The Billionaire Boyfriend Trap: An Office Romance with a Twist

1

Men are like a children's picture book—easy to read, occasionally entertaining, but lacking the substance to keep an adult female captivated long-term. My boss tells me I'm too cynical for a twenty-five year-old, but that's what happens when you've been doing what I've been doing for two years just to pay the bills.

I'm not a hooker, I'm a trapper. There's a difference. Hookers sleep with guys for money. I'm paid to get them to trust me, and sometimes fall in love with me. Some trappers cross the boundary and wind up in bed with their target for a bit of extra cash on the side, while others think they're starring in Pretty Woman. Not me. I like my mental health too much. I couldn't have sex with a man who wasn't my boyfriend.

If only boyfriends weren't so hard to come by for someone in my line of work, I'd be doing okay in that department. Unfortunately not too many guys are understanding when you explain what you do for a living. Make that none. They don't see the difference between a hooker and a trapper. And there's the whole lacking substance thing too.

This guy's big, my boss Ellen said. She handed me a USB drive in the shape of a teddy bear no bigger than the size of two of my fingers. It made a change from her usual red ninja one. Unlike the ninja, I had to remove the teddy's head and insert his neck into my laptop. The ninja had the USB sticking out of his butt so he looked like he was farting into the computer. The teddy just looked decapitated.

How big? I asked as I copied the files to my hard drive.

Ellen crossed her long toothpick legs and sat back in the chair with a smile stretching her vamp-red lips. You'll see.

I rolled my eyes at her melodrama. She seemed to think she was M from James Bond, living a high-flying clandestine life, taking down the bad guys. In truth we were bringing down whomever our clients paid us to bring down. Luckily our targets had so far all been businessmen with dubious ethics or I would have had a problem with my job. I didn't mind ruining a business deal for a few assholes though.

That summed up Ellen's operation. She hired us girls on behalf of her clients to learn the secrets of powerful and wealthy businessmen. Her clients were their rivals, often wanting to close the same business deal. They hired Ellen—us—to learn the secrets and weakness of their competitors, or to ferret out confidential documents to prove collusion or other unethical practices. Our job involved getting close to our targets over a period of time until they trusted us enough to include us in their inner sanctum. Sometimes I wondered if I would achieve my ends faster if I did sleep with them. People reveal a hell of a lot of stuff when they're blinded by lust. But I avoided that kind of arrangement and Ellen never pushed me. I played the part of flirty, friendly assistant. If some of my targets fell a little in love with me along the way, all the better. Their frustration and attempts to get me into bed served my purposes perfectly.

Ellen chuckled at my eye roll. That's why you'll be perfect for this one, Cleo.

What do you mean?

You're funny and cheeky. Clever too. He likes those traits in a woman. Of course it helps that you're gorgeous and sexy in a school teacher kind of way.

I couldn't picture any of my old teachers doing what I was about to do. Maybe my sister Becky's old French teacher could have gotten away with the double life. The boys used to drool over her in class. She was lovely too, going out of her way to see if I needed anything when Becky got sick. Of course I always said Thanks, but no thanks. What I didn't tell her was I just needed Becky. It wasn't until later, when Becky went into remission, that I realized I needed money to pay her medical bills. A crap-load of money. That was why I answered Ellen's advertisement and how I ended up being a trapper, against my better judgment. Two years later the loan I'd taken out to pay the medical bills was still there and I was still a trapper.

I laughed and Ellen laughed too, a hearty, throaty chuckle that had her whole body shaking. Sometimes she could be ninja-like, and then she'd take me by surprise and become a teddy bear.

Just like Bond's M, I didn't know Ellen's second name, whether she was married, had children, or where she lived. She was about sixty years old and as perfectly groomed as a Vogue model. She was a living, breathing Chanel advertisement and never had a blonde hair on her head out of place. I could step into her hundred-and-first floor office with my hair blown around by the wind outside, but she always looked immaculate. She once said that was my charm compared to her other girls. They had the sleek model thing going for them, perfect for jobs where the target responded to that type. She used me for everything else and I was never short of work. I guess even arrogant billionaire assholes like the sexy school teacher type. Or they just trust them more.

Ellen's assistant brought in two coffee cups and set them down on the glass table between Ellen and myself. There was a lot of glass in her office. The table, desk, a large mirror over a low shelf. The length of one wall was all windows too. The building overlooked the bay and today, sailing boats dotted the clear blue water. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was a perfect summer morning. Later, the freeways would be choked with traffic as everyone headed out of the city to enjoy a weekend away in the beautiful weather. But not me. I would be working.

The assistant left as silently as she'd entered and shut the door. The files had finally finished loading and I opened them one by one. The first was a document listing the target's business interests, associates, and details of how he became founder and CEO of RK Financial Group at just thirty-three. The next document covered his personal life—birth date, known addresses, the names of his parents, schools and past girlfriends. Then I pulled up the next document. It contained several close-up photos of the target. I knew who it was. I'd seen him in the news.

Reece Kavanagh was gorgeous. Charcoal black hair, tanned skin without a single mark to blemish its perfection, and strong bones. The nose was straight, the jaw hard. His mouth either curved up on one side into a wry smile or dipped into an intense frown depending on the angle of the photo. But it was his eyes that held me. The eyes always gave a man away, and Reece Kavanagh's eyes were a pale blue at odds with his warm skin and mischievous mouth. They reminded me of a frozen winter lake—cold, deep and dangerous.

A little shiver rippled down my spine and I wished I'd worn something warmer than the short yellow skater dress.

He makes you nervous, Ellen said. It wasn't a question. She'd seen my reaction. Ellen saw everything.

I'm not sure yet, I said with a casual shrug. No one could determine what a man was like just from a few photos. It wasn't his fault his eyes were ethereally pale. He might be very friendly.

By all accounts, he's a cold bastard, Ellen said. So much for my theory. Some even say he's cruel, but I've found no evidence of it.

I swallowed heavily. Do you know why he's cold?

Absent parents who screwed up his upbringing. No doubt he still blames them for all his past, present and future problems. She shook her head, as if she'd heard it all before. Ellen didn't believe in people being screwed up by their parents' mistakes. According to her, kids grew into adults and adults needed to take responsibility for their own problems. Sure, their parents might have been abusive or simply unloving, but get over it already.

That's what she'd once told me. It made me think she did have children, but they blamed her for whatever problems they had now. I never responded. My parents died seven years ago in a car accident. I still missed them.

Was it your client who claimed Reece is cruel? I asked, staring at the screen. I couldn't look away. Even in pixels, Reece Kavanagh had a presence about him that made you want to stare and stare and stare. There was self-assuredness in that face that probably tipped over to arrogance in real life. That was the problem with gorgeous rich men. They all thought they were God's gift to the female population. I guess I wouldn't know for sure until I met him.

Not my client. Ellen tapped her manicured fingernails on the side of her coffee cup. The blood red was stark against the white china, the click-clack brisk. His rivals, some ex-girlfriends, acquaintances…everyone I spoke to said he keeps his distance.

What about friends? Does he have any?

Very few.

It says here he's the eldest of five boys born into the Kavanagh family. They still live in Serendipity Bend, I said, naming Roxburg's most exclusive suburb. Is he close to them?

The family is extremely tight-lipped about their own. She sounded annoyed at the rare failure to gather information.

I clicked over to the page that listed his previous girlfriends. It was full. I recognized three models, at least four celebrities and a few whose job description could only be described as socialite. Reece's trophy collection was impressive. I wondered which ones had described him as cruel, and what that meant.

I brought the photographs of Reece up again. It's not often you see such handsome men in powerful positions. Usually they're old, bald and fat.

And married, Ellen filled in. She continued to tap on her coffee cup. It was irritating, but I wouldn't tell her that. I wanted to keep my job. She suddenly stopped and gave me a wry smile. Actually you'd be surprised. I know several billionaire men who are as rich and powerful as Kavanagh and just as handsome and available.

Why aren't they taken?

Married to the job, or the power, or they've got Issues with a capital I. She bestowed one of her rare smiles on me.

I smiled back. Hasn't everyone got Issues?

Her smile slipped and she studied the coffee. Some more than others. She sipped and I stared at Reece again.

Then I closed the laptop. Those eyes were getting to me. When will I meet him?

Tonight.

Damn. It had to be tonight, didn't it? I never went out, never went anywhere except work and the grocery store, and the one time I did have something to go to, it clashed with Ellen's plans. And Ellen didn't like clashes. She liked to get her own way. Girls had been let go for showing lack of commitment by putting their real life ahead of their work. While Ellen knew about Becky, she didn't know how important this evening's exhibition was to my little sister. Or to me.

Becky's recovery had been slow and arduous, but once she'd been given the all-clear, she became listless, bored. She couldn't see the point in returning to school. She'd almost lost her life and didn't want to spend precious time closeted in a room with kids younger than her. She'd missed her entire senior year and going back meant graduating with people who weren't her age. Although I cringed at the thought of her not graduating, I couldn't force her. I just couldn't. She was right. Life should be lived, and there was no way you could tell a cancer survivor any different. When she was so ill that I thought every labored breath would be her last, I vowed to see that she lived a full and happy life if she survived. I wouldn't back out now that she'd recovered.

It was one thing to say it, and another thing to find out what a teenager wanted to do. We couldn't afford to travel—the medical bills screwed us there—but, thanks to Ellen, we had enough for her to go to art school. Becky had always been talented at drawing, and it seemed to give her the peace she sought. Her first exhibition with the other students was to be held tonight at a gallery run by a friend of her teacher.

And I was going to miss it.

Is tonight a problem? Ellen asked, her vibrant blue eyes piercing me over the rim of her cup. God damn, she knew. How did she do that? I was sure I hadn't shown any disappointment, but she'd picked up the vibe from me anyway.

I thought about telling her the truth, but decided against it. For now. Despite Ellen's earlier friendliness, the steeliness of her glare warned me not to refuse.

Of course not. I laughed. Where do I ever go? It's just that I thought I was to be Reece Kavanagh's assistant. That's how it usually went with me and my targets. Ellen got rid of their regular assistant and I stepped in, all flirty efficiency, and made myself indispensible. Shouldn't I start on Monday?

I want you to lay the groundwork at a gala event he's attending tonight. I scored an invitation. It's the perfect opportunity to make contact and let him know you're available. The way she deepened her voice on 'available' had me watching her for signs of teasing. Not that she was the sort to find the juvenile double entendre amusing, but I searched her face anyway. Nope, all business.

She stood and picked her way across the room like a stork with those long legs of hers, and set the cup down on her desk. There's an invitation here somewhere,

What time does this gala start? I asked, hopeful. Perhaps I could go to Becky's exhibition for an hour then head over to wherever it was Reece Kavanagh would be.

She plucked out a black and silver invitation and flipped it open. It looked familiar. My heart rose and then dove again so quickly I felt ill.

My apologies, it's not a gala, she said. It's a small art exhibition by a group of students.