Sold to Him

by Cassandra Dee

  All the tables are clothed with black and white linen and the table centerpieces are adorned with black and white roses and real peacock feathers imported from India. The feathers were my idea, and Amanda reluctantly admitted they looked nice.

  Again, as long as she’s happy, then I’m happy because my business is a full-service party planning and catering company. We set everything up, serve the food, and then take it all down afterwards. I started the company fresh out of college and it’s grown beyond my wildest dreams. I have twenty employees for big events like this one, four chefs taking care of the food, and eight highly trained servers. It took me a lot of work to get here, but every grueling step was worth it. After all, this is my passion, and my success has been unexpected but gratifying. The only problem is the financial aspect of the business. Every cent of profit either goes into expanding my company or paying off my student loans, so I don’t have much left over. I get by, but sometimes it’s a choice between a shower and air conditioning during the hot summer months. Definitely not both, seeing that cash is tight.

  I survey my work proudly for a few moments longer. My employees are scurrying around, putting the finishing touches on all of the tables and wall decorations. This isn’t the biggest venue we’ve ever worked, but it’s certainly the most grand. I trust my employees not to break anything valuable, but seeing the antiques everywhere still makes me nervous. I’m so ready for this night to be over. Once we clear out and cash the check, I can forget this place ever existed.

  Amanda saunters out of nowhere, dressed in a slinky floor-length gown. Her face crumples into a frown as she looks me up and down.

  “Is that what you’re wearing, Katie? Guests will be arriving soon. Everyone needs to get to their party posts. You need to change into something appropriate, otherwise you’ll stick out like a sore thumb, and I can’t trust you to stay out of all the photos. Hopefully you have something?”

  I force myself not to roll my eyes and keep my voice neutral. “Of course, Amanda. Happy to. I have a dress in the kitchen. I just didn’t want to ruin it during setup.”

  “Well, go get it on, then. And get your people to their posts!” she snaps, clearly enjoying her position bossing me around.

  I sigh as Amanda stalks away. I’ve worked with some terrible customers, but Amanda takes the cake as the worst. Her tall, skinny frame and perfect blonde hair just add to my dislike of her. She’s like a Barbie come to life. That is, if Barbie never smiled and only ate lemons.

  Plus, at five feet five, I’m not super short, but I’m not model tall like her. I’m a healthy weight for my height, with curves in all the right places. My brown hair is straight without needing to fry it with an iron every morning. I keep my makeup light, only using enough to subtly enhance my natural features. By all accounts, I’m an attractive woman. But I still look like a slouch next to Amanda with her modelesque frame.

  “All right, everyone,” I clap my hands into the echoing ballroom, calling my staff to attention. “Our invitees will be arriving soon. Please put the finishing touches on what you’re working and then get ready for the welcome event. You all have your assignments for the duration of the party.”

  A few mumbled responses reach me through the large room, and my employees move a little faster to get the job done. Within five minutes, all of the workers are gone and the room is ready to be filled with glamorously-dressed men and women. I retire to the kitchen to grab my dress and change in the bathroom before the party begins.

  My dress is calf-length and black with a beautiful peacock design on the bodice. It’s a little funny because I match the centerpieces, but I’m okay with that. After all, my purpose is to blend in with the background. I don’t need to be seen; I just need to keep an eye on my waiters and waitresses, make sure everyone is being fed, and that nothing catastrophic happens. I’m not here to attend the ball, just babysit it.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, there are already guests taking off their coats inside the foyer. Most are wearing masks as the invitation requested, but some are barefaced. I ran the idea of having extra masks on hand by Amanda, but she immediately overruled the idea.

  “You wouldn’t be able to find what we want,” she sniffed.

  I was taken aback, despite the fact that my expression didn’t change.

  “I’m sorry?” was my question. “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is that Mr. Moore is a billionaire, and his guests are wealthy business magnates as well. The type of mask that they go for wouldn’t be in your party budget. Nor would you be able to locate anything suitable.”

  Wow, that was quite the putdown. But I let it go with a pleasant smile on my face. After all, this was a job, and a well-paying one at that.

  “Of course,” was my pleasant response. “No extra masks, then. Got it.”

  And when the invitees begin to arrive, I see what Amanda meant. The guests are all beautiful, rich-looking people dressed in perfectly cut tuxes and sweeping ballgowns in jewel tones. The women wear five-inch heels, and yet manage to appear elegant and gracious. The men are uniformly tanned, tall, and handsome.

  Who are these people? Or more accurately, who is the mysterious host? I’d done my research on the client, Trent Moore, but there were no definitive conclusions. His name sounded important, but in fact, the man wasn’t born rich. Instead, he dropped out of college ages ago to create his own company, and now he’s a billionaire with money coming out of the wazoo.

  Plus, based on the articles I’ve read, he’s a bit of a bad boy. Less than a year ago, Trent Moore barely avoided an arrest for an altercation at a charity event. The article I saw said that Mr. Moore had brought two beautiful females to the party, and not one. Predictably, the two ladies got into a catfight, and all three were ejected. Wow.

  But there was something more to the story than that because in the accompanying photo, one woman bore a striking resemblance to Trent. They both had the same high forehead, jet-black hair, and sparkling blue eyes. I had a feeling that she was his sister, and that this wasn’t your usual catfight. I’m not sure what the fight was about, but there’s definitely more to it than the usual female hormones gone awry.

  A sound to my right brings me out of my thoughts. A woman wearing a sleek black dress and a beautiful green and white mask is admiring the centerpiece on a table nearby.

  “Do you see the peacock feather?” the woman purrs to her male companion. “What a beautiful idea. It really ties everything together, don’t you think?”

  I smile. I wish Amanda was nearby to hear the compliment about my decor. Oh well. A job well done is a job well done, even if I’m the only one to hear the words of appreciation.

  From my post against a wall, unseen but all-seeing, I watch the party unfold. Guests arrive and remark on the window masks, the centerpieces, and the mansion’s built-in fixtures. Things are going well, so I allow myself to relax for the first time since this job started.

  An hour into the masquerade ball, things are still looking great. Nothing has broken, and there are no spilled drinks or dropped trays. I’ve heard multiple people comment on the food, a menu I created myself. I’m proud to say this party is going exactly as planned. Even Amanda with her perpetually pinched face looked pleased the last time I caught a glimpse of her. I mentally mark that down as a small victory. Impressing the difficult hostess is hard, but I think I’ve managed to succeed.

  Suddenly, a hand grazes my back. I turn, expecting to see one of my employees, but instead, all that greets me is a wall of black. Oh wait. My eyes are level with the broad chest of a tall, masked man. Unlike the other guests who wear disguises that cover just their eyes, his shades his entire face. I can make out a firm, square jaw and intense blue eyes, but nothing else.

  As the music crescendos, the mysterious man gracefully pulls me into a waltz without a single word. My first instinct is to pull away from him. I’m not supposed to be dancing because I’m the help, but he holds me firmly in position. If I try to leave now, it
would cause a scene, which would surely make Amanda furious beyond belief. So instead, I float along as his strong arms guide me around the room smoothly and elegantly. My heart’s beating fast, breath coming in shallow inhales. Who is this mysterious stranger?

  We move along with the flow of the music coming from a small orchestra set up in the back of the ballroom. After all, a masquerade ball isn’t complete without string instruments to provide the backdrop for dancing, and Mr. Moore was willing to spring for it. A DJ would play the wrong music and a CD just doesn’t have the same effect. This was probably the only item on which Amanda and I agreed: the music had to be performed live.

  Finally, the long, instrumental song ends, and my mysterious dance partner releases me from his hold. He steps back and takes my hand in his, lifting it to his lips for a gentle kiss while he bows to me. I feel like I should curtsy, but I would only make a fool of myself if I tried. Instead, I smile weakly at him, deciding that doing nothing is better than trying to do something and making a fool out of myself.

  My strange partner stands and straightens his coat when he releases my hand. His eyes meet mine and there’s a familiarity there, but I can’t place where I’ve seen those eyes before.

  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 pie
ce 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.