Page 42 of Legally Yours
His face twisted momentarily into an adorable pout as he took in my covered legs, but he followed me out the door and caught my waist again as we walked down the hall.
“It’s just as well,” Brandon growled in my ear, making my skin tingle under his lips all over again. “I’m not sure I could have focused all night with the dirty thoughts those stockings put in my head. It’s bad enough looking at your butt in those pants.”
With that, he briefly squeezed my ass, making me squeak. He flashed a toothy grin and proceeded to make me laugh and yelp all the way down the stairs with a continued onslaught on that part of my anatomy.
* * *
It wasn’tuntil Brandon ushered me into the back of a sleek black vehicle that I realized it wasn’t just a run-of-the-mill car for hire, but a Mercedes S-Class AMG. My dad drooled over this particular model every time he dragged me to the yearly car show at the convention center. They retailed for more than all three years of law school tuition combined.
“That’s David, my driver,” Brandon said, gesturing to a middle-aged man in the front seat.
David waved a black-gloved hand and gave me a friendly wink through the rearview mirror as he pulled away from the curb.
“Hi, David,” I said with a smile toward the mirror as Brandon tucked me neatly into his side.
As the engine purred to life, I marveled at how quiet Boston suddenly seemed from inside this car. I could understand now why Brandon had scoffed at the town car in New York. It was like comparing haute couture to the Goodwill.
“All right?” Brandon murmured.
I nodded. “Yeah. Where are we going for dinner?”
“One of my favorite restaurants. You’ll see.”
I was still feeling shy after our encounter and was relieved when Brandon didn’t press for conversation. He seemed just as content to look out the window, drumming his fingers on the pane until a flurry of messages announced themselves on his phone.
“Sorry,” he said as he unwrapped his arm from my shoulder. “These won’t take long.”
“No problem,” I said and slid to the other window. Brandon frowned at the movement, but quickly turned to his phone while I watched the city pass by.
It was hard to imagine having the money required for this sort of lifestyle. The modest cache courtesy of my mother had only ever been used to pay for Dad’s previous “issues” and for my education. My original goal was to give what remained to my dad as a retirement gift. Who knew if that would even be possible now?
But that was clearly chump change compared to the kind of wealth that Brandon Sterling had. Live-in staff, a top-of-the-line Mercedes, a ten-million-dollar townhouse on the Common.Wikipedia(and Jane) had informed me that his net worth was upwards of two billion dollars, a number likely to grow once his investment firm went public. People like this didn’t need to work. Their money made money for them, more in a year—or even a week—than most could hope to make their entire lives. I peeked at Brandon, who gave his familiar half smile as he tapped out another message.
“Sorry,” he said again. “Some things won’t keep until the morning.”
“It’s all right.” I turned back to my window. “I know your business is important.”
Like a shadow of the other cars on the road, the Mercedes wove on and off the highway down to the south end of Boston. Maybe Brandon was taking me somewhere in Back Bay, or even Dorchester, although that seemed like a weird choice for a date. Maybe he was going to show me where he grew up too. The thought cheered me.
But when David pulled onto a private drive next to Logan Airport, my eyes blinked wide open. This definitely wasn’t a quick visit to the old neighborhood.
The car came to a silent stop in front of a building that guarded a mostly empty airfield. David quickly jumped out and ran around to my side to open the door. On shaky legs, I stepped out of the car.
Beyond a chain-linked fence, a few small planes were corralled at the far end of the field, deserted and dark. However, closer to the building, a small, sleek jet was testing its engines, lights on, side door open, and a portable set of stairs pulled up for boarding.
I turned to Brandon. “Is…is that plane for us?”
He nodded. “It is.”
I balked, my head swiveling back and forth between the plane and him. “You chartered a jet for our first date?”
He offered a small, tentative smile. I would have found the twinkle in his eyes charming had I not been completely floored.
“Well, no,” Brandon said. “The jet is actually mine. Or at least my company’s.”
I saw that Sterling was painted clearly across the jet’s steel siding in bold black letters, accompanied by the sharp black and red logo of his investment company.
“What…where…why? Where are we going that we have to take yourprivate plane?” I sputtered.