Page 291 of Tormented Billionaire Romance Series

“You’ve already called the Times?” I ask Malcolm.

“Not yet, sir,” he says. “I wanted to run a few things by you, first.”

“Could it wait a few minutes?” I ask.

“I can’t make the call until we speak, but yeah,” Malcolm says. “Just let me know when you’ve got a free minute.”

He starts to walk away. “Hold on,” I say.

“Yeah?” Malcolm responds.

“Why can’t you make the call until we talk? Marly just went to call hers,” I say.

“I know,” Malcolm says. “The thing is, you know how Ambrose wanted that exclusive into the acquisition of Middlemarch Tech?”

“With a name like that, no wonder he went into writing,” I muse.

Malcolm nods slowly, saying, “Yeah, anyway, he’s been breathing down my neck about wanting an exclusive, and I don’t think he’s going to do us any more favors until we give him something.”

“We are giving him something,” I tell Malcolm.

“I don’t think a personal interest piece regarding how you’re heading back to water the plants is going to cut it, sir,” he says.

Me, I don’t say anything. I just tilt my head to one side and raise my brow.

“Oh my god,” he says, covering his mouth. “Sir, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant—”

“Swallow your heart back into your chest,” I tell him. “Take a breath.”

His eyes are still about as big as they are wide, but he takes a slow inhale.

“Okay,” I tell him. “Now, what did you have in mind we should give him?” I ask.

“He’s been trying to convince me to work out an interview with you, actually,” Malcolm says. “I don’t know. Maybe we could fly him out here so he can see all the progress we’ve made.”

“Yeah, but the progress isn’t tangible yet,” I tell him. “We’ve worked out permits and turned this hotel into Stingray’s mobile unit, but I don’t think a tour is going to drive home the impression we’ve got everything under control. Call your friend, tell him that I’ll sit down with him for fifteen minutes after I’m back in New York a couple of days.”

“Great, sir,” Malcolm says. “I’ll call him now.”

My cell phone buzzes in my coat pocket, and it’s to my ear before the ringtone has a chance to start. “Scipio,” I say.

There’s no answer.

I look down at the screen. It wasn’t a call; it was a text message. It’s from Grace.

I’ll have to save it for later, though, because the IT guy whose name I don’t think I’ve ever heard is standing in my doorway.

“Excuse me, sir?” he says. “I know you’re busy, but do you have a minute?”

“What do you need?” I ask.

“Well,” he says, “we’ve got the main display up and running the way you wanted, but we’re having some trouble with the phone lines.”

“The phone lines?” I ask. “You’re having trouble with the phone lines, so you come to the CEO about it?”

It’s not that I’m mean. I just never get tired of seeing grown men choke on air.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” he says, “but Sandra told me you’d want to have some input.”

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