Page 5 of The Forbidden Billionaire
“Going to come and have your nails done with me, too?” When he doesn’t reply, irritation flares. “You know the other security officers couldn’t keep tabs on me, right?”
“They weren’t in my league, ma’am.”
“Ohhh… so you think you’re a cut above the competition, do you?”
“I do.”
“And modest with it. I’m remarkably good at giving guys the slip. It’ll be an interesting challenge.”
His jaw knots, but he doesn’t reply.
Annoyed that he’s not taking the bait, I add, “If you make two weeks, I’ll be very surprised.”
He fixes me with a hard stare. “Ma’am…” He says the word forcefully, making it clear he’s not going to do as I say. “I’ve been hired to keep you safe, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do, until Marcus says I’m no longer needed. I’m sure I’ll piss you off on a daily basis, but it won’t make any difference. Now, I’ll leave you to enjoy the evening, and I’ll see you on Tuesday morning. Have a great Christmas.”
I stand there with an open mouth, watching as he turns and walks toward the main doors. His long speech has taken my breath away. He spoke with authority and determination, and I have no doubt he meant every word he said.
I shut my mouth with a snap. Well, he might think he’s a superior being, but he doesn’t know me. I refuse to take this lying down. I’m not going to let anyone tell me how to live my life.
This poor guy has finally met his match.
Chapter Two
Tuesday 28th December
Luke
When the elevator doors slide open just before six a.m., I look up from my phone, then do a double-take as I watch the woman exit the carriage.
At first, I’m not sure if it’s Aurelia. She looks nothing like she did on the night of the ball. I’ve seen photographs of her, of course, because she’s splashed across the internet, but this is the first time I’ve seen herau naturel, without her designer clothing, styled hair, and makeup.
At the ball, she wore a sumptuous emerald-green ballgown. Her loose red hair tumbled over her shoulders in a riot of curls, and behind her mask, her eyes were heavily made up with black eyeliner and false eyelashes.
This morning, she’s wearing activewear—black leggings with a white stripe down the side, a gray cropped top, and white trainers. Her hair is still curly but swept back into a high ponytail, and her face is free of makeup. She looks about five years younger, and ten times more beautiful.
She also looks disappointed when she sees me waiting for her. As I get to my feet, she approaches me and says, “Dammit. Thought you might have forgotten.”
“No, ma’am.”
She rolls her eyes. “Come on, then. I’ve got a busy day ahead.”
She marches off, and I follow her across the lobby, trying not to stare at her tight backside in the black leggings.
I’ve spent the past week since the ball reading everything I can lay my hands on about Aurelia Ashford to prepare myself for the new job. I’ve watched all the footage the securityteam possesses, read all the online articles, studied all her photographs and interviews in detail, and pored over the various reports that have been compiled over the past few months.
As a result, I’ve formed a picture in my head of the billionaire heiress that, well, isn’t exactly complimentary. Basically, she comes across as a spoiled brat who’s making the most of her position as Director of Public Relations at the company to take every chance she can to steal the limelight.
Maybe that’s a bit mean. She does a good job of promoting Ashford AgriTech, as she’s skilled at turning interviews and conversations around to business, and constantly pushes her father’s pasture management technology. I also acknowledge that nobody I’ve spoken to has a bad thing to say about her. “Warm and witty,” and “beautiful spirit,” have been common descriptions of her.
But it’s easy to get to the top when you’re privileged, when you have money and opportunities. It’s much harder for the rest of us who have to claw our way there by working every hour God sends.
I admit, though, I’d half-expected her to come down to the gym in designer gear, with her hair and makeup done, and do yoga with a pink water bottle while she checked her phone between asanas. Instead, when we go into the gym, a personal trainer is waiting for her, who then puts her through a grueling forty-five-minute weights-and-cardio routine.
I watch as I do my own circuit of the machines, feeling a grudging admiration for her. Clearly, this isn’t a one-off. She obviously works out regularly.
While I run on the treadmill, I scan the room, checking out the other users. There aren’t many. One woman in her thirties, one in her fifties, both with earbuds, absorbed in their own worlds. A guy in his twenties stands in front of the mirror, lifting weights, focused on his reflection. One guy in his early thirtieschecks Aurelia out as he passes, but then gets on the rowing machine facing in the opposite direction, and doesn’t look around again. Another, older guy with silver hair also checks her out as he runs. Look away, old man… He glances up, catches me watching him in the mirror, and averts his gaze. A few minutes later, he stops his machine, grabs his towel, and heads for the shower, not looking her way again.
Aurelia finishes with the machines, thanks her PT, comes over to the treadmills, and steps up on the one next to mine. She starts it going, then begins to run. Her face is flushed bright pink, and her forehead bears a sheen of sweat. Her cropped top has darkened with sweat where it clings to her body beneath her breasts.
