by Jane Henry
Be My Babygirl
A Billionaire Romance
Jane Henry
Shanna Handel
BE MY BABYGIRL: A BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE
By: Jane Henry and Shanna Handel
Copyright 2020 by Jane Henry and Shanna Handel
Cover art by Popkitty Design
A billionaire daddy, an accidental escort, and a one-night stand...
It's only supposed to be a visit to Vegas,
Inspiration for my next romance novel.
But when I'm mistaken for an escort...
By the city's most famous billionaire...
I find more than inspiration.
He makes me call him daddy.
Pushes my boundaries.
Demands my submission...
Makes my body hum like the Vegas lights.
But time is ticking,
And this stern, reclusive billionaire wants to own me,
To make me his Babygirl...
Proving that what happens in Vegas, never really stays in Vegas.
Prologue
Darius
I sit in my darkened office, the screens in front of me lit up like a mission control center.
Hell, that’s exactly what it is.
Tonight’s mission: find a tall, lithe brunette with large eyes and pouty lips to wine and dine, seduce her into a one-night stand, and never let her know my name. I smile to myself in the darkness, then shake my head. Jesus, I feel like Batman.
I take a long pull from my beer. Downstairs, in front of others, I drink nothing but the finest whiskey, thank-you-very-much. Scotch and bourbon—select reserve. But up here in the privacy of my penthouse, I like to pop a cold one. Some say beer’s unrefined for a guy like me, but it’s my comfort food, reminiscent of simpler days and simpler times.
I finish the beer, sigh with contentment, and place the cold bottle down. I lean back and prop my feet up on the desk, lace my fingers behind my head, and stare at screen after screen after screen. But the more I look, the more discontent I become.
I stab at my phone, and it sparks to life. My contentment quickly sours when my calendar pops up and two big fucking entries this month flash before me like obnoxious neon road signs. I don’t need the reminders.
I shut my phone off and toss it on my desk. I watch as it slides before it skitters to a halt at the very edge. I get to my feet and stretch, energy vibrating through me. I pace, my eyes on the screens, but I’ve seen these faces so many times it feels like watching reruns.
Poker table.
Buffet line one.
Craps table.
Live performance.
Drag show.
I sigh and scrub a hand across my brow. I need something new, something different. A little excitement. Something that once again sparks the joy I once had, now buried beneath years of hard work and success.
Something.
And then my eye catches sight of a glimmering, glittery display so opulent, it’s attention-grabbing even for Vegas. I squint at the screen. What the hell is that? I step closer to the screen. It isn’t until I see Miranda Montague in her regal heels walk by that I feel my brows go up in surprise. I reach for the phone on my desk and push a number. My secretary answers on the first ring.
“Yes, Mr. Morrow?”
“Ruth, I thought the Escort Service wasn’t coming until the end of the month?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Morrow. They had initially planned on the end of the month, but we had a cancellation, and the Sugar Daddies were eager to take the opportunity.”
I flinch when she says their given name.
“I see.”
“Is that a problem, sir?”
Not a problem at all, unless you’re hungry for a pretty girl to fuck, long and hard and on your own fucking terms, and you know every damn woman in that lineup’s a knockout. But Sugar Daddies to them means something altogether different.
But I’m the boss, and I didn’t get here by sleeping with the help.
“Not at all. Thank you. Have a good night.”
I disconnect the call, walk around my desk, and lean against the very edge of it. I fold my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes on the screen, this time my only focus, the long table laden with food, and a handful of women dressed in cocktail dresses and platform heels. The others haven’t arrived yet. These are the pros, the ones running the show preparing for the others.
They look classy enough to grace the cover of Esquire, and for good reason. Sugar Daddies is the single most profitable escort service in all of Vegas. We prefer euphemisms for what they do, of course, because technically prostitution is only legal in some places in Nevada, and Vegas isn’t one of them. On record, they’re only Sugar Daddies.
I glance at my watch. Thirty minutes until the girls arrive. Just enough time for me to get dressed, head downstairs, and watch them enter in person.
I won’t choose one, of course. Absolutely not. I’m much too civilized for that.
I pour a shot of the best scotch I own from the sideboard in my office as if to remind myself I’m better than that, I’ve risen above. That I don’t need to pay a woman to share my bed, and I fucking don’t.
I have a job to do.
Just a job.
Chapter 1
Katie
As I stare at my open laptop, I press my hands into my lap to keep from biting my nails. I just painted them a few hours ago and there’s not even a chip on them yet. Most likely from lack of use.
Somehow, I hoped fancy red nail polish would make the keys in front of me magically work again, but nope. I’m still staring at my laptop like it’s a rattlesnake ready to strike, only now I’ve paired yesterday’s yoga pants and messy bun with a manicure.
I’m just as stuck as I was when I started, still with a zero-word count on my screen. No suspenseful plot or cheeky heroine pricks at my imagination. I lower my head to my desk and press my forehead to the cold wood. I don’t even have a title. I lift my head, ready to literally bang it on the desk, when I realize what I’m doing. My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I lift my head and focus on the blank page before me. What have I not yet written about?
I can do this. I mean, I graduated summa cum laude already. Love Under the Stars, my debut series, did great. I can do this again. A few months ago, my publisher, Sarah told me, “No more cowboys, they’re too real.” I’ve been floundering at my keyboard ever since.
Ten days out from my deadline and if I don’t make it, I will lose my advance for my book, and my rent will be left unpaid, my apartment gone, and I’ll be sleeping in the back of my tiny car.
I have to get the juices flowing. I’ve got to write this story. Interlocking my fingers, I stretch them before me, like a boxer readying to go into the ring. “Come on, Katie. You got this. You just need a little romantic inspiration. Let’s start by finding a panty melting hero.”
Gone are the days when characters would flood my mind, demanding their stories be written. I’d often juggle two, even three storylines at a time, having so much inspiration I had difficulty keeping everyone organized.
And the sex scenes—my God, the sex scenes. I swear they were so hot; they were the reason my old laptop’s hardware burned up, letting out a whirring noise followed by a strange smoky smell as it died.
The last book I wrote was on that computer.
Maybe writing has an element of luck to it, a cause for superstition. Like a baseball player losing the game because he’s missing his lucky glove. Am I losing in the writing world because I no longer have my trusty dusty laptop?
Opening my browser, I type in hot Hollywood men, inwardly groaning at how pathetic it is t
hat I’ve been reduced to finding inspiration by cruising through thumbnails of movie star hotties.
As I flip through images, I mutter to myself. “Too tall, too cocky, weirdly shaped eyebrows, too young. Plus, all these guys look like their skin’s been filled with Botox. Not a wrinkle or smile line in sight.” I’ve been reduced to objectifying men. Sigh.
Maybe I’ll look up celebrities closer to home. Get that rugged, billionaire desert vibe. Is that a thing? I type in Top fifty eligible bachelors, Nevada. To my surprise there’s an article covering the single male power players of my state.
I freeze.
Whoa.
Deep brown eyes stare fixedly at the camera with not a glimmer of a smile. his features arranged into a slightly no-nonsense look, his gaze firm as it holds the camera. His dark brown hair’s tinged with silver, and a short beard covers a tight, chiseled jaw. He wears a perfectly tailored suit, but even beneath the fabric I can tell he’s... big. Massive. Built.
As I stare into his eyes, I feel a little stirring between my thighs. One I’ve not felt in way too long, especially considering my line of work.
I’ve never before written an older man, younger woman, age gap story and this could work.
The arrow of my mouse hovers over his face. “He’s perfect,” I mutter to myself. For the book, I mentally amend.
He owns Vegas, Baby, the swankiest place on the strip, Las Vegas’ most prestigious hotel and casino. He’s the perfect billionaire hero to be the inspiration for my next book.
I need more than just a picture if I’m going to write a bestseller. I need to be knee-deep in the trenches. I need to see the lights, to feel the energy.
To live the lavish night life of the strip. But that life is expensive, and all my cards are maxed out.
I don’t need to be the part; I just need to act the part. To rub elbows with the rich people of the Vegas scene, do some people watching, get some motivation.
There’s always the nickel slots.
I rush around my apartment, scrounging up change. I find a five-dollar bill in the bottom of my discarded black purse that I wear out on dates; it’s not had much use in the past year. A roll of quarters in my top dresser, and a myriad of loose change in my kitchen drawers and the pockets of my discarded jeans.
When I add up my findings, the total is almost twenty dollars. I won’t have money for dinner tonight, but it’ll buy me one drink and an hour of slots.
Now, for the outfit. What can I wear to inspire my most romantic mind? My pen name is Scarlet Rose. Why not play on that? I choose a dress, red and short.
I shower, shave, and blow dry my hair into soft curls.
Shimmying the dress over my hips, I take a look in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed pink from my shower, my soft blonde curls just brush my shoulders. Not too bad for a twenty-three-year-old romance author who hasn’t been laid in twelve long months.
The irony of my profession and lack of love life is not lost on me.
Slipping into my clearance rack high heels to add a few inches to my height, I fluff up my curls, hoping to keep them for a few hours at least. Waving my hand in front of my face, I clear the air. Leaning into my mirror, I apply a little sparkly gold shadow, a few coats of mascara, and the very last swipe of my Big Apple Red lip gloss.
“Time to go to Vegas, Baby.” I wink at myself. I toss the bills and coins into my bag, throw it over my shoulder, and strut out to the parking lot to find my car.
Unlocking the tiny red sedan, I crawl behind the wheel, tossing my purse into the passenger’s seat beside me.
Sticking the key into the ignition, I murmur, “Come on, old girl. You can do it.”
Pushing my fears away, I shake my head. “Tonight, this madness ends.” Desperation fills me. I so want my words to be true, to unlock my heart, my mind, and make the romance flow from my fingers.
Maybe it’s going to take a little more than inspiration. Maybe, just maybe, it’s going to take a little firsthand experience to warm the cockles of my mind and wake up my cobwebbed vagina.
Maybe… I need to get laid.
How does one super shy, clumsy girl with a dorky sense of humor track down a one-night stand?
All the men I’ve been with were college boyfriends, our romance blooming out of late-night study dates. Or, up to a year ago when the men completely ran out, blind dates were set up for me by Sarah, my publisher, her intentions being to keep me lubed and ready to write.
As I drive down the street, the lights get brighter and more plentiful as I near the strip. My nerves double. I remind myself I’ve got this — red dress, killer heels, and my hair is behaving tonight.
I can do this. I can lure a man for sex, then write a kickass scene about it, thus throwing myself back in the writers’ ring.
Vegas, Baby, in bright neon lights, looms ahead of me.
Waving ‘no thank you’ to the valet parking attendant that approaches my car, I pull past the entrance, parking on the street.
Teetering on my heels, I make it to the grand front door. The doors swivel open and I step into another world. Red carpet, bright lights, elegant gowns, dark suits.
It’s perfect.
I make my way to the bar, ordering a Sex on the Beach, the perfect drink to begin my mission. Taking a sip of the fruity beverage, I let the rum slide down my throat, warming my insides.
I park myself in a seat where I’ve got a good view of the room, right near the slot machines. I slide some coins into the slot and begin to play.
I pull the handle down, watching the pictures as they roll by. Lemon, Cherry, Dollar Sign. In between pulls, I gaze around the room, taking in the couples, heavily made-up women hanging on the arms of wealthy men. I’m not here to play slots. I’m here for inspiration.
My eyes are riveted up front at a flash of red. A group of women as tall as Amazonians on their spiky, red-bottomed heels, breeze past the attendants, all edges and curves, dressed like models strutting the catwalk during fashion week.
All eyes in the room are on them and mine are no exception. They make their way past me, leaving me in a cloud of perfume and hope. There’s no way this large group of beautiful women, dressed to the nines, hair and makeup professionally done, rocking Louboutin’s won’t lead to something exciting.
Cherry, Cherry, Cherry.
There’s a dinging sound and coins flow from my machine. Oooh. I’ve won! It’s not much, but I open my purse, scooping every single coin inside. I can’t get distracted, though. I’ve got a purpose, and something tells me I’ll find my inspiration if I follow those red-bottomed shoes.
I straighten my purse strap on my shoulder, the bag now pleasantly heavy, and I follow the women.
They’ve all got insanely long legs and four-inch heels, and I struggle to keep up with them. They exit the floor, turning down a hallway and then disappear into a hotel ballroom, the door shutting behind them without a sound.
I have to know where they’re going.
Pushing my hand against the white, swinging door, I peek behind it. The women are forming a line, taking plates, helping themselves to what looks like a buffet of amazing food. My stomach growls. I’m starving.
Would they notice one more, slightly shorter and curvier, girl in their midst?
My growling stomach spurs me on. I’ll just slip in, grab a bite to eat, and absorb some of this sexy energy they are oozing.
I slide behind a woman with ice blonde hair down to her waist, her hourglass figure wrapped in a shimmery gold dress, and I grab a plate. There’s shrimp, thin slices of braised beef, green beans with slivered almonds. I take a few bits of everything that looks good to me, carrying my heavy plate in my hands.
I look around at the tables dotting the room and lose my nerve to stay. I’ll just sneak back to the slots with my free dinner. This is free, right? Not exactly stealing. As I make my way to the back of the room, a smooth arm covered in jangling bracelets grabs my elbow.
Busted.
Shame covers me like
a blanket as I prepare to explain myself. I look up to find a woman so beautiful, my jaw hangs agape. Her mocha skin is shimmering with a fine dusting of gold glitter. “Don’t leave, silly. The conference is just getting started. You can eat with us.” She flashes me a perfect, pearly white smile, tugging me over to a round table.
The seats are already full of exotic, gorgeous women. I take the only open one, sliding in next to my new friend. “Thank you,” I say, popping a piece of bread into my mouth.
She holds her hand out to me. “My name is Sasha.”
I chew as fast as I can so I can answer. Shaking her hand, I say, “Pleasure to meet you. Katie.”
“Katie? That’s cute. You have a fresh face; there’s something so innocent about you. I can see why the agency hired you.”
Agency? Uh oh.
I smile, popping a larger piece of bread in my mouth. It’s delicious and I don’t care what agency I have to pretend to be a part of to finish this meal. “Thank you.”
“No problem. Don’t you think for a second that I can’t remember my first conference and how it felt to be the new girl. Now I come every year and I always keep my eyes out for a newbie. Can you believe I’ve been an escort for five years?”
Escort? The bread lodges in my throat and to my humiliation, a hacking cough ensues.
Concern etches in Sasha’s face and she calls for a waiter to bring me water. He hurries over with a glass and I wash down the bread. “Thanks again. You’re a lifesaver.”
“It’s okay to be nervous. Don’t worry, they’ll go over all the rules and ins and outs of the business. You’ll be much more relaxed once you know what to expect.” A clipboard is being passed around the table. Sasha points at it with a long, hot pink fingernail. “And don’t forget to fill that out. You need to be registered, or this is all just a waste of time.”
A black-haired beauty in a blue dress smiles at me, passing me the clipboard. Should I fill it out, or just make an excuse and get up and leave, sprinting from the room? While I’m deciding, I take another bite of the beef. It melts in my mouth, nourishing my very soul. I’ve been living off cups of noodles for weeks and my body demands that I stay at least long enough to finish this meal.
