Page 46 of The Mogul: Leonard

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Leonard

“When you told me we were going for a change of scenario, I thought you meant a café or a restaurant,” Roxanne says, peeking out of the window at my mansion.

I help her out of the crappy yellow thing she calls a car and guide her to the front door. She curiously looks around, taking in the raised flowerbed my landscaper insisted on installing and the expensive olive trees. If she thinks I’m the typical spoiled billionaire who throws money into frivolous things, she doesn’t let it show.

“Do you want to discuss something confidential and delicate in a crowded café?” I challenge her.

She shakes her head, her eyes still wide with awe, and follows me into the house, her gaze drawn to the corridor adorned with a breathtaking art gallery.

“I guess you’re right,” she murmurs. “Is that a real Picasso?”

When I turn toward her, I almost laugh at the shocked expression. “If it’s not, I definitely overpaid for a copy.”

She is cute when she opens her mouth once, twice, but nothing comes out. She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “How? Aren’t you worried it will be ruined or stolen?”

“An auction. And no, that room has controlled humidity, temperature, and light. And there is an alarm system that will notify me if a fly goes inside, let alone a human being,” I explain, and she frowns.

“You talk like it’s normal for someone to have a gallery in their own house.” She shakes her head in disbelief.

We resume our walk toward my office. “To be fair, many people I know have at least one in their main residence.”

She scoffs. “Let me guess, some of them have one in their vacation house too?”

“Houses, but yes. That’s the idea.”

“Unbelievable,” she murmurs under her breath.

We have just entered my office and turned on the computer on my desk. As she sits on the leather couch, one leg bent under her butt, with an arm sprawled over the back cushion, I can’t help but feel a bit strange having her here in my home. She appears so comfortable, as if she lives here. A strange feeling is expanding in my chest—a pleasant one as if I’m getting used to having her around. However, this could become very dangerous territory to navigate.

“So, how are we proceeding?” she asks.

“First of all, I need to eat,” I say, going around my desk to reach the door we just came in.

She scrambles to stand up and follow my long strides. “Are you serious? It’s ten in the morning.”

I turn to look at her without stopping. “Do you need a schedule to eat?”

She frowns. “No, but…”

“I reason better on a full stomach,” I explain. The truth is, this problem is obsessing us both and we need a distraction. We are way too deep trying to track down that missing money to be effective in doing it. We need a fresh start.

“So what? Are you calling your personal chef for a snack?” she taunts.

She always does that. Asks me the most absurd thing, like billionaires have the strangest habits in the world. It has become our inside joke.

“It’s Saturday. She’s with her family.”

“You’re not keeping her chained to the pantry. Impressive.”

“Very funny.”

She grins and I can’t stop thinking about how much fun she had in the boat. And then my mind strays toward the red bikini she was wearing, and my blood flows under my belt. Damn! I had to take care of my erection like a fifteen-year-old when I got back that day. I can’t stop thinking about how perfect that body is and how much I wanted to kiss her when her legs wrapped around my middle in the water. I almost gave in to temptation.

I open the fridge to scan what is inside and to hide the lust I can’t contain in her presence. It was the right move to invite her along. We are both obsessed with my problem, and I know she would have stayed inside her bedroom, working her ass off to find a solution. We both needed a break to recharge and sharpen our focus. But since we came back, my energy has been depleted trying not to think about that tiny piece of red fabric that nothing does to cover her curves. Not to mention that I overheard their conversation about her bent over my desk and that was a vivid image I didn’t need.

“Steak and salad?” I ask.

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