Resisting the Bossy Billionaire
highlight_author
Michelle Smart
highlight_reads
16,2K
highlight_chapters
13
A forced proximity, annoyance-to-lovers, billionaire boss, there was only one bed… romance by Michelle Smart. Snowed in with her boss… and their forbidden desire! Executive assistant Victoria Cusack is done with demanding billionaire Marcello Guardiola. After a predawn summons to his Manhattan apartment, she quits — only to get trapped by a snowstorm! But stranded with the man who's no longer her boss, it's easy to forget he was once off-limits… Marcello has always prioritized his career — especially since a devastating loss — and he demands the same of Victoria. Unaccustomed to hearing "no," he vows to charm her back to work. But their scorching chemistry leads to a very different kind of snowbound seduction…
CHAPTER ONE
‘THE IMPERIAL MARCH’ pierced Victoria Cusack’s consciousness.
Muttering a curse, she rolled over and flapped her hand on her bedside table, fingers groping for her phone.
Accepting the call, she stuck the phone to her ear and peered through bleary eyes at her bedside alarm clock. It was five a.m.
‘What’s wrong?’ she mumbled as she pulled her lovely warm duvet back up to her chin. It had better be an emergency. Nothing less than broken limbs would count.
‘Patrick and Christina are ill.’
She blinked the sleep away. ‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘A virus. They have to isolate and I can’t work the coffee machine.’
She groaned. Her boss lived in a loft apartment in one of Manhattan’s most exclusive buildings overlooking Central Park. She had no idea why he bothered paying the twenty-four-hour concierge service fees seeing as he never used it. ‘I’ll get coffee delivered to you.’
‘No, I need you to come and make it for me.’
She gritted her teeth tightly before relaxing her mouth into an irritated sigh. ‘It’s Sunday.’
‘You can still take the rest of the day off if you like.’
‘How kind.’
Sarcasm was wasted on Marcello Guardiola. ‘I’ll add a bonus to your salary.’
Victoria didn’t want a bonus. She wanted the lie-in she’d been looking forward to.
Friends and family back home in Ireland thought her job was glamorous? Ha!
‘I’ll throw some clothes on and come over.’
‘I’ve woken you up?’
She rolled her eyes and pulled a face. ‘Yes, Marcello, you’ve woken me up.’
She didn’t expect an apology and none was forthcoming. ‘More hours of the day to enjoy. See you in ten.’
The line went dead before she could correct him and say she’d be there in twenty minutes, not ten.
Muttering under her breath, she threw her thick duvet off then immediately pulled it back over herself. Good heavens, it was freezing.
Only by imagining personally maiming Marcello could she coax her protesting body out of bed and her feet onto the frigid floor. Storm Brigit was due to hit the East Coast that day, and a quick peek out of her curtains proved her suspicions that the expected snow had already started to fall.
A quick brush of her hair, a longer brush of her teeth and then, shivering, she stripped off her flannelette pyjamas and dressed in thick tights covered by fitted black jeans, thermal socks, and a black vest top that she covered with a grey cashmere jumper. Black snow boots, black woolly hat, thick knitted black scarf and then her padded, faux-fur-lined khaki winter coat and leather gloves all donned, phone shoved in coat pocket, and she was ready to go.
Down three flights of stairs and she stepped out into a snow-blanketed Manhattan. The sun hadn’t yet risen but everything from the sky to the ground was white. It would have been the most magical of sights if the wind hadn’t whipped the thickly falling snowflakes straight into her face.
Cursing her demanding boss, Victoria tightened her coat’s hood, hunched over, and set off on the three-block walk to Marcello’s. Hopefully a cab would pass any moment for her to hail.
It felt strange walking the streets virtually alone. New York was the city that never slept but this early morning, there was hardly any traffic on the roads and even fewer pedestrians. If she hadn’t been a lady on a mission to get to her boss’s apartment as quickly as possible, make his blasted coffee, and then get back to her own apartment before the storm really took hold, she’d be creeped out at the vulnerable state she, a young woman walking the streets with hardly anyone about, was in. At least there was plenty of light, and she took comfort too that any predators were likely to get one blast of the wind chill and slam their front door on it.
One block to go and a gust of wind nearly knocked her off her feet. The snow was now coming so thick and fast she could hardly see more than a few feet in front of her. Not that she could really see with the flakes all making a beeline for the exposed parts of her face.
To cheer herself up and make the final block bearable, she imagined maiming Marcello again. Nothing that would incapacitate him, she wasn’t evil, just a minor breakage of, say, both his hands, a minor injury that would prevent him using his phone. And while she was at it, maybe a nice dose of laryngitis for him too, so he’d be prevented from speaking until she’d caught up with all the sleep eighteen months working as his executive assistant had deprived her of.
By the time she reached the towering art deco building, Victoria could no longer feel her nose, toes or the tips of her fingers. She had a dreadful feeling the overenthusiastic forecasters predicting the storm of the century were going to be proved right. She should have known it would be so when they’d named the storm Brigit. Her grandmother was called Brigit and she was the most cantankerous woman to grace God’s earth.
When the rest of Victoria’s family had reacted with stunned silence at her getting into Columbia in New York to study business, Grandma Brigit’s immediate response had been to predict that Victoria would ‘get shot because they all have guns there’, and then demanded to know what was wrong with Ireland’s universities. When the rest of Victoria’s family had reacted with the same stunned silence at her being personally headhunted by a billionaire Italian businessman and investor, whose penchant for glamorous girlfriends saw him written about in the press’s gossip columns with the same frequency as the business pages, Grandma Brigit’s sharp nose had risen. ‘Just you wait, girl,’ she’d warned. ‘He’ll have you running rings for him. You’ll be nothing but a glorified dogsbody.’
Victoria frequently thought that Grandma Brigit hadn’t been wrong.
Still, for all Grandma Brigit’s cantankerousness, she was the only member of Victoria’s family who’d not been surprised at either Columbia or the headhunting, mainly because she was the only family member for whom Victoria wasn’t a blurred face in the background.
Someone had gritted the building’s main entry steps, and when she entered the lobby, its warmth was so welcome that she took a moment to savour it.
The on-duty concierge, who had a slightly frazzled demeanour that early morning, called Marcello’s private elevator down while Victoria stamped snow off her boots. Inside the elevator, she pulled her gloves off and used her thumbprint to get it moving. No thumbprint or passcode, no entry into Marcello’s private domain. The passcode was changed daily. Christina and Patrick, the currently incapacitated live-in staff, were the only people other than Victoria to have unquestioning access to the Manhattan apartment. Victoria was the only one to have unquestioning access to all Marcello’s homes. Even his girlfriends had to make do with the ever-changing passcodes.
She remembered her pride when her thumbprint had been taken. The novelty had worn off by the end of the first month, when he’d woken her to request she arrange the immediate delivery of a crate of champagne. Not just arrange the delivery but supervise its unloading in the apartment. It had been one a.m. Delivery unloaded, she’d politely declined his offer to join the raucous party he’d been hosting. Five hours after she’d left his apartment, she’d arrived at the Guardiola Group’s offices and found Marcello at his desk, looking as fresh as a daisy and in his usual upbeat, positive mood.
She stepped out of the elevator leaving a puddle of melted snow on its carpet.
It came as no surprise to find Marcello waiting for her in his reception room—he’d probably watched her through the elevator’s security camera—or that he greeted her with, ‘Did you get lost?’ The only surprise was the stubble on his face. It was rare to see her immaculately groomed boss anything less than immaculately groomed. Sunday morning and he was half dressed for the office. All he needed was to shave, don his tie, waistcoat and suit jacket and he’d be good to step into any board meeting.
She arched an unimpressed eyebrow. ‘Have you seen the weather?’
His expression was that of someone who didn’t know what weather was. ‘I have been waiting for you.’
‘Well, I’m here now. I’ll hang this lot up and then get your coffee made.’
‘I need food too.’
Of course he did. Christina or Patrick usually fixed whatever he wanted for breakfast or arranged delivery. In the office, it was Victoria’s job to ensure he never went hungry.
‘What do you want?’
‘Bagels.’
Wet clothes hung in the drying room by the reception, phone secure in the back pocket of her jeans, Victoria entered the vast loft space Marcello considered his home. Of all his properties, this was her favourite. It was just so quirky and interesting.
The main central room was the huge rectangular open-plan living space he hosted his sought-after parties in. Its exposed red brick was cut through with floor-to-ceiling leaded windows that let in an abundance of light and gave a panoramic view of Central Park. High ceilings accommodated galleried overhangs at each end. The overhang above the bottom end was the dining area used for dinner parties, a door off it leading to store rooms and the staff quarters where Christina and Patrick lived. The overhang above the other end was Marcello’s home office. A door off the office led to the bedrooms, including his own, the only room Victoria didn’t like going into. It wasn’t that he’d ever made her feel unsafe or anything—on the contrary, she often got the impression he assumed she was an artificially constructed robot dressed in a woman’s skin rather than an actual woman—it was more the feelings evoked when entering his most private domain, the strange queasiness at catching sight of the bed he slept in.
Long used to the magnificence of this most breathtaking bachelor pad, Victoria was too busy ordering bagels via the app of his preferred deli to pay it the slightest bit of attention. At the door under the dining room overhang, she turned her head and found her boss perched on the L-shaped sofa, dark brown leather like the rest of the plentiful seating, now engrossed in his phone.
‘I’ll show you how to fix the coffee in case Christina and Patrick are laid up for any length of time.’
He didn’t look up from his phone. ‘I am sure they will be better by tomorrow. Dr Jeffers said sleep is the best medicine for them.’
‘You’ve had your doctor out?’
‘He left just before I called you—he didn’t know how to work the coffee machine.’
Only Marcello would have the nerve to call his private doctor out in the middle of the night and then expect him to prepare a pot of coffee for him.
Thawing slightly now she knew he’d had the decency to get medical attention for his two most devoted staff, she nonetheless knew to stand her ground. ‘There’s no guarantee they’ll be better by tomorrow.’ Manhattan, indeed the whole of New York, was currently plagued by a myriad of debilitating viruses. Marcello, though, was one of those infuriating people who never got ill and had little patience for those who did, expecting instantaneous recoveries from the inconveniently afflicted. ‘Let me show you how to fix it for yourself in case you need it tomorrow.’
‘I will call you if it becomes necessary.’
‘It won’t be necessary to call me if you learn to do it yourself.’ Just as it wouldn’t be necessary for him to call her when he fancied a late-night delivery of food if he’d bother installing the apps he’d insisted she install on her phone for the express purpose of ordering delicious goods for him in the hours he thought it unreasonable to wake his live-in staff.
It was the edge in Victoria’s voice that made Marcello look up. Seeing the steel in her eyes, he gave a dramatic sigh. His executive assistant was superb at her job but there were times when she could be a little irritable. He forgave her those touchy episodes only because he didn’t want to have to sack her. It wasn’t the bother of finding a replacement that was at issue—Manhattan’s streets were awash with highly efficient, highly qualified executive assistants—but the bother of having to train someone new. Besides, he liked Victoria’s Irish accent. It was one of the reasons he’d poached her after his last assistant selfishly decided not to return after her maternity leave.
So, rather than point out that Victoria was paid generously in money and perks that included her own apartment to be on call whenever he needed her, he decided to humour her. After all, it was Sunday. ‘Okay, show me how to fix the coffee.’
Marcello’s kitchen was a room he only entered if looking for his staff. This was Christina and Patrick’s domain, and the domain of the executive chefs he hired...well, who his staff hired on his behalf...when he was playing host. One of the many great things about New York was the abundance of staff for hire. For the right price, they would make themselves available whenever he needed, which meant he only needed two staff living in. Of course, Christina and Patrick hired regular workers to assist with the day-to-day chores but those were generally employed during office hours so he could enjoy his home undisturbed.
His specially imported precious coffee beans were kept in the fridge. It was the one thing he insisted on, a habit picked up from his childhood and his father’s insistence that coffee beans remained fresher if kept refrigerated.
His own fridge was a huge triple American one that his mother had gaped in amazement at the first time she’d seen it. From it, Victoria removed the container of beans and carried them over to the coffee pot and placed them on the stainless-steel surface beside it.
Deciding to be a good boy, Marcello stood beside her and pretended to pay attention.
‘Fill it with cold water up to the line,’ she instructed as she ran water into the pot. She was turning the tap off when her phone buzzed.
Sliding her hand into her back pocket, she read the message whilst carrying the pot back to the machine.
The short puff of air she expelled told him she’d just received unwelcome news.
She looked at him. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, he noted. Not that she normally wore much of it but the little she did wear made its absence more noticeable now that he was looking at her face. She hadn’t styled her dark red hair into the tidy ponytail she normally wore either. It was much longer than he’d thought, falling halfway down her back.
‘The deli can’t deliver.’
Assuming she was joking, he laughed.
Not smiling, she held her phone up so he could read the message for himself.
‘Staff shortage due to inclement weather? What does that mean?’
‘It means you should look out of a window.’
‘I know what it means but what I want to know is why it should affect my bagel delivery. I am on the same block. Message back and tell them to get someone to walk it over.’
An eyebrow a browner shade than her hair arched. ‘It says, quite clearly, that they don’t have the staff.’
‘Then call the concierge.’
A sharp rise and fall of her shoulders and then she did as he asked whilst simultaneously adding coffee beans to the machine. It was a short conversation.
‘The on-duty concierge is waiting for more staff to arrive,’ she told him. ‘They should be in a position to send someone out for you within the hour.’
That long? Marcello wanted his bagel now, not in an hour. What was wrong with the world that a bit of snow should cause such inconvenience?
‘The coffee is prepared, it just needs to drip through,’ she added. ‘When the red light turns green, it will be ready to pour.’
‘Great, then you can go and get me a bagel.’
The steel from earlier returned to her eyes. ‘No, Marcello, now I go home.’
‘But I am hungry. It will take you five minutes.’
‘Ten in this weather. It’s my day off and I’ve got plans.’
‘If the weather is as bad as you keep whining about, your plans will have been cancelled.’
Her eyes widened. After a beat, she said, ‘Whining?’
‘Winter in Manhattan means bad weather,’ he explained. ‘You need to toughen up.’
While he waited patiently—and people thought he didn’t have patience? Such a misconception!—for her to display some remorse and do as he’d requested, Victoria’s now narrowed eyes did not leave his face. It was a long moment before he realised that mutiny rather than remorse had settled in them, a mutiny carried through to the lifting of her chin and the sucking in of her cheeks. ‘I tell you what, why don’t you toughen up? You’re not an invalid. You’ve got a pair of fully functioning legs—if the weather out there’s as tropical as you seem to think it is, then go and get your own damned bagel. I’m going home.’
To his astonishment, Victoria finished her tempered outburst by striding across the kitchen, her long red hair swishing behind her.
Incredulous, he took a few beats to realise she was being serious.
‘Do I have to remind you the home you refer to comes courtesy of your job for me?’ he called out.
‘A job that this is my first day off from in eighteen days,’ she retorted without looking back.
He strode after her. ‘You think I take days off?’
She stepped through the door. ‘I am your employee. I have a contract that affords me rights.’
The door almost closed in his face. Almost as put out at her failure to hold it open for him as he was by this bolshy attitude, which, even by Victoria’s standards, went beyond minor insubordination, Marcello decided it was time to remind her who the actual boss was and of her obligations to him.
‘You cannot say you were not warned of what the job entailed when you agreed to take it,’ he said when he caught up with her in the living room. She was already at the door that would take her through to the reception room. ‘It is why you are given such a handsome salary and generous perks.’
Instead of going through the door, she came to a stop and turned back round, folding her arms across her breasts. ‘Quite honestly, Marcello, the way I’m feeling right now, I’d give the whole lot up for one lie-in. One lousy lie-in. That’s all I wanted but you couldn’t even afford me that, could you? I tell you what, stuff your handsome salary and generous perks—I quit.’
Too astounded to do anything but laugh, he shook his head. ‘Now you are being...’
But she’d already disappeared into the reception room, again not holding the door for him. This one being a spring-loaded, reinforced safety door, he came within an inch of having his nose broken by it slamming on him.
His patience close to being fully evaporated, he pushed the door open and loudly said, ‘You have to give three months’ notice.’
She emerged from the drying room with her outdoor clothing bundled in her arms.
Poker-faced, she eyeballed him as she pressed her thumb to the pad that summoned the elevator. ‘Consider this my notice.’
‘Are you actively trying to put me off providing you a reference?’
She held her palm up beside her face and gave it a little wave. ‘Is this the face of concern?’
The elevator arrived.
‘If you leave now, I will sue you for breach of contract,’ he threatened.
Still not removing her gaze from his, she gave a defiant smile and stepped backwards into the elevator.
‘I mean it, Victoria. I will sue you.’
Still smiling, she wound her scarf around her neck then, the doors closing, waved at him, this time in farewell. ‘Ciao, amigo.’
He wedged his foot in before the doors could fully close and slipped into the elevator with her. ‘Amigo is Spanish.’
‘I know.’
‘You can’t quit over a bagel.’
She punched the button to get the elevator moving. ‘I just did.’
‘It is not valid until it is in writing.’
‘I’ll email HR as soon as I get home. Oh, and if you sue me, I’ll countersue.’
‘You have no grounds and you could not afford it.’
She rammed her woolly hat on her head, covering her ears. ‘I think you’ll find I can. My handsome salary and generous perks mean I’ve built quite the nest egg.’
‘Then you do not want to lose it.’
‘If I lose it, I go home and start again.’
He laughed. ‘Home to Ireland? You love living in Manhattan. You would miss the nightlife.’
‘My last night out was a date at the theatre. I made sure my boss knew I was going in the hope he’d leave me in peace for one night, and he still thought it acceptable to call me during the performance demanding I return to the office and help him find his Montblanc pen.’
The elevator had reached the ground floor.
Victoria walked out of it putting her coat on.
‘The pen was a gift from my father and it was a request, not a demand,’ Marcello defended himself as he kept step with her through the empty lobby.
‘A request phrased as a demand.’
‘You could have said no.’ Ignoring the unimpressed face she threw at him, he added, ‘You never did tell me who that date was with.’
‘Someone who wasn’t happy with me cutting and running on them for the sake of a pen.’
‘But you are good at finding things.’
They’d reached the door that exited onto the street.
‘And you’re good at losing them.’ Her hand reached for the door. ‘Ciao, Marcello.’
‘Come on, Victoria, be reasona—’
A loud bang from outside made them both jump, and cut away Marcello’s argument from his tongue.
‘What the hell was that?’ he muttered, darting to the nearest window.
The gentle fluttering of snow he’d risen to at his usual four a.m. had turned into a blizzard. He had to peer hard to make out the two cars that had collided right outside the entrance door.
