Page 7 of The Damaged Billionaire

“When he was younger, we cast a blind eye. All boys play a little when they are in their early twenties. But now that he is older, many in the community look up to him, and my brothers and I are trying to work with him as a family to help him out of the worsening routine he is in. We just need someone with your expertise to help manage his external persona,” Harrison explains, and I can hear his concern and frustration through the phone. It is a hard predicament to be in. He obviously has eyes on a presidential campaign in the future and knows to have a good run at something like that, he needs a clean house.

An image of Tennyson Rothschild flashes up on my screen, and I almost fall off my chair. Staring back at me are the eyes I have never forgotten. He is just as handsome as I remember. My hands are suddenly shaking, and although Beth is talking, I am not listening to a word she is saying. It has been months since that one night in New York, when I had the best sexual experience of my entire life. No names were exchanged, no personal details, but we gave each other everything. That night is burned so deep into my soul, I dream about it, and any touch I have had since then is never up to par. My body heats even now, just thinking about it.

Do I tell Beth I know him intimately? Do I refuse to take the job? I don’t want to let her down, and she is right; I am excellent at what I do. But I am not sure I would be able to work with him, not without picturing him naked and with my leg draped around his shoulders.

“Does he know you are talking to me?” I ask, because if he is aware, then he may already know who I am. My mind is in overdrive, not yet understanding if I should or shouldn’t take the job. Working with the family of a potential president would be great for business. But can I be professional while working so closely with the man who fulfilled every promise he made me that night, including giving me seconds?

“No,” Harrison sighs.

Looking at the caption on this image of Tennyson Rothschild, the picture was taken at a charity gala a few months ago. I click to the next image and the next, all paparazzi shots of him with his head down, walking either out of a club late at night with a model-esque woman following closely behind, or him again wearing the same clothes, walking out of the Four Seasons hotel the next morning and jumping into a flashy red sports car. Not a good look, and my stomach turns a little.

“So he is out with different women a lot?” I ask, not liking the vulnerability in my voice all of a sudden.

“Every weekend,” Harrison says, almost like he is exhausted from the fact. My stomach curls onto itself at that. We weren’t special. It wasn’t anything to him. The one night that had flames licking at my skin was probably a mere blip in his existence. I take a breath and steady myself. I can do this. I am a professional. I have worked with politicians, athletes, international celebrities. All I need to do is push the memories aside and do my job. It will be easy. I can put up my armor. It is not like we declared our undying love for each other. It was one night. One hot, scorching night of tongues and sweat and tangled limbs. But I can ignore it. I can do my job and do it well.

“We were hoping you were free this weekend. We have a children’s fun day on Sunday at Harrison’s brother’s estate, just outside of Baltimore. We wanted to introduce you there. You know, with kids around, we were hoping he would be more open to the idea of his brothers getting involved in his affairs,” Beth offers. It is clear they have thought a lot about this.

I click through photo after photo, all of him with different women over the past few months. It cements my thoughts. I have no doubt that Tennyson would not even remember my face. I was just another notch on his post, another mark for his black book. He will have no idea who I even am. But I need to tell Beth. I expect full disclosure from my clients, and I need to give it to them in return.

“Let me pull all this together to ensure I have it correct. You are concerned for Tennyson, both for him personally but also for the public perception about him. You want me to work with him to clean up his act so that it is more favorable for your run into a presidency opportunity, if and when that arises in the future. At this stage, he doesn’t know anything about this, will most likely not be receptive to it, and you want me there on the weekend to meet him and answer any questions he might have about the process? Does that sum it up?” It is not my first rodeo, but family interventions don’t usually go well, and while Harrison is a great guy, I have no idea about his brothers. The research I now need to do in the next few days in preparation for the weekend is already building in my mind.

“Yes, that pretty much sums it up.” Harrison seems pleased with my brief overview. I take a deep breath, readying for the hard part.

“Full disclosure, I have met him before,” I say, and even though I try to be subtle, my tone gives me away.

“Shit,” I hear Harrison curse.

“It was over six months ago, and I’m sure with the way he’s been living, he won’t even remember, but I wanted to be upfront with you both. I am happy to take on this project, and I will ensure it is all handled professionally.”

“We wanted the best and, Willow, you are excellent at this kind of thing. We know you are the right person for this, and I hope you have room on your books to take this on?” Beth asks, not digging into the history. I smile a little, feeling a warm sense of pride from her words. Beth knows me well enough to know I will get the job done for her and get Tennyson in golden boy territory, right where he needs to be.

“Beth, of course I will be there this weekend. Send me the time and address. And don’t worry, we will get this all sorted and have Tennyson turned into a poster child in no time,” I say, smiling as Tennyson Rothschild's dark, brooding eyes look back at me from my laptop screen. They are deep, his face swirling with emotions I can’t yet decipher. I have a feeling this is going to be my hardest project yet.

But I do love a challenge, and by the looks of these photos I have found, that is exactly what Tennyson will be.

CHAPTER SIX - TENNYSON

Am I dead?

This is the first thought I have as I feel the thumping pain in my head that vibrates down my neck, before it settles in the familiar spot on my shoulders. I peel open my eyes, taking a look around the room. It is trashed, empty champagne bottles and clothes strewn everywhere, and remnants of a late-night pizza I have no recollection of ordering or eating.

I try swallowing, but my mouth feels like sandpaper, my tongue sticking to the roof. I need water.

Ding.

My cell phone pings at me, the sound like a knife hitting my brain. Groaning, I roll over, ignoring it. The bedsheets are rumpled, and I spot a red lace bra draped over the armchair in the corner of the room.

Ding.

I press my palms to my eyes, hoping whoever is trying to contact me gives up and leaves me alone. The thumps in my head increase as I start to move my body, the sluggishness making my limbs feel heavy.

Ding.

“All right, motherfucker,” I say out loud to no one. To nothing. My body aches and not in a good way. I am tired. Bone-tired. I haven’t slept well in months; the only thing getting me through is whiskey and women, and even then I am lucky if I even get a few hours of shut-eye.

As I sit up, I hear a shower running and see a small amount of light peeking through the ajar bathroom door. Not for the first time in my life, I have no idea who the hell is in there. Squinting at the sun streaming through the gap in the closed curtains on the opposite wall, the thumping gets worse. I scrub my face with my hand as my eyes flick to the bedside table to see the logo of the Four Seasons staring at me from the notepad. At least now I know where I am. Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, the bright lights of the time flash into my face. Eleven a.m.

“Shit,” I mumble as I rub my eyes again, trying to get some type of life into my body. I have message after message from my brothers, all asking me where I am, and as I start to type a reply, Ben calls.

---