The Philanthropist (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 5) Page 5

  “Rudy …”

  “Please? I don’t want to stay anymore, either. I’m bored. And you know how Uber is on Friday nights around here. It’ll take an hour.”

  I sigh, and relent. “Fine.” Again I walk off toward the first overhead light, without glancing back. When I turn, though, he’s right behind me. “This is my car here,” I say, indicating.

  “Okay.” He’s really close. The booze is heavy on his breath.

  “So you should go around to the passenger side.”

  Instead, I get a hand on my hip. Then another, on the other side.

  “Rudy. Walk around.”

  “I really like you.”

  “That’s nice. Walk around.”

  “I think you like me, too.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “But you don’t want to admit it. Because I’m with Cait. But I actually think you’re hotter.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Just kiss me. See if I’m wrong.”

  “I’m not going to kiss you.”

  “Just once.”

  “No thanks.”

  He moves closer. I feel his cock again, this time pressed against me. “Just a peck.”

  I’m suddenly nervous. Some primal instinct tells me not to show fear, but there’s no shortage of it. My heart is a snare drum. It’s hard to swallow or speak. Can I get my keys into my fist with the sharp parts out like they taught in self-defense class?

  Maybe. I’m trying, but I’m sure that Rudy is going to notice. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re with Caitlin.”

  “She’s too bossy. She’s always telling me what to do.”

  “Well, I’m bossy, too.”

  His hands move up, closer to my breasts. “Just one kiss.”

  Suddenly, he’s wrenched backward. I have no clue what’s happened until he staggers all the way back against the opposite car, leaving an entire empty parking spot between us.

  It’s Aiden. He’s spun Rudy full around, and is now pinning him to a cherry-red Audi.

  “I’m …” I pant. “It’s …”

  “Go home, Jamie.”

  “You can let him go. It’s nothing. I’m fine. We’re fine.” I don’t know where these lies are coming from, but my system’s on full alert. Nothing makes sense. My lizard brain seems to know I was in peril, but my savior is the one person I’ve tuned myself to hate.

  A primal part of me doesn’t know which man to run from, and which I should thank.

  Rudy struggles, swings at Aiden, and misses spectacularly.

  There’s a flash of motion and suddenly Rudy is pinned even more than before, one arm somehow twisted behind his head. He’s grunting and thrashing, but getting nowhere. Aiden, looking at Rudy instead of me, seems barely ruffled.

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  Aiden turns his head and stares right at me. “I said, Go home.”

  I watch the pair for a while, waiting for something to happen.

  Aiden continues to pierce me with his blue eyes.

  Slowly, I open my door, slip into my car, and start the engine.

  I pull out of my slot and look back to see Aiden still pinning Rudy in place, and staring through my window.

  Once I’m on the road and out of sight, something in me breaks.

  I pull over, my entire body shaking.

  CHAPTER NINE

  JAMIE

  I WANT TO TELL ANTHONY what happened with Rudy, so he can offer me advice — or, hell, make me feel better. But he’s also the last person I want to tell. Because he’s like my dad, and I don’t know how he’ll react.

  I go back and forth, settling on indecision. I’m back at the house a long time before him. It feels like I have eons to decide in one direction, then again in the other.

  Most of all, I’m anxious.

  I’m about to pick up my phone and text Anthony to ask if the fundraiser is winding down, when I remember that he’s not coming home.

  He’s staying at the L'Auberge. He’s in travel mode after his seminar tour, so it’s no big deal to spend an extra night in a posh hotel. He’s probably exhausted, so a winding drive to Del Mar in the aftermath of his socializing must not sound all that appetizing.

  I’m alone, and I have one final, long night ahead of me.

  There’s a buzz. At first I’m not sure what it is. Eventually my head settles and I realize it’s the gate intercom. When I order a pizza or invite someone over while Anthony isn’t here, I simply leave the gate open. This is what happens when someone shows up and it’s closed — a sound I recognize, but can’t quite resolve until I hear the second buzz.

  I find the intercom. There’s an array of buttons beside a speaker, plus a small screen. Something must have smudged the camera — all I can see is a car at the gate, its window open, a person’s head sticking out over one cocked elbow.

  I squint, and I still can’t make out more than the fact that it looks like it’s a guy. Probably.

  There’s no reason for anyone to be here.

  What if it’s Rudy?

  Who else could it be?

  I almost push the button and ask who it is, but then I decide maybe it’s better if I just don’t even admit that I’m here. Instead, I head for the kitchen, which is toward the back of the house, and pour myself a glass of water, just to keep my hands busy.

  I’m tense for the next several minutes. If that’s Rudy out there, he’s probably not a legitimate threat — unless he’s 1) drunk, and 2) feeling somehow encouraged. I’ve heard about Rudy on and off for years, and the guy definitely doesn’t strike me as dangerous. Apparently he thought I was leading him on tonight — not exactly logical, given how much I ignored him, but Rudy’s never struck me as the sharpest tool in the shed.

  I force myself to relax, but it’s still too quiet, so I head into the other room and turn on Anthony’s giant TV. There are four remotes, and it takes me a while to get it going.

  The buzzer sounds again.

  I ignore it.

  Then it buzzes again.

  And again, I ignore it.

  Still tense, I flip through the on-demand library until I find a bunch of Friends reruns. My mom used to watch this show. I was too young for most of it, but I’ve caught them all in reruns.

  My calm mostly returns.

  Then the doorbell rings.

  I sit bolt upright. Every light in the house is suddenly overly bright and hurting my eyes. Every sound is too loud. My heartbeat, in my ears, forms my auditory foreground. Life is the noise that chatters behind it, far less important than that rapid, metronomic beat.

  Shit.

  Should I call the cops? He’s obviously climbed the fence or something.

  What does this asshole have on his mind?

  I look at my phone, sorting my options. I can call 911 and report an intruder; I can call Anthony and let him know I’m being stalked; I can call Caitlin and let her know that her dickwad boyfriend likes me and won’t leave me alone.

  There’s a knock on the front door. Despite the loud TV, I hear it clearly.

  I pick up my phone and unlock it, then open the phone app. I don’t dial — not yet. Anthony’s home is solid, a castle reinforced as a modern home. The door is thick, the windows reinforced by security shielding that looks like decorative latticework.

  I peek out the long windows beside the door, barely moving the curtains.

  My attempt to go unnoticed fails, and the man on Anthony’s porch looks right at me.

  But it isn’t Rudy.

  It’s Aiden.

  CHAPTER TEN

  JAMIE

  “GO AWAY!” I SHOUT.

  I think Aiden will look angry or possibly put off, but instead he looks amused. His voice seems deeper than normal, its timbre changed as it passes through the glass. “Let me in, Jamie.”

  “No. Go away. Leave me alone!”

  “I’m not even bothering you.” He fishes something from his jacket and holds it up: a small
rectangular object. It’s able to fit in a single hand, but the light is too faint for me to see what it is. “I have something for you.”

  Answering feels like playing along with another of his stupid games. The entire time I’ve known this man, we’ve been engaged in an annoying version of cat-and-mouse. I’m not even sure how I feel about what he did tonight. Sure, he got me out of a tough situation, but now he seems to feel that I owe him one — like opening the door to my temporary home when I never would otherwise.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Your driver’s license.”

  That’s clearly absurd. My driver’s license is in my wallet. Or is it? I took it out to show the bartender, then slipped it into one of my purse’s outside compartments when someone came to say hello. I leave the door to check my pocket and wallet. Sure enough, my license is missing.

  I come back and peek out the window. Aiden is holding my license to the light, reading it.

  “This says your eyes are hazel. I’d have said they were brown.”

  “Leave it on the stoop.”

  “Just tell me, why did they get your eye color wrong?”

  His cocky manner unseats something inside me. It’s true; my eyes are brown, not hazel. The guy at the DMV looked at me when he filled that out and decided without asking.

  “It’s a mistake,” I say.

  “Are you really five-nine?”

  “Leave it, Aiden. Thanks for bringing it back.” Then, because it feels necessary, even though I don’t want to say it: “And for your help back at the hotel.”

  He’s still studying my license. “I know this area,” he says, indicating my Inferno address. “I drove by every day when I was in town. When I was your boss. Remember that?”

  “Will you just put it down?”

  “How about I put it through this slot here?”

  I look down. There’s an over-large mail slot in the door, for Anthony’s over-large cache of mail. How the mailman gets up here, I can’t imagine. Maybe it’s just for appearances. For the rare package delivery services who dare to break into the compound like Aiden just did.

  “Fine.”

  I hear sounds, but nothing comes through.

  “It’s stuck in there,” he says.

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  “Aren’t you going to get it?”

  I reach down. I put my hand in the mail slot. Aiden grabs my hand.

  “Hey!”

  “How are you doing, Jamie? You had quite a shock back there.”

  “I was fine until some asshole grabbed me through the mail slot.”

  “Let me in, and I’ll let you go.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “And this is how you do it?”

  “I know you’re all alone in there. I don’t think you should be by yourself.”

  “Let go of me, you freak!”

  He lets go. My hand shoots backward so fast that I rap my elbow on a hallway end table.

  I stand and peek back out the window. He’s waving my driver’s license, taunting me, staring right at me. He slips it into his pocket.

  “Let me in so I can check on you. Then I’ll give it back.”

  “You’re holding it hostage?”

  “I think you’re in shock. Not thinking clearly. I don’t want to force you to do anything, but in this case it’s for your own good.”

  “How did you get through the gate?”

  “I’m not a person who easily surrenders, Jamie. I always get what I want. And what I wanted this evening was you.”

  That can’t mean what it sounds like.

  “You’re a stalker.” The words leave my mouth in a hiss.

  I’m a bit surprised to see that he can hear me through the glass, but he can. He smiles, seeming to think the hottest specimen on the planet, and that it’s impossible to believe I’m not longing for his every molecule.

  “Rudy would stalk you. What I’m doing? Why, that’s just the chase.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Aiden’s eyes graze my body through the window. I haven’t even changed out of my purple gown; that’s how keyed up I still am. I follow his eyes, shocked and appalled to see that my nipples are hard, and pushing against the fabric. He lingers there, then goes all the way down before coming back meet my eyes.

  Something shifts inside me. A change in sensation.

  Why am I reacting this way to this horrible, manipulating man?

  He watches me. It’s a hungry look, like a wolf.

  “The difference, Jamie, is that when it’s me outside your door, you want to be pursued. You’re not wrong; you know exactly what I’d do if you let me in. The only question is whether or not you’re willing to admit that you want it.”

  Fuck. Those words melt me like a popsicle on a summer sidewalk. What the hell is wrong with me? Adrenaline has confused my senses. I’m glad he’s past the glass. Right now, it feels like the pane in front of me is protecting me not from Aiden, but from myself.

  “I just want my license.”

  Aiden turns and steps off the stoop, into the shadows. “Then come and get it.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AIDEN

  I’M STILL SITTING IN MY car outside Anthony’s gate when my phone rings. There’s a bright light above the intercom station, but even this little security checkpoint is a ways off the road. Anthony, because he wants a view, chose a home on the top of the hill. He’s at the end of the road. Even though I’m past his gate, no one can see me.

  “Hello?” I say pleasantly. The Caller ID indicates that the caller is Anthony Ross, but obviously that’s not who it is. He’s just one of those people quaint enough to still have a landline, and Jamie is using it.

  I shoved a small folded sheet through the mail slot when I let go of her hand. It had my number and nothing else. After climbing back past the fence to my car, it was only a matter of waiting. Her call was inevitable.

  “Go away or I’ll call the cops.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Is that why you called?”

  “Why are you doing this?” she asks.

  “Doing what? I came to return what you lost.”

  There’s a long pause, then: “You got on the board of Anthony’s foundation. Great job. Now you have his ear. I guess I lose. So what do you need me for?”

  “You could still tell him terrible things about me. What good will it do if I try to make nice with Anthony while you’re still badmouthing me?”

  “That’s right. So maybe you’d better leave.”

  “What about your license?”

  “I’ll get a new one.”

  “But now I know where you live,” I say. “Doesn’t that bother you? I can be as obnoxious to you as you’ve been to me.”

  “I was being protective. You fuck with my friends, you fuck with me.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  Another long pause from her.

  “Is this conversation over?” I ask.

  “I’m waiting for you to leave. I can still see you out there, on the cameras.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I say. “If you come out here and tell me to leave in person, I’ll go.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Then I’ll stay.”

  “And I’ll call the police.”

  “Tell me, Jamie, are you wearing panties right now?”

  She says nothing.

  “Are you?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Is that an offer?”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “Then hang up.” Nobody announces they’re hanging up if they want to. Saying I’m hanging up is an invitation for the other person to beg you to stay.

  Unfortunately for Jamie, I never beg, and I know precisely why she wants to stay on the line.

  “Come out here without panties or a bra and I’ll leave.”

  “What?”

&nbs
p; “You heard me.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “I’m a man. And I plan to keep pushing until you make me stop.”

  “Stop,” she says.

  I smirk. “You don’t mean that.”

  Instead of reaffirming that she does, Jamie huffs.

  I wish I could see her. She’s stunning under most circumstances, but right now this loss of control must be making her radiant. Only when our walls are knocked down can we truly be ourselves.

  “Stop bothering me,” she says. “I’m not … interested.”

  “Why? Don’t you find me attractive?”

  “You’re a parasite. A vulture. You use people.”

  “Then why haven’t you hung up on me?”

  “If I hang up, you’ll stay where you are.”

  “I told you how to get me to leave.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I’m dead serious.”

  Jamie shuffles. “You wouldn’t even know. How could you tell what I was wearing?”

  “Panty lines. Bra lines. I expect to see none.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “To see if you’re any good at following directions.”

  I hang up.

  My phone rings again.

  “Fine,” she says. “But if I come out there like you want, you have to refuse the position on Anthony’s board.”

  “No deal. The board is my way in.”

  “You’ll ruin his foundation. I don’t want you there. If you need me to introduce you, I’m willing. But only if you leave the board.”

  I think, wondering if she’d really do it.

  “Okay,” I say. “So answer me: Are you wearing panties or aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Take them off.”

  “I understand. I’ll be out. But I’m bringing pepper spray.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I want you to stay on the phone with me while you take them off.”

  Another pause. Then: “Why?”

  “Indulge me.”

  Jamie sets her phone down on something. I hear the slide of fabric. Then she’s back. “Okay. They’re off.”

  “And your bra.”

  The phone clacks down again. I hear more fabric rustling, and picture her sliding her dress down (or maybe unzipping it). For an unseen moment, she’s bare-chested up there at the house. Surely her pussy is wet.