The Billionaire's Intern. Maisey Yates
He looked down at the pair of shoes and socks beneath his desk. Just a standard pair of black dress socks, and a pair of very expensive, handmade leather shoes.
He’d left them under there last night after he kicked them off.
Funny, he’d owned the shoes for something like five years now, but they’d rarely been worn. In part because they’d been new when he left, and in part because since he’d returned he worn them as little as possible.
He didn’t want to wear them. So he wouldn’t.
Ms. Treffen would learn very quickly what it was to work with him. He did not bend for convention. He forced others to bend to him.
But he was aware now of what was necessary and what was simply an extra rule imposed by society. He’d been a man stripped down to nothing. A man at his simplest, at his darkest. Where there was nothing more than life or death. Where there certainly weren’t rules about what sort of shoes he should wear into work. Or if he should wear them at all.
Though he realized that whether he cared or not, others did.
He also realized that sometimes there was a lot of power in making others uncomfortable.
There was a knock at his office door, and he knew it had to be her. Because she was the only person the front desk had permission to allow up. And because he didn’t like being paged over the intercom, a knock was the only way anyone could signal their presence.
There were a lot of things he didn’t like now. One of the many reasons his old friends, barring Austin Treffen, seemed to find him boring these days. But it didn’t bother him.
The feeling was entirely mutual.
“Come in,” he said, putting his hands on his desk, palms down, as strange, restless energy surging through him. It was like this with people. Always.
The door cracked open, and she led with her leg. A shapely, stocking-clad leg. There was no avoiding the fact that it was a nice leg. That wasn’t even up for debate. Even in his twisted brain, where things often seemed backward or upside down, a nice leg made sense.
The woman that followed the leg was even better than the body part in isolation. Blond, petite, with blue eyes that were like a deep, clear sea. Her lips were full, a pale pink not like anything found in nature on his island. It was far too delicate a shade.
She was wearing a white skirt that tapered to fit her shape, ending just below her knee, a matching, fitted jacket conforming to her curves.
And on her feet, adding, he had no doubt, to the shapeliness of her legs, were a pair of black high heels that added nearly four inches to her height and likely pushed her feet into a near-impossible position.
He’d never given much thought to women’s shoes prior to his experience on the island. But now that he resented his own footwear so damn much, he couldn’t help wondering just how contorted Addison’s feet would be in something like that.
Though the wonderment in no way detracted from her legs.
Every part of Addison Treffen was exquisite. Photos of her in the news didn’t do her justice.
“Mr. Black,” she said, his eyes level with his. “I’m Addison Treffen. My brother arranged this meeting and—”
“I’m fully aware of the details of the arrangement.”
She blinked, her expression remaining neutral. “Well, I had thought it possible my brother spoke with someone you worked for.”
“One thing you will learn about me, Ms. Treffen—nothing happens here without my approval. And no one would be permitted in my office, on my floor, in my hotel, without my arranging it.”
The hardness in his tone didn’t ruffle her. The petite, small-framed woman with her smooth hair, skin and clothes, staring him down with an expression that bordered on serenity, was not at all what he’d expected. “Was the hotel room on offer for anyone who took up the spot?” she asked, her fingers shifting on her handbag, the only slight tell of nerves he’d seen since she walked in.
“Yes,” he said. “I understand that an internship, an unpaid one, is not the easiest thing to negotiate, so it seemed a nice offer.” And in addition to that, he rarely left the hotel. Which meant any assistant of his had to be here.
“Technically, that makes it paid in a way,” she said.
“If you like.”
She smiled and for a moment he was at a loss as to the appropriate social response. Smile back, obviously.
Yes. Obviously.
He smiled, but had a feeling it looked more like a grimace. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair that was situated across from his desk.
She crossed the room and complied, her gold bag held tight against her stomach, her hands wrapped around it like claws.
Still, her overall demeanor was calm and when she sat, some of the tension eased from her hands.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s been a strange couple of weeks. To say the least.”
“I heard about your father,” he said, watching her expression. Something kicked over in him, reminding him that he had skipped something important. Something appropriate. “I’m sorry.” The words came too late to seem genuine.
She remained utterly still in her chair, stiff, unmoving. “I’m sorry I had to see it.”
The thought of this soft creature witnessing the death of her own father twisted something deep inside him and left behind an emotion that held a vague echo of sympathy. He knew what that was like. To be jolted out of your privilege and headfirst into every ugly thing the world held.
She didn’t deserve it. It could be argued that he had.
“So,” he said, changing the subject, “what is it you want to get out of this time at Black Properties?”
“I’m here to learn. I’d like to open a hotel someday, a small one. So I think anything I can learn from you would be valuable.”
“And what about school?”
“I’m going to school. I’m a senior at Columbia and should be graduating at the end of the year. Majoring in business, minoring in hospitality. I would love to finish on campus, but at the moment that is…difficult. I’m making arrangements with my professors.”
“But you will finish,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. “Because school is important?”
“Not particularly,” he said.
“Oh,” she said, her lips making the shape of the word and holding for a moment before she continued. “I’ve never had a job. I went from living at home to going to school. And my parents always took care of me. They still sort of are.”
“Are you trying to dissuade me from giving you the position?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. The alternative is hiding out somewhere until the press goes away.”
“Or you can hide here,” he said. “And you can get work experience. How does that sound?”
“It sounds slightly more productive than my plan.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Why not?”
“Not a very definitive answer,” he said. “But one I’ll take.”
He rose from his position behind the desk and Addison followed his lead. He watched her movements. Graceful, poised. She was the product of an aristocratic family, as he had been. She’d been given every tool to succeed from an early age, a private school education of the highest quality that had turned each movement into art, and conversation into a performance.
There had