Romance: The CEO (2 page)

“I told you already. As much as I wish it wasn’t so, you’re one of my best writers. And you’re single. Pete has a wife and kids.”

“What has being single got to do with it? It’s only a couple of days work. Pete has travelled for a story before.”

“Man! There’s no pulling the wool over your eyes is there,” Hank grunts, a harder frown setting in his face. “Look, the billionaire requested you, okay? End of story.”

“He requested me?” I repeat hazily, wondering how on earth Jackson Windsor even knows of me. But then again I have dragged his name through the gutter a few times...but that should deter him from talking to me, not the opposite!

“That’s a little odd, don’t you think?”

Hank shrugs at the comment. “I don’t know. Is it?”

“Yes, considering the things I’ve said about him in some of my articles.”

“Well, maybe he wants to set the record straight…or seduce you to his way of thinking,” he jibes, giving out a stout laugh.

“Well, I hope you don’t expect me to sleep with him to get the story! Because that’s low, even for you, Hank.”

“Now don’t get cute with me, blue eyes,” he warns, the small amount of wit that was in his tone now completely gone. “Whatever you do in your personal life is up to you. But if that just so happens to include sleeping with reclusive billionaires, then hey, I won’t stop you. Just get the story! I don’t care by what methodology. Ethically or unethically, it’s on your moral compass. But have the transcript of the interview and final draft of the story on my desk by this time next week or go join the rookies in
‘How To’
,” he barks, motioning towards the door with his hand. “Now scoot, you’ve already wasted enough of my time!”

“Prick,” I mutter under my breath as I leave his office, the thick stench of cigar smoke already swirling behind me.

Just typical, Claire. Another successful day of letting Hank walk all over you.
When will you ever get the guts to stand up to that guy?

But hey, at least I got a first class ticket to Canada out of it. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’ve always wanted to go there.
Lake Louise
…
The Rocky Mountains
…a log cabin in the woods by a lake that is as cool to dive under, as it is refreshing…

But Jackson Windsor doesn’t live on a lake.

He lives on the coast.

Damn it
.

When I walk out into the greater office the first thing I see is Sophia waving at me frantically.

Sophia is a petite Spanish girl with warm brown eyes and a cute smile. She also just happens to be my best friend.

“So you’re heading to Canada!” she sings out like a soprano, hurrying up to my side.

“You heard, huh? That was fast,” I remark, throwing her a questioning look.

“Are you kidding? Who do you think convinced that prick in there to send you?”

“Even after Jackson Windsor requested you, Hank still wanted Pete to go,” Sophia adds.

“Are you serious?” I whir at her, growing even madder at Hank, which I didn’t think was possible at this point. “I hate him, Sophia! He scrapped my article on the torture camp in the Marange diamond fields. You know how much work and research I put into that.”

“Oh, Claire,” she says soothingly, rubbing my back. “Look at it this way. If you can get Jackson Windsor to admit the truth behind why he closed down his mines, you’ll get more than just a torture camp. It’s a can of worms, honey. You just need to lift the lid on it. Jackson Windsor is a cash cow.”

“Oh God, you sound like Hank!” I joke. “Where’s that lovely little Spaniard gone?”

“Ouch, comparing me to Hank actually hurt a little,” she brays jokily before, steering me into the staff lunchroom on our immediate left. “So, do you need a lift to the airport tomorrow?”

“No, I’ll catch a cab. I’d rather Hank pay for the petrol,” I say with a wide grin that even
The Joker
would be proud of. “He did say it was all expenses paid as long as I keep the receipts.”

“Milking it for all its worth, huh?”

“Of course. Unlike you,” I tease, jabbing her playfully with my elbow. “You’re way too nice to ever financially take advantage of your boss.”

She gives me a light pinch on the arm and grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the lunchroom table.

“Whatever,” she sighs, a smirk escaping her lips just before she bounces back out towards the office.

“Oh,” she calls back, “And make sure you don’t fall in love. He’s devastatingly handsome, you know? And has a wicked reputation. There isn’t an actress or model he hasn’t been able to woo.”

“Not a chance,” I shout assertively. “I’m into artsy guys, not arrogant billionaire businessmen who are notorious for aiding in the trafficking of blood diamonds.”

But Sophia doesn’t look convinced. “
Allegedly
notorious,” she warns. “And remember that famous saying, honey, ‘
don’t judge a book by its cover
.’ You never know what’s written in its pages.”

After she slinks away I can’t help but chuckle over the image of Hank with big pink ears and a fat snout. I turn back around to the coffee machine on the countertop, eager for my first hit of caffeine for the day. As I tamper off the coffee I think back to what Sophia said about falling for Jackson Windsor.
As if that could ever happen to you, Claire,
I scoff in my head.
He’s like a suit without a soul, the same kind of wolf mentality that they breed them down on Wall Street. And he’s the underlying nemesis in several of my articles related to unlawful diamond mining in Zimbabwe. The two of us together would be like Lois Lane ending up with Lex Luthor instead of Superman.

It’s completely out of the realms of possibility.

The view outside the slick, black rented BMW’s window is beyond spectacular.

In fact, every part of Vancouver Island so far has been sweepingly beautiful.

Much of it is protected parkland that is studded with pockets of old growth firs and cedar forests, as well as rare natural groves of Garry Oak. I read that this southern part of the island, not too far from the capital of Victoria yet remote enough so that I haven’t seen a single house or car pass me in the last hour, is a nature lover’s paradise, with pristine hiking trails, unique pebble beaches and plenty of marshes for bird watching.

“Not that I’ll get to explore any of it!” I natter behind the wheel, speaking only to the silence of the car.

I check the map Hank had given me in the yellow envelope, the precise location of Jackson Windsor’s mansion represented as a large red dot right on the coastline, about thirty miles from the nearest town of Metchosin.

Although it shouldn’t be too much further now, I’m dreading the arrival.

Alone in a remote location with a tall, strong man who I have severely criticized to the public and accused of enforcing slave labor in his diamond mines.

What part of that sentence seems like a wise idea?

After another few miles of curving back roads lined with Blackberry bushes, and with the late summer sun slowly sinking on the horizon, I finally spot the grand waterfront estate sitting high on the cliff’s edge.

“Oh,” I whisper as I drive through the property’s tall wrought iron gates. “This place is huge…”

When I finally come to a stop out front, I squint up in sheer wonderment at the glowing mansion.

Its overall design is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, distinctly Canadian but abstractly so, with small varying square and rectangular windows scattered across its entire length.

From the outside their positioning seems strange, but the true purpose of the windows is probably for lead light, which will have a greater impact once I’m inside and looking out.

The roof is unusually straight too, except for a sharp peak like a witch’s hat pared on the far right.

Just on the architecture alone the value of the property must be at least ten million.

But then again for a billionaire I suppose that’s rather cheap.

“The size of this place has to be at least 10,000 square feet,” I say, stepping nervously out of the BMW.

But just as I do a great thrust of westerly wind threatens to knock me back in again, the car door swaying rebelliously in my hands.

It’s like I have managed to arrive in the middle of a gale force windstorm.

When I finally manage to shut the door, I make my way towards the swirled white marble porch that marks the mansion’s entrance.

I knock twice on the solid oak front door, my knuckles reddening under the impact with a few shoots of pain before I notice the doorbell shaped like a leaf on my lower left.

But even after pressing that several times there is still no answer.

What the hell could he be doing in there?

I contemplate getting back in the car and checking in early at the hotel in Metchosin Hank had booked me in for the night, but the thought of delaying the interview until tomorrow and potentially having to reschedule my flight back to New York for Sunday turns me off instantly.

I decide to try my luck around the side, taking care not to damage the intricate landscaped garden of pebbles and strange plants that look like cacti, until a long bay window extending from the second story down to the ground floor comes into view.

Through it I see a grand, chic black dining table and numerous large paintings hanging on the walls, the faint outline of an extravagant open planned kitchen and stunning lounge room further into the house.

Wow.

So this is how the rich and powerful live in seclusion huh?

It’s nice.

Very nice.

If only the rest of us could be so lucky!

I continue on towards the rear of the mansion until the obstacle of a river meets me.

Well what appears to be a river, only it’s contoured like a manmade canal and runs through the center of the entire house.

Typical.

Even billionaires can confine Mother Nature to their demands.

Heading back around to the front I try the door again, but still no answer.

Finally, I figure I’ll just try the handle…

And it opens.

Obviously, Jackson Windsor doesn’t care much about security.

But then again, look where I am.

How many people even know this place exists, let alone would be bothered to drive all the way out here to rob it?

It’s like a hidden sanctuary, gracefully blending with over 7,000 square feet of rugged coastline, which I’m also assuming is the reason he chose to live here.

As I push open the heavy Oak door and enter the mansion, another flurry of wind blows up, a myriad of leaves and twigs flying past me to litter the foyer.

“Shit!” I cuss loudly, pushing the entire force of my body against the door until it eventually obeys and slams shut.

That’s some gnarly wind out there.

If I didn’t know any better, and judging by the dark clouds rolling in, I’d guess a storm is about to hit. Even a city girl like me can take a guess at that.

Which is about the last thing I need right now.

I don’t bode well with storms.

In fact, I’m terrified of them.

I hate thunder.

I hate strong winds.

And I hate dark clouds.

When a storm hits in the city I usually spend the day in bed, hiding away from the terror. But out here there is nowhere to hide…

Come on, Claire, keep those legs steady now. Just find the billionaire and get this interview over and done with.

Fast.

“I better not end up being stuck in this place for the night,” I murmur out loud, momentarily forgetting that I’m the one who isn’t supposed to be in here.

“The mansion really isn’t all that bad,” the voice reverberates out of nowhere, a deep and gravelly tone commanding my attention.

Damn.

My heart stops…

Slowly I turn around to see the tall, brooding figure of Jackson Windsor barely a meter away.

He looks exactly like he does in photographs: dark hair, magnetically russet eyes, a perfectly chiseled jawline and conceited smirk.

Damn.

Even though he has scared me silly, he looks seductively sexy.

And he also looks proud to have caught me off guard.

“You scared me!” I practically shout at him, my pulse going into overdrive.

“My apologies,” he says plainly, with no change in his expression. “You must be Claire Hudson…my number one fan?”

Ha.

He’s witty.

Well that’s something at least.

“Yes, I’m Claire,” I reply cagily, extending out a hand.

He shakes it firmly, his rough hand engulfing mine. “Jackson Windsor.”

“I’m sorry for just letting myself in, Mr. Windsor. I tried knocking several times…I guess you didn’t hear me?”

“Ah, my apologies again,” he says on the brink of a frown. “I was taking a walk along the cliffs, but do come in. And please call me Jackson.”

I give a meek smile and follow him out of the foyer into the main living space.

Now that I’m inside, the lead light coming through the windows is as bedazzling as I thought it would be, a flood of sun-drenched ambience that any normal house owner would need to spend tens of thousands of dollars trying to achieve and yet could still never get it quite as perfect as this.

It’s like the architect built the mansion to blend in with nature,
“bringing the outside in”
as the saying goes.

I can also see the paintings much more vividly now, each canvas as complex as the one before it.

I can’t recall ever seeing a series of images that were so fascinating, the swirling tones of color all encompassing.

Even the paintings in the
Louvre
didn’t grab me as much as these do.

It is obvious by the brush strokes that they are all by the same artist, a cursive white signature in the lower right hand corner of each one that I can’t quite make out.

As I continue to scour the walls, my eyes fall on one painting much more harrowing than the others—a silhouette of a suited businessman carrying a briefcase, but with his heart exploding out in shards across the canvas.

But the shards are actually people, floating black figures in tribal outfits with blood dripping from their broken bodies. It’s beautifully violent.

“This artwork is phenomenal,” I utter thoughtfully, daring to look at him again.

His hypnotic gaze seems to be questioning my comment, a cold curiosity to it that leaves me both intrigued and highly tentative around him.

“A compliment from the ruthless journalist,” he balks, offering a closed smile. “Now there’s something I wasn’t expecting.”

A compliment?

Wait; surely he’s not inferring that he’s the artist…is he?

“You painted all these?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow.

Never in a million years would I have thought a billionaire like him could produce something so… melancholically moving.

“I did. Painting is how I spend most of my days now. It’s liberating. We all need a cure for the things that woe us. This is mine.”

A cure for the things that woe us?

What he could he possibly need a cure for?

He’s a billionaire who ha the world at his feet and all before the age of thirty.

Even now that he’s a recluse he still has everything that money can buy.

But hey, there’s an interesting element for the story, Claire. Not only does this wicked billionaire have a dark artistic side, but also the traces of a conscience. Go figure.

As I go to probe him about the symbolism in his paintings, predominantly focusing on his portrait of the businessman, a sound like a raging squall suddenly rings out, screeching like a banshee in the rafters’ overhead.

“I hope you’re accustomed to bad weather, Claire,” Jackson says offhandedly, whipping his head towards the roof. “This hurricane is going to be quite remarkable.”

“Hurricane?” I waver, unable to hide the panic in my voice.

I feel my palms getting sweaty, my heart already skipping a few beats as my throat becomes drier.

It’s worse than I thought.

Why did it have to be a hurricane on today of all days?

A simple storm I could have handled…

“Yes. They’re very rare for the area, but the coastguard radioed me earlier. It’s definitely on its way. Looks like you’ll have to stay here tonight.”

Stay here tonight?

With him?

Is this dark, scary mansion.

Oh shit.

This is bad.

The man who I consider to be partly responsible for turning a blind eye to the Marange torture camp where people are whipped, beaten bloody and even die?

He has to be joking… doesn’t he?

“I could just come back tomorrow? Michosin is only a thirty-minute drive away, right? I’m sure the hotel there—”

“With all due respect, Claire,” he interjects. “You won’t make it to Michosin. The storm has already begun. It would be suicide to drive out in it.”

The look of concern on his face seems almost genuine.

So far he’s not exactly fitting the profile I’ve built up of him over the last two years.

“This hurricane,” I stammer, “How bad are we talking? Like wind speeds of 65-70 miles per hour?” 

“No. More like 90. People die in storms like this, Claire.”

His statement cuts straight into my heart.

Deep into my heart.

I don’t need to be reminded of that people die in storms.

I lost my older brother Troy to a hurricane when I was fifteen.

He and two of his buddies had been fishing off the coast of California when it blustered up, shifting way of course from where the bureau of meteorology had predicted it to be and drowning all three of them.

It was a freak event, like the hand of God.

I spent weeks crying into my pillow, unable to comprehend that my brother was gone.

Troy was my protector – my guardian.

He always had my back.

I still miss him every day, and I still pray for him every night.

Just the thought of a hurricane brings a tear to my eye.

Since that day I’ve always had a strong aversion to storms, seething uneasily each time I hear about one on the news.

I remember watching the footage of Hurricane Katrina and the destruction it caused, claiming 1,833 lives…

May they rest in peace.

“Claire?” I suddenly hear Jackson ask, his eyes hinting concern.

“What did you say?” I reply distantly, trying to push the thoughts of Troy and the hurricane away.

“Are you alright? Just before when I was talking about the guest house, you didn’t seem to hear me.”

“Oh…sorry. I got lost in my thoughts for a minute there. Um, what about the guesthouse?”

“It’s been made up for you. You’re welcome to stay there tonight. Although, you do have to cross the outside bridge to get to it, which I wouldn’t recommend once the hurricane is in its peak.”

“The outside bridge?”

“Yes, did you notice the river running through the middle of the mansion?”

“Indeed I did,” I say derisively. “It’s quite a distinct feature.”

“Well, the canal is actually the Canyon River itself. There’s an air bridge that connects the main house from the guest one as both were built on opposite sides of the river. So you can take your pick.”

“Oh…the guesthouse should be fine,” I tell him uneasily, but then secretly wish he hadn’t given me the choice.

My pride says
no way
to sleeping anywhere near him tonight.

But the humbler side of me, and probably also the wiser side, says I’d be crazy to ride out the storm alone.

I really should’ve opted to stay in the main house with him.

Good job, Claire. You’ve proven yourself to be a sagacious decision maker yet again…

“As you wish,” Jackson states indifferently, gesturing with his arm to a wide staircase on our far right. “I’ll show you to your lodgings then.”

I follow him slowly up to the second story and down a long corridor filled with antique furniture and more paintings.

I can already feel the fear flushing through me again, images of Troy treading water in a raging sea searing through my mind.

When a tree branch knocks against a window we’re passing and almost shatters it, I jump and instinctively latch onto Jackson’s arm, trying not to quiver.

Get a hold of yourself, Claire. This place is built like Fort Knox. Just try and relax.

“Wow. You sure don’t like storms, huh?” Jackson jests, peering down at me.

I feel my cheeks redden under his solitary gaze. “No. It’s, ah, a…childhood fear I never quite got over,” I stutter awkwardly before letting go of his arm and stepping back away.

I consider telling him about Troy, but the less personal information we share about each other the better.

I’m not here to make friends and bond with the guy.

I’m here for the story.

Pure and simple.

When he merely sniggers and continues down the corridor, I scold myself for even agreeing to come to this god-forsaken mansion in the first place.

“This better be one hell of a scoop,” I scowl out of earshot from Jackson, and make a vow to myself that hurricane or no hurricane, I will get the truth about the mines out of him.