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Working Stiff:Casimir (Runaway Billionaires #1)

By:Blair Babylon

Working Stiff:Casimir (Runaway Billionaires #1)
Blair Babylon

       Billionaires in Disguise: Casimir

Runaway Billionaires: Book 1






RED FLAGS





Rox was standing in Cash Amsberg's corner office in the law firm again, listening to him rant, again.

If he hadn't been so damn sexy, she might have had to put a stop to this. But he was, so she just ranted along with him.

It was kind of their thing.

At least Rox wouldn't get fired from this law firm for being a  "hothead." She wasn't a hothead. She was a Southern belle with a fiery  temper, a tradition harkening back to the founding of Virginia. She  would have done well in bygone eras, stamping her foot beneath her  flowing hoop skirts and cursing like "Fiddle-dee-dee!"

Except for maybe that last part. Rox enjoyed a good cussin' when the  situation called for it. Not that the situation called for it too often.  But sometimes, she went biblical on people who desperately needed to be  told that she would smite them and salt the Earth.

Cash Amsberg pointed to a sentence in the contract, stabbing at the  thick sheaf of paper with his finger. "What the bloody hell could Monty  mean by this section? He must have known we would strike it off. It's  not even a negotiating point. There's no way we would let Gina Watson  sign this. Why would he even suggest such a thing?"

They were standing on the same side of Cash's mahogany desk. He leaned  over the contract, bracing both hands on the edge. Windows broke open  the walls on two sides of the room. The afternoon California sun blazed  in, glaring on the scarlet design of the Oriental rug covering most of  the floor. Cash's enormous diploma from Yale Law School hung above the  couches at the back end of the office.

Dark bookcases packed with leather-bound books lined the other two  walls. The books were mostly for show because the law firm had done all  their research via LexisNexis for years, but Rox had caught Cash reading  the hard copies late at night sometimes, rubbing his eyes.

He ran his hand through his hair, a sign that he was perilously close to  losing his cool. She'd only seen him do that a few times, once when a  Taiwanese film director had insisted that Cash play golf with him. Cash  had appeared to be in good humor and had shot a perfectly respectable  ninety-two, but he had returned to their hotel and ranted about The  Damned Scottish Game for half an hour. Rox had laughed at his tantrum  until he started chuckling about how his ball had gone into the water  three times on the seventh hole.

Rox flapped her hands at her sides, narrowly missing Cash's broad  shoulder. "I cannot believe that he would even try such a dick move.  That's why I put a red flag sticky on it, so you would see that part  first. Does he think we're redneck idiots?" She emphasized redneck with  her Southern accent to camp it up.

Cash scowled. "He must think we're idiots. He must think we're all  idiots, every one of us, if he thought no one here would catch this."  Cash's upper-crust British accent made them sound like the King of  England conversing with a redneck colonist.

When Cash got all heated up like this, he literally got hot under the  collar, and the subtle cologne that he wore-sandalwood and cinnamon and  vanilla-crept out of his sharp designer suit and crisp white shirt. She  tried not to lean in to catch a whiff, but she could just smell it when  he was having a good rant. She could almost taste the vanilla on her  tongue, as if she had her mouth pressed to his neck.

"This is one of Valerie's contracts," Rox reminded him.

Cash ran a hand through his hair. "Surely Monty doesn't think that  Valerie wouldn't have caught this. Was he counting on her illness  throwing us in such disarray?"

"This came in the very morning that Val had her stroke. I don't see how  Monty could have known that that was gonna happen. He's still an asshole  of the first degree, both for thinking that Valerie and her paralegals  would miss this and for trying to do this to Watson. I mean, these  frickin' autobiography rights have nothing to do with the movie. It's  just a jackass rights grab."

"This is egregious," Cash muttered, his British accent turning more  clipped. "Monty has gone senile or something. Call Patty. Mention it in  passing. See what you can get out of her."

Patty was Monty's paralegal at his law firm. She was in Rox's lunch  bunch of girls who ate meals and went to movies together sometimes,  mostly chick flicks. Rox went with them when she could escape from  workaholic Cash, who liked to work through meals, and nights, and other  appointments.

He shook his head. "Perhaps she can give us some insight into his thought processes, such that they are."                       
       
           



       

Rox refrained from rolling her eyes and nearly sprained an eyebrow from  the effort. "I don't think Patty is going to do any industrial spying  for us, not after you didn't call her the next day, or ever again."

"She didn't care," he said, waving his hand to dismiss that.

"Oh, I assure you, she cared," Rox told him.

Cash raised an eyebrow at her. He seemed genuinely puzzled. "Did she?"

"Oh, yeah." Rox had heard from Patty about what an asswipe her boss was  for weeks, and Rox hadn't disagreed, not when she knew that ghosting was  Cash's favorite modus operandi to end relationships. He took women out  on a couple of dates, screwed them a few times, maybe kept up the  appearance of something that was becoming substantial for a few weeks,  and then dissipated into thin air, poof. He became unreachable,  untextable, untouchable. As far as the women could figure out, he might  as well have turned into a ghost, even if they worked in the same office  and saw him every day.

Which was one of the many, many reasons why Rox would never date him.

One of many, many, many reasons.

Other women looked far, far up at Cash's brilliant, intense green eyes,  the dark blond streaks in his auburn hair and his pale scruff of beard,  and the hard lines of his cheekbones and jaw line.

They dropped their panties even before he took off his perfectly cut  suit and silk shirt to reveal his broad, rounded shoulders, those  chiseled abs like cobblestones on his flat stomach, and the deep vee of  his obliques that pointed below his tight boxer-briefs.

They were lost before he whispered to them in that cultured, sexy accent  and far before they saw the top-of-the-line Mercedes Maybach that he  drove to his rumored enormous, manicured estate in the foothills. No one  had ever been there, but everyone said that his house was huge without  any evidence whatsoever.

Yep, Cash was several inches over six feet tall, emerald-eyed, ripped,  gorgeous, his tailored suit clinging to his athletic body, sporting a  British accent, and loaded.

Shockingly, women swooned over him.

Even after he ghosted on them, every admin and paralegal and client in  the office still flirted with him. When he walked by their desks, they  pushed their boobs together with their elbows and smiled up at him,  blinking rapidly.

The one time he got a little bit of road rash on an elbow playing  basketball on the roof of the parking structure, they fawned over him  and brought him cookies the next day to raise his spirits, even though  he had laughed the whole thing off at the time.

But not Rox. Never.

The afternoon sun heated the corner office, and Cash had already taken  off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, baring the strong ropes  of muscle on his forearms, the rough hairs on his tanned skin, and his  tattoos. On his right forearm, above his wrist on the inside, three  shields surrounded some kind of a triangular Celtic knot thing. It was  small, maybe three inches across. The orange shield that pointed down at  his hand had a white figure on it like a stylized lion rearing up with  extended claws. The other shields were blue with three crowns and a red  and white diamond checkerboard.

On his left arm, ink trailed tendrils of black fire all the way to his wrist.

He glared at the Watson contract as if the paper had offended him.

Other women might fall across his desk, hike up their suit skirts, and let Cash screw them face-down on the green blotter.

But three years ago, the other women in the office had warned Rox about Cash.

Manwhore.

Ladykiller.

Heartbreaker.

He was a walking, waving cluster of red flags.

And Rox had been fresh meat.

At first, she had assumed that he wouldn't be interested in a chubby,  dumpy, short, brunette Southern belle such as herself, not in an office  swarming with slim California blondes.

When he had walked by her desk at ten o'clock that first morning, Rox  had suppressed the gasp that had sucked into her mouth and through her  body.

When he turned his head, gazing into her soul and her heating chest and  her very cells, she gripped her mouse like she might fall off her office  chair.

She had wiped beads of sweat off the mouse afterward where she had clutched it.

Stunning, she thought later, when her brain had rebooted. He was stunning. Looking at him made the world stop.

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