The Billionaire's Assistant (Contemporary BWWM Interracial Romance) (The Billionaire's Proposition Book 1)

by Rose Francis

  How was it this gorgeous billionaire was looking at her with such loving eyes and asking her to stay with him for life?

  “Yes,” she said, her voice strained with emotion.

  He quickly slipped the ring on her finger and grabbed her into a passionate kiss.

  “I can’t believe how lucky I am,” he said, and Naomi burst out laughing but didn’t bother telling him why.

  He seemed so excited, he didn’t even ask.

  “My cousin’s going to be so jealous,” he said. “Mike’s the one who’s currently looking for all of this, and it just stumbles into my lap. He’s totally ready to settle down and have a family and he’s off looking for a wife right now in fact. Funny thing is, he’s the one who said it first. ‘Watch,’ he said. ‘Because I want it the most, I’ll be the last to find it.”

  Kevin shook his head.

  “Guess that remains to be seen though—he could still beat my cousin, Richard.”

  Naomi couldn’t stop watching him as he spoke, her heart full.

  “I can’t wait to meet them,” she said.

  He smiled at her, the brought her hands to his lips to kiss. “Me too.”

  Then she looked at her ring, not sure she’ll ever get used to having a thing that valuable on her finger.

  “This ring looks so expensive,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

  He looked at her like she was a little crazy.

  “Not for me. Either way, don’t you understand by now? I’ll donate enough to get a library named after you if you want—I’ll do anything to make you happy, Naomi. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything. It’s scary the lengths I’d go for you, my love, but it’s exciting. You deserve everything.”

  “Wait, so now I’m the prince?”

  Kevin bowed his head and distorted his voice. “I’ll do whatever you like.”

  She grinned, her mind going straight to the gutter.

  But instead of going there, she said, “Can you get my friend a job? My old roommate, Jenna—she makes good money doing what she does now and is thinking of going a riskier route for more. Will you help her figure out some alternatives? I’m sure she can…well, I don’t know—we always took unskilled jobs, but she’s probably a fast learner…”

  His hand on her arm stilled her and she realized she had started babbling.

  “We’ll figure something out, Naomi. But you must be prepared for her possible decision to continue down the riskier path. Sometimes, despite what we want for them, people enjoy walking on the wild side, and sometimes, all you can do is let them be free. But yes, I will do what I can do present her with an attractive alternative. Now, anything else, boss lady?”

  She smiled wickedly at him.

  “Just this,” she said, pulling him on top of her as she settled onto her back and wrapped her legs around him.

  END

  *If you enjoyed this story, please let others know by leaving a review!*

  IF YOU’RE READING THIS, YOU ARE ONE OF THE EARLY BIRDS WHO GOT A SPECIAL BONUS EDITION!

  Kevin’s cousin, Richard, has his own love story, and it’s coming up next! For a limited time, the whole story has been included here. BEWARE: This one’s a bit spicier. :)

  Serving the Billionaire is the second story in THE BILLIONAIRE’S PROPOSITION series.

  SYNOPSIS: Curvy Cherise never expected the hot new guest in her restaurant to request her as his server. He had so many other options—thinner, prettier types more than eager to cater to all of his needs.

  But the sexy, mysterious man insists on having the bodacious beauty—in more ways than one.

  Suddenly, Cherise finds herself facing all sorts of moral quandaries and indecent propositions.

  What the heck is the handsome stranger really up to?

  PLEASE NOTE: This is a re-issue of a story previously published in parts under another name (same title). The story has been modified from the original in minor ways.

  CHECK OUT ROSE’S AMAZON AUTHOR page for her full catalog!

  BONUS STORY

  SERVING THE BILLIONAIRE

  CHAPTER ONE: CHERISE

  Tonight, the server ranks are buzzing because we have a new guest.

  No big deal, right? We get lots of new guests every night; it’s a hip, new restaurant.

  But the difference is that this particular guest is extremely hot. Not only that, he doesn’t have some ditzy blonde on his arm—he came in totally alone, and not many people do that.

  The last time I saw a guest dining alone, it was some big-name director I recognized only because I did extra work on one of his films once; otherwise, who knows director’s faces unless they’re really huge, like Spielberg?

  Anyway, this new guest seems like he might be in the industry: he definitely has movie star good looks and possibly an action star body from what I glimpsed—but no one has recognized him so far, and this place is full of aspiring actors, so I guess he could be a director.

  We doubt he gave us his real name upon booking the reservation, but someone will probably google the name on his credit card later tonight.

  In the meantime, we’re all stuck racking our brains for guesses.

  We suspect he’s filthy rich, although when it comes to filthy rich folks, it’s anybody’s guess what the tip will be like.

  I always thought rich folks would tip more back when I worked in 24-hour diners, but I learned that the main difference is what the final bill looks like. In either case, you could get lucky or you could even get stiffed.

  Of course in places like my current job, since the bill’s usually much higher, 18% on a bill worth hundreds sure as hell beats 18% on a sixty-dollar bill.

  For the most part, I expect an average of 20% everywhere—whether it’s some cheap diner or a new upscale restaurant.

  The clientele here is mainly L.A. movers and shakers, quiet millionaires, and a few loud, insecure actors.

  I’ve recognized several industry people so far, and of course I have to keep my shit together if it’s someone I know and happen to be a huge fan of.

  I find myself hoping the solo hottie gets seated in my section, but there’s no way the lead hostess would do that—she’ll probably direct him to Maggie’s section, or any of the other cute, slim female server sections.

  I feel like I’m pretty much the last resort—at least I would be if it wasn’t for the fact that people can sometimes be picky about their seats, and if it happens to be in my section (or the place is full), I’m in business.

  Not that I’m hideous or anything, but the L.A. flagship restaurant of a recent Chef of the Year is going for a certain look and feel from welcome to goodbye.

  For example, current hostess number one is blond and blue-eyed, about five feet seven, and about a buck twenty. She looks made of makeup and hairspray, but in a way that says upscale escort instead of beauty pageant contestant. Current hostess number two is a green-eyed, raven-haired beauty about five nine, and no more than one hundred thirty pounds.

  Me? A brown-skinned brunette about five feet five, and definitely more than one hundred and thirty pounds.

  Luckily I had lots of server experience—and a good word put in for me from my friend, Maggie—or I guess I wouldn’t have gotten this job at all, and I needed one badly.

  I would have liked to apply for a hostess position myself to shake things up a bit, but I’m no fool. No one really cares what servers look like unless it’s Hooters or something, and I’m definitely too much on the plump side for them.

  Even though I suspected it would happen, my chest falls a little when I see the blond hostess lead the sexy stranger to Maggie’s section.

  I swear Maggie puffs out her chest a little before heading to the hottie.

  Maggie’s a petite redhead with a sort of slim, but curvy body type—no bigger than a size four with boobs and a bubble butt. I’m sure our new guest will love her.

  I watch her chat with the handsome stranger for a moment, then inexplicably, Maggie heads to the hostess s
tand.

  The blond hostess sends a look in my direction—barely restrained disdain—then there’s a shuffle and the hottie is suddenly being moved to my section.

  What the hell is going on?

  Maggie heads in my direction.

  “He wants you,” she says, then wriggles her eyebrows ridiculously.

  I almost laugh, but my confusion dominates—why would a new guest request me?

  “Did he actually use my name or did he point and say, ‘the fat, black girl?’”

  She slaps me on the arm—kind of hard actually.

  “You’re not fat; stop saying that,” she says seriously, her dark eyes looking at me intently.

  “Well, in here I am,” I say, my eyes pointedly sweeping the room full of socialites, industry folks, paid escorts and prospective millionaire baby mamas. Nearly all the women dining here are thin. Plus, the hostesses look like models, and my fellow servers are aspiring actors, so the general look here is definitely way better than average.

  I’m not the only pleasantly plump girl, but the other one’s a blonde with huge boobs, and people like those.

  My boobs aren’t so huge, but you should get a load of my ass!

  “Bottom line is he asked for you. By name. Don’t worry—just your first name,” she says quickly.

  Panic must’ve shown on my face. I mean, how creepy would it be to have a complete stranger request you by your full name? And how did he even know my first name?

  I figure maybe he saw me, and then pulled aside a busboy and said, “Who’s the fat, black girl?”

  I head over to him, trying to ignore my pounding heart.

  My body is heating up to an insane degree so that my cheeks feel ridiculously hot.

  Christ, I’ve waited on good-looking guys before, why’s this one making me so heated and nervous? My whole body is flushed and my palms are getting sweaty.

  I need to get it together.

  It’s simply been too long and this guy’s testosterone finally lit me aflame—like throwing a lit match on some kindling.

  I take a deep breath.

  As I get closer to him, I have no doubt this guy’s loaded. The scent of money is all over him.

  Diners eating alone usually tip well, but still, I find myself thinking, Will I get stiffed, low-tipped, or super lucky?

  My mind shoves all those words into the gutter.

  I take a few more deep breaths so that by the time I reach him, I have gotten a hold of myself somewhat, and my usual greeting smile is plastered on my face.

  I begin with my regular spiel, offering him our ‘special’ water.

  “Sure, I’ll have that and whatever you recommend for wine, but I’d like to get right to it.”

  “Great! What can I get for you?”

  Before I can launch into my usual recommendations, I swear this dark-haired Adonis gives me such a thorough once-over—dragging his beautiful dark eyes from my eyes to my lips, then down every curve and back again—that I am left utterly speechless.

  I should be offended—utterly disgusted by such a lewd display, but my body only responds with wetness.

  My uniform and apron pretty much leave everything to the imagination, so I don’t know what he was looking at considering I’m covered head to toe in dark clothing, but I realize the point of his visual rake was to send me a very clear message.

  Fear suddenly seizes me.

  I’ve gotten all sorts of answers to my opening question before considering the other places I worked, but I’m praying this guy doesn’t answer with something so unimaginative as “You.”

  Plus, this place doesn’t play when it comes to sexual harassment—they’ll kick someone out quick, fast and in a hurry for anything that makes us uncomfortable—doesn’t matter who the person is or who they think they are; the restaurant really enforces the no-tolerance policy.

  “What do you think I should have?” he asks to my relief, but his voice is different—deep, rich, seductive. It manages to travel straight through my core.

  I find myself reactivating, and I immediately start rattling off my usual picks, ignoring my pounding heart and welcoming the moment of autopilot while trying to figure out why I felt so scared he would be verbally direct about wanting me.

  By the time my mouth stops yapping, I’ve figured it out—whether he used the lame “You” response or not, I was already most of the way there to saying yes to whatever the hell he wanted.

  Christ, that’s frightening. How is it this man is having such an effect on me?

  It’s like he cast some sort of spell.

  I’ve never been into casual relationships, yet this guy has me ready to throw caution to the wind. One proposition from him and I’m in.

  “I trust you,” he says. “Bring me a full meal—whatever you would eat.”

  Somehow, that regular-ass phrasing sends my body flaming more.

  My mind is turning everything dirty!

  I feel self-conscious and nervous, even though picking for a guest is an easy, sweet deal.

  I ask him about allergies and aversions, and when he indicates I have free reign, I give him some standard reply—maybe even “I’ll get right on it”—and I feel my face flushing even more, confused and burning. Why did I imagine climbing on top of him?

  I can feel his eyes on me when I go to my other tables, making it impossible to forget him for even a second.

  Throughout the evening, my blazing hot guest does nothing but smile and thank me when I bring each item out, and when I have laid the main course out in front of him, he asks, “What time do you get off?”

  My heart thumps wildly in my chest, and I’m almost positive he can hear it.

  I stutter a reply.

  My usual response to this question is a lie, but by the time my words come out, I realize I’ve spoken the truth.

  He checks his watch. It’s probably one of those ridiculously expensive high-end Apple ones.

  “Excellent,” he says. “You have helped me decide. That’s about when I’ll be done here, so bring me the bill before you’re about to get off. Put in an order for two of your favorite desserts, and then bring them out with the bill.”

  I nod and then take off, every part of me tingling once again.

  I feel nervous, horny, and frightened all at once, and the feelings don’t show any sign of leaving.

  I can barely concentrate the rest of my shift.

  Was he really going to try to hit on me when I got off?

  He’s definitely up to something, but I can’t guess what his next move will be, so I’m intrigued. Titillated—to say the least. What the hell is he planning?

  I consider sending one of the other servers to close out his check and ultimately slipping out without him knowing, but what if he comes back the next day?

  And who am I kidding? There’s no way I’d do that—I’m way too curious, and I sure as hell don’t want to send him into the arms of some other chick.

  I’ll be right here, collecting his payment, wondering what he plans to offer me once I got off.

  What the hell am I getting into?

  CHAPTER TWO: CHERISE

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Maggie says as I start getting ready to close out my shift.

  “Oh good—free reign,” I say playfully.

  As requested, I bring my solo guest’s desserts out with the check.

  He pays completely in cash, dropping down way too many hundreds for his hundred-dollar bill.

  My mouth drops open.

  I don’t get to keep all of it since we tip out the hostesses, busboys, etc., but still, that’s a lot of dough.

  I try not to stutter when I thank him.

  I’ve heard of this happening to other servers, but a surprisingly generous tip never happened to me until tonight.

  “Did you want me to box that up for you?” I ask, indicating the desserts.

  “Sure,” he says. “It’ll make it easier for you to save one for later, but I’d like to share one wit
h you now.”

  My brain trips over his words—he’d said too many strange things at once.

  I definitely stutter my response this time. “Um, what do you mean?”

  It’s not like I could just sit down at the table and start eating with him.

  “Why don’t you meet me outside? My driver is waiting, and I have lots of space in the back of my car. I’d like you to sit with me and have dessert.”

  Okay, first of all, did he really expect me to get in his car with him? I don’t know him from Adam!

  Second of all, did he really expect me not to eat both of these desserts asap? Save one for later, my ass—I’m starving.

  Third of all…I know there’s a third in there somewhere, but I’m not exactly thinking straight right now. This is all too much at once—having this beautiful man choose me of all the girls in here for whatever reason, beaming his dizzying testosterone at me and scrambling my brain.

  I don’t know what’s going on here, but I certainly don’t want to look like a skank leaving with him.

  I leave to box and bag the desserts and bring them back to him.

  “I’ll wait for you outside,” he says. “You’ll know my car at once—a black stretch limo. Rolls Royce.”

  Again, my brain trips over his words.

  The closest I ever came to a nice car was watching my brother drive away in a rented Lexus with a Just Married sign on the back of it and his new bride inside.

  Now this man is offering me the chance to get in one I couldn’t have dreamed up climbing into one day.

  I’m not shallow, but come on—how many times will an opportunity like this come up? I’m curious as hell to see what the inside looks like, and it’s not fun just googling it.

  I nod and take off, in a daze.

  I freshen up in the bathroom, then spend a few moments staring at myself in the mirror, unable to believe what’s happening.

  What the hell was I thinking—getting into a car with a complete stranger?

  What voodoo did he do on me?

  I shake myself, hoping to shake some sense back in, but to no avail.

  I head outside to find the stretch Rolls Royce.

  When I spot it, I just stare at it for a while. It looks so ominous, and the night is dark.