by Tessa Blake
He knows what I want; he swipes, then pokes at the screen a couple of times and gives it back to me. Brigitte’s Facebook page, and he’s scrolled down to a picture of her and Ainsley, captioned TWINSIES! They do look a bit alike, but not enough to be sisters—let alone “twinsies.”
Dear Lord, I hope Ainsley’s not quite as dim as her friend. She doesn’t need to be a brain surgeon, but I can’t bear idiots, not even for the short time it takes to get off in one. I haven’t fucked a complete moron in at least a couple of years. I prefer at least a veneer of civilization, a little education, someone who can make a bit of conversation. You can’t be fucking all the time.
Well, I could probably fuck this one all of the time.
I look over my shoulder and she’s moving the guy’s hand off her ass again. If I see him go for it a third time, I decide, I’m going to go over there and break his fucking hand off at the wrist. I guess he doesn’t know I’ve decided she’s mine tonight, and that’s fine, but no one treats a woman that way in my place. That’s bullshit.
But so far she’s holding her own. The guy’s a good three inches shorter than she is, and considerably less graceful, but she keeps his hand off her ass and her feet deftly out of his way as he plods around the dance floor, steering her ahead of him. She doesn’t look dim. She looks … interesting.
I can’t remember the last time a woman looked interesting to me.
“Anything on her Facebook?” I ask Marco.
“Locked down tight,” he says. “And the profile pic is some dumb flower. You want me to get on the actual computer? I Googled her real quick but there was nothing.”
Marco’s not a hacker or anything like that; he’s just good at knowing things like how to get around privacy settings and restrictions and so on. Things I don’t have time to learn, and for which—yes—I pay him handsomely.
I shake my head. “I’m gonna go talk to her, regardless. Can you have the car brought to the front?”
He nods, and takes back his phone. I leave him to contact the chauffeur, and begin to make my way toward her. Not directly—not yet—but by moving around the perimeter of the room and finding the best angle from which to approach. The key is not to let them see you coming. That way, when you pop up suddenly, you get an honest reaction. I don’t like it when they have time to compose themselves.
I like to take their breath away.
The music ends, briefly, and I watch her extricate herself from her partner’s embrace. He doesn’t look happy about it—neither would I—but she makes a graceful exit, slipping away from him and making for the one of the doors to the outer reception area. Perhaps she’s headed for the restrooms beyond.
Either way, it’s perfect. All the doors on that side of the ballroom lead out into the cavernous lobby. I step through the doors closest to me and walk toward the door through which she’ll be coming in 3…2…
As if on cue, she spills through the door and crashes directly into me as I head through in the other direction. I catch a faint whiff of jasmine in the single moment before the impact, and the impression that she was turning to look behind her even as she came through the door.
I was prepared for the collision and keep my balance easily, while she teeters a bit and looks like she might just go over backwards.
I also like them off-balance, so that suits me just fine.
Ainsley
This party is such complete bullshit.
I smile down at the idiot shoving me around the dance floor, monitor him carefully for any further attempts to fondle my ass, and try not to let the glare off his bald spot blind me. He’s mansplaining something to me about his futures contracts, and if I were any less interested I would literally drop into a coma right now. This is why I have a stockbroker. I make the money; he makes the money into more money and doesn’t bore me with the details. It’s perfect.
So he’s basically making that Charlie-Brown-adult noise—“whaa-whaa-margins-whaa-whaa-hedges,” and I’m just waiting for him to take a breath so I can escape his futures contracts and his goddamned grabby hands. I’ll go powder my nose, or whatever the hell.
Meanwhile, Rafe Garrett’s just standing in the corner, watching me.
I’ve seen pictures, of course, but I wasn’t remotely ready for the fact that in person, in living color, he’s breathtaking. He’s so handsome, actually, that it’s kind of ridiculous. From the tips of his artfully careless raven-colored hair to the toes of his expensively-shod feet, it’s like he was designed to make a girl’s pulse race—and her panties damp. He smiles at the guy he’s talking to, and two deep dimples crease each cheek as his perfect white teeth flash. He runs a hand through that tangle of dark silky hair, and I feel something like a little bolt of lightning shoot straight through me.
Like I said, ridiculous.
It’s almost impossible to believe I’ve caught his eye, that he’s staring at me across a crowded room, like in some clichéd old movie.
Nevertheless, he is.
He thinks I don’t see, but he’s wrong. He thinks he’s being discreet as he and the other guy put their heads together and whisper about me. Guys think they’re so cool and collected, when they’re just as completely gossipy hens as any girls I’ve ever known.
I’m counting on the fake ID to be enough gossipy hen fodder that they don’t look too hard at the “real” one.
I expect he’ll do some poking around, and that’s fine. What matters is that the first ID he saw was false. The “discovery” of the second ID—which, let’s be honest, I didn’t hide very well—will make him feel like he’s gotten to the truth. People don’t look for a second layer of lies, not in a situation like this. Not if the lie under the lie is a good enough one.
And it is. That second layer of lies is very solid, and the ID is the least of it. I mean, the name’s right—that’s what’s on my birth certificate. And if Rafe Garrett has the kind of people in his pocket that I think he does, he can use that to dig for info on me … but he’ll find what I want him to find. What my bosses want him to find.
My official job at the Daily Press is Fashion Journalist, and that’s what it says on my paycheck, too—the public one, anyway. It’s a miserable salary, completely unremarkable for that job and that level of experience, and just enough to cover the not-terribly-impressive address of my apartment. Rafe Garrett certainly won’t be impressed—nor will he have any reason to dig deeper or harder, once he “figures out” who I am.
But I have a second paycheck—and the name on that one is Andrew Daniels. “Andrew Daniels,” who doesn’t exist, runs his paycheck through a couple of blinds, converts it to cash, deposits it in a clean checking account, and then rents the apartment beside mine under yet another name. And then I knocked down the walls between them and made myself an uber-apartment, with no one the wiser.
It’s very important that Andrew Daniels be untraceable—because people hate Andrew. People want Andrew dead. Crooked politician, corrupt union leaders, mafia bosses, dirty cops … Andrew’s taken them all down, at once point or another. He’s the premiere investigative journalist in the country, probably. And he’s me.
Because here’s the thing: A pretty woman who wants to write about clothes? She can go anywhere. Where there’s dirty money, there are women using it to buy Louboutins. All those fat cats trading in human lives and despair, for the sake of the almighty dollar? They’ve all got wives or girlfriends—or both—and those women have parties and lunches and boy, do they like to talk about their men. And boy, do they know what their men are up to.
Because, as I said, men are gossipy hens—just as much as, if not more than, women.
The guy I’m dancing with does finally have to pause his yammering so he doesn’t suffocate and keel over into my tits—though frankly I think he’d kind of like that—and I step back, smiling. “I’ve got to find a ladies’ room,” I say, sweetly. “I’m feeling a bit warm.”
“I’ll say,” he says, and looks me up and down, leering.
&
nbsp; I restrain myself, heroically, from rolling my eyes. Is this what passes for flirting nowadays? Just a straight-up ogle and trying to grab my ass, like I’m a piece of meat? Gross.
“Thank you for the dance,” I say, and turn to go.
He reaches out and grasps my elbow. I don’t shake him loose, since I don’t want to make a scene, but I do look at his hand on me very pointedly, which he ignores.
“Will you be back?” he asks.
“Oh, I imagine so,” I say, letting out a small laugh. “I might take the long way and gawk at the dresses, but I’m not ready to leave yet.” I’ve told him I’m a fashion reporter, and he was exactly as dismissive of that as I would have expected from a man who’s so caught up in the intricacies of his stupid futures.
“I must insist you save me at least one more dance,” he says, fingers tightening on my elbow. His hands are clammy, his fingers bony. Nothing could be less appealing than coming back and dancing with this creep again.
Still, I don’t get to be choosy when I’m on assignment. I might need him for something later.
I tilt my head, carefully noncommittal, and extract my elbow from his grasp. At least this time it’s not my ass. “We’ll see,” I say, and slip into the crowd before he can say any more. Maybe I will; maybe I won’t. From what I was able to gather, he doesn’t know Rafe Garrett personally or anything, and won’t be of any use to me on that front—but it would look weird if I skulked around not dancing and trying not to look like I’m staring at Rafe, all the while carefully not letting him see that I know he’s staring at me.
The hottest guy in the city, staring at me. I still can’t get over it. Now that I’ve seen him in person, I totally get why he has a reputation as such a Casanova. There’d be no saying no to this guy. Who the hell would want to?
I head for the lobby, figuring that that’s where most folks keep their restrooms, and scan the ballroom as best I can from the corners of my eyes. I don’t see Rafe, but that doesn’t mean anything. I can’t be obvious about it, and most of the ballroom is behind me at this point. As I reach the doorway, I decide it’s safe to turn and give the room a quick once-over—Rafe’s taller than almost anyone else here tonight, so I can locate him and set my mind at ease without being too obvious.
So as I step through the door into the lobby, I turn and cast a glance over my shoulder, taking in the room as quickly as possible while—
And the next thing I know I crash solidly into something taller than me, and broader, something that smells delicious and raises the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. I whip my head around and try not to fall on my ass as I look up—and up—into Rafe Garrett’s eyes.
Shit.
Get your copy of The Billionaire’s Contract by clicking here or going to amzn.to/2UWtUq2
Thanks, as always, to the authors of Flirt Club. OMG you guys, how are we having so much fun?
Thanks again to the Book Tarts. I may write slowly, but I write for you.
And, of course, many thanks are due to the writers in the Authors’ Corner. I don’t know where or even who I’d be without all of you.
Tessa
April 1, 2019
Mr. Billionaire
Read all the other stories in this fun collaborative series!
Mr. Black by Laney Powell
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Mr. Garnet by Dori Lavelle
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Mr. Gold by Margot Rose
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Mr. Green by Angel Devlin
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Mr. Indigo by Alexis Adaire
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Mr. Pink by Dee Ellis
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Mr. Platinum by Fiona Starr
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Mr. Sapphire by Vivian Ward
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Mr. Silver by Tracy Lorraine
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Mr. Steel by Derek Masters
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Mr. Stone by Olivia Hawthorne
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Tessa Blake lives in Central Maine with her kids and pets—and the hot men in her imagination. Her books include The Billionaire’s Contract, Big Mistake, and the upcoming The Billionaire Black Sheep.
Join her in her Facebook reader group, Book Tarts, or find her at:
tessablakewrites.com
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