Kitty Valentine dates a Billionaire

by Dodd, Jillian

  This is my way of trying to talk myself into dating him—or rather, approaching him and seeing if I can lure him in. Hayley’s words. She wouldn’t let me choose a new guy—big surprise—convinced Blake is not only the natural choice, but the easiest of all. Otherwise, I’d have to go out into the world and search for a single father or police officer to date, and that would take a lot more time.

  Time I don’t necessarily have. While I’m not completely frivolous with the money I’ve earned—I save for retirement and a rainy day and all that—I can’t afford to go too long between releases for more reasons than just finances. An author is only as good as their next book. Readers nowadays tend to take a what have you done for me lately attitude toward even their favorite authors since self-publishing lends itself to rapid releases. People have started to believe that’s the way all writers should work when it just isn’t possible for many of us.

  I can’t let my name wither on the vine, in other words.

  “And he’s speaking at a media conference in two days,” Hayley informed me over our burgers the other night. “You can get in at the last minute—if anybody can, you can. Maybe Lois could help. I’m sure you’ll think of something to catch his attention.”

  “But what?” I groaned, a French fry hanging halfway out of my mouth.

  “Oh, definitely eat like a slob. I know I’d be turned on if I liked women.” Hayley snickered. “Earth to Kitty. You’re the romance writer. You always write little meet-cutes in your books. How do you come up with those?”

  “There’s a big difference,” I countered. “I can control what both parties say and do and think. I can’t control what Blake thinks of me or whether he wants to go out with me.”

  “Don’t worry,” she assured me. “I’ll give you a few pointers. You wanna know how to get a guy’s attention and keep him hooked? Look no further.”

  So, here I am, in a car on my way to the hotel where the conference is underway. The keynote speaker is due to make his presentation today. None other than Mr. Marlin himself.

  “Why is this so important?” Lois said when I—gasp!—called and asked her to do something an agent normally did.

  “Because I want to meet a few industry professionals,” I fibbed while pacing my office. “I need to keep my options open right now, Lois, what with things being in flux at the publisher.”

  She managed to score me a pass into the conference well after the tickets had sold out, so I guess I owe her a floral arrangement. I make a note of this in my phone before referring to the list of tips Hayley gave me.

  Don’t be too open. Men like mystery.

  Let him chase you. Men like to feel like they’re in charge, especially wealthy, powerful men.

  Toss your hair a lot.

  I roll my eyes at this one, though I deliberately left my hair down today. Do men really go for that? I always figured that was some sort of a silly generalization, but maybe there’s something to be said for it after all. If it works, I’ll have to put that in my new book.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve flirted. Shamefully long even. I’ve spent way too much time wrapped up in work. Sometimes, I even forget the day of the week when I’m good and busy.

  How does a person catch the attention of a billionaire?

  Actually, my first problem is getting into the conference room where he’s speaking. It’s standing room only at the back, rows of chairs between me and the stage set up at the far end.

  What am I supposed to do? Set myself on fire? That’ll get his attention.

  “Excuse me,” a man murmurs as he brushes past.

  At least he excuses himself or even acknowledges my presence. I’ve been nudged aside and ignored more times in the last few minutes than I can keep track of. It’s mostly men here. They’re not exactly thoughtful or observant, these guys. One thing I’ve learned over the years of researching men and their habits for my work: true alphas aren’t rude, especially to women. They might be forceful or brusque, but they wouldn’t shove a girl aside to claim a seat.

  The lights in the room dim right on time, just as the stage lights brighten. Moments later, a handsome young man strides out onstage, and the room erupts in respectful applause. I join in because, well, the guy’s practically a legend at the young age of thirty-two.

  And because, holy moly, he’s even more gorgeous in person. Whoever came up with the idea of placing screens around the room so those of us in the back could see him was a genius and probably deserves a bouquet larger than the one I plan to send Lois.

  There’s only so much a photo can convey. Magnetism isn’t one of those qualities. And the man has it—in spades. I can barely keep track of what he’s talking about, as I’m so busy noticing the dimple in his left cheek, his obnoxiously long eyelashes—seriously, what’s up with men having thick, lush lashes? How unfair is that?

  Instead of being forceful and loud, the way some of the men around me were speaking just before the talk began, he’s friendly. Even playful. Serious about business, no doubt, but if he ever decided to give up being a mogul, he could make a mint as a public speaker.

  He’s a leader, in other words, and I can practically hear the audience soaking up every last word as they scribble on notepads, type into their phones and laptops. Poor them. They don’t get to watch and admire the way his eyes twinkle when he makes a joke.

  Then again, maybe they’re not as interested in his sparkling brown eyes as I am.

  How in the world am I going to catch those eyes and hold his attention? He’s spectacular while I’m … me. Hayley would be much better at this than I am. I should’ve sent her. That would’ve been a better idea! She could do the dating for me, and I could write about it.

  Though she’s already spent enough precious time helping me out. I should send her flowers too. Maybe I’d do better by buying a florist shop.

  The talk lasts an hour, after which time Blake answers questions sent his way prior to the conference. Some of them are really funny.

  One guy asked how he finds time to sleep with all the work he must do, and he responds, “My best work is done in the bedroom … asleep—for anybody out there getting the wrong idea.”

  I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t mind hearing that deep, rich voice murmuring my name while he …

  Oh jeez, I should be taking notes. He’s giving me all kinds of interesting ideas I think my readers might enjoy.

  He’s finished all too soon. I could listen to him speak forever. He could read a menu, and I’d hang on his every word. Except I still have no idea how to catch him.

  I have to dash out of the room to beat the rush, hoping I can catch him outside in the hall. He’s supposed to be having a meet-and-greet with VIPs—aka people who spent extra money to upgrade their experience.

  Lois wasn’t able to score me that sort of ticket though, so my best chance is either before or after that session. I’ll toss my hair a lot, make sure he knows how mysterious I am. Like I don’t even care that he’s super rich and hot as a ten-alarm fire—

  The next thing I know, I’m hit from behind. My purse flies in one direction, and I fly in the other, landing on my knees on an uncarpeted floor. I hear people crying out in surprise and concern all around me while my knees scream obscenities and blood rushes in my ears.

  “What the hell?” I gasp, looking up through the curtain of hair I was hoping to toss in Blake’s direction. I can’t tell who hit me as they rush past, but it doesn’t matter. The result was the same, no matter who did it.

  “Are you all right?” a man asks, crouching in front of me.

  I can only see his shoes, shiny and expensive-looking. He reaches for me, and there’s no missing a Rolex on his wrist. Terrific. I made a huge fool of myself in front of a rich guy who happens to be the only one nice enough to stop and ask if I’m okay.

  “Nothing hurts but my pride,” I mutter, looking around for my purse. Thank God it was zipped or everybody in the hall would have been treated to a wide array of chewin
g gum, mints, lip glosses, and feminine hygiene products. That would’ve been the cherry on top of a half-melted sundae.

  “Let me help you,” the man offers, taking my arms and practically lifting me onto my feet. He’s strong but gentle—though I have no time to reflect on either of those attributes since I soon learn it’s not only my pride that’s busted.

  “Oof,” I groan the second I put weight on either leg. Neither knee is bleeding, but there are already bruises coming up.

  “I wish I’d caught up to the guy who slammed into you,” my savior growls. “But I was a little too concerned with helping you. I’m sure there are security cameras all around here. If you want, I can have the footage examined.”

  “Why would they …” I start, finally getting up the nerve to look Mr. Helpful in the eye. It’s not easy since I feel about as clumsy and awkward as I’ve ever felt, but I manage it.

  Brown eyes. Ridiculous lashes. Tan skin, sandy hair, the sort of jaw that brings to mind a comic book superhero.

  “You’re Blake Marlin,” I whisper, forgetting the pain in my knees and my pride for a second.

  His smile widens. “And you’re my special guest for the rest of the day. Come on. Let’s get you into a chair.” As he helps me into the smaller conference room where his VIP event is scheduled to take place, he calls out, “Can somebody grab a couple of ice packs?”

  That’s the thing about the very wealthy and very powerful. They don’t even have to direct their requests to anyone in particular. They just know they’ll get what they asked for.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Really, this isn’t necessary,” I insist as Blake helps me into a wheelchair. A freaking wheelchair. Somehow, he managed to get one for me, so I wouldn’t have to walk. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “Yeah, well, those swollen knees tell another story,” he sighs as I settle in. “I’ve twisted both knees before, playing sports. I know how much it hurts, and I know how important it is to stay off your feet.”

  “I’ve been sitting all afternoon,” I remind him with a smile.

  I watched from the sidelines, ice on my knees and my feet up on a chair, as he held the special meet-and-greet with several dozen attendees. One of them kept shooting guilty looks my way, and I’d bet anything he was the one who’d knocked me down.

  But that’s okay. He did me a favor even if he doesn’t know it.

  Blake crouches in front of my chair, where I’m trying my best to look dignified. “You know something? I don’t even know your name. You know mine, but I was rude and never thought to ask for yours.”

  “Oh.” I laugh. “It’s okay. I didn’t think that was rude at all. You had your event to get to.” I hold out a hand, which smarts like heck after landing on it along with my knees but I think I can withstand a shake. “Kitty Valentine.”

  “Not the Kitty Valentine,” he murmurs, brows lifting almost clear off his forehead. “Kitty Valentine, the author?”

  “Um, yes? I mean, yes. That’s me. Sorry.” I laugh, and now, I want to put that aching hand over my face to hide how hard I’m blushing. “It’s just that I would never expect you to recognize my name.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re a phenomenon—four number one best-sellers.”

  I can hardly believe this. “I’m sorry. Did I hit my head when I fell? Because I’m having a hard time believing you know anything about my career.”

  His smile widens. “I appreciate success, especially in the form of a phenom who’s good enough to send the competition running for the hills. You managed to surprise the publishing world with how quickly you rose through the ranks, and your talent speaks for itself.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve read any of my books.” That would truly be too much—and the final nail in my coffin. No way I’m conscious and clearheaded if the man professes a love for sweet romance. I must’ve knocked myself out when I fell.

  Darn it, he’s hotter than ever when he blushes.

  “To be honest, no, I haven’t.”

  “I thought so.” I grin.

  “But my sister has. She’s a big fan of yours, and I trust her taste over just about anybody else’s.” He tilts his head to the side. “You write for one of my publishers, don’t you?”

  Dang it. Of course, he was bound to make the connection. Soon, he’ll be brushing me off, telling me it’s nice to have me on board or whatever. I can’t tell him about my woes either or he might think I’m trying to get my next book picked up by heading straight to the top of the food chain.

  It would also reek of desperation, and nobody wants to date the desperate girl.

  “I do.” I smile. “Happily. Everybody’s been so good to me.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” He stands, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

  Even now, completely relaxed, he’s breathtaking. Smiling down at me, backlit—thanks to a fixture just behind his head. It creates an aura around him, like a halo. I’m surprised I don’t hear angels singing.

  “Mr. Marlin?” A young woman trots over, pointing to the screen of her phone. “Your jet is wheels up in forty-five minutes.”

  “Right,” he sighs. Then, he winks down at me. “But that’s the nice thing about having your own jet. You get to decide when to leave.” Strange how something that might’ve sounded totally … well, douchey, coming out of anybody else’s mouth, is cute and charming, coming from him.

  “But your dinner plans,” the girl murmurs.

  “Right.” He nods, his jaw tightening. “Okay. But first, I’m seeing this young lady home—if she lives nearby, that is. I don’t know if a drive out of state is in the cards today.”

  “Oh.” I blush, even as I wonder how to wrangle a date out of him. Not that the sight of him and the sound of his voice aren’t enough to inspire a virtual porno film of scenarios in my head, but I could use a little insight into his life. “I live here in the city, but you don’t have to do that.”

  “I insist.” And he doesn’t sound like a man who’s used to being disagreed with. “It’s the least I can do for a best-selling author who happens to write with one of my publishers. You’ve had a rough day. Let me see you home.”

  When I hesitate—because honestly, his generosity is staggering—he adds, “You’d better make up your mind quick or else I’ll be late for my flight and for an important dinner. You wouldn’t want that.”

  It’s the way his mouth twitches like he’s trying to hold back a laugh that does me in. No matter how sexy a man is, the sexiest thing of all is a sense of humor. Hands down.

  “Okay, okay, I don’t want to make you late.”

  “Great. Let’s head out to my car then.” He turns to his assistant. “Please make sure my bags are on the jet and let the pilot know I’m running slightly behind schedule. Oh, and please, call home and let her know I might be a few minutes late but not to go calling the police or the hospital. I had a slight bump in my schedule.”

  Her? Home? My stomach drops. I thought he was single, but it’s not sounding that way. He has dinner plans with his wife or girlfriend. Whoever she is, she sounds overprotective. Darn it! All this effort and humiliation for nothing.

  “Come on then, Kitty Valentine.” Blake grins, taking the handles of the chair and actually, honest-to-God pushing me out of the room and down the hall.

  Blake Marlin, the billionaire, is pushing me in a wheelchair, and he might as well be Moses parting the Red Sea. The people around us step aside without needing to be told, gaping with wide eyes and murmuring to each other. Who’s the girl in the chair? Why in the world would a man this powerful be pushing her wheelchair?

  “They probably think I’m a charity case,” I mutter under my breath.

  But not quietly enough.

  “What’s that?” Blake asks, chuckling.

  “Nothing. So, uh, where are you heading tonight? Someplace fabulous, I’d guess. A fancy restaurant?”

  “Hardly.” He snickers as he continues to push.

  We’re near the fr
ont door finally, so I won’t have to endure being stared at much longer.

  “Come on,” I tease. “You? Then again, I’m sure what you consider everyday and ordinary would be spectacular to somebody like me.”

  “To the famous Kitty Valentine?” He chuckles as we cross the sidewalk with a hotel concierge at our heels—probably to get the wheelchair once I’m out of it and to generally grovel at Blake’s feet.

  “I’m famous in a very small circle,” I remind him when we reach the black limousine parked at the curb. Of course this is his car. There I was, thinking he’d be the one driving.

  The driver climbs out and opens the door while Blake helps me to my feet. It’s not a bad attempt at flirting that has me leaning against him, though having the excuse to do so is nice. His chest and arms are just as firm as they look in his suit. If I didn’t feel like my legs were screaming, this would not be the worst afternoon I’d ever had.

  “I’ll tell you a secret,” he murmurs as he helps me into the limo.

  His cologne is intoxicating, the sort of scent that makes me want to bury my face in his neck. I need to remember this feeling for when I’m writing.

  “What’s that?” I ask, scooting over to make room for him.

  He slides in beside me with a sigh. “I’m having dinner at my mom’s house tonight. That’s where I’m going. Now, you know the truth about me. I have to catch my jet, so I can get to my mother’s house. Shh. That’ll be our little secret.”

  I wonder if he’s looking for somebody to fall in love with him because I’m halfway there. “You’re kidding. Dinner at Mom’s? So, she’s the one who might call the hospital if you don’t show up on time?” That would explain the overprotectiveness anyway.

  “Correct. I love her, I do, but she hovers. Even now. Especially now really since I’m always traveling. Don’t I know how dangerous air travel can be? That sort of thing.”