The Billionaire's Mistress Complete Series, Page 2

  We’d both be more or less satisfied.

  And my morning would be more peaceful if I got the call out of the way now. At least when I reached my destination, I'd be able to tell her I had to go and be honest about it.

  So I called her back.

  Her phone only rang twice before she answered. “Hello, Jal,” she said, her voice cool and cultured. Everything about my mother was cool and cultured, even when she spoke to me, her only son.

  I could play the part too. Harold Lindstrom, Jr. had to be cool and cultured, or at least the world had to see that aspect of him. But my full name was like a suit I put on and took off at will. It was just a mask I wore. It wasn’t a part of me. I'd christened myself with a new nickname by the time I was twelve, and refused to answer to anything else. It'd taken my mother almost a year to give in.

  She didn't particularly like that I didn't fit into the perfect little WASP boy she'd always wanted. Oh, I had the blond hair so pale it was the color of corn silk. Light blue eyes. Tanned skin. I was tall – six and a half feet – and athletic. Smart. Good looking.

  But I still wasn't the child she truly wanted.

  She loved me. I didn't doubt that. But love and approval were two totally different things. I doubted I'd ever get the latter from her.

  “Are we still on for lunch?” Mom asked, interrupting my maudlin thoughts.

  “Of course.” I couldn’t help but shake my head. It didn’t matter that we'd just made the plans twelve hours ago. Ginnifer Lindstrom was a control freak, in the fullest sense of the word. If my dad wasn’t so laid back, the two of them probably would have filed for a nasty divorce or killed each other years ago. Instead, he simply gave in and let her do things her own way.

  “Excellent.” Affection underscored her words as she asked, “Are you nervous?”

  Nervous. I thought about it, trying to decide if that was the right word to describe how I felt. I couldn’t exactly say I was nervous. Resigned? I guess that was more like it. Nervous implied that I was excited, or that I had doubts about how things might go. I wasn’t, and I didn’t. I knew exactly what was about to happen. I could almost write out a script for how everything would play out.

  I doubted, however, she wanted to hear that I was resigned.

  “Perhaps a little,” I lied.

  “Everything will be fine,” she told me in a soothing coo.

  “I’m certain it will.”

  We spoke for a few more minutes, chatting about things that mattered very little to me, but always seem to hold so much importance for her. The latest charity dinner, who was going to be there, why I should attend. If I did, what I should wear, and who I should talk to. The way she made it sound, I was some awkward teenager who was likely to screw up a business deal by smarting off to the wrong person. Not that I had done so well with my trust fund after graduation that Dad had put me in charge of the family money.

  When the car slowed, I glanced up and smiled. Thomas had gotten to know my habits after working for me for the past decade, which meant I hadn't needed to tell him to stop at my favorite little coffee shop. He didn't even need me to tell him what my drink of choice was. Once I was alone in the car, I stretched my legs and cracked my neck.

  Mom, as if sensing my boredom, shifted topics away from the dinner. “What will you be doing today?”

  “Taking a beautiful woman to lunch.” I deleted an email from somebody I had no desire to do business with, then shot one to my assistant and told her to make sure he got the message. “Before that, I’m going to stop and get a haircut.”

  And coffee, although I didn’t mention that. I'd been coming to this coffee shop for almost two years, and it'd all started because I’d met the owner at a club and we’d shared a few hot nights twisting up the sheets. That brief flirtation had ended amicably, and she’d moved on to greener – and more interested – pastures. She was the marrying kind. But I liked the atmosphere and the coffee, not to mention the scones and Danishes she made by hand. Plus, she was just fun to talk to. She hadn’t treated me differently because of who I was, and I couldn’t say that about a lot of my relationships with women. Including my current one. It was satisfying sexually and socially acceptable, but fun?

  Hell, no.

  I'd never been able to find someone who both intrigued me and met my mother's approval. I'd given up on ever finding that kind of woman, so I was resigned to that too. Resigned to pretty much everything in my life at the moment.

  While my mother prattled on, I brooded about that. Spying Thomas from the corner of my eye, I said, “I’ll have to cut the call short, Mom. I need to take care of some business this morning. Talk to you soon?”

  She said goodbye, and I ended the call, but not because I had to make any more. I just didn’t want to listen to any more dull shit about a charity dinner or a party coming up that I really should attend. I loved my parents, and I couldn't lie and say I didn't love having money, but I didn't love the social obligations that came with our family name.

  The door opened, and Thomas handed me a cup. I saw that he had one of his own and flashed him a grin. “Finally decided to try the place out for yourself, didn’t you?”

  He handed me a small bag, smiling – a real smile, not that polite, professional one I usually saw on his face. “I did. I made my wife very happy with the cookies.”

  “Make sure you try the pie sometime. The woman in there can cook like nothing else.”

  “I’ll do that.” He went back around to his side and settled back into the driver’s seat, tucking his coffee carefully into place. I’d been nagging him to try the coffee at Sinclair’s since I’d discovered it. He’d finally cracked. At least enough to get a cup. No scones, but I wasn’t surprised. I’d never had a driver who had relaxed enough to share a scone and coffee.

  I’d rather he focused on driving than eating anyway.

  “Thomas?”

  He started the car, but at the sound of his name, his eyes came to meet mine in the rear view mirror. “Sir?”

  “You’re a married man.”

  “Yes, sir. Five years.” He looked confused. We'd talked about his wife a bit, but nothing so specific.

  “Are you happy?”

  He looked a little surprised by the personal question, but he answered easily enough. “Yes, sir. Couldn’t imagine not having her in my life.”

  I shifted my attention to the window but still kept talking. “How long have you known her, your wife? Did you…I guess you knew how you felt when you asked her to marry you, but did you know before that?”

  “We’ve known each other since high school.” His voice had softened, and the affection in his voice was clear. I didn’t even have to look at him. “I knew the minute I saw her that I wanted to marry her. It just took me a while to convince her.” He chuckled fondly. “Like eight years.”

  I imagined he loved her, or at least he thought he did. Love wasn’t something I put much stock in. Not romantic love. Familial, sure. That I understood. I just wasn’t sold on the idea of that sort of love. My parents got along well enough, but were they in love? I had no idea. I couldn’t see it, my controlling mother and my easy, laid-back father. Affection. Companionship. Lust. Those I all got. The other thing? Not so much.

  “Come on, Thomas,” I said, shifting gears. “I need to get the haircut taken care of, and I still have some business to deal with before I meet my mother for lunch.”

  By the time I finished my coffee, Thomas had pulled up in front of the salon a friend had recommended. It was a little fussier than I preferred, one that catered to both men and women, but I’d yet to find one I liked.

  Besides, even though the place was nice, it still wasn't exclusive enough for my mother, which meant it was perfect for me.

  Chapter Three

  Allie

  Humming under my breath, I swept up the remnants of hair on the floor from my last haircut. Daisy Caldwell was one of my regulars and one of my favorites. Seventy years old and a transplant from Mississip
pi, the widow loved jazz, good looking men thirty years her junior, and she had a bawdy sense of humor that matched her sharp tongue.

  She also lived to shock her children.

  I adored her.

  She’d announced that she wanted something that would give her son a heart attack when he descended upon her that weekend. I’d told her she could always get a nose ring, and she’d laughed herself silly. We’d decided on dying the tips of her snow-white hair hot pink. She’d been delighted, and I’d ended up with a thirty-dollar tip.

  As I swept the remaining hair into a pile, I tried to picture Daisy's son. I’d met him once when he'd come to pick her up. He was a stiff, cross piece of work, and he thought she spent too much money on her girl time. The arrogance pissed me off. It was Daisy’s money. I figured she could have her hair tipped with gold leaf, and it wasn’t any of his concern.

  My boss, Alistair Hopkins, came bustling over. He was tall and rail thing, bald as a cue ball and his long, thin hands were never still. He made a Pomeranian puppy seem calm.

  “You’ve got an opening?” he asked, his voice low. His soft, mellow voice didn’t suit his thin, stretched out appearance or his overall twitchy personality.

  It did suit his secret passion though. He loved to sing, and when we occasionally managed to nag him into going out with us, after a drink or two, we sometimes talked him into karaoke. I looked at paying for his drinks as an investment. When he let off steam, he was relaxed at work for a few days, which made things easier on all of us. Plus, we got to listen to him sing.

  He was that good.

  “Yes.” Shooting him a sly smile, I finished dealing with the last of the hair and leaned on my broom. “You have some new song you want to wow me with? I’m your captive audience.”

  He flushed and looked around. “Hush, Allie. No, we have a client. Very important. If you do a good job, we might be able to convince him to become a regular patron.”

  Wow. That sounded good, especially if the guy committed to the same stylist every time. I could use another good regular.

  Sliding my eyes to the front door, I saw a man standing there and actually recognized him. I’d seen him a few minutes ago as I’d walked Daisy to the door. He’d climbed out of a sleek, shiny car that was worth more than I made in several years. He was…well, hot seemed like an understatement. Beautiful and sleek and sexy, a perfect match to the car. And he was loaded. Even guys who had nice six-figure jobs didn’t ride around Philly in the back of a car like that. That was treatment reserved for the ultra-rich.

  I glanced back at my boss and tried to pretend that the man at the door wasn’t the sexiest guy I'd seen in years. “Let me finish straightening up. Can you stall maybe five minutes?”

  “Just hurry.” He made shewing motions with his hands, and I rolled my eyes as I turned away, moving to the small closet where I kept the dustpan. By the time I had my station straightened, Alistair had the man seated up front, a cup of coffee in hand, along with one of the buttery croissants we had delivered every morning from a bakery a friend of mine owned. As I adjusted the black tunic I wore as part of my uniform, I gave myself a moment to admire my new customer one last time since once I approached him, it would be all professional.

  He looked like something out of Norse Mythology, tall and blond and perfect, from the flawless hair to the dent in his chin. Strong shoulders lay underneath a sport coat that fit him to perfection. That kind of fit only came from an excellent tailor. Damn. He was pretty.

  But nobody knew better than I did just how little a pretty surface meant.

  A pretty surface usually hid a vapid, arrogant soul, and that was one road I had no interest in traveling. Men with money held no appeal for me.

  Reminding myself of that made it easier to walk up to the sitting area, a polite smile on my face. I addressed my boss first, “Alistair.” I turned to the stranger next. “I’m ready for you, Mr…?”

  As I turned my eyes to his, the man came to his feet, a smile crinkling up the corner of his eyes. Blue. As in a perfect shade of light blue that I suspected could turn into a million different shades based on his emotions. It figured. He was like the living, breathing embodiment of what so many saw as the perfect, all-American dreamboat. If that kind of thing appealed. As the smile deepened, I felt my heart kick up a few beats. Apparently, I found that kind of thing appealing.

  “Lindstrom. Jal Lindstrom.” He held out a hand. “Call me Jal, please.”

  I smiled politely and stepped aside, gesturing to my station in lieu of shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Lindstrom. If you’ll just follow me?”

  I didn’t see it as a rebuff. I preferred to keep certain barriers in place and that’s just all there was to it. He either didn’t notice or he didn’t seem to mind, moving forward to walk with me to my station.

  “Why don’t I take your overcoat and sports coat?” I asked as I stopped next to the chair.

  “Anything else you’d like me to take off?” The flirtatious lilt in his voice was playful, nothing I hadn’t heard before.

  I was pretty, and I knew it, a nice mix of DNA from a black mother and white biological father, my skin a warm, soft brown that complimented my dark brown hair and pale green eyes. I had a rack that had been a pain in the butt ever since middle school, and a figure that required I stay active if I didn’t want it to go from curvy to plump. I walked a lot and loved to swim, so that was never an issue.

  In short, I was used to men flirting with me, and I knew how to sidestep it. “I think that will do the job, Mr. Lindstrom.”

  “Jal,” he said, lifting a brow. “Mr. Lindstrom is my father.”

  It was an odd name, but I didn’t ask about it. Instead, I just gave him a smile that was neither assent nor dissent. I'd avoid a name altogether.

  After he turned over the coat and sport coat, I hung them up on the ornate – and ugly – coat tree next to my station. At least, I thought it was ugly. FOCUS, the salon/spa where I worked had been designed in what Alistair called minimalism, so most of the fixture was little more than sticks with pegs sticking out of chrome so shiny I could see my face. When I’d first started working here, it had been art deco, which I thought was much prettier than this stark white and silver. Once I turned back to Jal Lindstrom, I had my smile firmly in place and gestured for him to follow me once more.

  Services here were top notch. All shampoos came with a head massage along with manicures and pedicures with hand and feet massages. I had a flash of this man requesting a manicure like plenty of other men did. None of the guys I hung out with would, but they were a world away from the clients that came through these doors. My mind did a weird little stutter as I thought about holding this man’s hands in mine, rubbing his fingers and palms...

  A familiar sort of tension settled in my gut, and I shoved the image away, indicating for him to sit down.

  “Far be it from me to argue with a lady,” he murmured as I folded a towel around his neck, covering it with a black protective cape. His skin was warm when I fastened it at the nape of his neck. I pulled my hands away and told him to close his eyes and relax.

  He really was a flirt. Now that his eyes were closed, I let myself look a little, my gaze lingering on the lowered fringe of his lashes before slipping down to study his straight nose, his mouth. Perfect lips. Not too thick or too thin. He’d be a good kisser, I bet. Very good.

  Hot water pumped into the sink as I began to soap his hair. “Is the temperature fine?”

  “Perfect.” The low pulse of his voice had me glancing down, half expecting to find him staring at my chest. He wouldn’t be the first guy to take advantage of the situation.

  But his eyes were still closed. I had to admit, it impressed me. Relaxing a little more, I set about washing his hair. By the time I’d started the massage, I’d settled into a rhythm. It helped that he hadn't made any more pseudo-flirtatious comments. With the sound of the water, the familiar smell of the salon shampoo, I was able to slip into the rhythm of the wa
y my hands always moved through hair, strong and sure, no hesitation.

  “If you could keep that up for the next two hours, I’d be just fine with that.”

  His voice was even lower now. Sliding my eyes down, I saw that he’d opened his. And he was staring straight up at me. At me, not my chest.

  “I’m afraid a two-hour head massage isn’t on the menu.” I gave him a tight smile, thankful that I managed to keep my voice even and polite.

  His eyes closed once more as I moved to a conditioning treatment, then wrapped a warm towel around his head.

  “You’ve got magic hands,” he said, following me this time as I led him to the chair.

  “So I’ve been told.” I kept my tone easy as I looked up him. Damn, he was tall. After I had him sitting down, I removed the wet towel and snapped a dry cape around him. “What are we doing today, Mr. Lindstrom?”

  “I take it I’m not going to get you to call me Jal.” There was amusement in his eyes as he met my gaze in the mirror.

  “How about you worry less about that and tell me what you want for your haircut. I heard that you were in a time crunch.” Lifting my eyebrow, I dragged my fingers through his thick hair and watched it fall back into place. “You’ve got good hair. Healthy. What do you do with it?”

  “Comb it.” The short, succinct answer made me smile.

  “So no styling products? Does that mean you just want to keep something similar to the style you have now?” I met his eyes for a moment. “Do you just want a trim, and maybe shape it up a bit?”

  “You’re the professional…Allie, right? I’m in your capable...magic hands.”

  His eyes stayed on me as he settled into the chair, and I had to fight the urge not to squirm. I was used to flirtation, but not this sort of intense scrutiny. I'd heard the sentiment of someone's gaze feeling like a caress, but I'd never experienced it until now.

  Forcing myself to focus on the job at hand, I reached for my shears and a comb. “Well, let’s just see what we can come up with, since you’re putting yourself in my hands.”