Page 24 of The Rebel Billionaire

What the hell is my mother doing here?

I clench my fist to prevent myself from running a hand through my hair again. She’s the last person I need today. But like the dutiful son, I hug her, my eyes instantly locking on the young woman sitting on the sofa behind her.

Who the hell?

As if sensing my unspoken question, she makes the introductions.

“Sandro, let me introduce you to Brooke. Brooke is the daughter of an old school friend. She’s just moved to New York. I’m taking her to HR.”

Oh fuck! Not another waif and stray!

This must be her latest charity case. Where does she get them from, and does she not understand that we can’t just employ anyone?

I scowl, but Brooke, or whatever her name is, holds my gaze.

Surprising.

She’s confident, although for some reason, she’s trying not to be. I’m adept at reading people, and I notice the slight lift of her chin, a mark of silent defiance.

“Brooke,” I say, stepping forward and holding out a hand in greeting. “Welcome to St Clair.”

Her posture stiffens, her shoulders visibly tightening as she places her hand in mine. She’s tall, with the build of a model.

I mask my grimace.

Not another wannabe model hoping to get a contract by working here.

Her grip is surprisingly strong. Her eyes reveal a level of intelligence I’m not expecting.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Bianchi,” she says. Her British accent catches me off guard. Is that a hint of sarcasm in her tone?

“Alessandro, please,” I tell her.

“Alessandro,” she repeats, the sound of my name rolling off her tongue making my muscles tighten.

She inclines her head, her eyes never leaving mine as she withdraws her hand slowly. It’s only then that I realise I’m still holding it.

What the fuck?

Callie’s announcement on Friday, a weekend spent torturing myself and today’s shitshow of interviews have thrown me into a tailspin.

I turn to Callie, wanting to end whatever is going on here.

“What time is my next interview?”

“You have an hour. The agency just called to say the candidate will be late. Family issues.”

I run a hand down my face in frustration, pausing at my mouth. “Cancel,” I say, lowering it, knowing my irritation is shining through. “Tell the agency I don’t need someone who can’t turn up on time.”

Callie doesn’t even flinch, simply nods. “I’ll get on it right away.”

“Perfect timing then,” Mother says, stepping forward. “You have time for a coffee.”

I bite my lip to stop my retort. She, of all people, knows how precious time is and how many tasks I’ve had to bump to hold these interviews. When she was CEO, she couldn’t even be bothered to make time for her children. But experience tells me it will be less painful to deal with Mother and her latest pet project now.

“Callie?” I say.

“Of course. Can I get you your usual, Sophia?” she asks before turning to her guest. “Brooke, what can I get you?”