Page 68 of Mr. Wilde

Jana, the striking brunette flight attendant, approaches. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Wilde? We’ll be landing in about ten minutes.”

“No, thank you, Jana,” he answers, not bothering to look up. “You want anything, Cass?”

“Oh, no. I’m fine.” I pry my fingers from the arm of my chair long enough to wave her off.

“I’ll cook us something once we get home,” Max says. I don’t miss the surprised look on Jana’s face at his response. It probably matches my own. “The car should be waiting for us at the hangar. And I’m only about twenty minutes from there at this hour.”

“You don’t have to cook, Max.”

“Nonsense. We have to eat.” He winks.

Jeez. He really needs to stop doing that. “I can’t believe you live like this.”

“What do you mean?”

I swirl my hands in the air. “All of this. You seem so normal, but have all of this.” I must sound like a loon.

He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. It’s only money.”

I frown. Easy for him to say.

He shifts in his seat. “Please don’t misunderstand. I’d never want you to think I take all of this for granted. I’m incredibly grateful for all I have. But Secure Sphere was never about getting rich. It was a byproduct of something negative. It’s why these pro bono cases are hard for me to walk away from.”

There’s a hidden meaning in his words. I can tell by the hurt in his eyes. But with all of the secrets I’m keeping, it wouldn’t be fair to press him for his.

The car waiting at the hangar turns out to be a blacked-out SUV. It whisks us away to a cliff overlooking the Potomac River. When we pull through the gates, I practically press my forehead against the glass. His estate isn’t just a house, it’s a fortress constructed of wood and stone.

Perched precariously on the edge of a bluff, the mansion is a sprawling, over-the-top Craftsman. It looks like a combination of organic materials and billionaire-scale engineering. From the Potomac River below, it probably looks less like a house and more like a natural outcropping of the hillside itself, designed to blend into the shadows of the Virginia tree line.

The home is an assembly of horizontal lines and deep, overhanging eaves supported by massive, tapered stone pylons. The first floor is clad in river rock and fieldstone, grounding the house into the bluff. Exposed structural timbers made of redwood are joined with oversized copper brackets that have aged to a soft patina. Massive windows appear to be placed, ensuring every room has an unobstructed view of the river winding through the valley below.

The house is breathtaking. But it’s not at all what I imagined a billionaire would live in. I guess I was expecting the posh digs similar to a reality TV celebrity. But this place suits Max.

The SUV slows to a stop. I barely have time to gather my senses before someone has opened the door for me.

“Thank you,” I greet. The bald gentleman is wearing a dark suit, an earpiece on display. Is this purely because of Max’s financial status? Or was he right? Associating with him does come with a fair degree of danger?

“Yes, miss.”

“Sorry, I don’t have anything fancy prepared,” Max says as he leads me inside. He again seems completely unaffected by the bodyguard or the sprawling home before us. He continues jabbering as if we’re heading into his bachelor pad.

Hmm. Well, I guess we are. It’s just on steroids.

“I haven’t been home much lately, so I’d given my personal chef the time off. She usually stocks enough groceries so I can at least whip up a stir-fry or something.”

The foyer opens up into a living area with floor-to-ceiling windows. They look out over the black, rushing water of the river below. I can’t help but walk over to get a closer look.

“I can give you a tour after we eat, if you like. But now that we’re here, I’m starving.” He chuckles.

Glancing toward the kitchen, I find Max flinging a towel over his shoulder as he opens a cabinet full of spices. This is a side of this handsome man I wouldn’t have imagined.

“I’m a bit of a one-trick pony in the kitchen.” Max reaches for a bottle of wine, opening it easily and pouring each of us a glass. “Sit wherever you’re comfortable. This shouldn’t take me too long. I make this so often I can almost do it on autopilot.”

Max starts pulling ingredients from a refrigerator that’s larger than my entire kitchen. I try to focus on his laptop, set up on the marble island, but I’m failing. Hard.

Watching this mouthwatering billionaire chop veggies and simmer fragrant sesame oil in a wok is the equivalent of domestic porn. Every time he moves, the muscles in his forearms flex, and the casual comfort of this scene feels more intimate than the kiss in Gianni’s office.

“Max,” I say, my voice a little breathless. “Is there somewhere else I can sit and start working? I need somewhere quiet. I can’t concentrate with you... doing that.”