Guarding the Billionaire Page 5
So far.
“Other than that, you, Mason, my housekeeper and one friend, Frederick Landon, are privy to this information.”
“And at your farm, sir?”
He nods quickly.
“It’s managed by Mr. Van Sant. He, too, has signed an NDA.”
If he’s being honest and no one else knows, it’s not that long a list. But if he really thinks NDAs will protect him, he’s being naïve. But I suspect he knows that. And he said ‘all’, plural. How many men?
The questions are piling up.
“I’ll need a list of any prohibited visitors, as well as those who have permitted access.”
“You’ll find those in a file on your desk,” he says, cool as ever. “Any more questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. If you wish to use the gym or the swimming pool, the entry code is 6668. I won’t need you again tonight, Trainer.”
“Sir.”
That was unexpected. Normally the people I work for don’t like me using their facilities, and definitely not at the same time as them. But I don’t get that feeling from Anderson. Strange.
If this is his version of foreplay, I’ll have to persuade him that he’s not my type. Crap, if he hits on me, I’ll be so fucking fired.
Rachel passes me with Anderson’s meal. It sure smells good.
“Are you ready to eat, too?” she asks pleasantly.
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’ll just be a moment.”
When she returns, I follow her into the dining room … our dining room. Chicken chasseur with green beans and potatoes. Suddenly, I’m mouth-wateringly hungry.
It’s our first evening together and could be awkward, but she’s surprisingly easy company.
“How long have you worked for Mr. Anderson, Ms. Smith?”
“Please, call me Rachel. Just a few months now. It’s been … interesting.”
I bet.
“Anything I need to know … from a security point of view?”
“He doesn’t go out of his way to make himself liked,” says Rachel, carefully. “But I believe he’s a good man. A troubled man, but a good one, nonetheless. Mr. Anderson works very hard, a punishing schedule, I’d say.”
This interests me: I know she’s using it as a metaphor, but Anderson is punishing himself for something. But what?
It’s not the question I ask.
“What’s a typical schedule?”
“He goes for a run at 5:30AM in the morning, sometimes earlier unless he has a business breakfast. He’ll leave for the office about 7:30AM and I usually don’t see him again until the evening. Mr. Basqiat, his personal trainer, comes several nights a week as I said, and then Mr. Anderson is usually in his study until late unless he’s gone to the Lincoln Center. He’s a patron of the New York Philharmonic. I work Monday to Friday, because most weekends, he’s at the Farm, so I don’t really see him as much as you’d think.”
No, I imagine not.
“Does he go out? Friends, drinking buddies?”
“He visits his parents and sister in Scarsdale; one grandparent living in Florida.”
“Anything else?”
“Fundraisers, occasionally; business dinners.”
Is this guy twenty-nine or fifty-nine?
“Friends?”
“Well … there’s Mr. Landon. A friend of his father, I believe.”
The one in on the big secret is a friend of his father?!
“No other friends?”
“Not that I’ve seen. Mr. Anderson is something of a loner. Now, can I offer you dessert? We have vanilla ice cream, or cheese and fruit.”
RACHEL HAS GIVEN me a lot to think about. It’s obvious that she likes Anderson, in a maternal sort of way. At least, I’m not picking up any attraction between them, but I’ll be keeping an eye open. It’s a need-to-know basis, and I need to know.
I’m good at reading people—I have to be in this job. Anderson has been upfront about his special interests. He wasn’t trying to shock me or be gratuitous, he was just stating a fact. But he’s clever, so I’ll be watching.
And Rachel is no one’s fool either, so I can’t help thinking that someone like her, a decent person, wouldn’t work for Anderson if he was a really sick fucker. But I’ll just have to make up my own mind about that; after all, Rachel isn’t around on the weekends. And I’ll be very interested to see what goes on at his farm.
About midnight, I decide to call it a day. Night, um, day.
Anderson is still working, just like Rachel said. When I knock and enter his office, he’s poring over spreadsheets. Just looking at all those tiny figures gives me a headache. But then I suppose that’s why I’m breaking my ass as close protection to a sick fucker who has whips in his meditation room, and he’s the bastard who’s paying me.
“Will that be all, sir?”
I’m polite as fuck.
“Yes, thank you, Trainer,” he says distractedly.
“I understand you like to go for a run in the mornings, sir?”
He frowns and looks up at me when he realizes what I’m saying: that I intend to go with him. If he refuses, I’m out of here. I can only work with people who let me do my job.
“Of course. I leave at 5:30AM, Trainer.”
“Sir.”
I figure this guy must be one of those people who doesn’t need much sleep since it’s already late. Luckily, I can survive on five or six hours, so it doesn’t really bother me. I was in the Marines long enough not to worry about long hours and broken sleep.
My bed smells wonderful, and the sheets are clean and crisp. Thank you, Rachel. There are certainly fringe benefits to working here. Gratefully, I slide under the covers and fall asleep immediately.
About three in the morning, I’m wide awake. Bad fucking dreams of places that I have no interest in revisiting.
I pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt and pad out to the kitchen to make coffee. Java in hand, I head to the CCTV room. May as well do some work as I’m awake.
I’m surprised as hell when the cameras show Anderson prowling through his private rooms. He’s pacing, agitated and tugging at his hair. He pauses outside his meditation room and a shiver runs through me when he enters. I wait, watching, but he doesn’t come out.
Feeling unnerved, like a sick voyeur, I take the fire escape stairs to his private floor and enter unseen and unheard.
But then a shrill scream has the hair standing up on the back of my neck, and I reach for a weapon that I don’t have.
What the fuck was that?
Another scream—louder—someone in pain. The scream comes from Anderson’s meditation room. I grab a heavy bronze statue and burst through the door, gripping my improvised weapon with both hands and scanning the dark room quickly. There’s no one there—just Anderson, soaked in sweat, his breaths coming in short gasps. He’s kneeling on the floor, naked, and holds a flogger in his hands. The skin on his back is bright red and a trickle of blood seeps from one of the raised wheals. My entrance has stopped him mid stroke. His eyes dart around the room, confused, wide with fear, and I can see from the way his chest is heaving that his heart rate is dangerously fast. Then his eyes fix on me, and I see awareness flood back. He shakes his head as if to clear it.
“Everything okay, sir?”
I speak tentatively, lowering the statue.
He drops the flogger in his hand and looks away.
“Yes, thank you, Trainer.”
His voice is gravelly, but turning cool. He doesn’t like that I’ve seen him this way: weak, vulnerable.
“Sometimes I need … release,” he adds grudgingly.
He doesn’t say anything else, but I can see that he’s shaken.
I walk back to my room slowly, my thoughts heavy. I’ve heard those sorts of screams before, from men who’ve seen too much. I think of the older scars I saw on his back, and realize the ones I can’t see are even deeper.
I look at my hands and see that they’re shaking sligh
tly. I was dreaming about my buddy, Aiden King. Anderson isn’t the only one who has nightmares. PTSD is no respecter of age or status: anyone can suffer—and Anderson is on the list.
Chapter 4
Meet the Parents
I SET MY alarm for 5AM, but never get back to sleep after my weird encounter with Anderson.
I don’t know fuck-all about self-harm. I’ve never been into any of the that BDSM shit. I’m not even that keen on tying up a woman I’m with. I prefer them fully responsive. I do know that someone who flogs themselves until they bleed doesn’t have all their dogs barking. Although there are worse methods of coping with life. I knew a guy in the Marines who used to cut himself—said it helped. But then one day he took his AK-16 and swallowed a bullet.
I shit, shower and shave, then grab a pair of sweatpants and my running shoes. They’re looking pretty worn. I’ll replace them when I get my first pay check.
I pull on my shoulder holster and check my weapon. The holster is an X-project style: I find it the most comfortable to wear for hours at a time, and it’s definitely the best for going running. My weapon is the most valuable thing in my life, other than my daughter Lilly, of course. The gun is my Smith & Wesson M&P, custom made, and it goes where I go. It has a Trijicon RMR red dot sight, AmeriGlo suppressor height sights, surefire XH55 G weapon laser. And it’s also been one of the best investments, the best decision I’ve ever made. You could call it a lifesaver.
I’ve got a light, cotton jacket to wear over my t-shirt when I’m running. It conceals the Smith & Wesson pretty well.
I’m standing in the foyer seconds before Anderson. These rich types don’t do waiting, and I’m not sensing that patience is one of Mr. Anderson’s virtues.
He frowns when he sees me.
“You’re armed?”
Of course! “Yes, sir.”
“I don’t like guns, Trainer.”
Nobody likes guns: they’re a tool like a spade or a shovel—as good or bad as the man using it. I remember my old man telling me that, but I have a feeling he took the line from someone else. I want to roll my eyes at Anderson, but I don’t. That would be a quick way to get fired.
“It’s how I do my job, sir.”
Make or break time: if he tells me not wear my weapon, I’m walking. He frowns again, but doesn’t say anything as we move to the elevator. I break the stony silence first.
“What route do you usually take, sir?”
“South to Battery Park, then through the East Village. It’s a six mile circuit.”
“May I suggest, sir, that we vary the route each day?”
He sighs.
“Sure.”
He sets a fast pace once we’re outside—it’s the illusion of freedom. Unlike some of the people I’ve worked for, I can see that he’s not doing it to impress me, that’s just the speed he goes.
The streets are still pretty empty at this time and there’s very little traffic. That’s good because it makes it easier to spot a tail.
To anyone watching, we’d probably just look like two buddies out for a run. But the whole time we’re running, I’m scanning the surroundings and assessing the situation: parked cars, anyone with overt interest, anyone acting suspiciously. I’d liked to have run the route by myself to assess it, but didn’t get the chance. It would make my life simpler if Anderson used a treadmill, but I get why he wants to run outside. The threats against him have been mostly low level, and Mason’s daily updates will pick up any change in that status.
Forty-five minutes later, we’re back at Wolf Point. It’s been a pretty good work out. In some jobs, the client expects me to sit on my candy-ass 24/7 and still maintain peak fitness. So you could say that some clients just sit with their thumbs up their asses when it comes to intelligence. But not this week and not this client.
I take another quick shower and head to the staff kitchen.
Rachel is standing at the stove. Boy, she looks good: starched apron, immaculate white blouse. I wouldn’t mind helping her crease it.
She’s set two places at the small breakfast bar instead of in the staff dining room. It’s more intimate, and I like that too much.
Everything smells great. I could get used to this.
“Good morning. What would you like for breakfast? There’s a variety of cereals, oatmeal, fruit, eggs, bacon and pancakes.”
“That all sounds good, Rachel. Whatever is easiest.”
“Mr. Trainer,” she says with a tone of mock severity, “you and I will get along swimmingly if you tell me what you do and don’t like to eat.” She smiles warmly, to take the edge off her words.
Not that I’m offended. Far from it.
“I’d like bacon and pancakes, please, Rachel.”
“Excellent choice!”
“And it’s just Trainer.”
“Does that come with a first name? I can’t keep calling you by your surname,” she says sweetly.
“Trainer works.”
“Humor me.”
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my hair. I really don’t like my given name, but seeing as she’s asked…
“Justin,” I say, at last.
“Justin…”
She tries the name, and you know what? It sounds damn fine coming from her beautiful lips.
“That’s a nice name. So, maple syrup, Justin?”
I shake my head. I can’t face that much sugar in the morning.
She pours some pancake batter into a pan, and two minutes later I’m tucking into delicious buttermilk pancakes and crisp pieces of bacon. Damn, her coffee is good, too. I note that she takes Anderson a plate with an egg white omelet and a small bowl of blueberries with yogurt.
She returns quickly.
“Mr. Anderson says he will be ready to leave in twenty minutes.”
“Thanks.”
I drink my coffee and watch as she moves efficiently around the kitchen. If my gaze bothers her, she shows no sign of it. She’s clearly at ease with her work and very professional.
I’m ready and waiting in the Penthouse foyer when Anderson appears. He looks preoccupied and tosses me a car key.
“You drive.”
“Yes, sir.”
The key fob says ‘Range Rover’, and I remember seeing the brand new SUV in the garage. Niiice.
Rachel enters the foyer, and it reminds me of my mom seeing me off to school. The thought amuses me, but you’d never know it.
“I won’t be back until late this evening, Mrs. Smith, so if you could leave out something cold, please.”
“Of course, Mr. Anderson. Have a good day, sir.”
Shit! Mrs. Smith? She’s married?
I’m surprised by the surge of disappointment I feel.
We travel down to the garage in silence. I sense that Anderson doesn’t do polite chat. Fine by me. I’m not here to be his friend.
But when he goes to exit from the elevator first, I stop him.
“Excuse me, sir.”
He takes the hint and lets me go before him. Yep, all clear. Nothing unusual to worry about. But the day you don’t check, that’s the day you’re gonna get fucked. And not in a good way.
I point the fob at the Rover and the lights flash once. I open the rear passenger door for Anderson and he gets in without speaking. As I slide into the driver’s seat, I note with approval that he puts on his seatbelt without me having to remind him. Careful Mr. Anderson. I like that in a client.
It’s 7:15AM and we’re barely out of the garage before his cell rings.
“Pam? What? Yes. Ten minutes. Tell Ryan to set it up.”
Mr. Anderson insists that I drop him off at the front of his building. I’d rather have taken him into the underground garage where it’s more private, safer, but he’s in no mood for waiting. He tells me to come to his office once I’ve parked.
That’s the crappy thing about being close protection—you can only offer advice; the idiot paying you doesn’t have to take it. It can make things more stressful, if you let it.
Security checks me out as I enter the building: they know who I am so introductions aren’t necessary, but they do their job carefully, knowing that I’m their new boss. I make my way to the top floor as I did yesterday, and the same guy as before is just leaving Anderson’s office.
“Good morning, Mr. Trainer. We met yesterday. I’m Mr. Anderson’s Personal Assistant. He’s asked me to explain his schedule for the week. You’ll liaise with me or my assistant Tessa for the day-to-day timings.”
He points at a skinny blonde who looks as if she’s about to cry. Isn’t it a bit early in the day for that?
Still, the organization and clear lines of communication should make things simple. Anderson certainly likes to be in control.
“Tessa!”
I hear Anderson yelling from his office. He sounds pissed about something.
“Where’s Trainer?”
“You’d better both go in,” Ryan whispers to Tessa, who looks alarmed.
I head into Anderson’s office and see that he isn’t alone. He’s frowning at a tall, strong-looking woman with short brown hair.
“Pam, this is Trainer. Trainer, Ms. Russo.”
“Hello, Trainer.”
“Ma’am.”
I know from Mason’s notes that Pam Russo is Anderson’s number two guy, um, woman, um, colleague.
Tessa enters with a notebook. When she looks at Anderson, she flushes and her hands shake. What? I catch Pam rolling her eyes and she smirks at me.
Okay, I get it. The assistant’s assistant is panting for billionaire Mr. Anderson, and apparently no one sent her the memo that he bats for the other team, so she’s getting nowhere fast. Ms. Russo, I would guess, isn’t interested in Anderson for similar reasons—she prefers broads.
I remember the speculation I read about him on some gossip websites—which women celebs he’d dated.
Besides me, doesn’t anyone know the dude is gay?
And yeah, keeping up with the gossip websites can be part of the job. Especially when it comes to who the boss might be dating. Because dating a celebrity can get you on a lot of hate lists.