Page 8 of Filthy Hot Billionaire
Closer…
Step.
Closer…Step.
As I descended the final step onto the travertine-tiled main floor, I wanted nothing more than to pick up my skirts and race back to the top. What stopped me? Well, for one, I wasn’t wearing skirts. This wasn’t the Wild West. We didn’t wear petticoats or endure bouts of the vapors. Instead, we wore Giorgio Armani silk halter gowns and chased antidepressants with bourbon.
Where was I? Oh, right, listing all the things that made me a pampered princess.
Material possessions were a must.
Yep, you could checkthatbox forWho wants to be a Texanaire?
We had material possessions in spades. Just from where I stood in the front foyer, I could probably make a list any well-to-do insurance adjuster would be giddy over. Antique knickknacks, marble statues, gilded frames, and Swarovski crystals were a frequent occurrence here at the Campbell abode. Just turn your head and blink, and you’d see a new one. Or ten.
Okay, fine. That was probably to be expected in a twenty-three-thousand-square-foot mansion with a gymnasium, two ballrooms, an indoor as well as an outdoor swimming pool, a couple of hot tubs, a sauna, tennis court, and more luxurious furnishings than one would ever need, all sitting on ten acres of private beachfront property.
And to think, this house was my stepmother’s concession, claiming her humble beginnings required she got the biggest bang for her buck. Which for her meant a mansion in Texas versus a condo in New York or a modest house in the Hollywood Hills.
But don’t worry. We didn’t stop at material items.
The next on the checklist? Yes, you guessed it: house staff.
There was a plethora of men and women in my father’s employ because, hey, a house was not a home without hurricane shutters and a couple dozen people wandering around aimlessly all day getting paid far too little to do way too much.
“Good morning, Daniel.” I paused, offering a dramatic curtsy to good ol’ Daniel, the man with the regal title of house steward.
For those who don’t know what a steward is, well, he’s the one who holds the keys to the castle when the king isn’t in. Also known as the estate manager or the overseer. Or my personal favorite: majordomo. Daniel oversaw everyone from the professional chef on the payroll to the gentleman’s valet who tended to my father’s every whim, right down to the gardener, who happened to have a master’s degree in botany and maintained the wide variety of flowers and plants that were kept on the estate. And the other two dozen or so employees in between.
“Good morning, Miss Emily,” Daniel said kindly, if not stodgily, his back board straight, his hair stone gray.
I liked Daniel. Mostly. He was a bit pretentious, but who could fault him? What was the saying?When in Rome, do as the Romans do?
The thought made me smile.
I was fond of all the staff because not only did they keep the estate running like a well-oiled machine, they were also the ones who’d befriended me growing up. From my nanny when I was five to my personal maid who still catered to my needs, I’d spent more time with them than I ever had with my father.
Speaking of dear old Dad…
I kept moving, taking my time as I leisurely strolled toward the dining room.
You see, my father was none other than Rhett Campbell, the owner of Delta June’s, the famous auction house known for acquiring and selling items owned by notorious outlaws like Sam Bass, the Newton gang, Bonnie Parker, and Clyde Barrow. Yes, siree, we’d made our fortune off the material possessions of all those infamous criminals. Plus a few white-collar ones along the way because who wouldn’t want to own a pair of Bernie Madoff’s slightly used Ferragamo loafers?
Closer…Step.
Closer…Step.
I joked, sure; however, the auction house named for my great-great-great-grandfather’s beloved wife was nothing to scoff at. While it had originally been set up in a dilapidated old barn on the outskirts of Austin, Texas, Delta June’s main headquarters had since moved to fifty acres of prime real estate in the heart of Austin. Despite its humble beginnings, Delta June’s had grown exponentially since its inception in 1873, nurtured and cultivated as it was passed down from generation to generation, from first son to first son, so on and so forth, up until…
Yep, you probably guessed this one, too: no more sons.
Where, oh, where had my father gone wrong?
Because my father never had a son, I’d thought Delta June’s would be mine one day. Thiswasthe twenty-first century, after all, and what daughterwouldn’twant to be the CEO of an auction house with warehouses full of both new and used items that had been seized by the US Marshal Service more often than not?
There were worse ways to make a living, right?
Closer…Step.
