Holt, Her Ruthless Billionaire: 50 Loving States-Connecticut (Ruthless Tycoons Book 1) Page 12

  “Luis? Fernando?” I say. Then I ask them in Spanish why they are here.

  Fernando looks away guiltily, but Luis answers in halting English, “Sorry, but the Mexican Consulate is calling the office. They say your work visa is taken away, and you cannot live on hotel property unless you are paying to be guest. And right now, there are no rooms.”

  “Que?” I say, hoping I am not understanding his broken English correctly. Because it sounds like he is saying my work visa has been revoked, and he and Fernando are here to kick me out of my home. Which means not only do I have to buy two very expensive one-way tickets back to Jamaica, but I also have to pay for a place to stay in the interim.

  Before Luis can respond, a voice calls out, “Mama! Mama!”

  The door to my bungalow flings open and Barron runs out, happier than I have seen him…well, in forever. Barron is a very serious boy and does not show much excited emotion unless a scientific breakthrough is involved.

  “Oh, hi Barron,” I say, my voice weak because I thought he was still out in the field with the iguanas. I had not expected to have this conversation with him so soon. “I have some news—”

  “I know!” he answers, cutting me off. “Wes just told me! I can’t believe it. But you’re here saying you have news, so it must be true, right?”

  I shake my head in confusion. How could Wes tell him I was fired? Did he text Barron from the plane? And even if he did, why would Barron be so excited about it?

  That’s when Wes, the boy in question, runs out of the bungalow, followed by a huge man. This isn’t the normal sized plain clothes security guy who’d been assigned to Wes all week, but a huge, blunt-nosed man in a black tailored suit. He’s even bigger and maybe even meaner than Javon, whose face and name I still remember in frightening detail. As Wes comes running toward me with his arms open wide, the man glances over his shoulder toward the inside of my former home. And then…

  Holt Calson saunters into view. He leans casually against the doorframe of the little bungalow that used to belong to me.

  “You’re going to be my nanny!” Wes cries happily, throwing his arms around my waist.

  While at the same time Barron yells, “And I’m going to C.I.T.!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  HOLT

  As far as coups go, this has definitely been one of my best. I hadn’t just given Wes what he wanted, I also obliterated any chance Sylvie had of finding another job beyond the one I wanted her to take.

  Less than four hours after turning down my son’s offer, she has no job prospects, no place to live, and I am betting, no boyfriend now that he’s been forced to fire her. All thanks to Zahir, who had no idea the woman who used and betrayed me had been working in his family’s hotel division for nearly ten years. He didn’t hesitate to do as I asked, though I had been careful not to tell him I needed Sylvie fired from this job so she could take a job with me. That would have brought questions. And probably a few warnings, which is why I won’t be sharing any of the details with Luca, either, when we meet on Wednesday for our monthly climb at the Manhattan Bouldering Gym.

  The point is, it pays to have friends in high places—a lesson Sylvie should have considered before turning down my son’s job offer.

  When Wes announces Sylvie is going to be his nanny, her eyes fly up to meet mine. Her face still reads like a book. I can see the panic in her eyes…the rapid calculations. True, she could empty out her bank account and book a hotel room and buy tickets back to Jamaica where, according to her ex-boyfriend, she worked before he poached her for this hotel. But then she would have to explain to her son why she would rather spend her hard-earned money on two flights back to Jamaica than take the well-paid job I already took the liberty of telling him she accepted.

  I stand in her soon-to-be-former doorway, waiting…

  And a triumphant horn blares inside my chest when I see horrified realization dawn across her face. She gets it—finally understands I have painted her into a corner. One she can’t get out of unless she is willing to sacrifice her son’s dreams in order to do it.

  For a moment, her eyes burn into mine, calling me all kinds of bastard even if she’s still not the type to curse aloud.

  Fine by me. She can call me whatever she wants. Because the thing is, Calsons get what they want, by any means necessary. My son wants her to be his nanny. And the mere sight of her, her failure to acknowledge my presence, the happy little life she carved out for herself after what she did to me—well, now I want revenge.

  And though I still haven’t said a word, I am sure she hears my intentions loud and clear. I am no longer the unstable boy you had wrapped around your finger in New Haven. I am a man now, and as far as I’m concerned, revenge is best served boss.

  Sylvie’s eyes continue to burn for several long moments, her angry brown gaze boring into mine. But in the end…she does exactly what I knew she would. And less than two hours later we are on a plane to Connecticut.

  However, my victory would ring a hell of a lot sweeter if she wasn’t taking things so quietly. We are about four hours into a six-hour flight and she still hasn’t said a word, even though she’s seated directly across from me.

  Nor has she accepted the champagne the flight attendant offered her, or touched the meals Wes and Ender scarfed down before disappearing into the back row of seats with a couple of tablets.

  I work on my laptop for a few minutes, returning emails and approving the pictures Della culled from those the photog sent her. Meanwhile, Sylvie stares out the window looking miserable. But that is not why I am the first to break the extended silence—at least, that’s what I tell myself before I ask, “Is your son’s father going to be a problem?”

  My question finally brings her eyes away from the window. “What’s that now?” she asks, her voice still as soft and melodic as I remember.

  I shift in my seat. “I don’t know the terms of your custody agreement, or if your son’s father is Mexican or Jamaican. But if he’s going to have any issues with his eight-year-old son leaving the country, we should get my lawyers on the case now…”

  Sylvie shifts with the same distressed look she wore when I told her I wanted to fuck her on a cloud. “Barron is ten,” she says after a few uncomfortable tics. “And his father will not be a problem. He has been with me ever since my sister died in childbirth.”

  Her words and Barron’s age finally drops the penny. It also explains why he is so much taller than my already tall son.

  Confirming my thoughts, she says, “Barron’s father is not and will never be in his life.”

  “So, he is your ward,” I say. Which means she hadn’t moved on to another guy right after me. Hadn’t had a son with someone else. Not that it should matter. In fact, I fucking hate the way my heart soars in my chest when I put two and two together.

  Sylvie’s face hardens like I’ve offended her. “Barron is my son,” she says quietly, firmly. “And I will thank you to never refer to him in any other way again.”

  My heart stops soaring with a sudden thud as I am reminded again how loyal she is to those she loves. So long as they aren’t me.

  I clear my throat, hating all the emotions. Hating her. But I manage to keep my tone all business as I reply, “In that case, my assistant will take care of everything as far as registering your son for school goes,” I pause to let that sink in. “You will be expected to take Wes to and from his school. But we don’t live far from CIT. And until my assistant can find a new private school for Wes, you will be no more than a few minutes away if he should need you.”

  “I don’t want to go to another private school!” Wes shouts from the back of the plane. “Just let me stay in public.”

  “Thank you for sharing your opinion with us, Wes,” Sylvie calls over her shoulder. “Now, please come here and try that again but in a more respectful tone.”

  “But—” Wes starts to shout again.

  “You will not like it if you try me with any further shouting across this pl
ane, Wes,” she replies, her voice soft but firm.

  I raise my eyebrows, wondering if she wants my kid to throw a fit on the plane. Like, maybe this is her petty form of revenge.

  But after several seconds of mutinous silence, Wes finally appears in the aisle beside us and asks me in a more subdued tone, “If I like public school, can I just go there?”

  “Uh…” I answer, sounding a lot like the pre-media trained Holt Calson. The truth is, I have never set foot in a public school. I have no idea how they are different from the private schools both Wes and I attended during our childhoods.

  “Sure,” I answer, winging it. “I don’t care as long as you get good grades.”

  “Yes!” Wes says, pumping his fist.

  Then he disappears into the back of the plane, leaving me alone with Sylvie. We stare at each other. Me not wanting to wonder what she’s thinking, but doing it just the same. However, instead of continuing our conversation, Sylvie’s eyes shift back to the airplane window. Like the clouds outside are far more interesting than I am, was, or ever could be.

  Greenwich

  Chapter Fifteen

  HOLT

  “Wow! This house be bigger than a hotel, mon!” Ender exclaims a few hours later when our group walks through the large cherry wood cathedral doors at the front of our waterfront compound in Greenwich.

  He stares open mouthed and wide eyed at the ivory-and-marble foyer, but Sylvie’s expression stays closed. As if she has resigned herself to living in a penal colony rather than a 10,000-square foot Mediterranean-style estate overlooking Indian Harbor.

  And her expression doesn’t change when Wes says, “Dad made Melissa stay in one of the bedrooms upstairs, but I told him to give you guys the guest cottage!”

  Ender, once again proving himself to be much more polite than my son, turns to me and says, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I answer, my eyes pinned on Sylvie. But she doesn’t meet my gaze as she says to Wes, “Yes, thank you. I’m sure we will be very comfortable there.”

  “It’s out back,” Wes says, pointing in the direction of the long hallway lined with modern art that intersects the house. “C’mon, I’ll show you!”

  Who is that kid? I wonder as I watch them go, I’ve never seen Wes so happy or helpful.

  “We forgot our bags,” I hear Ender say.

  “What? Don’t worry, dude. Someone will bring them to the guest cottage,” Wes says impatiently, as if he’s trying to explain normal life to an alien who has no idea how it works.

  I give it 24 hours before Wes grows tired of playing host and starts making unreasonable demands.

  But 24 hours later when I return home from work late Monday night, I find the house empty with a note from Lucynka, our housekeeper, on the refrigerator door.

  “Dinner is in oven. Plenty leftovers since Wes decides to eat with new nanny.”

  Okay…I think.

  My phone vibrates inside my suit pocket. It’s a text message from Wes: “Vee said to tell you I’m staying here tonight.”

  And the rest of the week goes on in the same vein. I come home to an empty house and a text message from my son saying he’s with the nanny and her son. The only differences are the dinners left for me in the oven. That Thursday, Lucynka leaves me a chicken breast and green beans with a small salad on the side. And by the following Thursday, I’ve become used to dinners that can be easily prepared for and eaten by one person.

  Wes does manage to surprise me the following Friday. For the first time in two weeks, I find him waiting for me at the kitchen table when I return from work. I am a few hours earlier than normal in order to beat the especially bad rush hour traffic on I278 E.

  “Hey,” I say when I find him there. “What are you doing here?”

  Wes shrugs. “Vee said I had to eat with you tonight so you wouldn’t feel lonely. I told her you wouldn’t care, but…” Wes shrugs again, this one even more aggrieved than the last.

  I take a seat and tuck into the cheese-and-meat plate Lucynka left out for us.

  Part of me wants to agree with Wes and let him return to the guest cottage since he obviously doesn’t want to be with me. But the other part of me is too curious to let him go.

  “So, Allie tells me you had a pretty good first week of school.” I keep my voice casual, but I cannot remember a time when two weeks of school went by without at least one “Wes Incident” noted in the daily briefings Allie gives me.

  Wes shrugs. “It’s okay. Ender has been helping me with my homework—that’s cool. He’s not great at the English stuff, but he knows how to do all kinds of math…”

  I listen, eyebrow crooked as Wes spends the rest of dinner telling me, “Ender knows this,” or, “Ender said that,” and how Vee let’s him do his homework outside because, “everything’s better outside.”

  “Come, Holt. Everything will taste better outside.”

  I’m suddenly struck by a memory of Sylvie pulling me out to the balcony where she’s set up our dinner on an old blanket she found in one of the closets.

  “Dad? Dad? You okay?”

  I find Wes staring at me with a concerned look—one I suspect he picked up from spending two straight weeks in Sylvie’s company.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  The answer is no. I’m not all right. Even though I should be after ten long years. I should be over her.

  I change the topic to something safer: my plans for the board presentation in October. Wes predictably puts up with about five minutes of me talking about this before he asks if he can go since he’s finished eating and Sylvie said they could go for a swim after dinner.

  I’m not hurt. Truth is, I’ve had more conversation with my son tonight than we’d have in a week. Often, we don’t talk at all. But I feel…something.

  “Yeah, sure…” I answer with a jerky nod. Then I watch in amazement as my son clears his plate and says, “Thanks for dinner, Dad,” before heading toward the kitchen door that leads outside.

  Why does it feel like I am losing something as he walks away?

  And I can’t help but wonder if it will be another two weeks before I see him again…or if Sylvie plans to go the entire time in my employ without speaking to me. Not that she needs to. My assistant deals with most of the childcare communication, and it’s not as if we live in the same house. So, even if Sylvie decides not to talk to me at all, it really doesn’t matter.

  At least, it shouldn’t matter.

  But 30 minutes later, I am at my home office window, scanning the grounds until I find the three of them at our Olympic-sized pool. It’s an elaborate affair surrounded by a columned Greco-Roman railing, and located above the harbor. The school year may have begun, but summer hasn’t let go. Ender sits on a chaise studying a textbook beside the pool while Sylvie and Wes bounce around in the shallow end. It looks like they’re playing a game of Marco Polo. Sylvie’s eyes are closed and Wes dolphins into the water, swimming in the opposite direction whenever she gets too close.

  Sylvie wears her hair in the same style she did when we first met. I remember how she corrected me on the style’s name. Tittering when I told her I liked her halo and saying, “…they are called crown braids,” with a shy dip of her head.

  The memory tugs at my heart, confusing me now as much at it charmed me then. How didn’t I see her for what she really was? A liar who never wanted to be with me.

  Eventually, Ender sets down his book and jumps in, standing next to Wes as they both call out to Sylvie. Soon after, Sylvie surprises them both with a sudden lunge and double grab, and the boys end up laughing so loudly, I can hear them all the way up in my second-floor office.

  Wes looks…happy. In a way I can see but not completely understand. As a child I learned to be wary when my mom wanted to “play” or have an “adventure.” But Sylvie plays in the water for reasons that have nothing to do with a mental illness.

  She’s a good mother, I admit to myself. And she’s 28, within the acceptable ag
e range of eligible women Della lined up for me. Before I can stop myself, an image of Sylvie smiling down at our baby pushes itself into my head.

  No…NO. I move away from the window, deciding it doesn’t matter if Sylvie never speaks to me again. I take a seat behind my desk and begin working on a rough draft of my October presentation to the board. It is possibly the most important presentation of my life since after I present, the board will vote on whether to take the “acting” out of my title two months afterwards.

  Yet another reason I have no business even thinking about doing anything with Sylvie that might result in a baby, or worse, open me up to sexual harassment charges.

  Plus, she’s barely spoken ten words to me since Mexico. I doubt she’ll ever willingly talk to me again, much less let me fuck her. Not that I want to fuck her. I don’t. I just…

  She’s not speaking to you, a mocking voice in my head reminds me like a zap of electricity from the shock therapy they gave Mom near the end of her life—a last ditch effort to save someone who couldn’t be saved.

  But I’m not my mother. Instead of unravelling, I harden my heart and work well into the night on a presentation that, without directly insulting my father, details how under my leadership, Cal-Mart has attracted more middle and upper-class customers and won a few business operations awards, thanks to my generous employee practices.

  I work, refusing to think about the woman who is deftly managing my son while I do so. Which is why I’m shocked as hell when there’s a knock at the door, and a soft, lilting voice says, “Holt, I would like to talk to you. May I come in?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  SYLVIE

  I stand outside the large office doors, waiting for a response. They are yet another set of dark, looming double doors with the same hand-carved square inlays as those at the front of Holt’s giant house. It’s as if he has designed his entire residence to be as intimidating as possible, and it works. I shift from foot to foot, and Holt’s answer is so long in coming that I almost change my mind. In fact, I am thinking of running back to the “guest cottage,” when a deep voice on the other side says, “Come in.”