A Billionaire Affair

They were a month from celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of the conglomerate his father and Alessandra’s father had formed. Thirty years rich with a history that had to be protected and preserved. He respected the brilliance of Frances Dalmount, but his choice to make his daughter his heir had been made with his heart and not the cunning intellect he was well respected for.

Alek was intent on correcting the error.

He would rather have Alessandra Dalmount in his bedroom than his boardroom.

Perhaps I can kill two birds with one stone.

For one moment, one very brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine wooing Alessandra so much that she gave up any foolish notions of being a businesswoman. His conscience won out. He was a businessman and not a man-whore using his wares to convince women to do as he pleased.

Alessandra didn’t deserve to be his partner, but she definitely didn’t deserve to have her heart and body toyed with, either.

Alek sat down on the sofa and pulled the conference phone closer to press the intercom button. “Ms. Kingsley.”

“Sir?”

“I need to speak with each of the board members, starting with Aldrich Brent,” he said. “Call each one. Give me thirty minutes and get the next on the line.”

“Yes, sir.”

He rubbed his hands together in the moments before his phone buzzed. It was time to gauge just what side the board was going to choose. He couldn’t do anything about her ownership, but he could call for a vote for her to be officially removed as chief executive officer.

Chapter 3 (#ud62d9db4-8489-5592-852c-5ff7a6070cb6)

Three weeks later

Alessandra closed her copies of the Wall Street Journal and New York Times and picked up her cup of lavender tea to take several deep sips before she sat it down and reached for her iPad. Enjoying the feel of the July sun blazing through the windows of her two-story penthouse apartment, she connected with the online editions of International Business Times, London’s Financial Times and Italy’s Corriere della Sera. All five newspapers were a part of her normal routine, but she preferred the feel of the print paper against her fingers as she turned the pages.

Just like her beloved books. She was still a voracious reader of those set during the Elizabethan era and had curated a small collection of rare first editions of authors of that era. There was something to be said for tradition. Respect for the past.

“You have an old soul, my Alessandra,” her father would say, and then playfully pinch her nose.

She smiled at the memory as she looked around at the French country design of her luxurious apartment with its soft muted tones, high-end furnishings, fine art and sweeping views of the Manhattan skyline. She grew up surrounded by such excess, but she had never felt at ease. Her style was simplistic. It was a part of her inheritance from her father, and she could never imagine changing the decor or getting rid of the apartment. It was just as her father had left it and he’d had it designed in the taste her mother would have loved. And so, for all its grandeur, living in the penthouse made her feel closer to them both.

Alessandra looked down the length of the table large enough to seat twelve people. Every empty chair was a reminder of her loneliness. Her longing caused an ache to radiate across her chest.

She didn’t long for more people in her life. She wasn’t even interested in dating with her focus on her career. No, Alessandra just wanted less space to echo around her.

The penthouse was a place to stay during the week while she was in Manhattan. Home was the family estate in Passion Grove, New Jersey. She smiled. Passion Grove. She absolutely loved the small town and couldn’t wait to get there on Friday evenings.

Although the vast majority of the residents were wealthy, the town was ideal for those with luxurious homes still wanting to enjoy the small-town feel. Everyone knew one another and there were many events and holidays the townspeople enjoyed together. For her, Passion Grove, with its heart-shaped lake and streets named after flowers, was ideal.

Alessandra looked up as her maid silently entered the room to begin clearing her dishes. “Tell Cook everything was delicious as always, Gia,” she said before rising from the table, setting her linen napkin atop her nearly empty plate.

Gia nodded. “I will,” she said warmly. “Have a good day, Ms. Dalmount.”

“Same to you, Gia,” she said, offering her a soft smile. “Thanks.”

Alessandra was well aware her demeanor with her staff at her various homes was different than with her staff at work. She had nothing to prove at home. No one was judging her. She could be herself, and that was thoughtful and kind. At ADG, that would be taken for weakness.

She chuckled as she used a crimson-red stiletto-shaped nail to ease her hair back behind her ear. “Elsa,” she said with another chuckle. The modern take on calling her the ice queen. Alessandra mockingly pretended to pout at the memory. When she discovered that’s what she was called behind her back, the last thing she did was “let it go.” Instead she took the chill factor up a notch. “I gave them frozen, all right.”

Her footsteps echoed against the travertine stone floors. The reminder of the emptiness of the five-bedroom apartment was deafening. She passed the door leading into her father’s palatial master suite and her own childhood bedroom still decorated in shades of baby pink and ivory with an abundance of ruffles. She had long ago selected the largest of the three guest suites, preferring the more adult decor.

She removed the white floor-length robe she wore, already missing the cool feel of the woven cotton as she lay it across the foot of the king-size upholstered bed. In the walk-in closet separating the bedroom from the en suite spa bathroom hung a row of clear garment bags. Thirty in all. Each was labeled with a date with a clear shoe container on the shelf above it.

This was the playland of her stylist, Shiva Delacroix. Alessandra just visited it daily to wear whatever ensemble Shiva had prepared for that day. Everything from undergarments to accessories were readied, making her mornings easy and sending her into corporate America ready for war as if her clothing were her armor.

Another facade.

Alessandra turned the first bag and unzipped it to remove a burnt-orange button-up blouse teamed with flared trousers with racing stripes. She tore the Polaroid photo from the bag and set it atop the island in the center of the room, before removing the clothing from the suede hangers and getting dressed. She hummed Beyoncé’s “Grown Woman” as she checked the correct fit of the clothing by the model in the photo.

She undid the buttons exposing the top of her cleavage, pushed up the sleeves to her elbows, and made sure the multi-strand gold chain she wore just barely peeked from beneath the shirt. She rushed through slipping on the leopard-print calf-hair pumps and her favorite Patek Philippe watch and grabbing the clutch Shiva selected before leaving her suite.

In the foyer, she picked up her briefcase and keys from the table as she checked her watch and left the apartment through her private entrance and elevator. It opened into the first level of her exclusive parking area.

Ding.

The doors slid open and as expected her driver, Roje, was already waiting outside her father’s black 1954 Jaguar MK VII sedan. As a little girl, she could remember standing on the porch of their mansion in Passion Grove as her dad climbed into the back and was driven to work each day. Ever since her first day of work at ADG she had used the car, as well. It felt like a full circle moment.

With a soft smile to the tall and burly man of sixty with skin as dark and smooth as midnight and a bright white goatee, she slid inside, setting her purse on the leather seat beside her. Roje was her bodyguard and her driver. She held no fear in his presence. His name was of his Jamaican heritage and meant “a person who is a guard.” It suited him perfectly.

“Shiva’s showroom, Roje,” she requested, as she let her head fall back on the seat. Her eyes drifted closed.

She wasn’t physically tired, just weary at the thought of yet another fitting.

Thursday would see the start of the extended weekend-long celebration to mark the company’s thirtieth Jubilee anniversary. It was to be held at one of ADG’s properties, the Lake House, a castle resort in upstate New York. Luncheons, picnics, art exhibits, tours, bike rides, boating, rock climbing and a charity tennis game were on the schedule. All the high-ranking executives and their families were invited, along with business colleagues and the press. The weekend would culminate in a lavish ball to officially welcome Alessandra and Alek to their positions.

She was headed into Midtown Manhattan for the final fitting of her couture Zuhair Murad gown. Alessandra turned her head on the rest to look out the tinted window at the abundance of skyscrapers and hotels as Roje maneuvered the traffic on FDR Drive. The distance between Shiva’s showroom and the ADG offices was less than ten miles, but the drive would undoubtedly take every bit of twenty-five minutes.

She’d barely carved out the time for Shiva, because her focus had been on her report for the board. Their meeting was tomorrow morning at the Lake House before the celebratory festivities were scheduled to begin. Their vote of approval was the last step to ADG’s purchasing the controlling shares in ZiCorp, the shipping company she had personally selected and vetted for acquisition. It would serve as the perfect opportunity for ADG to branch into Greece, with personnel and an established customer base in place. She and her team had addressed every possible issue that might arise and any concern the board could have. Months of arduous work would hopefully pay off. The company was in solid shape and would be nothing but an asset to ADG, with a return on the purchase price of controlling shares of ZiCorp projected to be recouped within a year.

During her training time at ADG Alessandra had chosen to focus on mergers and acquisitions, particularly in the areas of favorable purchase price, market movement and successful integration techniques. This was the first deal she had managed, but it was solid.

She wanted to beat Alek. To humble him. To prove him wrong.

To earn his respect.

No. She purposefully pushed any thought of him aside, closing her eyes and shaking her head a bit to free her mind of any thought of the handsome—yet infuriating—rogue. He took up enough time in her life antagonizing her during the day and invading her dreams with wild thoughts at night.

“Ms. Dalmount.”

Alessandra opened her eyes. They were double-parked on Seventh Avenue outside the eighteen-story building where Shiva had set up a showroom for her impressive roster of clients. Usually, Shiva would come to her for measurements or fittings, but on occasion Alessandra preferred the normalcy of going to the showroom.

Roje now stood with the rear door open and his hand already outstretched to her. Picking up her purse, she accepted his assistance as she stepped onto the street. “Thank you,” she said, easing through the pedestrians, tourists and locals alike, who moved up and down the street with speed. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour, Roje.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, stepping ahead of her to open the glass door leading into the beautifully tiled lobby.

Alessandra rode one of the four elevators of the beautiful office building to the third floor. Through the glass wall and the double doors of the entrance to Shiva’s showroom, she took in the two thousand square feet of loft-style space lined with clothing racks and adorned mannequins with bright light streaming in from the windows.