by Katie Ford
Silently, the man lifts his mask, his beautiful, haunting blue eyes gazing unwaveringly at me. His chiseled face and coal-black hair are coupled with a perfectly tailored tux completing his princely look. He looks exactly like the pictures I’ve seen, down to the dimple in his cheek and powerful shoulders. Plus, he looks like he belongs among these lavish surroundings. It is his house and party, after all.
“Hello,” the man rumbles, keeping his eyes locked on mine. He extends his right hand to shake mine, as if we haven’t already been introduced in the most intimate way. Dancing and a kiss on the hand are romantic and beautiful, whereas a handshake is formal. I reach my hand out to shake his because I’m at a loss for what I’m supposed to do. When I imagined meeting the man, this is not how I expected it to happen.
“I’m Trent Moore,” he says smoothly. “And you are?”
Oh, no. What do I say? After all, I’m the help and I wasn’t supposed to be dancing. So do I make up a story, or do I admit the truth? Because this is my fantasy … but if Mr. Moore knows I’m staff, will he expect me to cater to his every need?
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Sneak Peek: The Billionaire’s Kitten
~A Fake Marriage Romance~
© 2017
By Cassandra Dee
ABOUT THIS BOOK
The Billionaire’s Kitten: A Fake Marriage Romance
He bought me along with a hotel.
When I took a job at The Milano, it was out of desperation.
My waitress outfit was so tiny it barely covered my curves.
But the tips started rolling in, so I let out a sigh of relief.
Until Grayson Channing. Mr. Channing owns the hotel. He’s a billionaire with everything.
And what the billionaire wants, he gets.
Because Gray needs a fake wife.
To cut a business deal, he needs a curvy, innocent girl on his arm to
parade around.
But this marriage is fake.
It’s not real.
It’s in an illusion, nothing more.
But now when Mr. Channing says, “Here Kitty, Kitty, come to Daddy …”
Guess who comes crawling?
ME.
CHAPTER ONE
Kitty
“That’s it?” I gasped. “Really, that’s it?”
I didn’t mean to be rude during my first day on the job. But what my boss held in front of me was completely ridiculous. Because Morty had one of those sandwich-sized Ziploc bags gripped in a meaty fist, transparent except for a piece of purple fabric inside.
“Are you sure?” I gasped again, eyes wide. “I- I just can’t … it won’t fit,” I stammered. “That’s an extra small, and I’m not,” I said helplessly, gesturing vaguely at my curvy figure.
Because extra small was generous. The tiny piece of fabric was about two inches by four inches folded up, a nice, neat square inside that plastic baggy. That couldn’t be a dress, no dress looked like that. It was more of a handkerchief, or maybe a band-aid.
But Morty grunted, big pot belly shaking.
“This is it,” he said carelessly. “You can still march yourself home if you don’t want. I got enough girls to cover this week.”
I swallowed thickly, eyeing the tiny Ziploc again.
“Okay, I’ll give it a try then,” I whispered, almost unable to budge. But like in a movie, my hand reached up and I took the bag as if in a trance. “Where should I change?”
“In back,” he grunted, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Guests start arriving in fifteen, so you better be ready. Oh and wear more make-up,” he said disgustedly. “You look like a child.”
That made me flush because I am young. I’m eighteen and about to work my first shift at the hottest club in Vegas, bringing drinks out to customers. I thought it was illegal to handle alcohol before you’re twenty-one, but Morty had glanced at my fake ID for two seconds before nodding, eyes vague.
“You’re hired,” he said in a smooth voice. “Come back tomorrow night.”
I’d nodded, astonished. That was it, really? No questions about my qualifications, how I’d worked at Ice Cream Delight for a year, dishing out mint chocolate chip until I was nauseated? No questions about my focus on customer service, attention to detail, all that good stuff?
But I guess the Hotel Milano is a different place. Somehow this particular outfit isn’t worried about breaking the law because of its CEO. Oh yeah, Gray Channing was a name that even I was familiar with. Handsome as sin, the casino’s owner is an influential guy, the kind who can have lunch with the President one day, and then be out dating models the next. He was always in the papers, blue eyes flashing and a confident smile on his face, always with a gorgeous woman on his arm. Rumor had it that Mr. Channing was a billionaire a couple times over, but that was just rumor.
Besides, it had nothing to do with me. I was working an entry level job for crying out loud, making measly minimum wage bringing drinks to drunk guys at the casino nightclub. So yeah, Mr. Channing was at the top of the pile, while I was at the bottom, blurring into the masses.
But I took a deep breath because none of it mattered. What mattered was that my financial aid for school had come up short unexpectedly, and now it was time to work. So making my way to the back room, I gripped the plastic baggie tightly, praying the outfit would fit.
“Hey honey,” cooed one of the other girls. “Need some help? I’m Loretta, by the way.”
I ducked my head shyly. The redhead was old by club standards, if by old you meant twenty-five. A cigarette dipped from the corner of her mouth although smoking was technically prohibited in the dressing room with all the bright lights and glittery outfits as fire hazards.
“Um no, no thanks,” I mumbled, head down. “I just have to get this on, that’s all.”
Loretta cackled evilly.
“Yeah, the uniform’s not much, but once you stretch it out some, it’ll fit. You’ll see,” she said carelessly, blowing a ring of smoke above her head before breaking into a hacking cough. “You’ll see.”
But I couldn’t see. I couldn’t imagine that I was gonna be able to squeeze myself into this outfit. Because when I pulled the purple fabric out of the bag, things didn’t get more reassuring. The material wasn’t much more than a tube of cloth about eight inches across and five inches long. My cheeks colored and I lowered my head, hair swinging forward to hide my burning cheeks. Oh god, oh god, I was never gonna be able to jam my plush form into this tiny piece of nothing. How the hell did anyone do it?
But the thing is, I had no choice. Getting this job was a stroke of luck, the Milano was the first casino I walked into, its nightclub the first venue I approached. And despite getting paid minimum wage, the tips were supposed to be awesome. What else would you expect from a place where bottle service is five thousand bucks per night? I couldn’t believe that there were actually men who’d pay five thousand dollars for a plate of fruit and a couple bottles of champagne.
But right. The tips. I was here for the tips, and supposedly dressing sexy and acting flirty was gonna get me more. So taking a deep breath, still blocking my face with my hair, I hurried out of my jeans and tee, and stepped into the tube of cloth.
It was every bit as bad as anticipated. The purple stretched over my legs okay, went up over my thighs, but then the butt part was all wrong. Because my ass is huge, the fabric was strained so tight across my rump it was practically see through.
“Girl,” cackled the redhead from her corner, not even pretending to give me my privacy. “You gotta go commando, that thing’s not designed to be worn with panties.”
I colored, craning my head to look in back of me. But she was right beca
use my granny panties were completely visible beneath the material.
“Oh thanks,” I mumbled, face flushing bright red. Oh god, oh god, how did new girls get through this? I had to change and this was going to be so embarrassing, my lady bits bare to the world.
But again, the thought of my financial problems made my chin set. Because tips were supposed to range in the four figures at this club on a good night, and damn, but did I need those four figures. I needed more than that right now, to be honest, tuition is so crazy these days, but anything would make a difference.
So biting my lip again, I looked down at the floor and struggled out of my granny panties, standing there buck naked, a pink flush rising over my creamy form.
Trust Loretta to comment. The redhead cawed again from her corner.
“That’s a lot you got going on there,” she chortled, waving her cigarette in the air.
My face flushed even as I ignored her. Her words brought up bad memories of gym in seventh grade when I’d first started developing. The other girls had been so mean, calling me Kitty the Whale instead of Kitty the Cat. Oh god, humiliation rushed over me again, but I forced myself to take a deep breath. Money, money, money, this was what I was here for, and this wasn’t the time to give up. So squaring my shoulders, I turned back to the dress and yanked it on again.
This time it seemed better. My Double Ds were covered so that they didn’t wobble crazily. And with fast fingers, I pulled the hem down so the dress didn’t bunch right where my pussy was, but it was no use. That just made the cleavage go downwards, in a hopeless tug of war.
Pulling discreetly this way and that, I tried to stretch the fabric as much as possible, pulling up my boobs while pulling down the hem. And finally, the fabric was arranged optimally. Everything was covered, but one wrong move, one bad bend, and bam! Something was gonna pop out.
I turned a watery smile to the redhead.
“This happen to everyone?” I asked shakily. “Does this happen to all the girls?”
“Naw,” retorted the woman, taking another deep drag. “You just got more than most. I’m surprised Morty hired you, management usually likes skinny chicks.”
My cheeks flamed and I stuttered lamely.
“Oh, um, well ….” The words trailed off. Why couldn’t I think of a good comeback? My tongue was tied, cheeks flaming, and I knew I’d be lying in bed later this week, replaying this scene with all sorts of witty retorts running through my head. The thing is that I was never slick in the here and now, mumbling and blushing instead.
But it didn’t matter because the redhead was on her own wavelength.
“Anyways,” she interrupted like she hadn’t just totally insulted me. “Maybe they’re looking to change the vibe around here. You know how the girls stay skinny,” she whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially. “It’s the diet pills and laxatives.”
My mouth dropped open, eyes wide. What? Chemicals? I was so stunned that the words came rushing out like a waterfall.
“The girls don’t eat well and exercise?” I asked, dumbfounded. “They don’t take care of themselves the right way?” So many of the waitresses around here looked like supermodels, I was sure they all had personal trainers and nutritionists.
Loretta cackled again.
“What planet are you from?” she laughed hoarsely, brandishing that cigarette. “You think these girls work out? Working out takes work, honey, these ladies ain’t working out unless there’s money to be made. Please,” she whispered conspiratorially, winking. “Here at the Hotel Milano, it’s all about the cash.”
With that my mouth snapped shut. Because that’s what I was here for too, after all. I was here to make a pretty penny serving drinks to fat cats who’d come to Vegas to spend big dollars. I was here to profit off men who were drunk off their ass, with nothing to recommend them but a bulging wallet. So swallowing, I nodded silently. But curiosity overcame me.
“You sure?” I said in a hushed voice. “I mean, don’t pills make your stomach go loose inside? This job doesn’t really allow for that. We can’t really just go running off to the bathroom all the time.”
Loretta cackled.
“You don’t take the pills right before your shift, dummy. You take ‘em when you get up, at least five hours before coming to the club. That way as your intestines flush, it’s all in the comfort of your home. Queen of the Throne!” she cackled.
My cheeks flared again. Oh my god, this was so embarrassing yet eye-opening at once. So the chicks here were purging their stomachs to stay skinny? Laxatives were the key? Loretta laughed again, confirming my suspicions.
“If you want a box,” she leaned forwards conspiratorially. “I’ve got some of the strongest stuff there is. Better than the OTC shit,” she confided, “it’s from my personal chemist.”
At that, I shuddered. No way would I trust some dude in a mobile home in the desert, concocting green juices in a makeshift lab. That stuff was illegal and probably toxic, you didn’t know what went into homemade drugs. So I shook my head.
“Um, no thanks,” I murmured, smiling weakly. “I’m good.”
“You sure?” Loretta cawed, running her eyes up and down over my frame. “You got some extra poundage there for sure, you’ll make more money if you lose it. Trust me,” she said conspiratorially. “I’ve been working this joint for years now and men like skinny. They like miniature, and honey, you ain’t no miniature. You got junk in the trunk like an XXL hamburger.”
The words hit me like gunshots, making my cheeks flame, but I just put my head down, humiliated.
“I’ll think about it, thanks,” I stammered, stumbling to the door.
And as Loretta’s cackles faded behind me, I paused, taking a deep breath. What the hell had just happened? I’m Kitty Jones, college freshman, with a load of debt and a load of homework. I was here to pay off some of that debt, or at least make a dent in it, and yet the backstage atmosphere of Club Milano had already thrown me for a loop.
Because I’m the girl always in the library, a big nerd with a huge backpack, and my conversation in the dressing room made me feel weird. Drugs? Diet pills? Laxatives? More drugs? And what was with this dress? The purple fabric was ludicrous, outlining my assets obscenely. What the hell was going on?
But it was too late because Morty spied me over from the side and beckoned.
“Looks good,” he grunted, eyeing my form up and down. “Perfect.”
I stammered again, blushing bright red.
“You don’t think that this is … um, a little small?” I asked nervously, tugging at the hem.
“Naw, you’ll do fine,” Morty said carelessly, already looking off into the crowd. “And your party’s here. Booth Two, a bunch of dudes celebrating a bachelor party. Go get ‘em kid. Do your job,” he said, turning and fixing me with a pointed look.
Picking up the tray, I took a deep breath. God, these shoes were so tight, the stilettos making me sway and teeter. But right, money. I was here for the money.
“Hi!” I introduced myself brightly to the guys in the booth. “Hi, I’m Kitt –um, Amber,” I corrected hastily. Oh god, oh god, this was so bad already, I’d almost given away my real name. “What can I get for you? I’m Amber, your server tonight.”
Unfortunately, the guys were already drunk despite the fact it was only nine p.m.
“Um, server?” asked one dude, squinting at me blearily. “I thought we got a club girl.”
“I’m that girl!” I chirped cheerily. “Kitt- I mean, Amber at your service!” Shit, I’d almost done it again.
But his friend threw a heavy arm around my shoulder, alcohol reeking on his breath. Clearly these guys had pre-partied, Club Milano wasn’t their first stop.
“Naw,” the friend leered. “We’re looking for a club girl.”
I smiled again brightly, as cheerful as I could manage.
“That’s me!” I chirped. “Amber at your service!”
This time, a third friend came around, taller and less dr
unk than the others.
“You staying around? Or you serving a couple tables? That’s what these losers mean by club girls.”
With that, I heaved a sigh of relief. Because finally, I understood what the guys were looking for. Forking over five thousand per night is a lot, and the guys wanted personal service, the kind where one girl is your designated “table girl” if you will, who helps you and only you. So I smiled cheerily again.
“I’m here for you guys only,” I stressed. “You guys are my winners tonight.”
And all three dudes relaxed somewhat, although two were plenty wasted already.
“Should be,” drawled Number One. “I’m losing my freedom.”
“Awww right!” crowed Number Two. “Dude is gonna get hammered tonight!”
I smiled awkwardly, a little off balance.
“I’m here for the drinks boys,” I stated firmly, tucking the silver tray beneath my arm. “I’m here to make sure everyone gets drinks, everyone is served, and no one goes thirsty.”
