ALEXANDER: A Billionaire Romance (NIGHT OF THE KINGS SERIES Book 4)

by Shayne Ford

  “I think I’m in love,” I say, smiling and kicking off my shoes.

  “Who are you in love with?”

  She swivels her head after me, a wooden spoon stuck in her hand.

  “My boss.”

  A smile stretches across her lips.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Laughing, I head to the bedroom. Her footsteps echo right behind me as I vanish inside the walk-in-closet and start changing my clothes.

  “What makes you say that?” she asks.

  “Everything,” I say, smiling secretly.

  “Mmmm... Seemingly, he likes you too,” she says, washed with revelation.

  I shrug, grinning ear to ear.

  “Yeah, there’s a slight possibility that he might like me.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Good.”

  Her hand flicks up in the air.

  “As in...?”

  “Tall, blonde, blue eyes. He has the body of a God, and a heart melting smile. Not always, though,” I say, chuckling softly. “The man is a walking enigma. But even that I like about him.”

  I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. A moment later, we enter the kitchen. I grab a soda and plop on a chair as she lifts the cover of a pan and stirs inside with the wooden spoon.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  She drags her gaze at me.

  “Seafood chowder.”

  “Where did you learn to cook?” I ask, remembering a time when none of us were able to boil an egg without screwing it up.

  “Living on your own teaches you a lot of things,” she says. “Besides, I like to eat. So, about this boss of yours... What’s the story with him?”

  “There is no story,” I say, pulling out of my chair and heading to the sink.

  I wash my hands and set the table. Two soup bowls and spoons go on the placemats before I start to cut the bread.

  “It’s nothing really. And it’s innocent, which makes me like it even more.”

  She fills the bowls with chowder. I bring the glasses of water.

  We sit at the table, the way we used to do in our parents’ home.

  “You like it innocent because you don’t know what to do with a man like him,” she says, chewing on a small piece of bread.

  “That too,” I say, sinking my spoon in the creamy soup.

  “How many men have you been with since Dany?”

  Dany was my official high school boyfriend, and everybody thought he was my first man. What nobody knows is that we’ve never gotten to that point. We were good friends, but there was nothing more than a platonic relationship between us.

  “There were a few men,” I say, evading her eyes.

  I count three seconds before she starts laughing.

  “You’re so bad at lying, Dahlia.”

  “Okay. I’ve had a few experiences. Nothing to write home about. I couldn’t find a good reason to waste time with anyone.”

  “And now you wish you had.”

  I wave her off and drink water.

  “I’m not fooling myself. I know what this is. That’s why I like it so much. I know I’m infatuated with him, and it feels so damn good. It’s like been sixteen again.”

  “What if he makes a pass at you?”

  “He won’t. He loves his business more than anything else, and the man has integrity. He wouldn’t jeopardize his reputation for some office fling with an employee. Even if he fancies me, I bet he can order someone looking just like me from the Beauties for the Billionaires catalog. And have her delivered to his door.”

  She chuckles.

  “Is there such a thing?” she mutters, still smiling.

  “I bet there is.”

  Later, we skip dessert, clean the table, and walk into the living room.

  “Do you remember the dance moves I taught you last night?” she asks.

  “My memory is not the problem. Being stiff is.”

  “You’re not gonna be stiff. Trust me. Once you get into the groove, everything will work out. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “How can you say that when I’m supposed to hump the air while hovering over a hard dick?”

  “Let me give you a tip. Instead of thinking about the client’s erection, focus on the money you leave with.”

  I roll my eyes. That’s some tip.

  She puts the music on and sinks into a chair.

  “Oh, please don’t make me do that,” I say.

  “You’d rather dance with an empty chair?”

  “No... I mean yes.”

  “The only reason you should do it with someone in the chair is to be able to appreciate the distance and not touch them. Here, let me show you...”

  She pushes out of the armchair and motions me to take a seat.

  I do as I’m told, and she starts swaying her hips, doing the dance routine I’m supposed to master two days from now.

  She knows what she’s doing.

  I may have been the better dancer when we were in high school, but the fact that she danced recently shows. Her motions are smooth and sexy, her timing perfect. She rolls her hips and waves her body, caressing herself with her hands.

  “I’m not sure I can do that...” I mumble.

  “You can prop your hand on his shoulder,” she says without even a short breath.

  “You said, no touching.”

  “Or you can pretend you arouse yourself,” she says flatly.

  “Okay, hand on his shoulder it is. Are you sure he’s not pulling me into his lap and wants me to touch him?”

  “He may, but then he’d be invited to vacate the premises.”

  “What if it happens in the heat of the moment, and I like it?”

  “You’re too busy to move your body and make sure that the few pieces of fabric that cover you stay in place.”

  The song comes to an end.

  “Good. Now you,” she says.

  Reluctantly, I switch places with her and execute my routine. She examines me with a critical eye which strangely reminds me of our dance coach.

  “That’s it,” she says as the tune comes to an end for the second time. “You got it down. All you need to do is work on your body language. At least pretend there’s a temptress living inside you.”

  She says it so seriously, I start to laugh.

  “A man with half of brain will figure me out.”

  “Not if he’s hard.”

  “I’m gonna burn in hell,” I say, breathing out a chuckle.

  “Hell is here,” she says seriously taking the oomph out of my laughter.

  “Okay, okay. By pretending you mean...?”

  “The way you walk and smile. The way you hold your chin up and your shoulders pulled back. Remember you have a mask over your eyes, and the place is dimly lit, so nobody can figure out how you look like if you play your card right.”

  “You mean figuring out that I’m an impostor?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Walk.”

  I do a little runway strutting for her. She considers herself satisfied after she makes a few suggestions on how to improve my stride. She nudges me to an armchair and fishes a makeup case out of her backpack.

  “Here. Let me show you how to do it.”

  She slides a mirror in front of me and drags a chair next to me.

  “I’ll do it this time,” she says.

  “I know how to put my makeup on.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve seen you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “The angelic look, innocent damsel in distress.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, protesting.

  “You know it is.”

  “Okay, it may be true, but there’s a reason for that. That’s me going to work.”

  “Exactly,” she says. “But Friday, the mousy girl stays home, and the femme fatale works her charm on some innocent man.”

  “Innocent, my ass,” I mumble.

  “Enough talki
ng. Now stay still.”

  I freeze.

  She meticulously cleans my skin, moisturizes it, applies foundation and concealer and then starts painting my face.

  I examine her as she focuses on what she does. A few minutes later, she motions me to glance in the mirror.

  “Take a look.”

  I do a double take.

  “Oh, my God! What is this?”

  I pull back and then closer. I angle my face and examine the details. My eyebrows are beautifully arched, giving my face a naughty expression, my lips deftly lined and painted with a deep, sultry red. My eyes... Oh, my... They sparkle, trimmed with curled dark lashes. My gaze is piercing, hypnotic almost.

  She frees my hair from the ponytail and runs her fingers through it, combing it all down my back, the makeover complete.

  “I don’t know who would recognize me,” I murmur, examining my new look in the mirror.

  “Exactly. There’s nothing to worry about, other than perhaps getting someone obsessed with you. You use that mask and do everything the way I’ve been teaching you, and you’ll be fine.”

  She spins around, and then she stops and glances over my shoulder.

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes?’”

  “Mark, the owner of the place, wants to see you dancing?”

  My eyebrows tilt up.

  “It’s only a formality if you ask me. You’ll meet him tomorrow after work in that studio downtown, the one we’ve talked about.”

  With that, she vanishes out the door.

  DAHLIA

  The audition was a success.

  Tasha picks me up on Friday evening around seven, and Elsa gives me a few words of encouragement as I walk out the door, grappling with a bad case of jitters.

  To say I’m nervous it’s a crass understatement.

  No matter which way I spin it, this is one of the craziest ideas ever.

  Tasha is a petite blonde who does her best to make me feel better about the whole thing. Most of the stuff she’s telling me is not new to me. I’ve heard it before from Elsa. The fact that it’s safe and money is good, and the men behave themselves. It all sounds like a fairytale. I guess it won’t take long and I’ll find out if it’s true.

  As the car merges with the traffic, we start talking about her school and my job. Around eight thirty, the car slows down as we drive across the neighboring town.

  Minutes later, we enter an area well-known for its clubs, restaurants and entertainment, the same place where Alexander Harrington books hotel rooms with the precision of a clock, almost every weekend.

  I wonder, what he’s doing tonight.

  Despite his promise, I haven’t heard from him these past two days, not that I expected. He announced he’d take time off. Normally, unless a pressing business issue arises, there’s no reason for him to check in with me.

  We take a turn and enter the covered parking lot of a beautiful building made of dark glass, concrete, and steel.

  As we pass by the entrance, I read the name imprinted above the door.

  Silver.

  “How long have you been doing this?” I ask Tasha.

  “I started last fall,” she says as he pulls the car to a stop.

  “Have you had any problems?” I murmur, looking out the window at the well-lit parking.

  “No.”

  “Elsa?”

  She stays quiet. I look at her.

  “Other than losing her job because of Jordan, nothing that I know of.”

  “How long has she been with him?”

  A wry smile creases her lips.

  “I don’t know if I should talk about her private life. I’m her friend.”

  “And I’m her sister. I know she doesn’t want to talk about him, but there must be more to the story if she’s in trouble because of him.”

  “She hooked up with him a few months back. He was okay with her work in the beginning, but the more time she spent on the stage or in the champagne room, the more restless he grew. Once she told him she might be pregnant, he forbade her to work here. She broke up with him, and then he made sure she got fired. That’s pretty much all I know,” she says. “I don’t want to get in any kind of trouble for telling you all this.”

  “You won’t.”

  We climb out the car, and she leads me to the back door where a beefy guy checks us in. For the next hour or so, I follow Tasha like a shadow.

  The owner greets me with a nod. There are several girls back stage in a large room with racks filled with clothing, mirrors, and tables littered with props and makeup cases.

  Most of them dance in the main room. There are several small stages with strip poles, the venue looking like a small theater.

  Some of the women chat and laugh and go crazy on the glitter, their bodies virtually naked. Tasha cues me in that those are the Champagne room girls.

  She tears away from me for a moment as the guy who runs the show beckons her to him. A few girls glance at me curiously. Most of them ignore me.

  Five minutes later, Tasha comes back and sits at her small makeup station.

  “We’re going to be in the Silver Room tonight.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The VIP Champagne Room. That’s where the parties for the high-end clientele are hosted.”

  “What’s going on in there?” I ask, a shred of concern threading through my voice.

  She smiles and locks my eyes in the mirror as she puts on her lipstick.

  “They’re doing their wheeling and dealing or simply kick back while us, the girls, dance on a small stage not far from them. Sometimes we dance on the table. Occasionally, they want lap dances on the spot, but most of the time they pick their girl and get a private lap dance later on.”

  My heart rattles my chest.

  I don’t know what scares me the most. Dancing almost naked for a group of strangers or the fact that I could be picked to perform a private lap dance later on.

  She tosses the lipstick on the table, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror again.

  “What is it, Dahlia?”

  “Elsa told me that nothing funny happens in the private rooms. Is that true?”

  “Most of the time...” she says, a bit guarded, her words not exactly truthful.

  I can tell.

  I glance away for a moment and then lean closer to her and murmur in her ear.

  “Have you ever slept with a client?”

  I pull back, and despite the low light I can see her expression shifting, and her skin getting flushed with blood.

  She doesn’t answer. And she shouldn’t, by all means. She’s Elsa’s friend, and I’m prying on her life. I could’ve said no to all of this and stayed home.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She brings her hand to mine.

  “Listen, you’re not doing anything you’re not comfortable with. Mark hired you because he likes the way you look and dance. He wants you in the Silver Room tonight because, believe it or not, often times the new girls have priority when it comes to meeting the top clients of the establishment. These are not men who force themselves on the girls, and they’re not some idiots who think with their dicks. If one of them selects a dancer for a one on one session, it’s usually because he clicked with the girl he’s chosen. And just so you know, despite the fact that there are no surveillance cameras in the rooms, there are a couple of panic buttons tucked in the armrests of the client’s chair, and bouncers are on standby to step in if things get out of control. All this time I’ve been here, they never had to walk in a room.”

  Somehow, I feel relieved.

  “Better?”

  I manage to smile.

  “Yes.”

  12

  DAHLIA

  The Silver Room looks like a decadent smoke lounge with massive leather couches and armchairs, crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains and thick, hand crafted rugs.

  There’s nothing silvery about the room. The place is drop lit by appliances hidden in the walls, dozens of
lit candles spreading a glow across the room as well.

  The spot looks romantic, showcasing the right imagery, I guess, in which, us–– the girls, fit perfectly.

  At Elsa’s suggestion, I’ve opted for a red lingerie set with strapless bra, a low sitting, tiny bikini and red heels. My skin shimmers with silver and red glitter, my hair all brushed back, cascading down my back, stopping short of my waist.

  A beautiful red velvet mask reminiscent of a movie set covers my eyes. My scarlet lips and nails match the lingerie set.

  I am one of the four girls assigned to the Silver Room, and the only one who’s new. Tasha insists this is the best setup for a newbie since the focus of the party is not on one particular girl.

  The guests are not in the room when we walk in.

  Each of us occupies a spot on the small platform that stretches on one side of the lounge. The music is on, and the girls start dancing. I do the same. The more I move, the more relaxed I become.

  Jitters and skimpy clothing aside, this place looks nice, welcoming and cozy. The music is turned low. Purposely so, I imagine.

  Moments later, male voices drift closer to the entrance.

  The doors slide open, and a few men walk in. I count four. They don’t pay attention to us. Not even a casual glance. Which is good, I think. Regardless, the adrenaline slams my blood with fury.

  Leisurely, the guests claim their seats. A crescent shaped couch curves around a low table, armchairs sitting on either side of it. The servers bring the drinks.

  I avoid looking at them in the beginning for fear of losing my focus and breaking my rhythm, but as they get settled, I furtively glance in their direction, studying them.

  One occupies the armchair close to me. His back is turned to me so I can’t see his face.

  Two sit across for me, each in one chair. Their voices and laughter ring out louder than the soft music. They all fashion suit pants and dress shirts, the men in my line of sight, looking somewhere in their thirties.

  The fourth man takes a seat on the couch, his demeanor cueing me in he’s the leader of the pack. He’s handsome as the devil, his clothes setting off his hard body and tall stature.

  Relaxed, he places another order with the hostess. I get a glimpse of his dark hair and magnetic smile.

  So far, none of them seem to acknowledge us, which, again, is a good thing. I can’t complain.