick sensation slip down into his stomach.
No, it wasn’t even a possibility for him. And he didn’t want it to be anyway.
“Would you like a rundown on your responsibilities?” he asked.
“Aside from making you coffee or tea?”
“I don’t drink coffee,” he said. “Or tea.”
“Oh.”
“Or alcohol.”
“Oh,” she said again, a crease appearing between her finely arched eyebrows.
“I never got used to it again,” he said. “Alcohol just makes me vomit. Coffee gives me a headache.” Possibly too frank judging by the brief contortion of her lips. He could never seem to strike the right balance.
“I see. So…what do I get you, then?”
“I can tell you’re already slightly concerned that rumors of my mental state are true,” he said, watching the momentary flicker in her expression, which was now smooth as glass. As telling as any expression of horror could ever be. “But not wanting a shot of whiskey after dinner doesn’t make me crazy.”
He walked out from behind his desk, and her eyes fell to his bare feet. She blinked a couple of times.
“Not wanting a shot of whiskey after dinner doesn’t make me crazy,” he repeated, “but there are other things.”
“I see.” She cleared her throat and took a breath, looking back at his face as if she was determined to skip over the lack of shoes. “What do I do for you, then?” she asked, the softly spoken, crisply articulated words moving over his skin like a breeze that signaled an impending storm. “If I can’t make you coffee or pour you a drink.”
“You can start by fielding the endless messages I get every day.”
“Pardon my impertinence, but why is it you don’t have a paid PA or secretary for this?”
“They keep quitting,” he said. “Hence the internship. I needed someone with no job experience who couldn’t just go out and find another position.”
“Why is that?”
He looked back down at his feet, then back up at her, the left side of his mouth turned up of its own volition. “You’ll see, I imagine.”
Her blue eyes remained level with his. Unblinking. “I have a feeling I will. So, would you mind giving me directions to my room?” she asked.
The idea of her wandering around on his floor without direction made his pulse spike. For the first time, he questioned the wisdom of allowing her to stay here.
But it made sense. And she was just a woman. Nothing to get crazy about.
“I’ll show you to your room,” he said. “Did you bring your things?”
“Yes,” she said. “The staff assured me that they would be sent up ahead of me.”
“And yet you were still testing me. Seeing if I would dismiss you. Hoping I would?”
She smoothed her hair. “Probably that’s what I was doing, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t just turn you down. Austin would have a fit.”
“Would he?”
“He thinks he’s taking care of me… I think he believes this internship is going to magically fix everything that I’ve been through recently. It’s not that simple.”
“You’re preaching to the converted,” he said. “I know all about that.”
“I imagine you do. Which brings me back to the question, what drink do I bring you? Should I juice a pineapple?”
He nearly laughed at that. The impulse was strange and unfamiliar.
“Water,” he said.
“Water?”
“That’s all you need, isn’t it?”
“Most men I’ve met are more concerned with want than need. Sometimes it seems like want must be…more important.” She sounded confused by the concept. As though she didn’t operate on that level. But he knew differently. A woman like Addison Treffen couldn’t possible know about self-denial.
“Here it is,” he said. “But there are a lot of other places where that isn’t the case. I can think of one in particular.”
The corners of her lips turned down. “I apologize. For the comment about the pineapple. It’s probably not something you like people to make joke about.”
He thought about it for a moment, processing the feeling he’d had when she made her pineapple juice comment. Sometimes it took a while for him to evaluate what he felt when he talked to people because he’d spent so long feeling nothing. Well, nothing nuanced. Elation, rage, terror and despair were his primary emotions. The rest had been squeezed down and sorted into one of those four.
“It doesn’t bother me,” he said finally, because that was true enough. “Actually people don’t like to mention it, unless they want to grill me, and I’d prefer a casual joke to that.”
“Well, that’s good to know. Or not, if I’m still trying to get you to fire me.”
“You may as well stick this out. You don’t have any better prospects and I’m willing to bet that after your father’s assassination no one will want you around.”
“I think the assassination bothers them less than the fact that he dealt in…very unsavory things, but I could be wrong.”
“Are you in danger?” he asked.
“Would it bother you if I was? Because if the grudge was against the Treffen family, it could make me a hazard.”
“No, it wouldn’t bother me.” For some reason the idea of a rogue gunman bothered him less than stepping out onto the city streets.
He’d given up trying to make sense of himself.
“Oh,” she said. “Well, anyway, the best the police can figure is that it was a professional hit. My father was targeted because he was prepared to accept a plea bargain. To name names in order to shorten his sentence. So it has nothing to do with me, because I know nothing.”
“One hopes the sniper knows that.”
She blinked rapidly. “Thank you for that.”
“Sorry,” he said, knowing the words had little weight. He barely felt them at all. “Sometimes I’m too blunt.”
“Strange. I was expecting a little more charm. Especially given that, from what I’ve heard, you’re a notorious playboy.”
“I haven’t been one of those for quite some time. That was in my other life. Now, would you like to see your room?”
* * *
Addison looked at the man, taller than she’d anticipated. She’d only ever seen Logan Black on TV. Years ago as the playboy moving his way through all of Manhattan’s socialites—her being an exception, as she was barely legal at the time—and now as the miracle heir to Black Properties, back from the dead after two years. Pictures that had flashed onto the television and on newsstands then had been filled with a thinner, more hollow-cheeked version of him. Long hair, a beard. More Swiss Family Robinson than Swiss banker. But none of those articles or clips on TV had prepared