Billionaires Club

by Elsa Kurt

  When our bodies begin to still, the chill from the water seeps in, so I pull us both to standing and grab a few towels. She watches me closely as I dry her arms and wrap her tightly inside the white cloth, appreciating the contrast with her golden skin. I wrap her long hair in another and stand back to appreciate my work. She looks tiny in our oversized towels, but she is still stunning.

  The tilt of her head reminds me that she’s watching me, and when I glance at her expression, I can’t tell if she is confused or amused. I decide to stop messing around and get her back where she belongs, in bed.

  When we make it back to the bedroom, I glance at the clock and realize it’s four in the morning. Somehow my curiosity in a casino bar led me down a five-hour rabbit hole, including a fake identity as a stripper, and a marathon night of the best sex I’ve had in a long time. Who am I kidding, maybe the best sex ever. This is going to be a good story someday.

  She catches me grinning as I tuck her into the sheets, so I distract her with a passionate kiss and hope she doesn’t take offense. If she knew I was thinking of her as a story to tell, I’m sure she’d have my balls. Luckily, she’ll never know. To her, I will always be her one wild night with a stripper.

  Still, I find myself holding her close as she drifts off to sleep. The smell of strawberries lingers despite our long bath. All I can think is that this ex of hers must be a first class idiot. Maybe that’s what drives me to kiss her forehead and tuck the blankets tightly around her shoulders. Maybe that’s what drives me to grab the pen and Stacy’s note.

  I flip it over and try to think of what to say. Thank you for the amazing sex just doesn’t seem to do it. I glance back at the mass of blankets in the other room and sigh. In the end, I decide to go back to the beginning:

  My thoughts:

  1. Loving your work is a good thing. Don’t let some asshole tell you that passion is a bad thing.

  2. You are oblivious to your impact on other people—a good thing for me because if you knew how much I wanted to rip that dress off you when I met you, you never would have let me.

  3. No way you will end up alone. Someday you’ll end up with exactly who you deserve. In my opinion, that absolutely means perfection.

  Chapter 5

  Layla

  As I flip, I plant my feet firmly against the tiles and push. The water slides quickly across my sore muscles, gently massaging last night’s fun from my body. I can feel the aftereffects of Maxwell Scala from head to toe, and it is amazing.

  I grin at the name before coming up for a breath. Who knows what his real name is, but he will always be Maxwell Scala to me. Cici is never going to believe what I did with her stripper. It’s not that I don’t ever do anything adventurous, it just that my definition of adventurous usually involves travel, not well-built men.

  And man was he well built. And skilled. The tired ache of every muscle I flex is a testament to how thoroughly worked over I feel. My daily swim is never going to be the same again.

  During my next lap, the reflections of the water begin to dance and play on the silver tile below, and I realize that someone has turned on the lights. So much for making it an hour without having to share. It appears that someone else finds this pool as tempting as I. I decide to pause at the end of the pool to take a look at my new pool mate.

  I pull my goggles as I start to poke my head out of the water and am startled to find a pair of black wingtips at the edge of the pool. I trace the long lean form upward until I lock eyes with none other than my own personal stripper. I know I had a fair amount to drink last night, and it probably doesn’t help that I didn’t get much sleep, but I can’t for the life of me imagine why he’s here in this moment.

  “What on Earth are you doing here?” I am a little surprised when those are his words, not mine.

  “Swimming?” My confusion turns my answer into a question. “What on Earth are you doing here?” I manage to retort.

  “Well,” Maxwell sinks onto his heels, which brings him close enough that his tie dangles in front of me. “I was happily asleep in my bed when I received a phone call that there was a situation in the South Tower pool that I may want to check out myself.”

  I stare at his tie and try to figure out why someone would call this a situation and think to call him to come solve it. As I do, I notice the fine patterned design and appreciate the texture of the fabric. That is a really nice tie. For some reason, this strikes me as odd. It shouldn’t be odd though; the tie is a perfect match for the beautifully crafted suit that it accompanies. Not just beautifully crafted, beautifully tailored. Beautifully tailored to the man who wears it.

  This is not the suit of a stripper.

  “Oh, holy hell.” I close my eyes and will myself to wake up. Surely this is some sort of Cosmo-induced nightmare and I will welcome consciousness in my nice warm bed. The man is a stripper, he has to be a stripper. The alternative is far too embarrassing. I should know a stripper from a billionaire.

  I crack one eye and peek up at his raised eyebrow. Not a dream. That’s okay—there is more than one way to escape a nightmare. Even one that is real.

  I place my hands on the edge of the pool and drag myself to standing. The act brings a wave of water sloshing across the tile, but the man in front of me is too busy staring at my ridiculous gold bikini to notice. When he does finally look up, he takes a purposeful step to the left, rather than stepping backward to safety. I glance behind him and see nothing.

  “What the fuck are you wearing?”

  I have to admit the question surprises me. I’m not sure why. It’s a legitimate question. This is another one of Cici’s brilliant finds for our Vegas strip. It seems to be made of some sort of gold lamé and is skimpy enough to make Princess Leia’s bikini seem like a muumuu. Still, it’s rude to insult a lady’s clothing.

  “It’s a swimsuit. You know, for swimming.” I gesture at the pool behind me and punctuate the thought by putting my hands on my hips. I can tell by the way that his pupils dilate that any argument I have is going to be undermined by my lack of clothing, so I decide to grab my robe from the chair along the wall.

  He practically dives to grab it from me and quickly wraps it tightly, tying the belt snugly at my waist. For a moment I’m taken back to last night and how gently he toweled the water from my hair. I stop my body as it sways to lean into him.

  “What are you doing here?” This time there is a soft confusion in his voice.

  “I’m swimming. I swim every morning.”

  “It’s nine a.m. The pool doesn’t open until eleven.”

  This must be the situation he referred to. Apparently, I broke into the pool. I do remember there being something about no lifeguard on duty, but it didn’t seem closed.

  “My key card worked.” I pull it from the pocket of my robe as evidence. He looks at the offending card and then glances back into the corner.

  This time when I glance behind him, I see it. There is a small camera in the corner. I can just imagine our image up on a large screen in the security room. Who knows how many people are watching us now. I’m suddenly grateful for the fact that he keeps standing in front of me to block them. Now it’s a whole security team I’m trying to escape from.

  “Can we finish this conversation in my room?” I nod in the direction of the camera and pull the belt a little tighter around my waist.

  He pauses briefly, then runs a hand through his dark hair. When he looks back up, the seriousness in his eyes reminds me how ridiculous I must seem. Ridiculous or scheming. Neither is very flattering. The slight shake of his head is no surprise.

  I take a half step back as if the small distance will give me perspective. The problem is, any perspective at this point is mortifying. I just had a one-night stand with a man who I should be courting as a client and spent the entire night thinking he was a stripper. No wonder he was laughing at me in the bar. I take a deep breath and think about how to move forward.

  It’s too late for me to salvage any self-respect
, so I decide to try to make this as easy on both of us as possible. If I can just find Cici and get out of this hotel, maybe I can pretend this never happened. Maybe he’ll leave my name out of the story when he’s laughing with his friends. If I’m lucky.

  “So, clearly I’m an idiot.” I muster the strength to look him in the eye. “I apologize for the confusion. And the…situation.” I can’t help but crinkle my nose at the word. It bothers me that he thinks I broke into the pool.

  He doesn’t respond. He just stands there looking at me like he can’t decide whether to chastise me or…or what is the question. Under his confusion is the remnants of the heat from last night. A brief flash of his hands pulling me to the base of his cock crashes through my memory and I’m sure my eyes betray my want. I really need to get away from him before I do something else to embarrass myself.

  “I’ll just be going.” I curse how stupid the words sound as I walk away. I’ll just be going? I’m making a list of all the ways I am an idiot when his voice echoes across the tile.

  “Would you be interested in breakfast?” His words bring me to a stop.

  “Breakfast?” I turn around and search his face for any hint of mockery. He seems sincere, but I still don’t trust the idea. Can you really just have breakfast after the night we shared?

  “I think I should probably go.” I pull the robe tighter still. “I think I should probably go home.”

  “You are confirmed through tomorrow.” His observation sounds more like a command, and I find myself wondering again how I saw him as anything but the American royalty he so clearly is.

  “Yeah, but…” I struggle with how to finish the thought. Surely, he doesn’t expect me to stay. Here in his hotel. Here in the suite that he clearly moved me into. God, I am such an idiot. It’s my turn to run my hand through my hair.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Your room is set. There’s no reason to make your friend leave town. Unless of course you really are that paranoid about having sex with a casino owner?”

  I’m sure my shock broadcasts perfectly across the security room audience. I can only pray that they don’t have audio. I think back to all the ridiculous things I said to him about casino owners and close my eyes. Shaking my head, I realize this would be hilarious if I weren’t the one living it. When I open my eyes again he’s wearing a grin that is contagious. I’m pretty sure he should be irritated, but he just looks amused.

  “Plus, my staff are clearly screwing with me. Your card should never have worked this time of the morning. I’m not sure what their game is, but I hate to let them win. We should probably discuss it over breakfast. Now that I’m up, I’ll never get back to sleep.”

  I stand frozen, unsure of how to respond. Surely the intelligent thing to do would be to leave now and preserve what is left of my self-respect. But then again, the damage is already done. And by damage, I mean the best sex I have ever had. As long as I’m making incredibly poor choices, why not keep it going?

  “Okay.”

  “Okay? You’ll have breakfast with me?” He seems genuinely surprised.

  “Sure. I need to shower first. Where should I meet you?”

  At the word shower, he runs his hands through his hair again. At least I know the thought has the same impact on him as it does on me.

  “There’s a café on the third floor. I’ll be there.”

  I nod and turn to leave, but before I push through the door I look back and find Maxwell Scala scowling at the camera in the corner. I don’t know who is on the other side of that contraption, but I’m guessing they are quaking in their boots.

  Forty-five minutes later I am swept from the entrance of the café directly to a small balcony overlooking the gardens and pools.

  Max is already seated at a table for two, holding one of three actual newspapers before him, and sipping an espresso. I watch enviously as the small cup brushes his perfect lips and then blush when he looks to find me staring.

  He stands as I approach and pulls my chair for me and leaves a small but searing kiss just below my ear before returning to his chair. Immediately I feel my neck flush. The kiss is a nice touch and makes remaining unaffected impossible. I find myself wondering if he does this to every woman and why I haven’t previously found a man who would do such a thing. I make a mental note to accept every invitation he sends my way as long as it involves a table and a chair.

  “Thank you.” I try for a polite smile, but I’m sure he can see the impact he has on me. “Real newspapers? That’s the mark of a serious businessman.”

  “You’re welcome. And why’s that? Doesn’t everyone read the newspaper?”

  “Not really. Most people just read the headlines on their phones. Politicians read their staff summaries. Which is terrible practice, by the way. Your staff is only going to give you what they think you will like. Most business owners have given in to the convenience of their phones. Unlike the rest of the world, they at least read the full article. But the online forums still only give you a selection. It’s the serious businessmen and academics who still read newspapers. They want to know what is happening in the world. Not just a part of it. They want to know it all.”

  “I’ve been accused of worse.”

  My laugh echoes off the granite balcony. “It’s a good thing.”

  “In that case, thank you. And what about consultants and executive coaches like yourself? What do you read?”

  “I’m partial to newspapers. Although it appears I should the Las Vegas Review-Journal to my list. It might have saved me some confusion last night.” I lose my nerve and look out across the gardens. The waiter appears and looks nervous as she takes my latte order, glancing occasionally at Max for his approval. He is kind and patient with her as he dictates his order, but I can tell he’s ready for her to leave.

  “Layla, I want to apologize for misleading you last night. I…”

  I hold up my hand to stop him from the unnecessary speech.

  “So, I was thinking about this in the shower.” I turn back and look him in the eye. “You gave me your real name. You even offered up that you were the owner of this casino. I’m the one who insisted you were a stripper.”

  “I could have given you proof.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “Still think I’m part of the mob?”

  I look down and refold the napkin in my lap to hide my smile. “I’d prefer to know nothing about your business associates.” I use air quotes around business associates to tease back.

  To my relief, he just chuckles.

  “It’s not that,” I continue. “As a woman, I have to be careful to ensure that I am taken seriously. One-night stands with hotel moguls don’t exactly paint me as serious.”

  “But strippers are serious?”

  “Neither the stripper nor I am important enough in this part of the world to garner any attention. You, on the other hand, you are enough to make the news. Even if it’s just the Las Vegas Review. Some of my clients are thorough enough to spot it.”

  “I see.” He looks at me thoughtfully, which is enough to make me nervous. “I have to say, Ms. Jensen, you are giving me a weekend of firsts. I’ve never been mistaken for a stripper before, and I’ve never been considered a liability.”

  We pause as the waitress brings our breakfast and a beautifully poured latte complete with decorative heart. Max looks out over the garden until she retreats. I would be worried if the small purse of his lips didn’t give away his amusement.

  “I didn’t say you were a liability.” I smirk at him. “I’m just saying, if I knew who you were, I would probably have overthought it. I’m glad I didn’t.”

  He smiles briefly at my confession and then leans in with a conspiratorial whisper, “I understand your problem perfectly. I may even have a solution.”

  I raise an eyebrow in response.

  “To avoid the appearance of impropriety, we should probably make it a weekend. Just to be safe.”

  “A weekend.” I tilt my head and
give him my best, you must be kidding me stare.

  “Absolutely. It’s not for me. It’s for your honor. We don’t want anyone to think your new single status means you’re on the market for one-night stands with random billionaires. You know how people talk.”

  My mouth gapes.

  “You can’t say no. My logic is flawless. Now, what should we do?” His smile says he is very proud of himself as he cuts into his Eggs Benedict. “Any shows you’d like to see?”

  Rather than argue, I consider the avocado toast and bacon sitting in front of me.

  “I’m not really a Vegas sort of person.”

  “Not true.” He points his fork at me absentmindedly. “Everyone is a Vegas sort of person. That’s our thing here. Something for everyone.”

  “No really, I’ve already been to the museum. Everything else it too crowded and glitzy. My Saturday mornings are usually reserved for a hike.”

  “We have hiking.”

  “Cici didn’t exactly pack my hiking boots.”

  He pulls his phone from his pocket and starts typing. “Do you always let Cici pack for you? I’m certainly not complaining.” He looks at the strapless sundress that has pushed my boobs almost to my chin.

  I glance down and sigh, which only emphasizes my boobs even more. “That’s a definite no. She got to me in a moment of weakness.”

  “Well, remind me to thank her later. Now, what else do you like to do? Give me your perfect Saturday.”

  “My perfect Saturday.” I take a sip of my latte and let the smooth warmth linger for a moment before swallowing.

  The tourists are just beginning to wander out into the garden below us and pose for pictures in front of the flowering topiaries. Few of them look up to our little balcony. If they did, most would likely assume us to be a couple, enjoying the view and coffee under the morning sun. They might notice the newspapers and toast and guess that we are relaxed and comfortable. Familiar enough that silence is warmth.

  What they imagine is actually my perfect Saturday. Enjoying the comfortable ease of knowing and being known. Exploring the beauty of a new garden or well-brewed cup of coffee with someone I love. I should have had that with Brad, but after three years of dating, he was never comfortable with silence. He never seemed to slow down long enough to think.