The Billionaire's Heart (The Silver Cross Club Book 4) by Bec Linder Read Free Book Online

muscled forearms. It was amazing that he was so pale after spending—what had Carter said?—the last year , at least, in Africa. He must have used some high-octane sunblock. Or maybe he carried around a parasol like the Japanese tourists did.
    “Coffee delivery,” I said brightly, walking toward him with the cups in my hands.
    He looked up from his computer and blinked, brow furrowed like he wasn’t quite sure why I had interrupted him. Then his expression cleared, and he reached for the coffee. “Full of sugar, I hope,” he said.
    “You’ll be bouncing off the walls like a toddler before naptime,” I said, and then wished I could stuff the words back in my mouth. Lord, couldn’t I ever shut up? “Uh, so can you tell me a little bit about the company?”
    He nodded. “Pull up a chair,” he said. “I realize I didn’t give you many specifics when we spoke yesterday.”
    No specifics at all, really, but I wasn’t going to quibble. I set my things down on my own desk and then wheeled my chair over and sat down. Elliott had pulled up some type of presentation on his computer screen. Importance of Providing Clean Water to Sub-Saharan African Communities , it read.
    Oh boy. This was going to be dry.
    I scooted my chair a little closer. He was wearing some sort of rich cologne, and I had a powerful urge to lean in and press my face against his neck and breathe. Who cared about a boring presentation when you had gorgeous eye candy to distract you?
    “I want to build a better water filter,” Elliott said.
    That wasn’t the opening I had expected. Maybe the presentation wouldn’t be so dry after all. “So you’re worried about water-borne diseases, right?” I asked. I had done some research over the weekend, and wanted to show off what I’d learned. I wanted to impress him. “I mean, I know that clean drinking water is a huge problem in many parts of the world, but what’s wrong with the water filters we already have? I’ve got one of those pitchers in my fridge and it works pretty well.”
    “Right,” he said. He clicked forward a few slides, past pictures of sad African children and microbes. I’d passed that test, then. “You’re talking about commercial carbon filters. Those are excellent for removing bad tastes from water, but the one in your kitchen won’t filter out any microorganisms. Chlorine doesn’t kill protozoa, and boiling doesn’t remove chemical impurities, and it’s not very environmentally friendly. There are more options in urban areas, but in rural areas there are basically two solutions: dig a well, which is of course very time- and labor-intensive, or use a BioSand filter.” He clicked forward to a picture of a tall concrete cylinder. “These are very effective, but they have to be constructed and maintained, and it takes time for the water to filter through.”
    He seemed like a different person when he was talking about his work: less inhibited, more animated. Even his hand gestures were more expansive. “Okay, that all makes sense,” I said. “So what are you planning to do?”
    Mistake. His lips compressed. It was like watching a computer shut down. All of his eager openness disappeared. “I’m still working on the details.”
    “You mean you don’t have a plan,” I said. Great. I’d be lucky if he could even afford to pay me for the four full weeks.
    “That’s not entirely true,” he said, and rubbed one hand over his face. “I have some ideas. But I’m not an engineer, and I can’t afford to hire one right now. I need investors.”
    “You need a marketing plan,” I said, realizing now why he had hired me. “So you want me to do a slick branding package, make you seem important, and then—that’s the conference you mentioned on Friday. You’re going to try to find investors.”
    He nodded. “I need money before I can move forward.”
    “Can’t Carter give you money?” I asked. “And aren’t you rich, too? Carter doesn’t know anyone who isn’t