Guarding the Billionaire Page 6

  The thought takes me back to Rachel. I haven’t figured that one out either. Married. So where has she been hiding Mr. Smith?

  “Trainer, we’ll be flying up to Williston, Vermont this morning. A change to the schedule: I have a meeting at the University. Leaving in five. Tessa, reschedule my morning meetings for later in the week.”

  Flying?

  I’m not happy about sudden changes of plan because I don’t get the chance to check up on security first, but I guess that’s why Anderson’s got me now so I roll with the punches.

  On the move, I learn that Anderson occasionally hires his own private whirlybird for transport, currently perched on the roof of DMA Tower.

  During the 20 second elevator ride, Anderson doesn’t take a break from the constant stream of phone calls on his cell. If I had that many calls while I was driving, my safety record would be considerably dented.

  Most of the calls are short as Anderson makes decisions quickly. The only person he seems to have longer calls from is Pam.

  We’re met on the roof by an older guy who seems pleased to see Anderson.

  “She’s all ready for you.”

  For the first time since I’ve met him, Anderson smiles and his eyes light up. For a second he looks his age, then the barrier slams down again, and he’s talking wind speeds, air quality and visibility.

  Please tell me that this doesn’t mean my freaky boss is going to be responsible for flying me in an aircraft that resembles a fucking flying brick?

  The flying brick is a trim-looking Eurocopter X3—a cool four million bucks of metal parts attached by a single bolt to the rotor blades.

  Did I mention that I fucking hate helicopters? The memory of being shot at while airborne in a Chinook, a.k.a. another flying brick, and being able to do fuck-all about it, has never gone away.

  Thankfully, it’s a real pilot who runs through the final pre-flight checks, not an eager amateur. Thoroughness should be reassuring. It’s not. I try very hard not to grip onto my seat. It’s not good for the hired muscle to show white knuckles.

  Ninety minutes later, the chopper touches down on a tiny helipad just outside the Agriculture College of Vermont University. Pam tells me that Anderson has a business interest here and paid for the helipad to be installed.

  I unhook my clenched hands from the seat and manage to refrain from kissing the tarmac.

  Another old-timer ambles over to Anderson, welcoming him.

  “Thanks, John. We’ll be back in a couple of hours. Maybe later.”

  “Yes, sir. Have a good day, Mr. Anderson.”

  We’re on our way to UVM in a rental, a Tesla S electric car, when Anderson’s cell rings again. I see his eyes flick up to me in the rear view mirror.

  “Mason, I’m going to put this on speakerphone so Trainer can hear.”

  He taps a button and my old C.O.’s voice fills the car.

  “An impromptu demonstration has been organized outside the Agriculture College building. Not serious, but could be messy.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Anderson snarls, running his free hand through his hair.

  This is the first time I’ve heard him lose his temper. I can’t tell yet if it’s a regular occurrence.

  “What do those fucking students have against feeding fucking developing countries?”

  Mason’s reply is calm, pragmatic.

  “They don’t like research to do with genetically modified crops, Mr. Anderson.”

  “Ignorant fuckers.”

  “The administration has advised that you use the rear entry, sir.”

  For some reason, his words make Anderson smile, and immediately, he’s calm again.

  “Fine. Consider me advised.”

  He cuts the call, his equilibrium apparently restored.

  “We’ll enter around the back, Trainer,” he says evenly.

  As we approach UVM, I can see small groups of students beginning to congregate and I check that the car doors are locked. I know the rental has automatic locking but usually I turn it off since I don’t want to drive with locked doors in case there’s an accident—emergency services lose time forcing locked doors—but in this sort of situation, or slow moving traffic, I do.

  Anderson doesn’t speak, he just watches me, his face impassive. He doesn’t seem particularly fazed at the thought of being a target for an angry student mob.

  The rear of the facility is quiet: clearly the students aren’t that well organized because none of them have considered that a billionaire mogul might be smart enough to find an alternative to using the front door.

  Anderson stalks inside to be met by an anxious-looking professor type.

  “Mr. Anderson, I’m so sorry that you’ve been inconvenienced. I can assure you that the … um … demonstration is not the opinion of all our students. I do hope it won’t influence your decision adversely. The team is very excited to meet you … you’ve taken such an interest in their work.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Greenberg. After you.”

  “Yes, of course, of course! This way.”

  I’m slightly puzzled as to the reason for our visit. I don’t need to know, strictly speaking, but I’m interested. And, if I have to justify myself, it helps that I know a little about the client’s business.

  Mason’s file described interests in satellite comms and green technology, but more recently agriculture, buying up farms in Minnesota and Iowa in large numbers.

  From the current meeting, I assume that Anderson is also involved in agrichemicals of some sort, but as Dr. Greenberg chats away, showing us around a series of dull looking laboratories and into some hothouses that have desert-like temperatures, and others that are cool and damp, I begin to understand that Anderson is a benefactor. This surprises me. I’d assumed that being so rich so young, money was his only motivating factor. But apparently not.

  Yet another Anderson-shaped mystery.

  He waves away offers of coffee, which is a pity. After the disrupted night and early start, I could really use another shot of caffeine. But my job is to be wallpaper, until I’m needed.

  Finally, we’re led into a meeting room. I stand by the door while Anderson takes a seat. Every other person is at least twice his age, but there’s no doubt he commands the room with quiet authority.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to ask us, Mr. Anderson?” wheezes Dr. Greenberg, cleaning his glasses and staring myopically.

  “Your grant application isn’t viable, Dr. Greenberg,” says Anderson.

  The expectant, hopeful faces of the assorted academics and scientists are suddenly bereft.

  Dr. Greenberg crumbles, disappointment showing clearly as he repositions his glasses on his nose.

  “May … may I ask in what way?”

  “You’ll need a larger student body to meet your goals,” says Anderson dispassionately, “and you need to accelerate the plans for crop rotation to pre-empt changes to the statutory research guidelines. In short: you need considerably more capital than you have budgeted for.”

  A distressed silence fills the room.

  “I propose that you increase your budget to $8.5 million on an annual basis for the next seven years if you wish to achieve your stated research goals.”

  The good professor gapes at him, wringing his hands.

  “Mr. Anderson! We have little hope of raising a tenth of such a sum. Our fundraisers are all volunteers. Our work doesn’t attract many sponsors, especially since there is little financial incentive for businesses to do so. Not that your business, I mean…”

  He looks distraught, and I feel sorry for him. Clearly he’s passionate about his work.

  A small frown of irritation flickers across Anderson’s face.

  “You misunderstand me, Dr. Greenberg. I’m saying that DMA Solutions will fund your work here: $8.5 million annually for a term of seven years, to be reviewed in thirteen months.”

  Did I just hear right? Anderson is planning to give away almost $60 million dollars? From the expr
essions on the faces of everyone else, I’m not the only one wondering if they have a problem with earwax.

  “You … you wish to … proceed?!”

  “Indeed, Dr. Greenberg,” says Anderson clearly. “I’ll have my lawyer send over the paperwork.”

  He stands suddenly, and the professor jumps.

  “I … we … can’t thank you enough, Mr. Anderson. This is most generous … most generous indeed!”

  “I look forward to seeing the positive results of your team’s research, Dr. Greenberg. Thank you for your time.”

  “No, no! Thank you, Mr. Anderson. I’m sure the university’s public relations team will be delighted to...”

  Anderson scowls, and the professor visibly quails.

  “No publicity.”

  “No … no publicity?”

  The professor looks confused, his gaze flickering to his equally bemused colleagues.

  “None,” says Anderson with finality.

  He shakes hands with the professor who is looking rather limp, and then stalks from the room, business concluded.

  I really don’t get this guy. He’s just given away a formidable chunk of his own capital and he doesn’t want anyone to know?

  Why?

  Could it be some sort of money laundering scheme? Mason’s checks haven’t uncovered any dodgy dealing, but life has taught me to be cynical. For once, I wouldn’t mind being proved wrong.

  IT’S LATE by the time we finally head back to Wolf Point. I’m looking forward to seeing what Rachel … I mean, Mrs. Smith has made for dinner. But we’ve barely exited the elevator from the underground parking garage when a skinny girl with short spiky hair throws herself at Anderson.

  The sudden ambush has me reaching for my weapon.

  “Surprise!”

  Surprise?! She nearly gave me a heart attack.

  “There you are, darling!”

  I look away from the girl and see an attractive older woman walking towards us. I recognize her from Mason’s photographs: same dark eyes, same black hair, she’s Gloria Anderson née García, the boss’s mother. So the girl must be his sister. She’s cut her hair since the photo Mason has on file.

  I relax immediately.

  “Who’s he?” asks the girl, looking at me.

  “Trainer. He works for me, Abigail,” says Anderson. “Trainer, this is my mother, Gloria Anderson and my sister Abigail.”

  “Hi, Trainer!” says the girl. “Nice to meet you.”

  She holds out her hand.

  “Ma’am.”

  She giggles as we shake hands, peeking up at me through her eyelashes.

  “Do you have a gun?”

  I’m taken aback.

  “Abigail!” says her mother, shaking her head.

  “I was only asking!” says Abigail, pouting. “Do you?”

  “That’s enough, Abigail,” Anderson snaps, clearly irritated.

  To my surprise, she completely ignores him.

  “Don’t be so bossy, Devon,” she says rolling her eyes, then turns back to me. “I bet you do have a gun. Everyone disapproves of that, you know. Dad supports more gun control.”

  I don’t know what to reply that would be considered polite, so I make my escape to the staff quarters.

  I haven’t counted on the tenacious Miss Anderson following me.

  “I think it’s cool that Devon has a bodyguard,” she says, eyeing me up and down.

  “I use the term close personal protection, Miss Anderson.”

  “It’s the same thing though, isn’t it,” she says giggling again.

  Fuck, that’s annoying!

  “Devon’s a lot of trouble, you know. He drives everyone crazy. But I think he likes you … I can see why.”

  I don’t know if it’s particularly warm in the kitchen, but I’m suddenly feeling rather hot under the collar. I walk around the breakfast bar to give me some distance from the force of nature that is Abigail Anderson.

  She follows close behind like a small, irritating dog.

  Or possibly a bitch in heat.

  “You look very strong, Trainer. Do you work out? I bet you do. What did you do before you started working for Devon? Were you a soldier? I bet you were. My friends are going to be so jealous when I tell them I’ve met a real bodyguard.”

  She follows me around the kitchen. I feel like I’m being stalked. Shit! I don’t have an escape route unless I actually climb over the breakfast bar. Believe me, I’m considering it.

  When Rachel walks in, I have never been so fucking happy to see backup.

  “Hi, Rachel!” Abigail shrieks, like a cheerleader on helium. “I was just asking Trainer all about himself. Don’t you think he’s a hottie?”

  She probably is a cheerleader. I wonder if Anderson confiscated her pompoms. Every sentence is screeched as if she’s at a pep rally.

  “Good evening, Miss Anderson,” says Rachel calmly, although she her cheeks look a little pink. “Mr. Anderson has asked to see you in the main room.”

  Abigail pouts.

  “Devon’s always spoiling my fun. Never mind, Trainer, I’m sure we’ll be seeing lots of each other. Bye!”

  She blows me a kiss, hugs Rachel, and hurtles back to the main room.

  “Are you alright?” asks Rachel sympathetically as I loosen my tie and try to regulate my breathing. “Miss Anderson can be a little … overwhelming.”

  Oh, fucking yes!

  “I thought I was going to have to fight my way out of here,” I manage to croak. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

  She laughs, but I can see that she’s blushing, too, and I realize how else my words can have been interpreted.

  I blame little Miss Anderson. I suspect she has the power to freeze men and turn them to statues like the Ice Queen in … some kids’ book. I’m sure I’ve read that story to Lilly.

  Rachel serves dinner to the Andersons while I take a quick shower, then settle down in our shared living room to write Lilly a postcard. It’s a pretty boring picture, a bird’s eye view of Yankee Stadium. I promised I’d take her one day.

  “You’re a Yankees fan? Oh dear!” Rachel teases with an amused smile.

  “Yep, for my sins. You’re not?”

  “I’m from Pennsylvania—Phillies all the way.”

  “Nice part of the world.”

  “Yes, it’s lovely—not the sunniest place though.”

  “You prefer somewhere warm, preferably with beaches, for vacation?”

  Rachel’s eyes light up and she smiles.

  “Oh definitely! I went to Florida once and I loved it.”

  “Yeah? I’ve been to Florida a bunch of times because I have friends who live in Montverde, just outside Orlando. Great climate … if you don’t mind the occasional hurricane.”

  “I think you missed your calling as a vacation planner,” she laughs. “Ready to eat now?”

  “I could definitely eat.”

  My stomach agrees by rumbling loudly.

  Rachel returns to the kitchen and I finish writing my postcard but I don’t have any stamps. I’ll have to buy one tomorrow.

  When Rachel serves our dinner, it takes every ounce of self-control not to scarf it down.

  “Hungry?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

  I guess I was eating quickly after all.

  “You cook too damn well,” I admit, taking a long drink of water.

  “Thank you very much,” she laughs, then gestures at my postcard. “Would you like me to mail that tomorrow while I’m grocery shopping?”

  “Yeah, that would be great, thank you. I meant to send it today but I didn’t get a chance to buy a stamp. It’s for my daughter.”

  “Oh, you have a daughter? What’s her name?”

  “Lilly, she’s six, nearly seven.”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “Yeah, she’s gorgeous. I’m probably biased.”

  “Probably,” she smiles. “Do you have a picture?”

  Only about a hundred on my phone, not that I�
�m going to admit that. I choose one where I’d taken Lilly for milkshakes and she has a chocolate mustache. I’ve always liked that one.

  “She’s beautiful, Justin! She looks a lot like you.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Yeah?”

  Rachel flushes slightly.

  “I meant, she has your eyes and your chin, I think.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Where does she live?”

  I sigh, my smile falling.

  “With her mom in Connecticut.”

  Rachel nods slowly.

  “It must be hard to be away from her.”

  I nod, then wonder if she’s fishing for information on Lilly’s mom.

  “I’ll mail your card tomorrow,” she says after a short pause.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  It’s a civilized way to finish off a weird ass day. But I like it.

  Chapter 5

  You’ve Got to be Kidding Me

  ANDERSON HAS DITCHED his evening workout for a boxing lesson with his personal trainer. If I had to look at all those business reports he reads before breakfast, I’d want to beat the shit out of something, too.

  I’ve heard of Enrico Basqiat: he’s very choosy who he takes on as a client. He’s not interested in soft executives who eat too much and drink too much then think they can stave off a stroke by raising their heart rate once a week.

  He’s a former Light Heavyweight National Amateur Champion. He’s the real deal. He has a three-year wait list for blue bloods wanting him to be their personal trainer.

  He and Anderson are well matched: focused to the point of fanaticism, hardcore. I watch for a while as they try to maim each other, then wander back to the CCTV room which has become my second home. I’ve got some reading up to do on Anderson’s employees. There are 3,209 at DMA Tower, all with potentially close access to him. Mason’s firm has already done background checks, but I like to be thorough—my client’s life and my life could depend on it.

  I’m surprised to see an envelope on the desk with my name on it in Anderson’s handwriting. It makes me frown. He hasn’t said anything. If he’s going to fire me, surely he’d have the balls to tell me in person?

  But when I open it, two things fall out: a thick wad of paper that turns out to be a permanent contract, and a check for a ridiculously large amount of money. It’s far more than I’d agreed with Mason. I don’t get what’s going on. Is he paying me for several months in advance? Is it a mistake? That seems unlikely. Anderson doesn’t make mistakes. I decide it must be a test. He wants to know if I’m honest and that I’ll point out the error to him. I’m slightly disappointed that he’d try such an obvious tactic. Usually, clients test me by leaving out their fucking Rolexes.