Mr. Stone (More than Money) Read online

  Mr. Stone

  More than Money

  Sarah Curtis

  Copyright © 2021 by Jeanine Grasso. All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author/publisher. This is a work of fiction. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to any real persons alive or dead and events are coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Dedication

  For Jojo and Shorty, I am their human, they are not my pets.

  And for Ken, he is my human.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  More than Money Series

  Other books by Sarah Curtis

  Where to Find Me

  Chapter One

  Emma

  Emma stood in line at the deli takeout counter, tapping her toe impatiently. She’d already used up forty-five minutes of her lunch hour running errands for her boss. If the line didn’t start moving faster, she’d be late getting back.

  And Mr. Slone didn’t like it when she was late.

  Even if he was the reason for it.

  Emma covertly peeked at the underarm of her cream silk blouse as she readjusted the suit she had draped over her arm, peeling the sticking plastic from her skin. Good, no telltale signs that she’d been sweating as she made a mad dash from the dry cleaners to the pharmacy before stopping to grab herself a sandwich for lunch. The humidity added to the high temperature was almost unbearable and unseasonably warm for the first day of June.

  She eyed the little white bag clutched in her hand. Why her boss needed eyedrops—and not just the basic kind but the natural tears version—she had no idea. As far as she knew, he didn’t wear contacts, and he wasn’t prone to allergies even at the height of the season.

  Not that doing errands for her boss was unusual, just lately they seemed more foolishly time-wasting. But she couldn’t complain. She needed the job. At twenty-two and a college dropout, she’d been lucky to land such a good one. And while her boss may be a pain in her ass, the job paid good money—money she couldn’t afford to lose. Not with a seventeen-year-old boy at home who needed a roof over his head, food in his stomach, and, most importantly, a college education she needed to save for. Her parents would have wanted at least one of their children to earn a degree. And she wouldn’t let them down even if they weren’t still around to see it.

  She knew most people would complain at the demands her boss made, but honestly, she didn’t care what he had her do so long as the paychecks kept rolling in. She even put up with his crappy disposition for those.

  Emma looked at the time and sighed. Five minutes had passed, and the line had only crept. If she didn’t leave now, she’d never make it back before her hour was up. If she were late, Mr. Slone would find some way to punish her for it. Most likely by having her stay after hours, finishing work that could, in actuality, wait until the next day.

  Ditching the line, she made for the exit, leaving the blissfully cool shop in exchange for blistering heat. The afternoon sun penetrated clear to her scalp as she power-walked the half a block down Ventura Boulevard to the office building that housed Slone Industries, ignoring the stabbing pain she received at the back of her heel with each step she took. She knew better than to wear a new pair of shoes without breaking them in first. They were of the cheap variety and not constructed for comfort, but they’d been on sale, and as she’d needed a new pair, hadn’t been able to pass them up. She was paying a higher price for them now. The blister that’d formed earlier that morning felt like it had torn open.

  As she wrenched open the door to her building, a blast of cold air smacked her in the face, chilling her damp skin and causing a shiver as she hurried across the lobby. Her heels clacked with an uneven gait on the hard marble as she limped her way to the bank of elevators.

  The center one started to close, and she quickened her pace. “Hold it, please.”

  A suited arm shot out, retracting the doors, and Emma squeezed in, issuing a breathless, “Thank you,” before her eyes traveled up to land on the face of her savior.

  Damon Slone.

  Her boss.

  It should be a sin how beautiful he was. Thick, dark-mahogany hair swept back from his brow and neatly trimmed around his ears and collar didn’t distract from his piercing deep-blue eyes, tapered nose, defined cheekbones, and strong jaw covered in a dark stubble that framed full lips. It was enough to make any woman swoon.

  Then he raised one condescending dark eyebrow and all beauty was lost when she remembered what a coldhearted ass he was.

  Mr. Slone, transforming right before her eyes into Mr. Stone, her nemesis.

  “Miss Jones,” he addressed her in a deep, rich baritone that had all heads in the elevator turning his direction.

  She nodded curtly. “Mr. Slone.”

  He looked down at his watch, and she gritted her teeth. She wasn’t late. Not yet. And from his lack of calling her out, he knew it.

  But he still had to get in a barb, eyeing the bag she held. “I trust you didn’t have any problems at the pharmacy.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good.”

  He held out a hand, and she stared at it a moment before internally sighing and juggling his suit to hand the bag over.

  Would it have killed him to wait until they got to the office to ask for it? It’s not as though he would use the eye drops in the middle of a crowded elevator.

  Sure enough, he didn’t even bother to open the bag. It was a close thing, but Emma managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

  Impertinence wasn’t tolerated.

  The elevator doors opened, and her boss held the door, waiting for her to step out before following. He was an ass but, nevertheless, a gentleman—a strange mix she was still trying to figure out.

  His presence was a looming force behind her all the way to his office where she deposited his suit on a coat rack set up in the corner for just that purpose.

  When she spun around, he was standing, feet planted and arms crossed, in the middle of his office, eyeballing her feet.

  She looked down but saw nothing amiss. “Is something wrong?”

  “Those shoes are new.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Thrown he’d noticed, she stammered a confused, “Y— yes.”

  “They’re causing you discomfort.”

  Again, a statement. And a very uncharacteristic one at that. Could he—her heart skipped a beat—care?

  “Don’t wear them again. You’ll be of no use to me if you’re chained to your desk because you can’t walk. Or worse, miss work entirely.”

  And there was the boss she knew and loved. She should’ve known better.

  Envisioning the pile of bills that still needed to be paid that month had her biting her tongue. Instead of informing him he was a gray sprinkle on a rainbow cupcake—something he’d probably be proud of anyway—she nodded curtly, took a sidestep around him to exit his office, and went straight to her desk. She had a Band-Aid somewhere at the bottom of her purse. That should get her through the rest of the day. And even though she hated to admit it, the man was right. Her new, cheap shoes would be thrown to the back of her closet as soon as she got home.

  But boy did it grate to agree with him.

  Damon

  Damon kept
his eyes on Emma until she disappeared behind the closed door and then he circled his desk and dropped heavily into his chair. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. The image of her limping from his office was still fresh, and he felt like a prick knowing it was his fault she was injured. Well, really, it was the shit shoes she wore, but he helped perpetrate the blister they’d given her.

  The past month had been a living hell ever since Helga had decided to up and retire on him, wanting to move closer to her grandkids. He couldn’t blame her, but he did resent the fact she’d been replaced by a younger, vastly more attractive model. One with thick, rich-brown hair she wore piled atop her head teasing him with the notion of its length, amber eyes with so many flecks of gold they shone brighter than any gemstone, creamy, flawless skin, pert nose, and full lips made for kissing.

  It had been lust at first sight.

  And Damon, never having to curb his lustful impulses, hadn’t known what to fucking do. It was against his own personal policy—not to mention bad form—to pursue one’s employee. He’d built his construction company from the ground up with a lot of hard work, and he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize its good standing—a lawsuit for inappropriate behavior being a road he didn’t want to travel down.

  But he wasn’t such a dick to fire his tempting assistant on some trumped-up charge just to get into her pants, therefore making her job so tediously unpleasant she’d quit had been his brilliant plan. He just hadn’t expected her to be so damn stubborn.

  Truth be told, he was running out of ideas on how to scare her away. Being an asshole hadn’t done it. The stupid errands for shit like eyedrops he had no use for hadn’t done the trick. Hell, even keeping her late, night after night, hadn’t broken her. But there had to be something he could do to up his game. Everyone had an Achilles’ heel, he just needed to discover hers. The trick would be discovering it while still maintaining a distance.

  If Damon knew anything—and he knew a lot—spending more time with his lovely assistant would be a really bad idea.

  “Sir?”

  Damon peered over the top of the paper he was reading. It was a few minutes before quitting time, and his lovely assistant had just made an appearance. “Yes?”

  “About Friday.”

  “What about it?”

  “Last week, I requested the day off.”

  He sat back in his chair, eyes focused on her. “And?”

  She stood before him, hands clasped and twisting her fingers, but other than that small sign of nervousness, she held her ground. “And I was wondering if you came to a decision.”

  He kept her stare until he made her squirm. “I did and the answer is no.”

  “Mr. Slone, it’s very important.”

  “Did someone die?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then it can’t be that important. The answer is still no.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Miss Jones. That is unless you’d like a permanent leave of absence?”

  She bowed her head. “No, sir.”

  She didn’t move from her spot, and he didn’t waste the chance to bite, “Is there anything else?”

  “No, Mr. Slone.”

  He dipped his head, dismissing her.

  She turned on her toe, shoulders squared, and left his office, quietly closing the door behind her.

  The soft click had about as much impact as if she’d slammed it—her anger had been that palpable.

  He grinned.

  Good. Another step closer to his goal.

  He tried to get back to his reading but the words swam on the paper as his thoughts drifted to things he had no business thinking about.

  Emma, slowly unbuttoning her cream, silk blouse which was just see-through enough to show a hint of the darker shade bra she wore underneath. Her, bending over, blouse gaping and tits bouncing, as she shimmied out of her tight-as-fuck pencil skirt. And smiling seductively, as she sat on the edge of his desk and parted her legs to reveal…

  A knock sounded on his door, pulling him from his fantasy as his real-life assistant popped her head in. “Do you need anything before I go?”

  Loaded question with his dick so hard it strained the zipper of his pants. “No.” He didn’t need to act out the frustration behind that single tortured word.

  She nodded and disappeared behind the closing door.

  But it was a good long while before he could get up and leave, himself.

  Chapter Two

  Emma

  Juggling four bags of groceries, Emma shouldered her way into the apartment and promptly tripped over a pair of sneakers that littered the floor.

  Son of a… “Benjamin Taylor Jones!”

  Her brother didn’t come running. She liked to think it was because Ben knew he was in trouble when she used his full name, but that was wishful thinking on her part. More likely, he had his head buried in his phone and simply hadn’t heard her.

  Sighing, she toed the sneakers to the edge of the wall and out of the line of fire. Being a good kid and getting good grades, she usually let the small stuff slide. His being a slob was something his eventual wife would have to try to fix, Emma just didn’t have the energy for it.

  Kicking off her own shoes, she gave them a dirty look before heading to the kitchen to dump the bags on the counter. She unpacked the perishables first, throwing them in the fridge but left the hamburger meat out for dinner. She would make tacos, Ben’s favorite, before breaking the news she’d be missing his graduation.

  It hadn’t been easy raising a teenager after their parents had died. And even harder once the insurance money had run out. Their sudden deaths had been unexpected. They’d been young and ill-prepared, not having the forethought of what would happen to their children if something happened to them. Emma had held on as long as she could, but, not being able to keep up with the mortgage payments, she had to sell their family home. That hadn’t netted much with what was still owed, and when that money had run out, she’d been forced to drop out of school to get a full-time job.

  But not everything was doom and gloom. Even though it’d been a rocky start, things were starting to look up. And with the new job, if she budgeted well, she’d even manage to pile away a small savings that would pay for Ben’s college.

  That is if she didn’t lose her job by killing her boss first.

  “Hey, sis, you’re home early.”

  Having still been upset, she’d left work at five on the dot. A rarity that apparently even Ben had picked up on. “Had time to stop at the market, too.”

  “Mr. Stone let you leave early? That is cause for celebration.” He eyed the makings for tacos lined up on the counter.

  Shoving the empty bags under the sink, Emma stood and looked up. Way up. Tall and lanky, Ben had grown over a foot the previous summer, surpassing her height by a good eight inches. “The tacos are for another reason. And don’t call him Mr. Stone.”

  “That’s what you call him.”

  Yes, and she worried she’d make a slip one day and really be screwed. “Do as I say, not as I do.”

  He rolled his eyes at her standard response. A habit she’d been trying to break as successfully as getting him to pick up after himself. “Then why the tacos?”

  Taking a deep breath, she grabbed a pan and set it on the stovetop. “Because I didn’t get Friday off.”

  She made the mistake of looking up at him and catching the disappointment on his face before he could mask it. She was the only family he had except for an aunt and a few cousins a half a country away. His thoughts were clearly written on his face—nobody would be there to see him graduate.

  He’d only been fourteen when they’d gotten the news their parents had been in a car accident. Their dad’s sister had flown out and stayed for a few weeks, but she had her own family and life. And while she did remember them on the major holidays, that was the extent of her support. Not that Emma could blame her, she knew firsthand how tough it was to be a single parent.

&nbs
p; “Do you think you can ask again? Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

  Emma started shaking her head before Ben had even finished his sentence. “No. His answer was firm.” He’d delivered it in the same matter-of-fact way he would if commenting about the grass being green or the sky blue—coolly and with zero inflection. His features a stony mask and void of anything resembling a soul. “I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” He sounded like it was anything but.

  “I’ll call Mrs. Johnson. Have her record it. I know it’s not the same as being there, but we can watch it together on Saturday.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’m gonna go finish my homework before dinner. Call me when it’s done?”

  “Sure.” Emma watched him walk away, getting angry at Mr. Slone all over again.

  Because, being three days before graduation, it was doubtful Ben had homework so that meant he wanted to be alone.

  And that sent an ache straight to her heart.

  Damon

  Pulling into the garage, Damon turned off the engine of his Maserati and went into the house.

  “Lights.”

  Granite countertops and sparkling appliances were slowly illuminated as he made his way across cream-colored marble to the refrigerator where he grabbed a beer before heading for the living room.

  Setting the bottle on the coffee table, he peeled out of his suit jacket and tossed it on the couch before collecting his beer and going to the large, picture window.

  He took a swig, staring down at the lights of the San Fernando Valley from his hilltop view. It was a nice one, but the view from his bedroom was even better. From there he could see clear to the ocean.

  He’d built the almost eight thousand square-foot house from the ground up. It had every amenity. Every luxury. Had been decorated by the top interior designer in Beverly Hills.

  And was lonely as hell.