Wall Street Titan (Wall Street Titan #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,65
a blissful expression on her face.
Fuck. I really have to get her to my place before I attack her in public like the sex maniac I’m turning into.
The baklava is small, so we make quick work of it, and then I motion for the check. Emma grabs it again, and I let her, though it pains me to see her carefully count out the bills for her portion.
In the investigator’s report, there was a section on her finances—the miserable state of which makes it even more insane that she’s doing this.
Finally, the bill is paid, and I lead her out of the restaurant, my hand resting on the small of her back.
“Where’s Wilson?” she asks, looking around for the car. “Or are we taking a cab?” Then her eyes widen, her cheeks flushing as she realizes what she’s implied. “Never mind, I forgot you live nearby. I’ll just take the subway home and—”
“We’re less than four blocks from my place, so I gave Wilson the rest of the evening off,” I say, turning to face her. Capturing her small hands in mine, I gaze at her upturned face. “Emma, kitten… I want you to come home with me.”
34
Emma
I don’t know what I expected from a billionaire’s residence, but Marcus’s penthouse in Tribeca is like something from another world—a world I’ve only seen in glossy magazines and TV shows about the lifestyles of the rich and famous.
Ultra-modern and decorated in shades of gray and white, the place is huge—at least for New York City. Maybe in the South or Midwest, where land is cheap, an apartment this size would be nothing special, but in the heart of Manhattan, it’s the equivalent of a fifty-karat diamond. As Marcus guides me around, I see an enormous living room with a sleek spiral staircase in the middle, a movie-theater-like media room, a fully equipped home gym, a dining area with a table big enough for twenty people, and a spacious kitchen with gleaming appliances that wouldn’t look out of place on a spaceship.
And a pool.
A forty-foot-long, rectangular swimming pool separated from the rest of the apartment by a thick glass wall and partially shielded from view by eight-foot-tall potted plants with leaves the size of my head.
“Are they real?” I ask in a hushed tone, reaching out to touch one glossy leaf, and Marcus nods, smiling.
“Yes, of course. There’s an indoor landscaping company that comes in to take care of them once a week, watering them and so on.”
Right, of course. Because that’s what wealthy people do: hire professional landscapers to take care of their houseplants.
“Do you have a chef and a housekeeper as well?” I ask, but to my surprise, Marcus shakes his head.
“My butler handles everything, including the cooking and the cleaning. Well, he oversees the cleaning; there’s a company that actually does it.”
“I see.” I sound slightly choked, but I can’t help it.
A freaking butler? Am I in Downton Abbey?
“Come, let me show you upstairs,” Marcus says, and I follow him to the spiral staircase, trying not to look as overwhelmed as I feel. I knew he was rich, of course, but it didn’t sink in fully before this.
Everywhere I look are objects that cost more than all of my family’s possessions combined. From the abstract paintings on the walls to the sleek sculptures that could’ve been in a modern-art museum, this penthouse reeks of money. Insane money. The kind of money that makes a joke of my attempts to pretend that because I pay for my meals, we’re somehow on equal footing.
God, what am I doing here?
I don’t belong in this place any more than a subway rat would.
“This is the library,” Marcus says, leading me into the first room off the stairs on the second floor, and I see two lounge chairs in a front of a fireplace and walls lined with books. Some of the bookshelves are covered with what appears to be hermetically sealed glass—they must hold more valuable books, like the signed first editions that he sent me.
Feeling like Belle in Beauty and the Beast, I walk over to one of the glass cases and peer inside.
Yep. Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, the pages yellowed and slightly frayed. I have no doubt that if I opened the cloth-bound cover, I’d see the author’s bold scrawl on the title page.
“Have you read all of these?” I ask, looking up when Marcus comes to stand next to me.