Head Hunter: A Virgin Billionaire Reverse Romance

by Alexis Angel

  Don't look at me like that babe.

  I may be an angel most days.

  But fuck with me, and I'll go from sweet and cute into the Angel of Death.

  Aidan

  "Un-fucking-believable," I say, releasing my grip from the pull-up bar.

  A bead of sweat rolls down my temple and I wipe it off. "Did you call the right people?" I ask.

  My PA, CJ, looks at me like I’ve grown a second head.

  "What kind of a question is that? Of course I did, and I'm not going to lie," CJ replies. "The situation is bad. I made over a hundred calls yesterday. That's a hundred and counting Aidan! Do you know how long that takes? And not a single person wanted to work with you. The numbers aren't good. I'm beginning to get worried."

  "What about the author I modeled for last week?" I ask. None of this makes sense. Not after the fucking applause I received at the RAGA conference. Say what you will, but the audience fucking loved me.

  "That author's moved on, mumbled something about wanting to take her book covers in another direction," CJ replies.

  "That's a fucking joke."

  "Joke or not, we need to figure something out, and quick. Your reputation in the Romance book industry isn't good."

  I jump back up on the pull-up bar and proceed through another 10 reps. So what? I may have fucked more women than I can count, and sure, I may have burned a few bridges, but those fucking flames are just lighting the way for others. People should be thankful, really.

  "Can you just stop for a second? This is important," CJ says, her hands on her hips. The look on her face is all business, and the way the sun hits her auburn-red hair makes her look fiery. She's always been blunt with me; that's what I fucking love about her and why I fucking pay her the big bucks to be my agent. She's kind of like an over-protective older sister. But if she thinks I'm going to stop, she's wrong. Time is money, and because I get paid to make girls' panties wet, I can't afford to skip a few crunches.

  "I'm listening," I say through exhales.

  "The only gigs you're getting paid for now are erotica covers."

  "Is that a bad thing?"

  "Was that your plan all along? Erotica is limited; if we're gonna get you more gigs, we need to expand," CJ says matter-of-fact. "We really need to stay in the Romance market. That's where your real money will be, and always has always been."

  "How hard can that be? I mean, look at me," I say, flexing and planting a kiss on my right bicep, and then my left. I watch as CJ rolls her eyes.

  "It's hard, Mr. Muscles, if no one wants to work with you. The shenanigans you pulled at the RAGA didn't help."

  "Give me a fucking break," I laugh. "What do you mean by that? Are you remembering the fucking applause I received?"

  "Oh, don't act surprised. Everyone knows. Do you think cumming all over Susan Moore in front of a sold out crowd at the RAGA won you any favors? And in front of her sister, Alyssa Moore, no less; what were you thinking? Were you begging to be blacklisted from the entire Romance market?" she asks.

  "All I'm saying is that there has to be someone willing to hire me. Some people fucking appreciated the performance."

  "Is that what you're calling it now? A performance?" CJ thinks for a moment. She's looking out the window, watching the sun bounce off the city skyline. "Well, no one seems to want to work with you, but … there may be one option," she says.

  "What's that?" I ask.

  "I've heard rumors that there's a former top ranking author who's looking for a model for her book covers. She's had a dip in sales lately, but she's hungry to be in the top spot again. You could make a pitch to co-write a book with her."

  "No way," I say, dropping down and doing a few pushups.

  CJ gives me a serious look. "Beggars can't be choosers."

  "I'm far from a fucking beggar."

  "Not yet … but if we don't line up new gigs, that could change."

  "I'm also not an author," I say in between pushups. "I'm the guy who gets girls to open up a fucking book in the first place."

  "I think you'd be great … and it's a good way for you to get your foot back in the door … gain some respect back," CJ smiles, like she's had the most brilliant fucking idea on the planet. But I think it sounds like a disaster.

  "I think you should make more calls," I say, dismissing her idea as crazy. How does her mind make the leap from model to author?

  She shakes her head. "Look, all I'm asking is that you take a meeting with this author. How hard could that be? You never know what'll come out of it."

  "I don't think so."

  "You must really like doing pushups then," CJ nods, shrugging her shoulders.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means that if you don't take this meeting, you might find your self back in the gym … permanently. You may have to go back to being a personal trainer full time."

  Those words stop me dead in my tracks.

  Go back to being a personal trainer? No fucking thanks.

  I can do without wiping up sweat puddles from the seats of gym equipment, or the overweight New Yorkers begging me to make them look like Thor, or hearing every excuse under the sun as to why a client has to skip a gym day, or the occasional weird stalker, or the weird smells, or … the list goes on.

  The idea of leaving modeling for personal training doesn't sit well with me.

  CJ is walking toward the door, but I stop her. "Wait."

  She turns to me and I continue. "It's just a meeting, right?"

  "I promise. Nothing's set in stone."

  "Fine. Schedule it, and I'll be there, but I still think you're fucking crazy."

  "I think you're making the right choice," CJ smiles. "I'll set up the day and time and put it on your calendar."

  "Who is this author anyways?" I ask. I realize that I haven't even asked what's arguably the most important fucking question.

  "Don't worry," CJ replies, grabbing her bag and walking to the door. She puts one hand on the handle and looks back at me. "I'll work it out and find out who this is."

  Without another word, she closes the door behind her.

  Just fucking great.

  We don't even know who this author is and I've already agreed to a meeting. So much for running a Google search on this mystery person.

  This should be interesting.

  Abby

  "Can I buy you a drink?" the tall man asks me, his pilot cap tucked under his arm. I freeze in place, suitcase handle in one hand and my passport in the other. I take one quick look at my watch, and then back to the handsome pilot. The flight arrived earlier than expected, so I probably still have some time before Cheryl gets here.

  And a drink doesn’t sound so bad right now. After spending almost five hours inside of a plane, I guess anything sounds perfect, especially if it’s a drink with a man like this.

  His navy blue suit gives him an elegant look, and the combination of golden stripes lacing the wrists of his jacket adds a complimentary touch. The wings over his breast pocket spell out what he does for a living and, even though it shouldn’t matter, it does. There’s something about pilots, especially when they’re wearing a uniform, isn’t there?

  I mean, seriously, I’m not alone, am I? You like uniforms too, right?

  "One drink," I tell him with a smile, and he closes the distance between the two of us and grabs the handle of my suitcase.

  "I’ll take this, then," he replies softly, propping up his blue cap on the top of his head. I trail after him like a lost pup, blessing the Gods for his company; I guess that accompanying a pilot gives you some leeway when it comes to cutting in line.

  He guides me through the sprawling airport corridors until we finally get to the first class lounge. I’ve only been here a few times, but it's always worth the extra money. I’m one of those people who hates wasting time at airports (well, who doesn’t, really?) and I always appreciate the extra comfort first-class gives me. Especially if it means I get to fire up my laptop and bang out another chapter
. Yeah, no such thing as downtime for us writers—every hour is writing hour.

  Still, now is one of these rare times when my mind isn’t in writing mode. No, right now my brain is busy appraising the man walking by my side. I steal a glance at his nametag (Andrew Delavan), and then take the time to look up and down his body. He has a pronounced chin, the hard lines of his jaw making him look as if he just stepped out from a movie; and he’s at least a foot taller than me.

  If something happens with Mr. Pilot, I’ll be sure to write about it in my next newsletter. I always like to keep my fans in the loop, you know? I grew up as a private person, but that went out the window the moment I had my first bestseller. It’s amazing what a globe girlding online e-bookstore like Rainforest.com will do to you.

  I spent these past two weeks lazing around in Honolulu (which means I spent half the time trying to drown myself in Mai Tais to numb the pain), and I’ve already uploaded a lot of the pictures to my group on Facebook, Dirty Lil’ Angels. Technology is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? God bless my fans, if it weren’t for them I might've gone insane after losing my boyfriend, dignity, and publishing deal all in the same day. Too bad that, aside from my fans, nobody seems to be buying my books.

  But I guess it’s time I move on, right? The world doesn’t stop spinning just because you feel like a deflated tire. And I’m thinking that maybe Mr. Andrew ‘Handsome Pilot’ Delavan might just help inflate my tire. Okay, that was a terrible pun, I know.

  We go through the glass and marble entryway to the lounge, make a beeline straight to the bar and sit down on the high stools.

  "A cosmo, please," I ask the bartender, and Andrew just gets a fresh lime soda. I figure he can’t get behind the yoke of a plane with even a slight buzz, which kinda makes me feel better about the idea of being thousands of feet up in the air inside of a bullet with wings.

  We talk about the usual niceties—where are you from? What do you do? And he ends up telling me that he was the pilot on my flight from Hawaii to Los Angeles. He had my life in his hands, and I’m still breathing, so I guess I have to thank him for that.

  It doesn’t take long for him to place his hand on top of mine, and next thing I know he’s telling me about this place we can go to get some privacy. I check my watch again and, even though Cheryl’s probably already wondering about my whereabouts, I figure I need to do this. My mental sanity is at stake here, Cheryl, be nice.

  I follow him through a service only entrance, and he leads me to a small private lounge used only by the air crew. We get inside a private locker room and, as soon as he locks the door behind us, it’s on.

  Turning to me, he loses no time and leans into me, his mouth on mine. We kiss as if we are in a hurry, both of us aware that there’s no romance involved; this is the nuts and bolts of getting off, the basic insert Tab A into Slot B. Not that I’m complaining, sometimes that’s enough for a woman to clear her head and forget about the real world for a short while.

  He pushes me back against the wall while we kiss, and his hands roam up to my inner thighs, sliding under the hem of my short skirt and going straight for the wet fabric of my thong. My insides clench as I feel his fingers on my wetness and, wanting to go straight into the main event, I pull back from his kiss and take my fingers to his belt. I unbuckle it in a hurry, and then pull his zipper down. His pants drop to his knees and I do the rest, curling my fingers around the hem of his boxers and tugging them down; his cock springs free at once, and it’s significantly bigger than Grady’s: seven inches or so, enough for what I need right now.

  Grabbing my thong, he pulls on it, sliding the fabric down until it falls around my ankles. I step out of it as he reaches for his wallet, pulling out a condom wrapper. I take it out from his hands and open it, sliding the condom down his erect cock in one swift movement. He smiles at me and then takes both his hands to my ass, his fingers under my cheeks. Pulling me up and into him, I let him pick me up and lace my legs around his lower back; with one hand I guide his cock right to where I need it to be, and then close my eyes as I feel him slide in.

  Wasting no time, he starts to thrust, rocking his hips back and forth at a steady pace. I have my arms thrown over his shoulders, and I just keep still as he does his thing. I throw my head back and let out a soft moan, trying to clear my head and allow the soft waves of pleasure to reach my brain. It’s a bit stupid that I have to exert effort to focus during sex, but I guess that’s par for the course when you hook up like this.

  It doesn’t take long; a pleasant warmness spreads from my pussy, crawling up my spine, and I hold my breath as I surrender to it. I moan again, this time louder, and keep my eyes closed as I come.

  "Come for me, babe," I whisper against his ear. I might be being selfish right now, but Cheryl’s going to kill me if I take too long. "That’s it, harder…" I purr, and he’s done in two hard thrusts; his cock spasms harshly inside of me, and he presses his forehead against my shoulder, groaning as he comes.

  "That was… that was amazing," he breathes out, slowly sliding out of me and putting me down on the floor.

  "It was," I agree, even though I’m just being polite. It wasn’t exactly bad, no, but it wasn’t amazing. I pick up my thong from the floor and, instead of putting it back on, I take a clean one from inside my suitcase. "I have to go, I’m already late," I tell him, and he fishes his cellphone out from the pocket in his jacket.

  "Can I have your number?" he asks, smiling eagerly. Well, why not? I think as I grab his smartphone and key my number in.

  "Call me," I tell him before bolting out the door, dragging my suitcase after me as I march out of the air crew’s lounge. I’m not sure if I’ll pick up a call from him, but he was nice enough for me to give him my number. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to be friends with a pilot, right?

  "Will do!" he shouts after me, poking his head out of private room. I wave at him awkwardly and then I’m back into the first class lounge. I stop for a few seconds to check the airport map, and then I go on my way, hurrying toward the arrivals area.

  Cheryl’s car is already parked out front, a frown mounting on her face as she sees me walking toward the car.

  "Where were you?" she asks me, getting out of the car and popping the trunk open. "Your flight got here almost an hour ago."

  "I was busy," I simply tell her, but she wiggles her nose at me in that way that says you dirty rascal. Oh well. "What’s with all the rush? You didn’t need to come pick me up."

  "I sure did," she says, getting behind the wheel. "In case you don’t remember, you threw out your publishing deal, and since I’m your PA, I kinda got the shaft as well. And that’s why I had to come here to make sure you don’t miss this meeting."

  Yeah, the meeting. Somehow, Cheryl got it in her head that I had to meet up with this model, Aidan Stone, a guy that used to model for romance covers and now is down on his luck. Kinda like me, I know.

  Except this guy is down on his luck because he was fucking Alyssa’s sister backstage of a Romance Author Guild Association Awards dinner.

  Like, who does that? Then he apparently came all over her.

  I wasn’t there. My sales were doing so bad that Grady said it would be better if he gave my ticket to a real author – you know, one who was selling books.

  So yeah, I saw everything I needed to when Eddie Cleveland was telling me what happened. And no, before you ask, Abby Cleveland is not related to Eddie Clevaland. I wish. But sadly, no. Which is still good for me though, right? Because he’s hot. And I love his bad boys. No, Eddie just helps me with advice and is always there to answer my questions. I love his group on Facebook too – where he writes you quickies.

  Anyways, I’m getting sidetracked. What I wanted to say was I don’t wanna work with Aidan Stone. I’ve never actually seen him in person but I don’t need to see him to make that decision. Besides, Cheryl doesn’t want him to just pose for the cover; no, she wants him to co-write. I mean, really? I’m not that desperate; I don’t even know if he has the
chops for it. And let’s not even get into the kind of reputation this guy seems to have; a complete asshole that goes through women as fast as I go through reruns of Grey’s Anatomy.

  "Do we really have to do this? I don’t want to be working with a guy that can’t even keep it in his pants."

  "Oh, shut up. Don’t act like you’re a saint, Abby. And you need to face reality: without a publisher, you’re on your own. Which means you’ll have to self-publish, and without the backing of a publisher it’s going to be a true challenge to get you off the ground. You could use the name recognition."

  "Oh, God," I sigh, pressing my forehead against the window of the door, watching the LA traffic. "Where are we going, anyway?"

  "Del Posto’s. His PA booked a table for us there."

  "Well, at least there’s that. I always liked Del Frisco’s."

  To be honest, I’m just taking this meeting because of Cheryl. She’s been my PA since I started my writing career so many years ago, and if it weren’t for her I doubt I’d even have a career. In fact, I once almost lost everything. Hit rock bottom. But Cheryl was there, helping me get up.

  So, yeah, I feel that I owe her this.

  Thankfully, the ride from JFK into Midtown into Times Square to the restaurant is a short one, and we get there just in time for the meeting. Of course, the ride wasn’t short enough for Cheryl; I figure that she was already tired of my voice after five minutes of me complaining about the meeting.

  I stroll inside the restaurant with Cheryl by my side, holding my head up high. If this model thinks that just because he has a pretty face he can co-write a novel with me, he’s in for a rude awakening. Whatever Cheryl says, I still want to see if he has what it takes.

  "I don’t want to be here for more time than is necessary, Cheryl," I tell her, scanning the room as I look for Aidan and his PA. "I don’t want to spend more than an hour hearing this guy bragging about how cool he is and --"