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“I’m not sure you will once I tell you how we’re going to do it.”
“What?” The smile fades from my lips as I sit up straighter.
“I called the university. They’re still willing to extend you the offer to teach a grad level class for a semester. The fact is, it makes them look good to perspective students when one of the powerful men in America not only graduated from their institution, but came back to teach a class there… free of charge.” She reaches into her briefcase and pulls out a file, tossing it onto my desk. “That’s the coursework; it starts in four weeks.”
“I’m doing this for free? Of course there’s a fucking string attached.” I reach for the folder and pick it up to read it. “Ethics in Business?” I laugh and close it. “You’ve gotta be shitting me. Of all people to teach that?”
She shrugs. “Trust me, it seemed like a joke to me too, but they insisted they were willing to have you teach it.”
“I’m not a teacher, Lisa.”
“And I’m not a miracle worker, Cyrus. This is gold, handed to us on a silver platter. The bad boy billionaire stops behaving like a twenty-five-year-old trust fund baby and starts teaching ethics at a prestigious institution? Meridian won’t think twice if they know that a school that often outranks the Ivies in academics trusts you enough to teach such subject matter.”
I reach for the folder again and begin flipping through the course information as Lisa stands and gathers her things.
“In the meantime, lay low. I mean it. No parties, no celebrity events, and no young women.” She raises both her brows at me, a deep wrinkle filling in across her forehead like she makes this expression often.
“As you wish.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon and early evening sipping whiskey and hiding away in my office—sulking. By the time I leave and make my way downstairs to my driver, Wes, I’m tipsy.
Professional? Not in the slightest, but all I can focus on is sinking my teeth into a porterhouse and washing it down with a damn fine glass of scotch.
“Evening, Wes.” I toss my coat across the back seat, not bothering to put it on. “Drop me over at The Waterhouse. Craving one of their steaks.”
“Will do, sir.”
I love The Waterhouse because it’s dark and quiet and off the beaten path. I can sit here for hours and not be recognized. I haven’t been by in almost six months actually, so I practically devour my steak at the bar.
“Ready for that scotch?”
“Ready.” I nod to Frank as he takes my plate away and pours me a few fingers of liquor.
“How’s business?” he asks, handing me the tumbler. Frank knows who I am; he’s been the bartender here for the last few years and someone I’ve grown to trust.
“Of all days you should ask.” I shake my head. “Just another day of some morally bankrupt corporation attempting to trample me on their high horse so they can back out of our deal.”
“The Meridian Telecom deal? They want to back out of selling to you?” I’ve vented a few times over the years to Frank about this deal. Typically, I play my cards very close to the vest, but there’s something about Frank that has me talking… Could be the scotch.
“Yup. Something about me being too immoral.”
“Come on”—he leans his hands on the bar—“you’re Cyrus Gates. Surely, you won’t let them get the upper hand.”
That makes me laugh. “Of course not. I’m just biding my time. Trying to find the perfect opportunity to fucking destroy them and then lowball them with an offer they can’t refuse,” I say in jest. The reality is, I could do that, but it’s not my plan. My plan is to get them to realize that putting some bullshit morality clause into a contract is asinine and it won’t change my behavior or stop me from purchasing them.
I bring the glass to my lips, but pause when I hear a huff of annoyance to my left. I turn and look at the woman I previously hadn’t noticed sitting beside me. Her gaze is forward, buried in a book actually. Her auburn hair is pulled over her shoulder opposite of me. Her exposed neck is long and lean. I let my gaze wander down her body for a second, her oversized sweater giving nothing away, but the knee-high boots and short skirt she’s wearing have me curious about what’s underneath. I’m a sucker for long, shapely legs. I absentmindedly clench my jaw at the thought.
Damn, how the hell did I not notice her?
“Something on your mind?”
“Just ironic, I guess.” She continues staring at her book as she responds dismissively.
“Do tell.”
She closes her book, then slowly turns to face me, the dim light of the bar making her look almost angelic. She’s young, young enough that I almost ask if she’s old enough to even be in a bar. Now I feel like a creep for looking at her the way I did only seconds ago.
“Well, it’s ironic that you’re an infamous billionaire, notorious for?—”
