The Wicked Redhead and the Billionaire Novelist (Typist #3)

The Wicked Redhead and the Billionaire Novelist (Typist #3) By Mimi Strong



PART 1: MONTREAL


Of all the exotic places a billionaire could take a girl to impress her, Smith Wittingham chose Canada. The helicopter, which was insanely loud but fun, took us from his cabin in Vermont, to a small airport. From there, we took an adorable little private charter plane to Montreal.

I hadn't traveled much, except for one trip to Mexico a year earlier, so everything was exciting and new to me.

We were in the air, on our way to Canada, and I kept giggling and pressing all the buttons for air and reading lights, then messing around with the little television screens.

Smith frowned, his sandy-brown eyebrows meeting under the thick, blond widow's peak of his hair. He said, “Tori, you're so easily amused.”

I gazed into his cool blue eyes, feeling embarrassed, but then defiant. “I'm enthusiastic. Get over yourself and enjoy the ride.”

“Speaking of ride…” He waggled his eyebrows and nodded to his lap. We were alone in the aircraft's cabin, but it was noisy, brightly lit, and not the sexiest place.

“I'm still feeling nauseous from the helicopter,” I said.

“Nauseated,” he corrected.

I stuck my tongue out at him and he leaned over and kissed me. He didn't take long to get more frisky, attempting to get his hand down the waistband of my shorts.

“I'm nauseated,” I said, pushing him away.

He pulled back, his eyes flashing with anger. “I make you sick?”

“The plane. And the helicopter. Don't take it personally.”

He turned away from me, glowering at the tiny screen showing an animated movie.

We didn't talk for a while, and he seemed content to pout and attempt to ingest all the alcohol on board the plane.

As he tossed back something mixed with orange juice, he finally said, “You're a tease.”

“So's your mom,” I said.

His eyes got big, and I made a mental note—I'd found an insult that actually insulted him. I'd known him for less than a week, and though I'd called him nearly every bad name I could think of for a guy with more money than manners, each epithet seemed to make him stronger. He was like the Incredible Hulk of *s.

But I liked him.

He turned off the movie and switched on some music.

Even as he drunkenly sang along to cheesy eighties ballads playing over the airplane's speakers, I couldn't help but smile at how cute he was. They say wealth and power makes men more attractive, but Smith would have been hot as a wedding singer. He had thick, blond hair that came to a point on his forehead and begged to be ruffled. His nose was strong, with a pointed tip, and his full, kissable lips were always twitching on the verge of some mood shift. The cleft in his chin was the perfect finishing touch, and he'd been shaving every day so I could nuzzle him without getting a rash.

He finished the drink. “Blow job?”

“No, thank you.”

He looked like he might smash the glass, but he got up and refilled it instead.

I'd said no because of the pilot, a kindly older gentleman who'd talked my ear off about the plane's specs. The plane was his baby, and I didn't feel right acting like a filthy whore at his place of business. Other places, sure. I'd certainly not been very demure over the previous five days at Smith's Vermont cabin. It was a wonder we were halfway through typing his novel, given all the f*cking we'd been doing.

And then there was the fighting.

That morning, I'd discovered he'd emailed my mother before we met, and I found it both creepy and flattering that he'd pursued me based on thinking my mom was interesting. At forty-one, he was much closer to her age than mine.

I put my head in my hands. What was I doing? Someone was bound to get hurt, and in these situations, isn't it always the young girl?

Smith sat on the other side of the plane from me, nodding and humming as the drinking slowed. He seemed to be wearing himself out, winding down for a nap, just like a good baby.

He gave me one lingering, pathetic look, and I groaned as I rolled my eyes. I unfastened my seat belt and crossed the plane to take a seat next to him.

The plane bumped from turbulence, and I grabbed onto the back of a seat for balance. “Was that me? Are you sure we're not going to tip the plane over?”

He chortled. “It's not a boat, Tori.”

I took the glass of booze away from him. “Don't spoil your dinner,” I said.

“You're a good assistant. I mean typist. Secretary.”

My stomach tightened with anxiety. “We talked about this. We're dating now. I won't have you introduce me as a member of your staff and then have you pinching my ass in front of people.”

“But it's so entertaining.”

“It's not fair to me, though. How would you feel if I treated you like my pet on a leash?”

He gave me a wicked grin.

“First things first,” I said. “Introduce me as your friend, if you must, but no more of this secretary business. Not in front of other people.”

“You're ssso-see-see-serious when I'm drunk. Why are you so smart? You should write the book, not me. I juss' say the words, but you're the one writing it.” He waved his hands around wildly. “I hass-to-tell you somesing-sss-iss impo-po-tant.”