MISS KRAVEN,” the handsome CEO says, extending a long-fingered hand to me to assist me off his desk. I’d expected him to be British, but there’s no trace of an English accent in his voice. “I’m Edward Cullen. I mean, ‘Earl Grey.’ Have a seat?”
He’s young, he’s sexy, he’s tall—he’s the total package. And no way is he five years old. He can’t be more than thirty. He’s dressed impeccably in a tailored gray suit, pressed white dress shirt, and a black tie with smiley faces on it. With his tousled brown hair and brilliant gray eyes, he’s the kind of guy you want to write fanfic about.
“Well, um,” I say, accepting his hand and stepping off the desk. I blink my eyes rapidly as we touch; either his touch is electric, or I just had a seizure. When I’m back on my feet on the floor I excuse myself to pick up my notebook and backpack, and then return to sit down across from him.
“Miss Kraven had an emergency come up at the last minute. She sent me instead.”
“And your name is . . .?”
“Anna Steal. Miss Kraven and I are roommates.”
“Mmmm-hmmmm,” he says.
I pull the mini–disc recorder out of my pocket and set it up. Mr. Grey watches me with an amused look on his face. He’s probably wondering why I’m using technology that was obsolete the day it rolled off the production line. I have the same question. The only thing I know is that Kathleen is obsessed with vintage stuff. I mean, her favorite band is Nirvana.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m trying to figure out how to turn this thing on . . .”
“It’s okay. I like to watch,” he says with a malicious smile.
“Can I record our conversation? It’s for Kathleen.”
“I don’t mind if you tape us,” he says. The way he says “us” sends shivers up my spine. Is he hitting on me? I’m not used to this kind of attention from a man. I’ve never been the “hot girl”; my body is unremarkable in just about every way, from my too-narrow hips to my B-cups.
“Kathleen told you what this interview was about, right?” I say.
“I’ve never spoken with her, but my assistant has informed me it’s for some sort of business magazine.”
“Um, yeah,” I say, finally figuring out how to turn on the mini–disc recorder. If he doesn’t know what kind of magazine it is, I’m not going to be the one to explain it to him. “So, she gave me a list of questions to ask you.”
He stares at me unwaveringly with his gray eyes. “And . . .?”
No small talk, apparently. I read the first question word for word out of the notebook. “You’re young and have achieved a lot in your business career, more than most people will achieve in their lifetimes. What’s the secret of your success?”
He smiles. “The most important part of my business is the people I employ and the people my company does business with. I spend a lot of time getting to know people and judging them. I inspire them, incentivize them, and reward them. I employ over a billion people in my vast empire, and I interviewed every one of them myself. They’re all outstanding human beings. So, in short, my success has everything to do with the people I surround myself with.”
“Couldn’t it be luck?” This isn’t something Kathleen wrote down, but I have to go off script—he seems so arrogant and sure of himself. I want to throw him off guard. This is going to be the best damn puff piece that has ever run in Boardroom Hotties.
“Luck is for gamblers, Miss Steal. I don’t gamble.”
“Never? You’ve never, say, played the lottery?”
“Never,” he says. “I don’t take chances.”
“Not even, like, a one dollar scratch-off ticket?”
“Never. I just can’t take that kind of chance. If the ticket’s not a winner, I’m left with a little scrap of paper with silver dust all over my quarter. And sometimes that silvery stuff gets on your fingers and it’s a bitch to clean off.”
“So you have bought scratch-off lottery tickets!”
He sighs. “Off the record? My mother was a gambling addict, Miss Steal. She gave me used scratch-off lottery tickets instead of toys to play with as a child. So I don’t take chances.”
“Not even for a dollar,” I mutter.
“Not even for a dollar,” he says, boring through my skull with his gray eyes.
I feel my heartbeat quickening. Everything he says makes me want to make sandwiches with him, even the part about playing with lottery tickets as a kid. Is it because he’s so good looking? Is it because of his incredibly long fingers? Or his tousled hair? Or his incredibly long fingers?
“Do you ever rest?” I ask. “How do you unwind?”
“I have hobbies,” he says, smirking. “Physical pursuits: base jumping, hang gliding, underwater basket weaving. I also enjoy intellectual activities, like board games.”
“Monopoly, I presume,” I say.
“Of course,” he says. “But I also take pleasure in a good game of Trivial . . . Pursuit.”
Gulp.
He’s so attractive and long fingered that I find it hard to concentrate on asking the questions Kathleen has written down for me. I force myself to look at the page and read another one. “The Earl Grey Corporation has quite the diversified portfolio of businesses, from manufacturing to natural resources to Internet startups. Why not focus exclusively on the technology sector, like every other billionaire your age?”
He sighs. “I’m not like other people. I don’t do what everyone else does,” he says, “in business or in the bedroom.”
Most people sleep or watch TV or read books in bedrooms. What could he be talking about?
“Do you have a philosophy of business?” I ask.
“No man is an island,” he says. “Islands are made of dirt and rocks and trees. I don’t know any people made of such things. Therefore, people are not islands.”
Wow. Was this hot guy a philosophy major in college? He’s nothing like the burnouts I know who sit around contemplating their navels and smoking grass. My skin feels flushed. I’ve never been in the presence of such a smart, attractive man before, except for the time President Obama gave a speech at our school and recited the name of every state (including capitals) in alphabetical order, entirely from memory.
“Your name is quite distinctive. Are you an English earl, by any chance?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “If I was, do you think I would have ended up in foster care in the United States? Plus, look at my perfect teeth.”
“Point taken,” I say. Since he brought it up, I move on to the next question, which is related. “How did being abandoned by your parents affect your business career?” As soon as I read the question, I feel like an even bigger idiot than I usually do. Why can’t Kathleen be here doing this? Oh, yeah—she’s at home getting sick off NyQuil–Red Bull bombs. In other words, a typical Tuesday for her.
“I didn’t have a conventional upbringing. That’s public knowledge. How has it affected my business career? I honestly don’t know.” Yikes. He’s no longer smiling.
“Have you sacrificed having a wife and family for the sake of your career?”
“No, but I have sacrificed many the virgin,” he says, smirking again. His mood changes as often as my mom changes husbands.
“Are you gay?” Another stupid question that Kathleen has written down!
A smile spreads on Mr. Grey’s face. “Am I gay? No, Miss Steal. I’m not gay. I’m quite the opposite, in fact.”
“What’s the opposite of gay?”
“Sad,” he says. “You meant ‘gay’ as in ‘happy,’ right?”
I take another look at the notebook. “It doesn’t say here, Mr. Grey. It just says, ‘gay.’”
“What kind of questions are these, exactly?”
“They’re Kathleen’s,” I say sheepishly.
“Do you work with her at this business magazine?”
I shake my head and blush. “No. I’m a senior at Washington State, but my major is English, not journalism. This is the first interview I’ve ever conducted.”
“I see,” he says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Oh, how I’d like him to rub my—
The intercom on his desk rings, and he answers it. “Supermodel Jezebel Luscious is on the line, Mr. Grey,” the receptionist says.
“Tell her to wait. I’m not finished with this meeting,” he says, putting the world’s most beautiful woman on hold—for me.
“Okay, Mr. Grey,” the receptionist says. “Can you ask Miss Steal if she would like her gravy brought into your office? She left her glass in the lobby.”
Earl cocks an eyebrow at me quizzically.
“That won’t be necessary,” he says. “If she gets thirsty, I’m sure we can find something for her to drink in here.”
He smiles villainously and hangs up the speakerphone. “Pardon the interruption. Where were we?”
“I think I’ve asked you all the questions Kathleen had.”
“I see. Then perhaps you can answer some of my questions.”
“I’m not that interesting, Mr. Grey.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he says. “When do you graduate?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“And afterward, what are your plans?”
“I don’t have any. I was thinking something in publishing.” I haven’t put much thought into my future yet. I’ve only had four years to contemplate it.
“The Earl Grey Corporation owns several publishing houses. I can set you up with an interview at one of them,” he says.
“Um, thanks,” I say. “But I don’t know if I’m someone you want on your team.”
“Why not?”
“Nevermind,” I say. I’m nothing like the blonde Barbies he has working for him. Can’t he see that I’m the kind of girl who wears sweatpants to interview billionaires? I have to get out of his office before I make an even bigger fool of myself.
“Would you like a tour of the building? Perhaps a peek inside my secret sex dungeon?” he asks.
“Can’t,” I say, gathering up my things and turning the mini–disc recorder off. “I’ve got to work this evening. Thanks for the interview.”
He extends his right hand. “The pleasure was all on this end,” he says, smiling. I shake his hand, and feel the jolt of electricity again from him. He laughs and raises his hand to show me the joy-buzzer in his palm. What a prankster! “Good day, Miss Steal.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Grey,” I say, leaving.