The Billionaire Game

by Lila Monroe

  “Kate’s got our full support,” my dad put in eagerly. “Sounds like things are really picking up for her.” He gave me a sideways hug, still seated. “I’m proud of you, kiddo. This couldn’t be greater news.”

  I felt a burst of warmth in my heart for my whole family, who were looking at me now as if I had swept the Olympics. God, this was all I ever wanted. This approval and pride, just a moment of it, just for me.

  I smiled at Asher, and I tried to let that smile show how grateful I was. In this moment, I didn’t care if he was an unfaithful dick with an entourage of ditzy blondes so vast they could have formed a volleyball team. He’d given me this moment even though I’d blown him off the other day, even though I’d been sitting here lying through my teeth to impress my parents, even though he didn’t have to. For some reason, he was on my team. I could have hugged him.

  He smiled back, that dimple in his cheek winking. His electrifying eyes seemed to simmer with unspoken words. He took my hand, and there was just the slightest bit of extra pressure as he squeezed it in a firm, businesslike shake that practically set my brother swooning with jealousy. “I do have to get back to my previous appointment, but I’m glad we ran into each other. I’d hate to pass up this business opportunity. I look forward to our meeting.”

  I stammered some kind of goodbye as he released my hand, trying hard not to blush red enough to match my hair. I also tried—though maybe not as hard as I could have—not to blatantly ogle that ass as he walked away, or think about how I’d like to grip it tightly to me as he thrust into my—

  Family time! Family time! Keep those thoughts G-rated, Katie!

  Thankfully, said family was too busy sitting around the table stunned and gobsmacked to notice my odd demeanor.

  “What a nice man,” my mother eventually said in a slightly dazed voice. “Kate, do you know if that’s his natural eye color…”

  A whole sentence without her expressing any disappointment in me. Damn, but this man had just played my entire family like a three string quartet, and I loved it.

  And now I had to go apologize for it being necessary in the first place.

  #

  “Asher. Hi, Brody. Sorry, can I interrupt for a second?”

  Asher stood quickly, taking my arm and guiding me out to the balcony. “Of course. Is there a problem? Do you need me to go take the piss out of your brother again?”

  “Ha, no. Actually, I just—” I pulled my arm away with an apologetic grimace; I didn’t want to seem rude, but it was suddenly hard to concentrate on what he was saying when he was touching me. I could feel the heat of his hands through my sleeve. “I just wanted to say thank you, and sorry. I don’t usually go around lie-bragging about how great I am, but my brother was being King of the Dickwads and I guess he pushed one button too many.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” Asher said with a laugh, lounging back against one of the balcony’s columns. “I have five older siblings. I know what it’s like to always be in competition. My oldest brother—he was the golden child for as long as I can remember.”

  “Bet you don’t have that problem anymore, though,” I said, matching his posture and trying not to let my breath catch at the way the top two pearl buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing smooth, deeply tanned skin. “A few billionaire dollars has got to shut him up, right?”

  Asher’s expression darkened, and I felt my heart quicken.

  “You’d be surprised,” he said, and didn’t expand further.

  It was just starting to get dark out, and the balcony’s torches and the colored lights of the street still left us half in shadows. We were only on the balcony of a steakhouse, less than twenty feet away from a dozen other customers, and yet the gloomy half-light made it feel…exciting. Illicit.

  I wondered idly if he’d broken up with the latest blonde yet. I did need a pick-me-up, and Asher apparently wasn’t as big of a jerk as I’d thought. What would it hurt if I just took one step forward and kissed him? Gripped those firm shoulders and let him press against me, slid my hand down those tight trousers to stroke his firm cock, let him pull me into the shadows and fuck me quick and hard and dirty up against the wall, biting his shoulders to muffle my screams as I came—

  “I wasn’t lying,” he said abruptly. “When I was talking to your family. I think you have real talent, and I’d like to have that meeting tomorrow to discuss investing. If you would.”

  My heart soared, and then trembled, hesitating. Did he really mean it? He seemed sincere, but what if this was a ploy to get in my pants? And worse, what if I was okay with that? I had to make sure this meeting was all business, but how could I manage it when he was so distracting? Even now, I couldn’t stop my eyes from traveling down his crisp shirt, past his belt, skimming over his—focus, Katie.

  I had to take this seriously. The bank had already rejected me, my savings account wasn’t going to keep me going much longer, and Asher really believed in me, or at least said he did. What did I have to lose by listening to his proposal? He was just a man, albeit a ridiculously hot one. I could keep myself, and him, in check.

  “Okay,” I said, heart hammering in anticipation, excitement, and a little bit of terror. “You’re on. Business meeting tomorrow; you bring your money, I’ll bring my vision.”

  He grinned, a flash of devilish white teeth in the early evening half-light. “Agreed.”

  Going into business with him would mean having to give up fucking him against a wall, but hey, we all have to make sacrifices.

  SEVEN

  What do you wear to the business meeting that could change your entire life?

  If I listened to my gut I’d be going in battle armor, but unfortunately Macy’s doesn’t have a chainmail section these days. So I was stuck instead staring at the entire contents of my dresser dumped out on my bed, trying to decide: the little black dress, or the purple pantsuit? The floral blouse with the blue slacks, or the blue blouse with the floral slacks? Did a tie say ‘I’m professional’ or ‘I’m trying too hard?’

  At this rate, I was going to join a nudist colony before I managed to decide.

  This so wasn’t me. I never worried about getting dressed up for some guy. But this wasn’t just some guy, this was some guy who could either make my dream come true or stomp it into tiny little pieces and flush them down the toilet, and he could do it with a single word: yes or no.

  I finally settled on a pinstriped skirt-suit with a neckline and hemline both just long enough to be intriguing without becoming unprofessional. I packed some of my best lingerie samples in a variety of styles, fabrics, and colors into a briefcase so that I could have them on hand to illustrate a point if need be. Hopefully whatever restaurant Asher had chosen was set up so that we could have a cozy little nook; I didn’t relish the idea of arranging panties around bowls of linguini for the amusement of all the staff and other customers.

  The doorbell rang, and then rang again. And again.

  I pulled open a window. “Newsflash!” I yelled down at Asher, still pushing the buzzer in front of my apartment building. “The world doesn’t end if you have to wait five seconds for something!”

  “But why take the chance?” he called back up.

  I slammed the window back down, and hustled out of the building.

  “You look lovely,” he said, immediately disarming anything rude I might have said about his doorbell-pressing practices. Which was probably good; I needed to keep my mouth in check if I was going to keep from driving away my one and only interested investor.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You’re not looking so bad yourself.”

  He was actually looking good enough to eat, in a navy blue suit with a silk shirt and green pocket handkerchief that matched his eyes, the shirt unbuttoned just a little for another tantalizing hint of collarbone. The pants were formal but tight enough that they didn’t leave anything to the imagination. Barney the Dinosaur and his friends might have been disappointed, but I most certainly was not.

&nbs
p; Focus, Kate! It was turning into my mantra around this man.

  Asher’s eyes traveled up and down the length of my body again, and he flashed a grin so wicked you could have arrested him for it. “I like this business proposal already.”

  “The business proposal’s up here, Romeo,” I said, tapping the side of my head.

  “Of course,” he said graciously. “And now, if you’ll follow me, your chariot awaits.”

  He gestured towards his car, which was a little less chariot and a little more spaceship, all sleek modern silver lines except for a couple of retro fins.

  “I had it refitted to run entirely on vegetable oil,” he said proudly, patting its bumper like it was a particularly precocious puppy.

  “Did you steal this off the set of a 1950s Flash Gordon serial?” I cracked.

  Asher looked sheepish, and scuffed his foot along the ground. “Uh, Doctor Who prop auction actually.”

  And just like that, Mr. Business Mogul got so much less intimidating. I practically shrieked with hilarity and delight. “Neeeeeeeeeeerd alert! Nerd alert! Raise the shields!”

  “That’s Star Trek,” he shot back defensively, still laughing a little, though probably more at my reaction than at my joke. “Completely wrong reference—besides, it was being a nerd that got me my first billion. If I hadn’t known Cathy Bateson in college games club and been able to invest in her imaging technology for films—why are you still laughing?”

  I shook my head, mentally comparing this side of Asher to my own dorky tendencies. The tension was broken. There was still a little nervous flutter in my stomach as our space-car wended its way through the streets of San Francisco and we shot teasing repartee back and forth, but it was a good nervous flutter, full of promise.

  This just might work out after all.

  #

  Asher pulled into a parking lot for a helipad and I turned to stare at him.

  “Uh, maybe you want to upgrade your GPS on the starship Asher,” I said, “because I’m pretty sure this place doesn’t have waiters.”

  Asher just grinned, cockier than a rooster in a henhouse. “And you might want to check your assumptions. Who said this restaurant was in San Francisco?”

  Does this man know how to do anything small?

  I looked up at the helicopter and resigned myself to my fate. And by ‘resigned,’ I mean ‘barely restrained myself from whooping with excitement.’ “Well, what are we waiting for? Beam me up, Scotty.”

  #

  The second surprise after the helicopter was that there was no hired pilot—Asher would be driving himself. He handled it deftly, so smoothly I almost couldn’t believe we had left the ground until I saw it dropping away below me. The chopper swooped out over the sapphire blue sea before circling back inland. Gradually skyscrapers melted away into small towns and the countryside, vineyards and fields ringed by green mountains. We cracked jokes at each other until the roar of the helicopter meant that we couldn’t hear each other anymore, and then I just enjoyed the scenery.

  And I don’t just mean the scenery outside the window.

  There was something about the confidence and grace with which Asher operated the controls, flicking switches, pulling levers, and consulting a truly dizzying array of dials, that made me want to jump his bones mid-air, and damn the consequences and my resolution to remain professional. Was it the way he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing ripped arm muscles? Was it the elegance of his hands as they danced across the controls? The way the wind ruffled his dark hair, curls tumbling in front of those dazzling green eyes?

  I think it might have been the fire in his eyes as he hit the throttle and we went hurtling forward at an even greater speed, and the way he leaned forward in excitement as the sun began to paint the mountains in gold and purple. That utter air of absorption, at once relaxed and at home, yet keyed up and thrilling to the pursuit of adventure.

  Before I knew it he was guiding us downward into what he informed me was the San Ysidro ranch, acres upon acres of rolling lawns and manicured gardens of groomed pines, lilacs, and lavender around ponds, fountains, and pathways.

  “Like it?” he asked smugly, giving me his hand to help me out of my seat.

  I stumbled from the helicopter, trying to find my land-legs and slow my speeding heart. I tossed my windblown hair back, exhilarated. “Dude, you are so teaching me to fly that thing!”

  Asher raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t even heard your business proposal yet.”

  “Well, I’m making that stipulation one on the contract.”

  “Noted.” He took my hand again. Was it the lingering exhilaration of the ride or the touch of his skin that was making my heart race madly and my skin sing the Hallelujah chorus, my cheeks flushing?

  I let him lead me to a quaint, beautiful old building with a tile roof and whitewashed walls. Despite the clean simplicity of its lines, it was plain that great care had been taken with the selection of the materials and the construction itself. We came to a stop out on the balcony, where dinner was already laid out for us, an upscale take on Tex-Mex: saffron rice, white beans cooked with bacon and caramelized onions, lamb and veal enchiladas drizzled with a ghost pepper sauce, chilled fruit juices and cucumber water, sangria, a fancy red wine with more French on the label than I remembered from four years of high school classes.

  For a long time there was no talking, or any sound other than two adrenaline-flooded people trying to shove as much food into their mouths as possible while still retaining a tiny semblance of dignity.

  “So,” I blurted in between sips of sangria, “your Fembot girlfriends really don’t mind you taking other women out in your helicopter for gourmet candlelit meals at secluded luxury resorts?”

  Asher grinned as he refilled my glass. “I conduct my business affairs as I see fit, regardless of my relationship status, though I’m actually single at the moment. Woefully so.”

  “How sad for you,” I shot back, ignoring my quickening pulse and diving into my enchiladas with renewed vigor. “Please accept my sincere condolences.”

  Eventually the banter died down and it was time to get down to brass tacks, so I pushed my drink aside and laid out my pitch: “My main problem moving forward is a lack of capital to expand my business into something prospective clients, investors, and advertisers will automatically take seriously. I do good work, but I just don’t come off as professional right now—I have a good client base, very loyal, but my lack of funds makes the whole operation look more fly-by-night and hobbyist than it really is.” I lifted my chin and fixed him with a gaze more confident than I felt at that moment. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Assuming you secured those funds, what’s your plan to legitimize the operation and forge ahead?” Asher asked, leaning forward.

  “First I’d get a real studio,” I said, ticking my points off on my fingers. “And then I’d start hiring apprentices and training them in my techniques, to increase production. Obviously I’d increase inventory and continue to source materials as needed.”

  “You mentioned advertisers,” he pointed out. “What would be your strategy there?”

  “I’ve done well on word of mouth, but that can only take you so far,” I said. “Still, at the same time, the kind of high-end stuff I do isn’t really the right fit for a thirty second TV spot or a local radio ad. I’d like to sponsor some fashion podcasts, get the word out that way. Maybe send some of my products to fashion bloggers in exchange for reviews. A few appearances at fashion shows or in art films wouldn’t hurt either; do you have any connections there we could use?”

  “A few,” he said, but before he could expand on that, dessert was served, and the conversation was derailed by a discussion of the crispy warm flan with pear liqueur sauce and whipped cream, the fried ice cream made with freshly ground vanilla beans, and the grilled watermelon slices dusted with chili powder and chocolate—hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. And try someone else’s slice, because I am eating mine.


  Yup, the whole meal was going pretty much perfectly, until Asher decided to ruin everything by opening up his big mouth.

  “So here’s the main strength I see with your business,” he said, wiping said big mouth with a napkin. “You’ve built up a good client base, and established a brand identity that’s got a lot of trust and reputation behind it. But the main problem I see with your business as it stands: high production costs, and low output. Fortunately, that’s a pretty simple issue to tackle.”

  I leaned forward, interested.

  Asher pulled up some maps on his phone and showed them to me. “This is an unused factory in China. It’s an area with high unemployment, so we should be able to keep wages low without much discontent, and the officials will be less likely to come down on us with a bunch of regulations about foreign companies. You would move solely to design work, and we’d outsource production to the China factory.”

  I could feel the floor falling out from under my feet. “You want me to outsource to a factory?” I said, horrified, hoping that somehow I had misheard. “In China?”

  Asher misunderstood my reaction. “Well, just one factory for now,” he said placatingly, “but with the sales I’m projecting, by 2018 we could have as many as—”

  I felt my rage building inside me, like the magma of a volcano simmering and bubbling and threatening to blow the top off of a mountain. “That goes against everything I love about my designs! My whole thing is that they’re special, that thought goes into them, that they’re hand-made—”

  “Oh, they’ll still be hand-made if you want,” Asher said, as if he were throwing me a bone. “That’s good for the brand, and that saves us the cost of sewing machines for the factories. Every little bit adds up.”

  I imagined nine-year-old little Chinese girls carefully hand-stitching lingerie until their fingers bled, and I felt sick.