The Billionaire's Deal: The Complete Story: An Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Kaswell, Crystal

  A surge of irritation passes through me. He could ask. He could pretend like he cares that I have my own priorities.

  "You're supposed to meet my sister," I say.

  "Don't subject her to mine."

  Deep breath. I have to push back to get what I want from Blake. "Then meet her tonight. Come over for dinner."

  "I'm entertaining a friend."

  Since when does Blake have friends? I bite my lip. No backing down now. "Bring him."

  "I'll make reservations for four. Eight o'clock. I'll send a car to pick you up at seven-thirty."

  His voice softens "Fine."

  "I'll see you then." I hang up the phone without a proper goodbye.

  Blake make think he owns my time, but he doesn't. It's still mine.

  I push my irritation aside. I'm going to have a life again. Whatever that costs, it's worth it.

  ***

  Lizzy is not impressed by the car service. She sits with her arms folded over her chest, her eyes on the window.

  "I wanted to go out with Sarah after dinner," she says.

  "You still can."

  She looks at me as if to say yeah right. "This is going to take hours."

  "It will be better than anything I can cook."

  Lizzy smirks. "True."

  The car stops in front of the restaurant, and the driver helps us out. Lizzy doesn't even stumble in her heels. And she had several very tight dresses in her closet. Where the hell do her and Sarah go on their usual Friday nights?

  I bite my tongue. Can't seem overprotective and uncool. She's an adult, and she can go to all-ages clubs if she wants.

  "You think I'll get carded here?" She asks.

  Oh, hell no. I shoot her a death glare. "That's not funny. Alcohol is dangerous. It can kill you."

  She shrinks back, shakes her head, and moves backwards towards the restaurant. "I'm only kidding." She waves at the driver. "Thank you."

  I do the same. "Thanks." I take out my anxiety on my purse straps. "Don't joke about that, okay? It's not funny."

  "Okay."

  I follow her inside. The restaurant is dark. Most of the light is front candles in the middle of the tables.

  I nod hello to the hostess. "Kat Wilder. I'm meeting—"

  "Of course, Ms. Wilder. Your party is in a private room." She grabs two menus and leads us upstairs through a set of double doors.

  The room is impressive—a table big enough for eight people and tall windows that let in the dark blue evening light. Blake is sitting opposite Declan, the guy I met at the company party. That must be the friend. I guess he's visiting.

  Blake stands. "We're fine, Cindy. Thank you." He takes the menus from the hostess.

  She nods and disappears through the double doors.

  He offers Lizzy his hand. "Blake Sterling. You must be Lizzy."

  "Yeah." She shakes his hand. "It's nice to meet you. About time, really, with you engaged to my sister." She raises her eyebrow.

  "I agree." Blake motions to Declan. "Declan Jones. Too much of an ass to introduce himself, apparently."

  Declan makes his way to Lizzy and offers his hand to shake. "Nice to meet you." He motions to me. "And nice to see you again, Kat. It's rare Blake wants to introduce me to anyone for personal reasons. I can't say I'm used to it."

  Lizzy laughs. "Yeah, Kat either."

  Lizzy and Declan share a knowing look at our expense. A good sign. Hopefully.

  "I almost had a heart attack when Blake asked me to change our plans," Declan says.

  "They get the point." Blake pulls out my chair for me.

  I sit. "Have you ever met one of Blake's girlfriends?"

  "Blake has never had a girlfriend." Declan shoots Blake a wink. "Maybe not even a girl-space-friend. You should have seen him in college. He was eighteen or nineteen by the time I met him. Not as handsome as I am, but not bad."

  Everyone sits as Declan continues his story. Lizzy even stares at him with rapt attention.

  "The girls went crazy for him. He was something of a legend with his company in the works, and he had a reputation for being untouchable. There was this ongoing bet—it must have been at least ten or twenty women in our lit class—who could seduce Blake first. They would come up to him with these gaga eyes and make the most obvious come-ons, and he would shake his head I'm busy and go right back to programming."

  Blake's cheeks flush red. He's embarrassed. God, I never thought I'd see him embarrassed again.

  "That's not quite accurate," Blake says. "But it's not appropriate dinner conversation."

  "He wants you to know he got plenty of tail when he wanted it," Declan says.

  Blake motions to me as if to say hello, that's my fiancée. Declan shrugs like it's no big deal.

  Lizzy laughs. "Kat is the same way. She's shocked when guys flirt with her. She insists they're only being friendly. Cause New Yorkers are usually so friendly."

  "When has anyone ever flirted with me?" I ask.

  "How about the waiter at the brunch place—"

  "That's server to server solidarity."

  "He gives you free drinks."

  "Still."

  Lizzy shakes her head. "Flirting."

  She and Declan share another knowing look. They suppress a few giggles.

  It was not flirting. I know flirting. And this look going between my sister and Blake's player friend. This is flirting.

  I swallow hard. Can't be over protective. My sister is old enough to flirt with guys. And it's only flirting. It's not like she's going to sleep with him tonight.

  No way in hell.

  There's a knock on the door. A waiter steps inside and takes our drink order. Lizzy sticks with her usual Diet Coke. She doesn't even make a snide remark about how she could order a cocktail if she really wanted.

  I relax into my seat. Like this is a normal dinner.

  Blake turns his attention to Lizzy. "Kat tells me you're a programmer."

  "Nothing of your caliber, but, yes," she says.

  "What languages?" Blake asks.

  "Woah, we're not talking work at dinner," Declan says.

  Lizzy blushes. "Java and Python mostly. I'm learning C++."

  Blake leans to pick something up. He unzips a bag, pulls out a laptop, and brandishes it like it's an amazing piece of art. "You want to see any of the Sterling Tech code?"

  Her eyes go wide. "Uh, yeah. I mean, if you're sure that's okay."

  "We'll call it a family secret."

  She nearly jumps out of her chair and kneels next to the laptop. "The chat bot has always been my favorite thing."

  "Kat told me you're interested in A.I."

  She nods. Her attention is rapt as Blake boots up the computer and navigates through a bunch of security. I know the code is on the screen from Lizzy's loud sigh. She's in heaven.

  I look to Declan for consolation. "Are you a programmer, too?"

  "Software engineer and CEO."

  Blake clears his throat. "His first two start-ups went bankrupt."

  "Technicalities." Declan smiles. "This one is doing well."

  Lizzy is still in her own world, staring at the screen with every ounce of her attention. I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable. I wouldn't have guessed that I'd be the one out of place. The no education, no future girl in a room full of people with skills.

  Blake offers his hand. I squeeze it tightly, and the knot in my stomach dissipates. There is something soothing about him.

  I have to get used to being outclassed.

  The waiter arrives with our drinks. I take a long, long sip of my gin and tonic. This is going to be a long night.

  ***

  Programming talk slows to a minimum. Blake offers Lizzy an internship for next summer. Declan matches the offer. It takes everything I have not to throw my drink on the floor and scream no way in hell is my sister working with a flirting player, but I manage to keep my mouth shut. The guy is nice. Flirting isn't a crime.

  And it doesn't stop. Lizzy and Decl
an take turns sharing stories that make fun of Blake and me, respectively. I focus on my drink and my food. The point of this dinner is to get Lizzy on board. That's all that matters.

  After dinner, I make an excuse to leave. Lizzy's attitude shifts once we're alone. No more high from coding secrets—just as likely it's from Diet Coke.

  She looks at me with concern. "I can see why you like him." She takes a slow breath. "But you have to be careful. He'll rip your heart out like it's nothing."

  I nod like it's news. Like I'm not painfully aware that Blake will tear me to pieces and toss me aside.

  Chapter Ten

  Blake's apartment is empty. The sun is still bright enough to illuminate the den. It's even more grey like this. Sleek, yes. Masculine, yes. Homey, no way in hell.

  It doesn't even look like someone lives here. Everything is perfectly clean and organized. No stray coffee cups on the table. No spoons in the sink. Not a pillow out of place on the couch. Well, not a pillow on the couch at all.

  I fish my new sketchpad out of my purse. It's a small thing, only big enough for little doodles. I take a seat and draw the view. The light falls over the park softly. From here, I can see clear across the park, all the way to the East Side. All the way up to Harlem and down to, well, Downtown.

  In my drawing, the buildings across the park start as rectangles. I add detail—the shadows, the windows, the satellite dishes on the roofs—until they start to resemble themselves.

  The door opens. Damn, Blake, breaking my concentration again.

  "You got here early," he says.

  I glance at my phone. Sure enough, it's 5:00 on the dot. No traffic on Saturday, I guess. Cars are fast compared to the subway. The dark seclusion of a limousine feels even faster.

  I keep my attention on my sketch. It's not great. I was much better when I was drawing every day. But there's still something exhilarating about capturing the world on a piece of paper. I want to keep doing it. I want to do it all the damn time.

  Blake moves closer. He sits on the couch next to me, peering over my shoulder to examine the sketch. His breath is steady. I can't see his expression, but I'm sure that wouldn't tell me anything either.

  Doesn't matter. I'm not interested in his opinion on my artistic pursuits, whatever becomes of them. I flip the sketch pad closed, slide it back into my purse, and turn to face him.

  He brushes the hair from my eyes. "Ashleigh should arrive soon."

  Okay. Not sure why that should matter.

  He holds my gaze. "She'll do your hair and makeup."

  "Wow, quite the assistant. Dresses your girlfriends and does their hair and makeup. Wouldn't it be easier to get fake engaged to Ashleigh? She could do everything herself."

  "Don't do that."

  I slide back and swing my legs onto the couch. A solid barrier. "Do what?"

  "Don't mock me. Or Ashleigh. She's a kind woman. But not for me." He pushes my legs aside and scoots closer. "You're the one I want."

  "As your pretend fiancée?"

  "There's nothing pretend. We're getting married."

  "Except that we're not in love. We're not even friends. I don't know anything about you." I move off the couch. There aren't many places to go in this enormous apartment, at least not in the way of furniture. I take a seat on a stool in the kitchen.

  "What would you like to know?"

  "Something important," I say. "Something your fiancée would know."

  "You know everything important. The documents I sent over with Jordan—"

  "That's all stuff anyone could find online. What about the Blake behind the suit and the steel expression."

  The steel expression softens. He slips out of his suit jacket, undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, and pulls it open. He points to a thin scar running across his chest. It's so light I hadn't noticed it.

  "See this?" he asks.

  I nod.

  "I tell people I fell out of a tree. You'll see at my mother’s house. None of the trees are sturdy enough to climb."

  "What happened?" I ask.

  "My parents were fighting. I stepped in, and my father hit me instead."

  My stomach flip-flops. That's something a lot of people wouldn't know. And the look on his damn face. He's still calm. Blake is part machine. That's the only rational explanation for him being so calm talking about his dad hitting him. "How old were you?"

  "Twelve."

  Breath and I were acquainted a little while ago, but not anymore.

  He moves towards me. "It was a long time ago. It doesn't hurt me anymore."

  "Yeah, of course." I offer him something close to a smile. "Thanks for telling me. I hope you're not... Well, if you want to talk, we could talk." I try to decipher the look on his face but it does me no good. "I know that talking isn't really our thing. Or your thing. You're very quiet and all. But, yeah, um... I could listen if you ever wanted to talk. And I could talk, too." My cheeks flush red. I'm still stammering on about talking. "If you want."

  I resolve to stop babbling. Water. A glass of water would occupy my thoughts and my mouth. I slide off the stool and pour myself a glass.

  "I appreciate that," he says.

  Water done. "I really meant more like... a hobby or something. Your favorite book. That kind of thing."

  "1984."

  "Really?" I ask.

  He nods. "Funny, I know. My company is basically Big Brother."

  I nod. "You don't have personal access to that, do you?" My cheeks flare. "You couldn't see my search histories or emails. Could you? You could, couldn't you?"

  He nods. "I haven't though. I won't. If I ever want to know something about you, I'll ask."

  "Okay. Good. But you knew about my parents and my sister."

  "All easy to find with a normal search engine and a few phone calls," he says.

  I study his expression. Inscrutable as usual. No signs he's lying. He's probably telling the truth. Blake does seem like the type who likes a challenge.

  "And you?" he asks.

  "What about me?"

  "What's your favorite book?"

  My cheeks flush. "You'll laugh."

  "Have you ever seen me laugh?"

  Now, I'm the one laughing. "Come to think of it, no. I'm going to have to make more stupid jokes. Do something to get an expression on your face."

  He is unblinking, as usual. This time, I'm pretty sure he's trying to mess with me.

  "It's Botox, isn't it?" I ask. "The secret to your youth and your lack of expression. I bet it's Botox."

  That elicits a smile. Not quite a laugh, but it's something.

  "It's a graphic novel," I say. "Called Ghost World. It's about these teenage girls who live in a small town. There are all these little vignettes of their lives as they start to grow up and realize all their ideas about the world are wrong. There's a movie, too, but it's different in a lot of ways."

  A smile. Holy crap, that's a full-fledged smile.

  "Kat, you do realize that owning a tech company basically makes me a giant nerd?"

  "But with the suit and the abs and everything." I clear my throat, trying not to turn red under his stare. "You've never done one nerdy thing. You've never even said you liked something remotely related to geek culture. Not even something that's really mainstream like The Avengers or Star Wars or something."

  No reaction from Blake, of course.

  "You don't even. Well, I guess, except for 1984, I don't know much about what you like or do. Except work. And chess. You work and you play chess and you read 1984." A comic book version of Blake filters through my brain. He's as built as any superhero, but his super power is work. Every page, he's at a computer, in a business meeting, or playing chess in a new, fantastical location. There's a copy of 1984 sitting in the chair where his chess opponent would sit.

  "Kat."

  I'm back to attention. "Yeah?"

  "What's your favorite book that isn't a graphic novel?"

  "You mean a book where all the pages are words?" I
ask.

  He nods.

  "Brave New World." I wink.

  He holds my gaze. "Are you mocking me, Miss Wilder?"

  "Definitely. I mean, obviously, if I was going to go dystopia, I'd go with The Hunger Games." I rack my brain for a book I really love, one that will make me sound mildly sophisticated. Nothing comes. "I'm sticking with Ghost World."

  He opens the fridge, pulls out a bowl of fruit salad and two forks, and makes a motion that can only mean eat. "You're sticking to your guns. I admire that."

  "Thanks." I pick up a fork and stab a berry. Damn. The fruit salad is all berries. Blake has been paying attention. "I was writing a graphic novel back in high school. I might finally have time to work on it now."

  His stare gets intense.

  "I didn't have a chance to mention it yesterday, but Shana, my manager at the restaurant, well, ex-manager. She fired me. Too much commotion. She didn't want reporters scaring away customers."

  His eyes flare with anger. "I can pull some strings. Have the place closed."

  "Could you really?"

  "Yes."

  I stab a blackberry. "That's okay. I wouldn't want the other servers to be out of jobs. Even if it was a dick move."

  His gaze connects with mine. "You always put other people first."

  "It's common courtesy."

  "It's not common at all."

  Shit. I'm blushing again. Fake, fake, fake. Lie, lie, lie. No falling for the aloof billionaire. Not even a crush. Out of the question.

  He moves closer. Three inches away. One hand slides around my waist, pulling up the fabric of my sweater. The other traces the outline of my lips. He brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean. He leans closer. Closer. My eyelids press together.

  His lips make contact. It's not like any of our other kisses. It's not some big thing for show. It's not a smoldering kiss designed to make my panties wet. It's sweet. Caring even.

  Lie, lie, lie! I dig my nail into my thumb to remind myself. There is no relationship. Blake and Kat is a lie. It's all pretend.

  A knock interrupts us. Blake steps back. Desire flares in his eyes, but it's quickly replaced by a stony calm.

  "That must be Ashleigh."

  He moves far, far away. The front door might as well be another planet. I stab another berry. Blake and I were only talking. Friendly, not at all romantic talking. More like work colleagues at the water cooler. I hear that's a thing.