Page 444 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Mira

"Where are we again?" he drawls.

"We’re in your office, why?"

"I rest my case."

He brushes past me and heads toward his massive desk.

"What do you mean?" I follow him.

"Let’s cut the bullshit. You need this job to pay your rent.

" He slides into his armchair, his back straight.

That soldierly poise of his hints at the strict control with which he lives his life.

I can almost imagine him as a priest, at the pulpit, wearing the robes, standing upright and sermonizing to his congregation.

None of which gives him the right to pass judgement on my life.

"Who told you that?" I jut out my chin. "It can’t be Gio, or any one of my friends, for that matter."

"Does it matter?"

"Did you overhear me talking to them? No, that can’t be. I know I tend to run my mouth, but no way, would I have turned to them for help."

"Why not?" There’s a note of curiosity in his voice, but the expression on his face is bored, like this entire conversation is a chore.

I stiffen. "Does it matter?"

A spark of something lights his eyes, but he extinguishes it quickly. "I didn’t get to be where I am in life without reading body-language. And yours indicated you were desperate at the event yesterday."

"I’m not desperate," I protest.

He stares at me steadily, and I hunch my shoulders. "Maybe, a little. No doubt, you saw me scarfing down the cupcakes at Gio’s wedding yesterday. But they were free, and I hadn’t eaten breakfast yesterday. Also, I ended up having ramen for dinner last night. Not that I'm—"

"Have you had breakfast today?"

I blink. "Why do you care?"

He continues to hold my gaze, and damn, I don’t stand a chance. Those tawny eyes of his bore into me, and I’m sure he can read my mind.

"I ate breakfast," I say in a firm voice. My stomach chooses that moment to rumble. The sound seems to echo in the room, and I flush.

Without breaking my gaze, he picks up his cell phone, presses a key, and holds it to his ear. "Send in lunch for me and Ms. Young." He places his phone down on the table, then points to the chair opposite him. "Sit." The light glistens off the watch on his wrist.

I shake my head. "No, thank you."

"We need to go over your duties."

"Still haven’t said I’m accepting the job."

His chest rises and falls. "I’m paying you ￡10,000 a month."

"What?" I squeak. "Why would you pay me that much?"

"Trust me, you’ll earn every penny." His lips curl.

I scowl. "I’m not going to sleep with you, if that’s what you’re after."

He looks me up and down. "No fear there. You’re not my type."

My jaw drops. "Were you born this rude?"

"No, it's a skill I've perfected over many years."

Wow, okay. "If you’re going to be this obnoxious—"

"I haven’t even started, Ms. Young."

"Mira."

"Excuse me?"

"That’s my name."

"I know what your name is, Mirabelle."

I pick up my jaw off the floor, again. "H-h-h-how d-d-did you…."

"Mirabelle Young, living temporarily in a one-bed room apartment in Hackney. Father is Cyril Young, the CEO of the Young group of hotels. One of the most successful and wealthy families in the world."

My gaze widens. I open my mouth, but he holds up his hand. "Before you ask any predictable questions, I make it my business to know everything about people before I hire them."

"So, when you saw me yesterday at the gathering, you already knew about my background?"

He hesitates. "I had my investigator get me a file on you and—"

"You have a file on me?" I yell.

"I have files on all of my employees. It’s standard HR procedure to do a check before you hire someone. It’s why I didn’t ask you for references."

"It’s an intrusion of privacy, is what it is."

"Not when all your information is in the public domain."

I blink, then realization dawns. "My social media networks."

"Shouldn’t have set your settings to public." He clicks his tongue.

I cross my arms over my chest. "Do you take pleasure in belittling people?"

"I don’t care one way or the other."

I throw up my hands. "What do you care about?"

"That you do the job you're paid to do."

"Don’t you want to know why I’m looking for a job, despite my father being one of the richest in the country?"

"Nope." He makes a popping sound at the end.

"You must also be aware my only experience so far has been working in a preschool."

"Where you also helped with the admin and running the place. In the short months you were there, you not only helped hands-on with taking care of the children, but also streamlined the processes. Too bad the owner didn’t have deeper pockets.

If he’d managed his cash flow wisely, the nursery would exist today. "

Chills run up my arms, and I skim my suddenly sweaty palms down the fabric of my skirt.

I struggled to zip it up this morning, and the jacket is a little too tight at the shoulders.

That’s what happens when you shop at the second-hand outlet.

I can only find my size in the plus-sized brands, which are currently out of my budget, so I knew I’d lucked out when I found a half-way decent-looking ensemble in the thrift store.

Unfortunately, it's one size smaller than what I normally wear. I thought I’d looked professional when I saw my reflection in the mirror.

But with his piercing gaze on me, and that inscrutable expression in his eyes, I feel like I’m back in high-school and being rebuked by the principal.

Though none of them looked anywhere as delicious as the glowering man on the other side of the desk.

"You seem to know everything about me."

"I know enough." He looks me up and down. There’s a peculiar look in his eyes, which he banks again. "Only what’s needed pertaining to your job. In my position, I need to be careful who I allow in my proximity."

"You’ve only taken this job recently, I understand?"

His gaze narrows.

"I heard from our mutual friends—"

“Friends?” he drawls in a tone which indicates he doesn’t have many of them, which, given his attitude so far, is not surprising.

"I meant, the girls who are married to your friends. And I know you’re close to the Seven—"

"What do you know about the Seven?" There’s that hint of lazy curiosity in his voice again, one that signals he finds this entire conversation amusing.

My stomach tightens, but I force myself to relax.

You do need this job. Besides, it’s only going to be for a few months.

That’s as long as my family is going to let me be.

And no way am I borrowing money from my friends or admitting defeat and returning home before that.

This must be a test, his version of an interview. Yes, that’s all it is.

"I know the Seven co-own 7A investments.

They each are on the list of multi-billionaires on the continent.

I know they're rumored to have links to the Mafia, so they know about all the big deals in the country.

I know that six of the seven are married, leaving only one, who is among the most eligible bachelors in the country. And that person is you."

When he doesn’t react, I’m emboldened to add, "I also know your half-brothers aren’t too thrilled that you’ll be taking over."

He seems taken aback by my knowledge.

"I do my research, too." So what if my primary source of information is The Daily Mail and Cosmopolitan? I have my ear to the ground as far as celebrity gossip is concerned, and the Seven used to grace the tabloids, until they found their ladyloves. Except for Edward—though speculation is rife that it won’t be long before he settles down, considering his new position is that of the CEO of Davenport Industries.

As for him not getting on with his half-brothers, that was a calculated guess.

I may not be a cut-throat corporate shark, but even I know when an outsider is given the top position, the ones on the inside tend to be pissed off.

"Why is your surname different from the company you manage?"

"Didn’t your research reveal that?" he drawls.

Heat flushes my cheeks. "My sources aren’t as thorough as yours. All I know is your grandfather is Arthur Davenport, a business legend. I also know that, while he is estranged from your parents, he’s decided to make you the CEO of his group of companies."

He doesn’t seem surprised by the scope of my knowledge. "Did your investigation also reveal that Arthur wants me to get married?"

"He does?" I blink.

He nods. “Question is, do you have what it takes to be my wife?”