Page 1 of Taming Scarlet

CHAPTER ONE

Julian

Playing babysitter to some spoiled heiress wasn’t the career path that I had in mind for myself.

I wasn’t even sure why I was entertaining this meeting with her billionaire father.

That’s a lie.

I knew why.

The seven-figure paycheck was the only reason I’d agreed to at least speak to the man.

I didn’t like to think of myself as driven by money, but you’d be a fool to turn down that kind of paycheck without at least hearing the details of the job opportunity.

That logic was what had me standing on the street staring up at the black steel and tinted, gleaming windows of Chandelier Industries.

Right there on the top floor, possibly looking down at me right now, was the CEO. Marcus Chandelier. A man who seemed to have a hand in just about every profitable business in the country from steel and oil to renewable energy and organic grocery stores.

I’d looked up the man’s net worth when I’d gotten the email, thinking that the salary was a joke.

I figured, to a man worth eighty-twobillion, a couple million bucks a year to watch his kid was chump change. Hell, it was almost ungenerous. But I guess you didn’t get that rich by overpaying everyone who worked for you.

I made my way into the building ten minutes early, going through a surprisingly lengthy security checkpoint to step into the private elevator that led to the top floor.

On the ride up, I took the visitor’s badge they’d affixed to my suit pocket and clipped it to my belt instead.

The doors slid open with a soft chime, welcoming me to the offices of Marcus Chandelier.

It was an enormous, empty space, save for the oversized reception desk manned by two young, attractive women in black dresses and subtle makeup, both their hair pulled back—one in a low ponytail, the other in a loose braid.

To the side of their desk was a seating area with only two chairs and a coffee table.

No TV.

No magazines.

Nothing.

“Mr. Flynn,” one of the women, the brunette, greeted me with a hospitality smile. “Mr. Chandelier is expecting you,” she said as she moved out from behind her desk and walked me past the seating area toward a door that blended in so well into the high-gloss oak wall that I hadn’t seen it at first. “Go right in,” she invited.

“Thanks,” I said before moving into the office.

It was twice the size of the reception area with gleaming floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, its own seating area with four chairs and a coffee table, a mini bar, a TV, and, finally, a massive solid wood executive desk with a wall of full bookshelves behind it. All the books had been re-covered, though, to have a neutral tan palette.

Behind the desk was the man himself.

Marcus Chandelier was somewhere in his fifties with a tall, fit frame he had dressed in a suit that probably cost the downpayment on a luxury car. We weren’t even going to talk about his watch. Or cufflinks.

He had classic good looks with dark hair streaked with some salt and pepper and piercing blue eyes.

“I didn’t think you would come,” he said by way of greeting.

“I didn’t think I would either,” I admitted as I approached his desk, reaching my arm across it for a handshake.

“And, yet, you’re here,” he said, waving to the chair to my side.

“Seems that way,” I agreed, lowering down into the seat as he hit a button on his desk.

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