The Boss: Book One Read online

  The Boss Vol. 1

  a Billionaire Serial

  Cari Quinn

  Taryn Elliott

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Bad Kitty

  Also by Cari & Taryn

  About Cari Quinn & Taryn Elliott

  EBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  The Boss, part 1

  © 2015 Cari Quinn & Taryn Elliott

  Cover by LateNite Designs

  All Rights Are Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Rainbow Rage Publishing e-book edition: October 2015

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  Created with Vellum

  For anyone that had to choose between art and business.

  We like them both, and make it work.

  And for our moms, because they encourage the art.

  Chapter One

  Don’t lose your cool.

  I took a deep breath and opened the immense glass door. Carson Covenant Inc. was etched into the milky opaque glass. I glanced back at the street and paused. Huh. A crystal clear view. I stepped back onto the busy Boston sidewalk. A domed vestibule in the opaque glass was a very effective privacy shield.

  Was he showing off?

  Or was he hiding?

  Atlantic Avenue, right near the Boston Harbor, was alive with pedestrians and tourists, as well as a backlog of cab drivers picking up and dropping off at the Intercontinental Hotel next door. It was madness, but as the door closed behind me, there was no sound.

  It was a soundless box.

  I had an immediate urge to back up and get out. There was no reason to feel claustrophobic about it, and yet there it was.

  Not a streak, heck, not even a fingerprint seemed to stick to the glossy surface.

  Huh. Well, that was interesting.

  Was it always this milky tone? Or could it be colored? My fingers itched to get some of the fascinating glass into a copper casing. I shook my head. No, Grace Copeland, you do not want the enemy’s glass on your worktable.

  I didn’t.

  Mostly.

  And okay, enemy might be a little bit of a stretch. Actually, no. Not a stretch at all for Blake Carson of Carson Covenant Inc.—did he even know what the word covenant meant? I didn’t think so. Or he wouldn’t have snatched up my grandmother’s house at auction before I could even talk to a bank.

  Exactly the reason why I was walking into the huge glass box that he called an office building. He was a businessman. I was a businesswoman. Surely we could come to some understanding about my house. I just needed a little time to figure out how to make things work.

  My heels clicked on the slate floor, and the breadth and scope of the lobby’s design stole my breath enough for me to stop in the middle and do a 360 degree turn. Glass was my life. The absolute clarity of it was eerily cold here. I instantly wanted to add color everywhere, but there was no denying the statement. Money. Power. Cool disregard for family and happiness.

  Resolute once more, I stalked to the bank of elevators.

  “Miss!”

  I slapped the up button and scanned the walls for a directory of the building, but no such luck. I’d just go to the penthouse. Surely this man would only want the upper floors for his offices. Superior jerk.

  “Miss!”

  I turned at the voice. A harried guard crossed the lobby, his white hair tufting out the sides of his uniform cap. “Yes?”

  “You need to sign in.”

  “Oh.” Of course, he’d have a guard keeping the little people out of his space. “I’m very sorry.”

  His forehead smoothed. “So many people coming in and out today. Do you have an appointment?”

  No, of course, I didn’t have an appointment. My drive in from Marblehead to Boston had been an impulse. I smoothed my hand over my white jacket. I’d left the lawyer’s office and immediately gotten into my car with one thing in mind.

  Getting my house back.

  Well, technically my grandmother’s house, but it was mine now. At least that’s what the will had said. Until probate and the lawyers informed me that selling the house was the only option. Before I could wrap my mind around selling the house I’d grown up in, the bank had put it into foreclosure.

  So, no, I didn’t have an appointment. I’d been running on adrenaline and tears for days now. But this was not the place for tears, so adrenaline would have to do.

  “Are you here for the interviews?”

  I opened my mouth to say no and hesitated. That would get me upstairs. All I needed was five minutes. If I got a face to face with him, then I could swallow my pride enough to beg him to reconsider the sale. It rankled, and I’d never begged for anything in my life, but for that house, I would.

  It was the single thing in my life that had only good memories attached to it. From the days on the cove with my grandmother, to the workshop I’d created out of the maid’s quarters all those years ago—there was not a single bad memory associated with that house or with Grandmother Stuart. She’d been my rock. Honestly, she was the reason I’d fallen in love with art and actually stuck with it. She’d been my confidante in all things.

  So, no—I couldn’t lose the house too.

  Definitely not.

  “Yes.”

  The man tapped the screen of his iPad. “Your name?”

  “Grace Copeland.”

  He tapped again, swiped, and then tapped some more. “I can’t…” He tapped a bit more forcefully.

  I peered over the top and pressed my lips together. He couldn’t even get past the log in screen. Piece of cake. I turned up the wattage on my smile. “I’m really nervous, and if I don’t get upstairs, I’m going to be late for my interview. From what I’ve heard, being late wouldn’t be a good first impression.”

  “No. Punctuality is key for Mr. Carson. And security, which is why I need you to come back to the desk with me so I can log you in.”

  I stepped close to him and laid my hand on his shoulder. “How many other people are here for the interview?”

  He blinked at me. “Eleven people have come in.”

  “Did anyone else have problems?”

  He pushed up his glasses on his nose and wouldn’t meet my eyes. “It’s been very busy.”

  Bingo. I glanced at his tag and boosted the wattage of my smile. “Tell you what, George. I won’t tell if you won’t. Then neither of us will get into trouble.”

  The elevator opened and the guard sighed. “The last applicant came down in tears. Are you sure you’re looking for a job like that, miss?”

  “I’m a tough cookie.”

  The frazzled older man finally smiled. “You seem like it.” He held his hand over the elevator’s sensor. “If you l
ast twenty minutes, I’ll call it a good decision. Top floor.”

  I knew it. I stepped over the threshold and turned to face him and pushed the button. “Good deal.” When the doors closed, I turned and slapped my palm against the side wall. Even the elevator was pure glass. Was it more of that strange opaque glass or was it simply see-through?

  Why did I care?

  And yet knowing people might see me fidget made me stop. I tugged down the hem of my white jacket. I wasn’t exactly rocking a business suit. It was perfectly suitable attire for the gallery, but this place was definitely not business casual with a side of funky chic.

  Nope, people in this place probably had pinstripes on their underwear.

  Blake Carson was the kind of rich that was out of my stratosphere. I understood the wealthy vacationing set, the old money from Marblehead, and men who wore four-hundred-dollar Polo shirts on their boat.

  This was an entirely different world.

  The doors opened to a sea of gray. The wall facing the water was a pure sheet of glass. Even the frame for the panes was clear, giving it a faint grid pattern that drew me to the view of Boston Harbor.

  My salvation, my first love, even above glass. A turbulent childhood of jet-setting from Milan to London, Greece to Japan, Monaco to Paris—places that should have been incredible and enlightening were only vague memories to me. My parents couldn’t be bothered to slow down for a child. I had a nanny and a tutor with me at all points, until finally my grandmother said enough.

  And then Marblehead had become my home.

  My parents had lived too fast one too many times, and they’d been lost to the same sea that saved me. That had been minor compared to losing my grandmother. No more disruptive than learning a distant cousin had passed away.

  The day I’d found my grandmother on the floor of her sitting room had been incomprehensible.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned to the deep voice. Sandy-haired, with friendly blue eyes, he was the poster child for nice guy. Not what I was expecting at all. I held my hand out. “Mr. Carson?”

  “Afraid not. Jack Hollister. I’m just the guy bringing you to the firing range.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “That bad? George told me there were many tears today.”

  “Nah, just an exaggeration.” He smiled and crinkles played at the corners of his eyes. Not from age, but from being outside and squinting into the sun. I knew that look. I’d fended off many a guy with an invitation for a midnight boat ride.

  “So I don’t need to gird my loins?”

  He snickered. “Actually, I think you’ll be just fine.”

  Unprofessional and a snicker. What kind of business was I walking into? If this was the personality type, then maybe…just maybe I wouldn’t be totally out of my depth.

  Jack opened his arm toward another wall of glass. So it could be colored. It was the same gray as the gunmetal sky outside. It took me a minute to make out the handle to the door. It was nearly indistinguishable from the glass. The only thing on the door was B. T. Carson in an understated font. Not a corporate font created for charts and progress reports.

  However, it shouted wealth with the hairline fine lines echoing the curves and bars of the letters. A hint of art deco grandeur hidden under corporate gloss.

  I straightened my shoulders and crossed the room. I knew how to read people.

  It was my gift.

  Blake T. Carson was going down.

  Chapter Two

  Jack knocked once and opened the door. Sure enough it was a fish tank just like I expected. Except that these windows were lightly tinted where everything else in the building made sure to leave people off-balance with the clarity.

  It was like a dimmer switch had been activated. Well¸ until I got to the edge of the carpet, and then there was nothing but air.

  The floor was made out of glass.

  “Holy crap.”

  “Yeah, it takes some getting used to,” Jack said with a grin. “Good luck.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. His lowered voice incited a flood of anxiety in my belly. Was it going to be that bad? He was just a man. I’d been around powerful men all my life. Okay, they were usually wearing wrinkled linen shorts on a golf course or boat, but I still knew how to handle myself.

  I straightened my shoulders and stepped onto the glass floor. It made me feel weightless and even a little dizzy as the panoramic Boston Harbor opened under and around me. What kind of man needed to be this on display?

  Silly, Grace. He’s not on display—he likes to watch.

  He’s hidden away like a coward.

  Speaking of coward…where the heck was he? I turned around. The entire room was glass. I could see the whole office from this vantage point.

  Yeah, he definitely liked to watch.

  Was he watching from some secret room right now?

  Trying to figure me out?

  I lifted my chin. Well, let him watch. I didn’t have anything to hide. Okay, except that I lied to get in here, but that was just semantics. All I needed was five minutes with him, and then I could figure out how to handle the situation.

  Surely, he’d be reasonable.

  What if he wasn’t?

  Shut up, Negative Nancy. I shook my head. I couldn’t think that way. Not and keep my world together. Because I couldn’t lose that house. I was willing to do anything to keep it. Even stand here and beg a stranger.

  The little voice that kept trying to pipe up finally shut up when a door opened out of the seamless glass. My jaw dropped. Had we been transported to a spaceship between the time Mr. Hollister had shown me in and now?

  My teeth snapped together. A very tall man walked in, and I knew he wasn’t expecting me. He had the stem of a pair of glasses between his teeth and was buttoning the cuff of a crisp white dress shirt.

  Was that ink swirling up his arm?

  He cleared his throat and the flash of deep sepia tones were gone. My gaze shot to his face, and I had to swallow. He was deeply tanned and sharp-featured. Young. Surprisingly young.

  He took the stem out of his mouth. “I was unaware I had another appointment.”

  His deep voice was commanding and clipped. I managed to get my tongue and lips to work. “Last minute addition.”

  His dark brow rose as he slid the glasses on his face. They instantly changed his features into something more serious and somehow older. His hazel eyes were startling behind the lenses. There was no polite interest there. Actually, there was nothing there.

  Not displeasure.

  Not humor.

  Not even a drop of friendliness.

  How the hell was I going to approach this?

  “Let’s hope you’re more competent than the last eleven applicants I’ve seen this afternoon.”

  My breath stalled. That wasn’t good.

  He moved to the large glass and chrome desk by the window. He flipped through papers in a file. “Which agency are you from?”

  “No agency.”

  His gaze flickered. “Oh?”

  I wanted to clear my throat so badly, but I didn’t want to show any sign of weakness. He needed to see me as an equal. All my plans to make him see reason slid away. I wasn’t exactly sure he’d give a fuzzy puppy a chance, let alone a woman playing the needy card.

  I wasn’t needy.

  But I wasn’t exactly sure he’d see it that way.

  I licked my lips and played up my confidence. It was just like selling to a very rich, very entitled asshole. And now I was going to lie for all that I was worth.

  God help me.

  I crossed to him and held out my hand. “Grace Copeland.”

  Just before he took my hand, he frowned. “Copeland?”

  “Yes.” His hand was firm, dry, and huge. The man was big everywhere. I’m petite, but I was wearing four inch heels, and he towered over me.

  You can do this.

  His brow smoothed. “Your name is not on the list.”

  “You need an assistant,
don’t you?” Before he could open his mouth, I released his hand and sat down in the dove-gray chair across from his desk. I folded my hands in my lap to hide the tremble. I was just going to have to wing it.

  He was a man who liked his power, if his office was any indication. I tipped my chin up to meet his gaze, making sure to be slightly submissive. We were not equals, as far as he was concerned. “If your lobby is any indication, then you need more than that.”

  Forgive me, George.

  He sat behind his desk. “Oh, really?”

  “Your lobby is stark and unapproachable. Your desk security needs training.”

  “Obviously, since he let you upstairs without an appointment.”

  “Don’t blame George.”

  “George?”

  “That’s his name. George. Your seventy-ish-year-old security guard of one of the most security-conscious glass companies of our age.”

  His fingers drummed against the glass before he sat back and steepled them together. “I know who my security guard is, Ms. Copeland. I want to know why you do.”

  “Because I talked him through the login of his iPad.”

  He tapped his two forefingers together. “And you weren’t on the list. And still you’re sitting in my office. Why shouldn’t I call said security and have you escorted out?”

  “Because you need me.” I leaned back in my chair, mirroring his stance. Well, except for the fingers thing. Only hot guys with long fingers could pull that look off without looking like Smithers from the Simpsons.

  “Is that right?”

  “Is it your standard practice to have your reception area manned by Mr. Hollister—who is probably one of your top executives,” I prompted.

  He touched his lips with the side of his fingers. “CEO.”

  “Exactly. Your CEO is not supposed to be fielding your assistants for an interview. In fact, your CEO’s assistant should probably be handling that.”

  He dropped his hands to grip the arms of his chair. His fingers were distracting. “And what qualifications do you have? Since you aren’t with an agency, do you have a résumé?” He inclined his head. “You seem to be a stickler for the rules, and yet you’re breaking every single one.”