The Billionaire's Board Read online

  BEGUILING A BILLIONAIRE

  BOOK 1

  The Billionaire's Board

  GLITZ & GLAM PRESS

  THE BILLIONAIRE'S BOARD

  Copyright © 2019 BY Lark Anderson

  All rights reserved.

  Glitz & Glam Press

  131 Daniel Webster Hwy

  # 166

  Nashua, NH 03060

  www.larkandersonbooks.com

  [email protected]

  Edited by: Melodie Price

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permission Coordinator,” at the address above.

  eISBN: 978-1-7333579-4-4

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictionally. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  The following story contains mature content and is intended for mature readers.

  Author's Note

  Thank you for reading The Billionaire's Board, a story that started from a writing prompt given to me by a friend!

  That's right—a writing prompt!

  There I was, writing my usual jive, grimdark horror, when my critique partner, Wendy, said, "Hey, have you ever tried writing anything a little less depressing?"

  The answer: NO!

  But, the seed was planted.

  Although I LOVE romance novels, the shift was hard, and I kept trying to insert unnatural catastrophes and Lovecraft-Worthy monsters.

  Luckily, I had firm readers to set me straight, and at long last, I present to you...

  THE BILLIONAIRE'S BOARD is a standalone novel that is a part of the greater series—Beguiling a Billionaire.

  I hope you enjoy!

  Intro...

  Remi gets promoted…

  Oh my GOD! What the heck just happened?

  One minute, I'm presenting to the board, the next—BAM—I'm a director. Appointed by none other than Gabriel Icor himself, or shall I say—Gabriel the 10!

  That’s right, I was promoted by Icor Tech’s billionaire CEO in front of the board and directors alike, and boy oh boy—were they mad. I’m talking raised voices, glaring daggers, spittle slinging grey-hairs that are having none of my shit.

  Except—there was that one guy, Tom—the solid 9. He wasn’t so upset by my promotion. In fact, he seemed rather ecstatic. If it weren’t for him, I would have been laughed right out of that boardroom.

  Gosh, promoted by a 10 and saved by a 9—all in one day. Both ridiculously handsome, oh so sexy, with way too many zeros in their bank accounts for me to count.

  How am I supposed to get anything done working alongside THEM?!?

  Mental note to self: Lookup company policy regarding directors dating board members.

  Who am I kidding? It’s not like either of them are going to be courting little old Remi Stone anytime soon.

  CHAPTER 1

  Remi is the WORST kind of millennial…

  BUZZ.

  Who the hell is calling me this early?

  BUZZ.

  I swear, there’s a special place in hell for people who interrupt a woman trying to get a full night’s sleep before an important meeting.

  BUZZ.

  God, why won’t they just quit? The building better be burning down, or better yet, we better be going into nuclear meltdown. You just don’t wake a woman up this early on the morning she has a—Oh my God! The meeting!

  How could I have overslept? I mean, I’ve been waiting for this day to come for two weeks.

  I hop out of bed, blanket wrapped around my body and immediately fall to the floor. One might think with how often we meet, the floor and I might be good friends, but the reality is, she’s a cold-hearted bitch.

  I reach on top of my nightstand, to the angry buzz of the alarm, and hit END. The time reads 7:05—a whole hour later than I’m supposed to wake.

  Most days, this wouldn’t be a big issue, but today is the day I give my presentation in front of the directors and board members of Icor Tech at the quarterly Innovation Meeting. When I’m done with them, they’ll know that taking a chance on still wet-behind-the-ears Remi Stone wasn’t a mistake.

  I wish I could say I had time to shower and set my hair before one of the most important days of my life, but that would be a lie. The truth is, it was an accomplishment that toothpaste made it in my mouth. I’m a woman with time anxiety, and when even the whiff of a time constraint comes on, I panic. I mean full-blown running around, half dressed, brush in hair, one leg shaved panic.

  As the youngest program manager Icor Tech has ever had, my life is basically one part working my ass off and one part trying to prove to everyone that I’m not just some lucky idiot. At twenty-three, they figure there’s no way I could have actually earned my position as program manager and chalk it up to luck and who I know—I wish it had been that easy.

  You see, I’m kind of a genius. I know how that must sound, cocky and arrogant, but I promise you, that’s not how I see myself. I see myself as a total, complete, epic mess hobbling on two legs, trying to avoid disaster. I just so happen to test well.

  I throw a coffee mug under the Keurig nozzle, hitting the only button in the world that can see me through the day. Then I rush to my closet to find something to wear.

  Why didn’t I just lay my clothes out last night? I ask myself, but of course, that would make my life a little too easy.

  Rumpled lavender flowers—nope. Bright blue asymmetrical neckline—nope. Black floor-length dress that looks like a curtain—double nope.

  Why don’t I put more effort into my wardrobe?

  Unfortunately, I’ve never put much energy into thinking about what to wear. Before I got my corporate job, I was shopping at Goodwill for most of my clothes, Target for socks and underwear. A trip to the mall to buy real adult attire for work had given me a major panic attack. Nothing was ‘broken in,’ and just one suit cost as much as my entire wardrobe. But it was what was expected of a professional from Icor Tech, so money was spent, and discomfort was had.

  I finally settled on a knee-length white skirt with black and pink flowers throughout paired with a black dress shirt.

  My phone buzzes again—the holy shit you’re late alarm I have set to go off when I’m supposed to be walking out the door. Instead, I’m slapping on deodorant and looking around for my glasses.

  This is exactly what they expect from a millennial. Shitty work ethics, entitlement, living in my parent’s basement. None of those traits fit me, but the room full of grey hairs I’m about to brief don’t know that. They don’t know that I tested out of high school at fifteen, received my Bachelor’s in Engineering at Cornell by nineteen, and my Masters by the time I was twenty-two. They just see a young, fair-haired woman and assumed I got my job because of who I know or some affirmative action bullshit.

  Kibbles! I can’t forget to feed Kibbles, the aging cat my dearly departed grandmother left to me. The cat hates me, looking for any reason to shred my bedding and furniture. She’s possessed, more than likely by my dear dead grandma, who was never very happy no matter how much I called, visited, or wrote. Not that she ever really wanted to see me, but she sure did like the checks I was writing for her. I swear, she left me Kibbles just to spite me.

  It isn’t enough to leave one bowl of food out. Kibbles demands three, placed strategically around the apartment, filled to capacity. If the kibble
level so much as lowers by half an inch, Kibbles goes into an angry panic. She dug up every single plant one day and shredded my shower curtain on another. The last thing I need is another Kibbles meltdown.

  Oh, wonderful, the cat’s glaring at me. Don’t panic. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a cat.

  Just a cat. Ha! That’s like saying, ‘Oh, it’s just Satan, Lord of the Underworld.’

  Pull yourself together, Remi. You’re facing the board and a room full of directors today. Don’t blow this!

  I try to exhale my stress away, all my worries, but when you’re a perfectionist that wakes up an hour late, all you know is panic. You are a literal ball of stress spreading chaos wherever you go, so I walk to the mirror and try my best to make myself presentable.

  I have no time to flat iron my hair, so I throw it up into a clip, trying to pull off a shabby-chic look. Next, I apply cover up to the lone pimple that decided to claim my nose. But that’s as far as I get. I have to be at that meeting at eight, and I still have a twenty-minute walk ahead of me—time to get going.

  Kibbles is standing in the doorway, paw raised, a guttural grown emanating from her massive 30lb. body. For a fat, overfed cat, she’s fast—and vicious. She could win wars. I don’t know why they’re training soldiers and not cats, for real. She could fuck some shit up and then puke a hairball on your bed.

  “Be nice, Kibbles. Your new mommy needs to go to work so she can feed you.”

  Kibbles is uninterested in my needs and wants. She only cares for herself.

  “You like your little toys, don’t you? Your catnip? You want some catnip? You want your kitty high?”

  Pass her slowly, force eye contact, keep talking.

  “Maybe momma’s gonna find you a hot young man-cat. A stud. Whaddaya think about that, Kibbles?”

  Her growl deepens. Kibbles is not easily persuaded by lustful pursuits.

  I leap, trying to clear the danger zone, but Kibbles lashes out with her claws, and one gets stuck in my black stockings.

  “Crap!” I say as I pull them off and rummage through my drawer for another pair, but they were my only clean pair.

  Maybe they’ll assume I’m wearing nude pantyhose.

  I pull on my shoes, grab my laptop bag, my keys, and my access badge and head on out.

  I live in an old building that is in desperate need of updates, so I don’t wait for Boxy Bessie, or as most would call it, the elevator that takes about five minutes to climb between floors. Instead, I rush down five flights of stairs, nearly tripping over Mr. Sokolov, the building handyman, as he’s on all fours eyeing a crevice for roaches. Another fantastic aspect of living in an old building.

  I dash out of the building onto a bustling sidewalk, nearly barreling over Porn Star Meg, my next-door neighbor. I’ve never so much as exchanged a word with the chipper woman, our only interaction being the many times I’ve nearly crashed into her.

  Now, I should clarify something. My nickname for her is Porn Star Meg, but I haven’t actually confirmed that she’s a porn star. I passed by her room once, and there was a camera set up and ring lights, all facing a giant leather couch with boas on it. I’m highly analytical, and I think it’s safe to say that my assumption is correct.

  Some nights, when I’m lonely, I think about going over there and asking her to hang out. The problem is, she’s pretty and muscular and all things beautiful…and, well, I’m a brain and all the things that come along with being annoyingly smart. We just wouldn’t mix.

  Shit! My coffee is still sitting in the damn Keurig. Not much I can do about it now.

  “Watch where ya going!” a man shouts. I look back to see him hunched, fist raised, glaring at me.

  The streets of New York City are no joke, and when you’re like me and your situational awareness is lacking, you tend to make some enemies.

  Why did I have to pick an apartment that has me walking against the flow of traffic?

  I slip my earbuds in and lose myself in Imagine Dragons, the only thing that calms me. Listening to Radioactive, Thunder, and Demons helps my anxiety fall away, and my heart rate begins to enter the realm of ‘normal.’ Not that anything about me will ever be normal.

  Do I have time to stop at a coffee shop? I stare at ImPressed longingly, the slight stabbing of a caffeine headache threatening to take over.

  There is no time! You have a meeting at 8! It’s 7:50, and you still have 15 more minutes of walking!

  I suck in a breath, wish myself luck, and dash through the busy sidewalk. My stride feels off, like something is in my shoe, but I have no time to investigate as I’m dodging pedestrians.

  Then, something magical happens. The world seems to open up for me, almost as if I’m in the Matrix. People step aside, the white hands bid me to walk across streets, and nothing gets in my way—for a time.

  Then a big German Shepherd sets his sights on me.

  The dog is bounding for me, clearly intent on knocking me over. All I can do is stop and bring up my arms to shield myself from the slobbering blow.

  BAM! The dog connected with my petite 5’3 form, nearly barreling me over. I am lucky he’s not aggressive, just curious. The little old lady walking him though does not share his pleasant disposition.

  “Leave Jasper alone!” she croaks, tapping a cane near my feet.

  Between the dog and the old lady, I am a bit overwhelmed, almost dropping my laptop bag.

  I push at the dog, but it’s no use. He just keeps sniffing. Finally, a little boy squeals when he sees the dog.

  “Jasper! Jasper!” he enthuses, and the dog loses interest, but not before slobbering all over my left breast. That’s right. I am going to be walking into the boardroom today, 5-10 minutes late, in a black shirt with slobber splattered across my tits. Great!

  I continue on, cautiously now, wary of every person, every animal, every potential interaction. My earbuds fell from my ear blocks ago. My focus is entirely set on getting to Icor Towers and making the presentation.

  They don’t take me seriously. I’ve been sidelined on projects and underestimated at every turn. This is my chance to let them see me, see my strengths, and what I can do.

  I may have graduated from grad school just over a year ago, but I had interned with Icor Tech a year before that, so I’ve actually been with them for just over two years. I started in at a position higher than most, but I never get the projects I want. Sure, I get promotions, and I’m great at my job, but it’s always ‘someone else’s turn,’ or the assumption is made that I am in over my head. Here I am, genius-level intelligence, constantly in rooms where people merely considered me subpar.

  Oh my God! I finally made it!

  I look up at the building I spend 50-plus hours a week at, a wave of relief washing over me.

  I can do this. People are late for meetings all the time, why shouldn’t I be extended the same courtesy?

  This meeting is different, though. This meeting, I will be presenting. This meeting, they will see something they don’t expect. Something I hope they will like and wish to see more of.

  I push my way through the huge doors of Icor Tower, lost in thought. My shoes echo on the tile, which isn’t at all normal. Usually, the clicks are drowned out by other sounds, but today, the entrance seems cavernous. I look around, it’s dead. Security eyes me suspiciously from behind the welcome counter, but other than that, no one.

  That’s weird.

  I have no time to think on it. I walk to the elevator, scan my access badge, and wait for my carriage to arrive.

  Everything seems to take too long. Each passing minute feels like ten, and I swear, by the time the elevator door opens, I’ve aged at least ten years.

  I hustle into the elevator, surprised I don’t have to share it with anyone. I push the button to go to the eighth floor and run through my speech for the millionth time.

  Ladies and Gentlemen, I know we’ve been using Telwire for as long as Icor Tech’s been established, but after some digging, research, and yada yada y
ada I found if we switch to Expression we will streamline five central core processes, produce reports in greater detail, and save the company over five million dollars over the course of ten years.

  I’ve been practicing the speech for over a week, and now I get to blindside them. Technically, my actual job involves mechanical engineering, but I noticed a few of our systems were inefficient and lagging. On my own time, I researched it and developed a few automated reports on my own, catching the attention of some of my superiors. It was the first good thing they ever attributed to me, but it wasn’t even within my job description.

  Initially, they weren’t even that impressed, but when my reports started saving several man-hours and increased data accuracy, well, that caught their attention, and that’s why I was asked to speak at the meeting.

  But instead of simply telling them my recent innovations, I’m going to tell them they’re working with outdated systems. There’s no doubt I’ll be stepping on some toes, but this is just the sort of thing it takes to get noticed.

  I exit the elevator after an eternity and practically run down the hall to the double doors of the boardroom. It is dark, too dark.

  It’s probably just some energy efficiency measure. Stay calm. Act natural. You got this.

  But of course, I never listen to myself, and as soon as I walk through the door, I’m stammering my apology.

  Except, I’m in an empty room. The lights are off. No one’s here.

  Where is everyone?

  A chair pivots, it’s spinning around, and I see…Chance Crawford?

  “Oh, hi. I didn’t expect anyone to be in here today,” Chance Crawford says.

  “There’s…there’s the quarterly Innovation Meeting…at eight. I’m late,” I stammer.