Page 107 of The Billionaires

“I’m here for an interview with Bruce Roxford?”

What I don’t say is that the interview is just a pretext to give the heartless bastard a tongue lashing. His bank took my childhood home, so when I saw his ad looking for someone in my field, I knew it was fate.

Maybe I should just cuss him out now?

No. He’d slam the door in my face and have his security escort me off the premises. I need to have him as a captive audience. Before seeing him in person, I figured I’d lock us in a room and read the note that I’ve carefully composed for the occasion. That way, I wouldn’t forget any insults or accusations. However, now that I’m face to face with this huge, broad-shouldered male specimen, I’m less sure about being alone with him, especially in a hostile situation.

He folds his muscular arm in front of his face and frowns at his A. Lange & Sohne watch. “You’re late. Goodbye.”

The words hit me like shards of hail.

“Late by five minutes,” I retort, proud of how steady my voice is. “There was traffic and?—”

“Traffic is as predictable a fact of life as taxes.” He starts to close the door in my face.

I suck in a big breath. No time to read my whole spiel. A quick version will have to suffice.

Before I can let loose any vitriol, a blur of black fluff darts out from the tiny sliver between the door and its frame.

A guinea pig?

No. It’s wagging its tail and licking my shoes.

Oh, right. It’s a puppy—which makes sense given the ad.

My heart leaps. This is a long-haired Chihuahua—and a gorgeous one at that, with a silky pitch-black coat, white fur on its chest, a face that reminds me of a tiny bear, and brown patches above its eyes that look like curious eyebrows. Better yet, the lack of yappiness and ankle biting thus far makes me think this might be the friendliest member of this particular breed.

I crouch and pet its heavenly fur. “Hi there. Who are you?”

The puppy flops over, revealing that he’s a good boy, as opposed to girl.

A bittersweet ache squeezes my chest as I scratch the little bald patch on his belly. It’s been five years since I lost Roach, the canine love of my life, and he too was a Chihuahua—just much bigger, less friendly to strangers, and with a smooth coat.

To this day, whenever I come across a new member of this breed, a touch of sadness tarnishes the joy of meeting a dog. Luckily, because they are small, few people formally train Chihuahuas, so I’ve never had to pass on a client because of this. In any case, the joy quickly wins out as I move my fingers to scratch the puppy’s fluffy chest, and he starts to look like he’s mainlining heroin.

“You like that, don’t you, sweetheart?” I croon.

As usual, my imagination provides me with the dog’s response—which, for some unknown reason, is spoken in the impossibly deep voice of James Earl Jones, a.k.a. Darth Vader:

Do I like belly rubs? That’s like asking if I like howling at the moon. Or licking my balls. Or eating a?—

Somewhere far above me, I hear someone blow out an exasperated breath.

Oh, shit. I forgot where I am. It’s a common occurrence when dogs are involved.

Straightening to my full height (which, admittedly, is barely five feet), I stare up challengingly into my nemesis’s blue eyes—which look wider now, like fishing holes in an icy lake.

“How did you do that?” he demands.

I nervously tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Do what?”

He gestures at the tail-wagging Chihuahua. “Colossus is never friendly. With anyone.”

So maybe he is typical for his breed. I grin, unable to help myself. “Colossus? What is he, like two pounds?”

“Two and a half,” he says, expression still stern. “Do you have bacon in your pockets?”

Feeling like I’m on trial, I pull out my pockets to show they’re empty. “I never feed dogs bacon. Even the safest kinds have too much fat and sodium, not to mention other flavorings that?—”

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