Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(85)

It’s okay that my dad decided he’s postponing making a decision on Banks’s future CEO for the time being. Maybe I’ll be CEO one day because of my outside-the-box thinking, or maybe LB will, because of his longevity with the company, but either way, Banks LTD will be in the hands of someone who is totally devoted to it.

And that’s all I want.

That’s a long way off, though. My dad embarked on a new exercise program after his health scare, and he’s been feeling better than ever.

And Banks LTD is doing just as well. The buzz died down about James after a couple of weeks, but the ads with James are hands down the best-performing ads we’ve ever done. Our line is killing it. My father was upset about not being able to snag James for additional seasons, but he’s glad he wasn’t snapped up by the competition.

And of course, I haven’t seen James.

It’s been two weeks since I left him in that field south of Atlanta. Since he turned down the rest of the money. Since I drove away, wishing to god he’d come after me and call me back. I would’ve settled for anything. A call. A text. Just a little something, to know he was okay. I thought about texting him, but we’re of two different worlds, and I didn’t think I could bear it if he never responded.

Sometimes, I’ll drive around his area of town. I’ll go past Tim’s Bar and think of going in. I imagine him sitting in there, in his “office” in the corner, with all of his fans. I even went past his house once, but I didn’t see an F-150 in the driveway.

The only thing I have now is YouTube. Aside from the stunt I witnessed firsthand in the field, he hasn’t uploaded anything new. His Facebook page says he’s planning something really big, but he’s been mum on what.

I think about doing stunts of my own.

Of breaking free of this ivory palace where I live.

Of not just surviving, but living.

Turns out that I wasn’t the only one doing the teaching during our time together.

So I’m going to live. Jeanine and I always joked about backpacking through the wilds of the Australian Outback. We said we’d never survive two days out there without breaking down and crying over a broken fingernail.

I booked a trip. Next summer, I’m going. Even if Jeanine ends up with some last-minute lawsuit that keeps her from coming, I’ll go alone.

Without anyone to hold my hand or pay my bills or buy my groceries or tell me who I can or can’t associate with.

I’m living.

I wish I could tell James that. I think he’d be proud of me.

I open up the files for all of the potential models that LB has sent me. They’re handsome and rugged, yes. But not one of them is James. Not even close.

I’m starting to type in my recommendations so that we can narrow it down to three men to bring in for interviews when my phone rings. It’s Michael.

“Hey,” I say, happy to hear from him. I haven’t spoken to him since just after Fashion Week, when he told me that he was devastated that he’d never have a chance to dress James again. “How are you?”

“Honey,” he coos. “Do you hear the sirens?”

Sirens? I pull the phone away from my ear. Yes, there are definite sirens in the distance, coming closer. “What’s going on?”

I start to rush to my balcony when Michael says, “Woman. Turn on channel four news, quick.”

Heart in my throat, I switch directions, find the remote, and flip on my TV. What, is the building on fire? My eyes bulge when I realize there’s a reporter standing in front of my building, the Paramount. “Wha . . . ,” I breathe out as the reporter begins to speak.

“If you’re just joining us, we’re at the site of one of the tallest condominium complexes in Midtown, where it appears a man is trying to scale the side of the building in a tuxedo, with absolutely no climbing equipment.”

No.

NO.

Numb, I walk toward my balcony and throw open the french doors.

I step outside, still holding the phone to my ear. Michael is talking a mile a minute, but I can’t make out a word he’s saying. I slowly edge to the railing and peek over.

James.

“Hey, heiress,” he calls out, as if he’s just out for a morning stroll.

He’s about three floors away from me, hanging on to the bottom of one of the balconies below me. And I’m on the twentieth floor.

“James! What are you doing?” I shout.

“Jimmy. Told ya. This is how I make an entrance.”

“Oh my god,” I mumble, watching him easily scale the balcony so that now he’s standing on the rail of the balcony two floors below me. It’s actually like perfect steps, if you’re feeling a lot adventurous, or a little suicidal. But still . . . the view from here gives me vertigo. “You could’ve just used the elevator.”

“Now where—” He pauses and stretches up, grabbing the railing of the balcony directly underneath mine. “Would be—” He pulls himself up, so now he’s dangling, using all his upper-body strength to pull himself up. “The fun in that?”

I hold my breath as he easily lifts himself onto the balcony, pausing for a second, hunched over, hands on his knees.

He holds up a finger, catching his breath. “Good workout. Almost there.”

I’m just staring at him, half-scared to death he’s going to fall, half-embarrassed. Because now there’s a fire truck below, and residents are all stepping out on their balconies. Two police cars are out there too. A police officer with a bullhorn is shouting something I can’t make out. Somewhere, I bet Charlie is filming this.