Page 2 of Resisting the Bossy Billionaire

When the rest of Victoria’s family had reacted with stunned silence at her getting into Columbia in New York to studybusiness, Grandma Brigit’s immediate response had been to predict that Victoria would ‘get shot because they all have guns there’, and then demanded to know what was wrong with Ireland’s universities. When the rest of Victoria’s family had reacted with the same stunned silence at her being personally headhunted by a billionaire Italian businessman and investor, whose penchant for glamorous girlfriends saw him written about in the press’s gossip columns with the same frequency as the business pages, Grandma Brigit’s sharp nose had risen. ‘Just you wait, girl,’ she’d warned. ‘He’ll have you running rings for him. You’ll be nothing but a glorified dogsbody.’

Victoria frequently thought that Grandma Brigit hadn’t been wrong.

Still, for all Grandma Brigit’s cantankerousness, she was the only member of Victoria’s family who’d not been surprised at either Columbia or the headhunting, mainly because she was the only family member for whom Victoria wasn’t a blurred face in the background.

Someone had gritted the building’s main entry steps, and when she entered the lobby, its warmth was so welcome that she took a moment to savour it.

The on-duty concierge, who had a slightly frazzled demeanour that early morning, called Marcello’s private elevator down while Victoria stamped snow off her boots. Inside the elevator, she pulled her gloves off and used her thumbprint to get it moving. No thumbprint or passcode, no entry into Marcello’s private domain. The passcode was changed daily. Christina and Patrick, the currently incapacitated live-in staff, were the only people other than Victoria to have unquestioning access to the Manhattan apartment. Victoria was the only one to have unquestioning access to all Marcello’s homes. Even his girlfriends had to make do with the ever-changing passcodes.

She remembered her pride when her thumbprint had been taken. The novelty had worn off by the end of the first month, when he’d woken her to request she arrange the immediate delivery of a crate of champagne. Not just arrange the delivery but supervise its unloading in the apartment. It had been one a.m. Delivery unloaded, she’d politely declined his offer to join the raucous party he’d been hosting. Five hours after she’d left his apartment, she’d arrived at the Guardiola Group’s offices and found Marcello at his desk, looking as fresh as a daisy and in his usual upbeat, positive mood.

She stepped out of the elevator leaving a puddle of melted snow on its carpet.

It came as no surprise to find Marcello waiting for her in his reception room—he’d probably watched her through the elevator’s security camera—or that he greeted her with, ‘Did you get lost?’ The only surprise was the stubble on his face. It was rare to see her immaculately groomed boss anything less than immaculately groomed. Sunday morning and he was half dressed for the office. All he needed was to shave, don his tie, waistcoat and suit jacket and he’d be good to step into any board meeting.

She arched an unimpressed eyebrow. ‘Have you seen the weather?’

His expression was that of someone who didn’t know whatweatherwas. ‘I have been waiting for you.’

‘Well, I’m here now. I’ll hang this lot up and then get your coffee made.’

‘I need food too.’

Of course he did. Christina or Patrick usually fixed whatever he wanted for breakfast or arranged delivery. In the office, it was Victoria’s job to ensure he never went hungry.

‘What do you want?’

‘Bagels.’

Wet clothes hung in the drying room by the reception, phone secure in the back pocket of her jeans, Victoria entered the vast loft space Marcello considered his home. Of all his properties, this was her favourite. It was just so quirky and interesting.

The main central room was the huge rectangular open-plan living space he hosted his sought-after parties in. Its exposed red brick was cut through with floor-to-ceiling leaded windows that let in an abundance of light and gave a panoramic view of Central Park. High ceilings accommodated galleried overhangs at each end. The overhang above the bottom end was the dining area used for dinner parties, a door off it leading to store rooms and the staff quarters where Christina and Patrick lived. The overhang above the other end was Marcello’s home office. A door off the office led to the bedrooms, including his own, the only room Victoria didn’t like going into. It wasn’t that he’d ever made her feel unsafe or anything—on the contrary, she often got the impression he assumed she was an artificially constructed robot dressed in a woman’s skin rather than an actual woman—it was more the feelings evoked when entering his most private domain, the strange queasiness at catching sight of the bed he slept in.

Long used to the magnificence of this most breathtaking bachelor pad, Victoria was too busy ordering bagels via the app of his preferred deli to pay it the slightest bit of attention. At the door under the dining room overhang, she turned her head and found her boss perched on the L-shaped sofa, dark brown leather like the rest of the plentiful seating, now engrossed in his phone.

‘I’ll show you how to fix the coffee in case Christina and Patrick are laid up for any length of time.’

He didn’t look up from his phone. ‘I am sure they will be better by tomorrow. Dr Jeffers said sleep is the best medicine for them.’

‘You’ve had your doctor out?’

‘He left just before I called you—he didn’t know how to work the coffee machine.’

Only Marcello would have the nerve to call his private doctor out in the middle of the night and then expect him to prepare a pot of coffee for him.

Thawing slightly now she knew he’d had the decency to get medical attention for his two most devoted staff, she nonetheless knew to stand her ground. ‘There’s no guarantee they’ll be better by tomorrow.’ Manhattan, indeed the whole of New York, was currently plagued by a myriad of debilitating viruses. Marcello, though, was one of those infuriating people who never got ill and had little patience for those who did, expecting instantaneous recoveries from the inconveniently afflicted. ‘Let me show you how to fix it for yourself in case you need it tomorrow.’

‘I will call you if it becomes necessary.’

‘It won’t be necessary to call me if you learn to do it yourself.’ Just as it wouldn’t be necessary for him to call her when he fancied a late-night delivery of food if he’d bother installing the apps he’d insisted she install onherphone for the express purpose of ordering delicious goods for him in the hours he thought it unreasonable to wake his live-in staff.

It was the edge in Victoria’s voice that made Marcello look up. Seeing the steel in her eyes, he gave a dramatic sigh. His executive assistant was superb at her job but there were times when she could be a little irritable. He forgave her those touchy episodes only because he didn’t want to have to sack her. It wasn’t the bother of finding a replacement that was at issue—Manhattan’s streets were awash with highly efficient, highly qualified executive assistants—but the bother of having to train someone new. Besides, he liked Victoria’s Irish accent. It wasone of the reasons he’d poached her after his last assistant selfishly decided not to return after her maternity leave.

So, rather than point out that Victoria was paid generously in money and perks that included her own apartment to be on call whenever he needed her, he decided to humour her. After all, itwasSunday. ‘Okay, show me how to fix the coffee.’

Marcello’s kitchen was a room he only entered if looking for his staff. This was Christina and Patrick’s domain, and the domain of the executive chefs he hired...well, who his staff hired on his behalf...when he was playing host. One of the many great things about New York was the abundance of staff for hire. For the right price, they would make themselves available whenever he needed, which meant he only needed two staff living in. Of course, Christina and Patrick hired regular workers to assist with the day-to-day chores but those were generally employed during office hours so he could enjoy his home undisturbed.

His specially imported precious coffee beans were kept in the fridge. It was the one thing he insisted on, a habit picked up from his childhood and his father’s insistence that coffee beans remained fresher if kept refrigerated.

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