Babysitting the Billionaire(3)

“Third, fuck you. Sir.”

Suddenly his shadow on her shoulder vanished. She slowed and turned—had he been raptured, right here at the airport? No, he’d just stopped in his tracks, forcing people behind him to swerve out of the way. His mouth had dropped a little open, exposing the nicest teeth orthodontia could buy.

“Coffee?” she said sweetly.

He exploded in sound, rumbling deep. It resolved itself in her ears into laughter. He was laughing at her.

Suddenly she realized what she’d said. She’d just tossed it off, because it was always better to let go of anger rather than carry it around. Well, maybe not always. Maybe not when you’re babysitting someone who could get you fired in a split-second.

But he was laughing. The sound was so genuinely joyful the tired travelers hauling their suitcases around to avoid him even smiled, despite themselves. He wiped the corner of an eye.

“Right, coffee.”

He ordered, she paid, and they sat in the far corner with his back to the crowd. He lifted the little paper cup in a toast to her. “I haven’t had such a good laugh in ages. Thank you, Miss May.”

“Miss Reed. May Reed. You don’t look much like your handout photos.”

He savored his first sip, eyes closed. His lashes were a lighter brown than his brows. How did that work?

He opened his eyes, and she kept drinking him in. “I bored of being sluggish and tired all the time. Now I have great stamina.” He winked.

Startled, she forgot to censor herself, “Why are you here? I mean, thank you for the generous donation.”

“I believe in the work your foundation does. You do work for the foundation?”

“Yes. I do its artwork and web design, stuff like that.”

“So that explains why mine was the only airport sign that held a drawing instead of my name.”

May shrugged, embarrassed to be caught not being like everyone else again. “You wanted to be incognito, right? And my Sharpie ran out of ink.”

“Sharpie? Mine always last a long time.”

“Sure, if you put the cap back on.” He would not make her feel uncomfortable, she sternly reminded herself. All he was, was a brilliant, successful, newly-gorgeous hunk of manflesh.

She tried again. “I mean, thank you, but why did you need to come to the announcement party? You don’t like publicity, and this publicity especially, I can see that.”

“You can, can you? Don’t frown. I’m not patronizing you, heaven forbid. Can it not be a case of me wanting credit for something I’ve done, even if it’s from only a few people and only in private?”

She looked past the beautiful angles. His jaw was tight. “No. There’s something else.”

He leaned back. She hadn’t realized how close he was to her, but she felt his departure like a cold breeze. Stupid airport air conditioning.

He tipped the cup and poured the last of the coffee down. “Time to work,” he said, standing.

Now she had to race to keep up with him. But she nearly ran him over when he stopped short at a collection of ceiling signs. “Taxi or garage?”

“Taxi. Or rather town car.”

“You drive a town car?”

“I don’t drive. It’s a rental.” And it was right where she had left it, thank the stars. The graying driver had put on his chauffer’s cap for once, and ably loaded the rolling bag into the trunk. She let Kurck get in first, with his industrial-strength computer bag, and scurried after him. The car pulled smoothly away from the curb.

May was glad of the giant bag between them, even if it did crowd her side.

“These town cars don’t have much leg room, do they?”

“I’m sure you’re used to that.” He looked a question at her, and she shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone drive Trabants in Finland?”

“Try East Germany, and two decades ago. Three.” He raised his perfect brows at her. “And your family, they are from China?”

“Virginia.”

“American?” He seemed surprised.

“Both of them, yes.” Shithead paternalistic blowhard gearhead. He grinned as if he’d read her mind.

“I see. So you’re adopted.” His grin grew wider as she scowled.

“From Laos.”

“I stand corrected.”

Now she felt petty. “I stand corrected, too.”

“Very pretty. Just for that, I’ll tell you what I need.”

“I’m here to help.” She almost made it sound sincere. Why did he have her so, so—what? Discombobulated, her mother would say.

“You’re right. I didn’t come here just for some party. I want to have a private conversation, preferably over dinner, with the junior senator from Rhode Island. Jane Lindell. You’ll arrange it for me.”