Page 26 of Forbidden Boss (Manhattan Billionaires)

“Your hair’s fine.” I checked my watch. We were a few minutes late, which wouldn’t go unnoticed.

“Oh, great. ‘Fine.’ Just what I love to hear.”

Arching a brow, I met her sparkling eyes once more. “Are you done? We need to get in there.”

“And do I get to find out what ‘in there’ actually is, or am I to be presented to this Joanne lady without any warning about what’s coming?”

“Let’s go.”

“I see you choose Option B,” she grumbled, but her heels clacked beside me and the scent of her teased my nose. We rounded perfectly groomed topiaries—one in the shape of a swan, the other a bunny—and crossed a square containing a dramatic fountain. The lights were on, so the water danced through the air as colors shifted through it, to a dazzling effect.

Or it would be dazzling, if I didn’t hate this place.

“Wow. That’s so cool!” Nikki slowed beside me. “And listen! There’s music! They’ve timed the fountain to the music!”

“They had it designed after a trip to Dubai. It’s a miniature version of the fountain outside the Burj Khalifa.” I kept walking.

“You’re not impressed by this?”

I shot her a sideways glance. “The novelty wears off,” I said. I’d gotten used to noticing all the changes that occurred to this place while I was away. And all the things that stayed the same.

We passed two more topiary sentinels—perfect spheres—and the vastness of the house came into view.

Half a dozen stone steps lined with chunky carved banisters led to a huge back patio dotted with soft, buttery lamps. The music of the fountain mingled slightly with the sound of harp music coming from the other side of the French doors.

The home was almost a palace, all gray stone and severe lines. It had eight bedrooms and nine and a half bathrooms, a kitchen big enough to run a catering company, and at least half a dozen living spaces. It was decorated sumptuously, with antiques collected from trips all around the world—most of which should probably have been in a museum instead of a private collection.

It was a beautiful home. Nikki gasped.

And I crashed to a stop. She stumbled and bumped into my back, catching herself on my arms. The weight of her fingers against my biceps sent warmth arcing through my veins. I turned, and she took a hurried step back.

“This was a mistake,” I told her. “Go back to the chopper.”

Dark brows drew together as her lips tightened slightly. “What?”

My heart thundered. She stood here, gawping at fountains and staring at topiaries, and we’d go in there and she’d be eaten alive. And I would be the one who’d have to save her or watch her suffer. And then I’d be the one who’d get the criticism for bringing her here in the first place.

“This was a mistake,” I repeated through gritted teeth. “Turn around and go?—”

“Rome,” a voice called out from the top of the steps. “You finally made it.” There was a short pause. A pause that said as much as any words, because the woman at the top of the steps was a master at using silence like a weapon. In the stillness of the evening, with crickets chirping around us, delicate music dancing around us from two directions, and the last sounds of the helicopter engine fading, the silence said,You’re late, and I’m unhappy.

I turned to see a woman in her early sixties, dressed in black pants and a cream top with a cashmere sweater draped over her shoulders. Her throat was adorned with a necklace of huge freshwater pearls, the ones in her ears completing the matching set. She had dark hair and few wrinkles, and eyes of dark, judgmental blue.

Her thin lips curled into a predator’s smile as her gaze slid from me to the woman behind me. “And you brought a friend.”

Yes, I had, and I regretted it, but it was too late to do anything about it now. Resigned, I stood straighter, and said, “Hello, Mother.”

TEN

NIKKI

My body went still,all the way down to my little toes. I stood in front of the most gigantic house I’d ever seen, surrounded by beautiful, manicured gardens, and all the color leached out of the world before my eyes.

The woman at the top of the steps looked down at us, haughty and unimpressed.

Beside me, Rome shifted, putting his hand on my lower back. “Mother, this is Nikita Jordan. Ms. Jordan, my mother, Joanne Blakely.”

I realized the smile plastered to my face had slipped, so I did my best to stretch it a little wider. “The famous Joanne!” I said, and immediately realized that was the wrong thing to say when her cold gaze narrowed on me. And I remembered—I was a courtroom extra. Bland and beige, with no speaking lines.

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