Free The Billionaire’s Handler by Jennifer Greene Page A

me.”
    Somewhere around here, there had to be some liquid refreshment that didn’t involve sour-tasting herbs or mystery gray stuff that was “good for you.” He got up, prowled around the various cupboards and shelves, found a carafe, sterling goblets, plainold bottled water. “I want you to think for a minute,” he said.
    â€œI am thinking.” She also took the goblet of simple cool water and gulped it down.
    â€œBack when you became a special ed teacher, you were influenced by what you believed you could do. That affected where you could go to college, the goals you had then, the places you applied for work. Essentially you established boundaries that worked for your life then—but now, you can take all that fencing away. Imagine, if you could have gone to any university on the planet, would you still have chosen the school you went to?”
    She sipped more water. “That’s impossible to know.”
    â€œNope. That’s the point. What was impossible before could be totally possible for you now. If you wanted—and still want—to do things for kids with special needs, you have a whole basketful of options to pick from these days. You can still teach, if that’s what you want. But you could also start your own school for kids with special needs, if you wanted that. Or you could get a group of experts together, come up with entirely new program ideas for special-needs kids. There’s no limit to where you could take just this one part of your life.”
    She frowned. “You’re messing with my head, Maguire.”
    â€œAnd that’s exactly what I want to do for a couple weeks. Mess with your head. Show you how to use that money instead of it using you. Help you get what you want.”
    â€œMaguire? What if I want something that you don’t agree with.”
    â€œThat’s easy. This isn’t about me. I don’t have to agree with anything. If you want it, then we’ll find a way to help you go for it.” He thought the whole talk was going pretty well. Very well, in fact, but there was something in her expression that changed. She faced him, her soft eyes glued on his, studying, examining. Thinking. Thinking too much. It was obvious she was the kind of woman who got in trouble if she spent too much time thinking. “What?” he said impatiently.
    â€œI could want to go after something, no holds barred, risk everything, that you’d really have a problem with.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike what if I wanted you, Maguire? What if all I wanted was to fall in love with you?”
    Her voice was softer than melted butter. He almost had a heart attack, but thank God, the phone vibrated in his pocket. He grabbed for it with a palm that was wet with sudden sweat—shock sweat—and could barely manage a coherent conversation.
    The call only lasted a minute. By that time, he’dmanaged to shoot to the other side of the room, with a massive old medieval table between them, which had to weigh five hundred pounds. Not that he was afraid of her. The waif? How could he possibly be afraid of the waif? He just felt more…secure…with a little distance between them. At least until he recovered from the words she’d blurted out. Especially that one word. The four-letter one.
    â€œWe can talk seriously. And nonseriously. About a lot of things.” That was a promise. “But right now, there are some people coming up here.”
    â€œWait a minute. What people? Why?”
    Thank God they got here. Initially he’d been wary of setting up the Shoe Project, wary that Carolina wasn’t ready for any commotion yet. But “Italian shoes” had been high on her wish list, and rather than spend time actually shopping in Rome or Milan—not his favorite pastime, for sure—he figured it’d be more time efficient to bring the products to her. It wasn’t as if her shoe size had been