Read Online A Bona Fide Gold Digger by Allison Hobbs - Free Book Online
Authors: Allison Hobbs
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he was most definitely an African American. Being sickly and gaunt, he gave the impression of an aging man; still Milan could tell that he was somewhere in her mother’s age range—between forty-five and fifty years old.
“I’m pleased to introduce you to your new companion,” Elise said with a dramatic flourish. “Mr. Brockington, meet Milan. Milan, this is Mr. Noah Brockington.”
“Does Milan have a surname?”
“Uh, yes. It’s Nelson. Milan Nelson,” she said.
Milan had never even entertained the thought that her employer was a filthy rich African-American man and she wasn’t entirely certain if his being black would be beneficial or a thorn in her side.
chapter eight
N oah Brockington’s eyelids fluttered open, revealing sharp brown eyes that were alert and appeared wise. Though frail, he did not appear to be close to death. Maybe he was having a good day. Milan hoped so; she had no intention of allowing his improved health to interfere with her free time. She hadn’t planned on reading to a fully alert person who might expect to be engaged in meaningless chatter for hours at a time.
But looking on the bright side, Milan decided that a longer life span for her employer gave her more time to work on getting her name mentioned in his will.
“I’m sorry to see you go, Elise,” Noah Brockington said, his voice strong and clear. He didn’t sound sickly at all. “However, I couldn’t be more delighted with my new companion. Elise, you missed your calling, you should consider going into the employment recruiting business,” he said with a pleasant laugh. “You’re a marvelous headhunter and you’ve certainly earned your finder’s fee.”
Finder’s fee? Milan turned to Elise with eyes widened as if to say, He gave you money for me? Elise looked back blankly. There was something terribly fishy going on. Elise had not told her the entire story and Milan was deeply offended, but being in a particularly sticky legal situation, she was in no position to huffily leave the French manor.
As if he possessed a sixth sense and was aware that Milan had silently acquiesced, Mr. Brockington said, “Welcome to my home; I hope you’ll be comfortable here.” He gave her a brilliant smile.
There wasn’t a trace of illness in his tone, Milan noted again. And that twinkle in his eye—was he flirting? She gave him a closer look. He winked! He actually winked at her. How disgusting . She shot Elise an accusing look, which Elise, blinking innocently, chose to ignore.
Elise turned her blinking eyes to Mr. Brockington. “I thought you’d like Milan,” she said proudly.
Milan looked at Elise in bewilderment. She’d thought being a companion to a doddering old man would be a breeze, but Mr. Brockington was not senile and appeared to be in complete control of his mental faculties.
While he was by no means a young man, he wasn’t as decrepit as Elise had insinuated. He was wizened and gaunt by ill health, but Milan couldn’t consider him elderly. Sure, he looked old enough to be her father, which was old as hell from Milan’s perspective. But he wasn’t the grandfatherly type she’d expected.
He spoke in an articulate and formal manner. There was a hint of a British accent, which she found curious. He was probably one of those black people who used a fake accent to give the impression of being worldly, as if he’d lived abroad for most of his life. His crisp and direct manner of speech gave Milan the distinct impression that her employer was accustomed to giving orders and would most likely be difficult.
And hanging in the air was the ominous hint that Mr. Brockington was not only hard to please, but was also lecherous. She wondered what the hell Elise had gotten her entangled in. Was this some sort of practical joke?
“You look perplexed, my dear,” Mr. Brockington said. “Despite the sparkle that’s no doubt in my eyes after seeing you, I’m extremely ill.” He coughed, cleared his throat, and
“I’m pleased to introduce you to your new companion,” Elise said with a dramatic flourish. “Mr. Brockington, meet Milan. Milan, this is Mr. Noah Brockington.”
“Does Milan have a surname?”
“Uh, yes. It’s Nelson. Milan Nelson,” she said.
Milan had never even entertained the thought that her employer was a filthy rich African-American man and she wasn’t entirely certain if his being black would be beneficial or a thorn in her side.
chapter eight
N oah Brockington’s eyelids fluttered open, revealing sharp brown eyes that were alert and appeared wise. Though frail, he did not appear to be close to death. Maybe he was having a good day. Milan hoped so; she had no intention of allowing his improved health to interfere with her free time. She hadn’t planned on reading to a fully alert person who might expect to be engaged in meaningless chatter for hours at a time.
But looking on the bright side, Milan decided that a longer life span for her employer gave her more time to work on getting her name mentioned in his will.
“I’m sorry to see you go, Elise,” Noah Brockington said, his voice strong and clear. He didn’t sound sickly at all. “However, I couldn’t be more delighted with my new companion. Elise, you missed your calling, you should consider going into the employment recruiting business,” he said with a pleasant laugh. “You’re a marvelous headhunter and you’ve certainly earned your finder’s fee.”
Finder’s fee? Milan turned to Elise with eyes widened as if to say, He gave you money for me? Elise looked back blankly. There was something terribly fishy going on. Elise had not told her the entire story and Milan was deeply offended, but being in a particularly sticky legal situation, she was in no position to huffily leave the French manor.
As if he possessed a sixth sense and was aware that Milan had silently acquiesced, Mr. Brockington said, “Welcome to my home; I hope you’ll be comfortable here.” He gave her a brilliant smile.
There wasn’t a trace of illness in his tone, Milan noted again. And that twinkle in his eye—was he flirting? She gave him a closer look. He winked! He actually winked at her. How disgusting . She shot Elise an accusing look, which Elise, blinking innocently, chose to ignore.
Elise turned her blinking eyes to Mr. Brockington. “I thought you’d like Milan,” she said proudly.
Milan looked at Elise in bewilderment. She’d thought being a companion to a doddering old man would be a breeze, but Mr. Brockington was not senile and appeared to be in complete control of his mental faculties.
While he was by no means a young man, he wasn’t as decrepit as Elise had insinuated. He was wizened and gaunt by ill health, but Milan couldn’t consider him elderly. Sure, he looked old enough to be her father, which was old as hell from Milan’s perspective. But he wasn’t the grandfatherly type she’d expected.
He spoke in an articulate and formal manner. There was a hint of a British accent, which she found curious. He was probably one of those black people who used a fake accent to give the impression of being worldly, as if he’d lived abroad for most of his life. His crisp and direct manner of speech gave Milan the distinct impression that her employer was accustomed to giving orders and would most likely be difficult.
And hanging in the air was the ominous hint that Mr. Brockington was not only hard to please, but was also lecherous. She wondered what the hell Elise had gotten her entangled in. Was this some sort of practical joke?
“You look perplexed, my dear,” Mr. Brockington said. “Despite the sparkle that’s no doubt in my eyes after seeing you, I’m extremely ill.” He coughed, cleared his throat, and
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