Hard Impact: An Alpha Billionaire Romance Novel (2 page)

My friend Melanie, whose desk butted up against mine in the ‘bullpen’ as we called it, had made a sour face when I’d been called to see the editor. No one really liked the woman. She was often overbearing, rude, demanding, and sometimes quite crass. It seemed to me that she purposely modeled herself after the female character played by Meryl Streep in the movie,
The Devil Wears Prada.
She was no Meryl Streep, in looks or class.

I’d once heard her cursing, and to say that she cursed better than a sailor was probably an understatement. Nevertheless, there was something about Angela Girard that I admired. She was a go-getter. She had risen to the top of her field in a career that, at the time, had been male-oriented.

I’d seen Angela smile once or twice, and even though the woman was a strict taskmaster, she wasn’t purposely cruel. She was fair — mostly. She didn’t demand anything of her employees that she didn’t demand of herself, which happened to be excellence and perfection.

The elevator doors swished open and I stepped through. The moment they closed, I reached a shaking finger toward the panel and pushed the button for my floor. Leaning against the side of the wall, I grinned.

This was my chance and I knew it. This was my chance to show the editor what I could do. I quickly stepped off the elevator, but instead of heading for my desk, I made an immediate right and headed toward the ladies’ room, clutching the envelope in my hand. I resisted the urge to open it just yet. I knew it was important or I wouldn’t have been called up to the boss’ office.

As I entered the restroom, my excitement waned and doubts began to creep in. Why were they sending me? There were a number of excellent writers with more experience. Oh Lord, for all my bluster and bravado, this was my first major assignment for the magazine. Yes, I was tired of working on projects that I considered busy-work, and while I did have confidence in my skills as an interviewer, I’d never, not once in my life, interviewed someone like… like who? I glanced down at the manila envelope still clutched in my fingers. My brain screamed for me to open it, but not in the bathroom. I would wait until I got back to my desk and Melanie and I would look at it together.

My face felt flushed. Looking in the mirror, I realized my cheeks and neck were red, typical when I was excited or emotional. I stuck the envelope between my knees, turned on the tap, and splashed my face with cold water. Much better. I repeated the process several times, then gently patted my face dry with the towels I’d grabbed from the rack. I gave myself an assessing gaze in the mirror.

Today, my auburn hair was pulled into a short ponytail, except for the few stray strands clinging to my damp forehead and cheekbones. Thick but finely arched and plucked eyebrows had taken me years to train to perfection. I stared into the hazel eyes that were my best feature. The green flecks often initiated compliments from occasional dates, but none that went anywhere serious.

Tilting my head, I frowned at my reflection. I couldn’t help it. Normally, when I looked in the mirror, I felt kind of satisfied with what I saw. Unfortunately, I didn’t exactly ooze confidence when it came to meeting someone for the first time or for that matter, interviewing someone big enough to get their name in a magazine.

Giving myself a body check, I gave myself credit for full, perky boobs. Then I scowled at my waistline, which was a bit on the thick side before flaring into ample hips. So I was a little rounded, voluptuous as a college friend had once told me. Stocky was the term my mother lovingly used. So, I had a little bit of a muffin top going, but nothing extreme. It wasn’t like I was a hundred pounds overweight or anything. I was just… well, call it what you will; stacked, well-built, solid. Sure, I could stand to lose a few pounds, but nothing too serious. I’d always been a little on the ‘thick’ side. Not fat, but not exactly svelte either.

As I looked at myself, I noticed my tremblings hands. I always got the jitters before meeting clients, always a bit concerned by their reaction. Did I look older or younger than they imagined? Prettier or downright plain? Regardless, would they take me seriously? I looked like a typical Midwestern girl, but was that a problem? In this business, looks were everything, at least for some of the most popular journalists.

Oh well, what you see is what you get.

If someone wanted to judge me for my looks, there was nothing I could do about it. Gazing back at my reflection, I realized I was damned proud of myself and the person I’d become. I had to let go of any lingering uncertainties, the feelings that I would never be good enough, pretty enough, or whatever enough to attract the man of my dreams.

And just who was the man of my dreams? I had no idea. When I thought of the “perfect man” my mind went to the cerebral more than the physical. Sure, physical looks were nice, but I certainly wasn’t going to judge a guy by how good he looked, how hard his body was, or how long his… that didn’t matter to me nearly as much as who he was. I wanted to know what was in his brain. His heart. And I expected the same courtesy. In this day and age, I realized it sounded a bit on the corny side, but as far as I was concerned, I wanted something that looked just as good on the inside as on the outside.

The squeak of the bathroom door jolted me out of my musings. I smiled at the woman who walked in. I didn’t know her name but recognized her as the lady who worked the advertising desk on the other side of the room. The woman ignored me and disappeared into a stall, banging the door shut without as much as a glance my way.

Friendly.

Shaking my head, I had to remember I wasn’t in my small ‘everybody knows everybody’ hometown. Since moving to San Francisco, I’d met very few people and hadn’t gone out on a date at all. It wasn’t like I had much extra time on my hands either. First, a mad scramble to find an apartment I could afford. Rentals in San Francisco were outrageous. If I’d known before accepting the job at the magazine, I wondered if I’d been brave enough to make the move.

I did manage to find an old Victorian with rooms to let. Although I paid as much for one month’s rent here for a tiny one-bedroom and a shared bathroom at the end of the hallway as I did for a six hundred square foot apartment in North Dallas, I counted my blessings.

The old Victorian was within walking distance of the magazine, so I didn’t have to worry about transportation, taking the bus or the cable cars, although I admit that I indulged in riding the cable cars like a tourist for the first week after my arrival. Wasn’t that what everyone did when they came to San Francisco? Before I started work, I did everything a tourist did when coming to this city. I visited Fisherman’s Wharf, took the boat to Alcatraz and reveled in the ghost stories the tour guide told so well. I visited Chinatown, rode the elevator to the top of the Transamerica building, and of course, visited Golden Gate Park and even walked across the Golden Gate Bridge.

After that first week as a transplant in a new city, I started work and had been busy ever since. Mostly with editing, working on fillers, sidebar content, and co-writing the brief articles on lesser-known individuals up-and-coming in the financial world. Including the actor I’d just profiled, who, for a sideline to buttress his budding acting career, displayed a bit of an inventive streak and had just sold a patent for a new kind of juicer of some sort. The prototype was under development and he was looking to make millions from it.

Profiling such up-and-coming entrepreneurs was nothing new for
Sweet Success,
but I knew that these were not top-of-the-line assignments. As I dried my hands and tucked the envelope under my arm before throwing the towel in the trash receptacle, I could only think that having received the assignment from the editor-in-chief herself, the person I would be profiling was someone well-known by the American public, or at least soon would be.

I left the restroom and wove my way between the desks cluttering the main room of the office space toward my desk. Staff from the magazine took up nearly the entire floor, divided into a number of cubicles along one side of the room. The other half was filled with fax machines, copiers, and flat-screen televisions hanging on the walls, sound muted. It didn’t exactly look like a newsroom, but close. People came and went in all states of emotion from calm and collected to agitated and frazzled, probably depending on their deadlines, potential revisions, and of course, keeping on the editor’s good side.

As I approached my desk, Melanie glanced up and urged me quickly forward, anxious to know why the editor-in-chief had requested my presence. Before I could even sit down at my desk, my friend pounced.

“Well? What did she want? Did you get an assignment? Who? Or are you in trouble?”

I held up the envelope. “She gave me an assignment—”

“
Who?”

“I have no idea—”

“You mean you haven’t opened it?” Melanie asked, eyes wide. “Hurry up! Who is it?”

I smiled as I slowly turned the manila envelope over and reached for the little metal clasp. Melanie squirmed with anticipation, and I enjoyed teasing her. I glanced up at my friend every few seconds, squeezing the metal arms of the tab together, taking my time lifting the flap, then inching my fingers inside to grasp the papers enclosed.

“Misty, stop teasing me! Who is it?”

I glanced down at the eight-by-ten photograph on top of the thin sheaf of papers. My mouth dropped open and my heart did something funny in my chest. What did they call it? Pitter-patter? If so, my heart was definitely pitter-pattering. I gazed down at a photograph of a handsome man, maybe early thirties. It was an outdoor shot with a backdrop of mountains.

He wore jeans and a t-shirt that displayed impressive musculature, but not the bodybuilding type, just the sporty type. And one of the most handsome faces I’d ever seen. Gorgeous, windblown dark brown hair, a little on the long side, but not long enough to pull into a ponytail. Strong jaw line, chiseled features, defined cheekbones and a high forehead. Perhaps some Native American blood? The man in the photo wore a grin that prompted me to smile in return. The expression on his face was one of pure bliss. Even I felt a sense of excitement over something he pointed toward off-camera.

“Well? Who is it?” Melanie asked impatiently.

I shrugged slightly and shook my head. “I have no idea.” I turned the photo toward my friend, who gasped.

“Almighty God! That’s Blake Masters!”

Blake Masters? The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t quite figure out where I’d heard it before. I turned the photo around, glanced at it again, then at the three pieces of paper attached to it.

“You’re going to interview
Blake Masters?”
Melanie was now fanning herself with his picture. “Oh my God, this is unbelievable!”

I glanced at my friend. “Why? What do you know about him?”

“You mean you don’t know?” She hugged his picture to her chest.

“No,” I said, feeling more than a little stupid. “Is he from around here?”

“Yeah, his offices are across town—”

“Offices for what?”

“He owns an outdoor adventure company,” Melanie explained. “You know, hooking up people with outdoor adventures. His company is called Hard Impact. Horseback and packhorse hunting excursions, extreme skiing, ice climbing, skydiving, wingsuit cliff jumping… you get the picture?”

“You mean thrill-seeking foolishness for bored businessmen, stuff like that?” I shook my head. Adrenaline junkies. What made people risk their lives in such a way?

Melanie smiled and shook her head. “That’s just half of it. His company took off, but he’s an extremely private individual. You know what he likes to do during his downtime?”

I shrugged. “Jump off cliffs?” I never really did understand death-defying, thrill-seeking endeavors. I’d read too many stories of people dying while engaged in extreme sports.

“He rides broncos in rodeos.”

At first, the comment didn’t register. “What?” I asked, looking up from the papers I skimmed. Bare bones, mostly about his company.

Melanie grinned. “You got that right. In one sentence, he’s a cowboy who grew up on a ranch in Kansas, had some family money, and is now a billionaire thanks to smart investments, but he’s a down to earth good ol’ boy with a… how shall I say it? Almost a death wish type mentality.”

I frowned. “So what’s the big deal about him? About the rumors and innuendo Angela referred to?”

Melanie winked. “That’s the best, juiciest part. When he was sixteen, his father was murdered—”

“That’s terrible,” I broke in. “What’s so—?”

Melanie lifted an eyebrow. “Blake Masters was a person of interest in the case.”

My mouth fell open but I quickly recovered. “Was he ever charged? There’s a big difference between a person of interest and a suspect,” I pointed out.

She leaned closer. “That’s just the thing. All of a sudden, he disappeared. Some think that the family money influenced the case. Do I think he had a hand in it or did it himself? I have no idea, and nobody else does either. The rumors have followed him ever since. He disappeared for a few years, and then poof, here he is in San Francisco starting a new company. He’s done well for himself too. His net worth is estimated at about eight billion.”

Eight billion. I wasn’t even sure how many zeros that was. For someone who was barely projected to make thirty-five thousand this year, eight billion was unthinkable. What did someone do with so much money? Start an outdoor adventure company, naturally. I frowned.

“But Melanie, he’s in his early thirties now, isn’t he?”

My friend shook her head. “He’s twenty-eight.”

“So why is this all being rehashed now? His father died twelve years ago.”

“An ex-wife, one not at all happy with the prenup she signed.” Melanie shook her head and gave me a look. “I can’t believe you haven’t been keeping up with the story. It’s been in all the gossip magazines and the Internet for the past year.”

I shook my head. “I don’t read gossip,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “I don’t keep up on the Kardashian’s, I don’t care about Honey Boo-Boo, and I certainly don’t care about real housewives, divas, bad girls, bachelors or bachelorettes—”