Dance with the Billionaire (29 page)

In fact, it had been a similar instance of unexpected, out-of-character confidence that had landed me the job at Marianne’s consultancy in the first place. Last summer, my bachelor’s degree in Interior Design had got me as far as selling $400 throw pillows in Barneys, and Marianne came in to choose fabrics for a client’s curtains. I was only ever paid to chirp, “How may I help you today, madam?” but before I knew what I was saying I'd launched into an unplanned monologue on how to improve her color scheme and found myself on the receiving end of a business card, with instructions to call her sometime if I got bored of my cashier’s position. 

Which was how I ended up, just three weeks later, fetching her dry cleaning and organizing her diary for a living.

But now that I knew Marianne better, there was no question that this little interruption of mine would have pissed her off, royally.

We remained silent the whole way down in the elevator  — but I just knew that that there was no way she was going to let this slide. Whatever was in store for me sure wasn’t gonna be pleasant.

Still, I couldn’t help but feel weirdly pleased, too.

Pleased and flattered at just how much Blake had liked my ideas, even if Marianne had quickly claimed them as her own.

And as I heard his low sonorous voice, “I’ll be in touch,” echoing in my head, I remembered the heat of his hand and a silly old proverb my mother used to say flashed into my head:

Warm hands, cold heart.

CHAPTER TWO

“What the hell was that?” Marianne screamed, once we were back in her office.

I don’t know why she’d even bothered to close the door; she was shouting so loud, she could surely be heard by all seven of the other staff members. She’d remained silent during the whole elevator ride down, and in the cab back here. She obviously meant to humiliate me just like she felt I'd done to her.

“You've probably lost us the account! What the fuck did I tell you, Jessica? I told you to keep quiet. And you couldn’t even follow that one simple instruction could you? No, you just had to go and flirt with the client! Ha, don't think I didn't see you simpering away at him behind your eyelashes. Does Blake Matthews make your panties wet Jessica? Is that it? Well, I'm sorry to break it to you, honey, but badly dressed secretarial assistants aren't quite his type.”

“I’m sorry, Marianne,” I said, quietly.

If I thought I was blushing in the boardroom, I was certainly blushing now.

Everyone in the office must have heard her say that about my panties.

But on top of my embarrassment, the gravity of my situation was finally sinking in, too.

I needed this job.

Greg and I were barely scraping by as it was; I just couldn’t go back to retail.

“I don’t know what came over me,” I murmured, knowing that there was simply no use in arguing with her. Besides, it was the truth.

All I could do now if I wanted to save my ass was agree that I’d messed up, even though I knew deep down that, if anything, my outburst might have made the difference between Blake completely dismissing us as an agency and perhaps taking us on after all.

“It’s just lucky I was there to talk him around,” Marianne continued, doing what she always did and completely re-imagining the scenario, placing herself at the center of it, skewing the facts until they fit whatever argument she wanted to make at that moment. “What did you think you were you doing? Trying to upstage me?”

I shook my head.

“Think you’re ready to run this company, is that it? Think your ideas are better than mine?”

I felt my cheeks begin to sizzle with heat; she was right, it had been deeply unprofessional of me to question her judgment in front of the client. And anyway, what the hell did I know? I wasn’t even sure I had what it took to be an interior designer, to build up an agency on my own, the way Marianne had done. I mean, sure, with her shoulder pads and obsession with leopard print she was a little out of touch these days, but she still had that necessary spark, that fiery don’t-give-a-damn core that, deep down, I wasn’t sure I possessed.

“I’m really sorry, Marianne,” I repeated, just hoping to God that she didn’t fire me. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it won’t happen again!” she snapped, little flecks of spittle frothing at the corners of her heavily-lipsticked mouth. “You want to know why?”

I shook my head, the cold dread settling on me now.

She’s definitely gonna fire me.

“It won’t happen again, Jessica, because it’ll be a cold day in hell before I take you out on a job with me again.”

At this I felt a flush of relief.

I can make rent after all!

“Now get out of here and leave me to think,” she hissed. “Since your little outburst, I’ve got a lot more work to do. Let’s just hope it hasn’t cost us Blake Matthews altogether.”

I turned and quickly left Marianne’s office, before she could change her mind. To be honest, I was relieved that I wouldn't be attending any client meetings for a while. Hiding away at my little desk in the far corner of the office, wading through emails and keeping my head down, was far more my style anyway. I actually gave a little sigh of relief when I dropped into my chair, never thinking I’d be so glad to be back here at my desk again, ready to once more spend the afternoon grappling with Photoshop.

I turned on my iMac, and as I was waiting for it to boot up, I felt a hand softly touch my shoulder.

I looked up.

It was Talia — a far more senior assistant at the agency. She’d been here for “decades” (or so she liked to joke), and had slowly built up a small client base of her own over the years. But of course, that still didn’t stop her having to report in to Marianne on every little choice or development she made along the way. I often looked at Talia and wondered if that was really what I wanted, if that was what I was aiming for, five or ten years down the line …

“Hey, I heard what went on in there,” she said softly, her pretty face breaking out into a friendly, considerate smile.

“I’m sure you did,” I replied, remembering again just how freaking loud Marianne had been while balling me out. “I bet the web design agency on the next floor heard most of it, too.”

“I just wanted to say that you shouldn’t let her get to you,” Talia said, letting her voice drop to a whisper and checking briefly that Marianne was still safely in her office before she continued. “You just need to keep your head down for a little while, let the wicked witch call the shots. Let her think you've learned your lesson. Don’t push too much, too quickly. Your time will come one day.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

But the thing was, I didn’t even know if I wanted my time to come. I mean, was I really cut out for this business? Did I really have what it took?

The truth was, I had no idea.

I set about my work. There was tons to do. I tried to focus, but my mind was elsewhere. And the funny thing was, it wasn’t Marianne’s humiliation of me that was occupying my thoughts. No. I just couldn’t get that final look Blake gave me out of my head.

§

“So, how'd it go, my little hotshot designer?” Greg called from the kitchen, almost the minute I stepped into our tiny studio apartment in Brooklyn. He knew that I’d been working myself up all weekend over my first client meeting with Marianne, and I understood that he was just trying to show an interest in my work, but what the hell was I supposed to say?

Oh, hi honey! Actually the meeting went kind of badly because I lost my head over some cute guy and I embarrassed Marianne and almost lost my job!

I slipped off my shoes, sighing as the aching arches of my feet touched against the cool wooden floorboards and, before I walked to the kitchen, I couldn’t help but cast a critical eye around the apartment. It had been my very first grown-up design project, and I felt my gaze assessing the room once more, taking in the 1950's fabrics, retro vases and furniture I’d managed to pick up cheap from Goodwill (or sometimes even free from dumpsters and giveaways on Craigslist), trying to train my eye to know what worked and what didn’t in such a small space.

I was particularly proud of an antique mirror I'd recently salvaged from a pile of trash, stripped back and repainted. Yet Greg was still to notice or remark on it, even though it hung prominently on the wall of the room that served as both our living room and our bedroom.

But then, noticing things isn’t Greg’s strong suit, is it?

No point in buying sexy new lingerie to surprise him with, or getting a stylish new haircut, because they'd be invisible to him. Not that I could afford them, anyway.

But while Greg might not notice some of the little things, he had so many good qualities, too. He was so kind, not just to me but to strangers, animals, even my parents when they were driving me wild. And he seemed to have all the patience in the world, keeping calm and collected whenever I worked myself up into too much of a state over something, like I always seemed to do.

Not to mention his cooking! I thought, as a delicious smell wafted over from the tiny kitchen.

I paused in the doorway, watching him put the finishing touches to our meal, the sleeves of his crisp white barman’s shirt rolled up to the elbow, revealing his slim tanned arms beneath, his wild, dusky-blonde mop of hair tamed as much as he was able, his thick brow fixed in concentration as he added a little more spice to the sizzling contents of the large pan on the stove.

This little routine was something Greg had perfected — his shift at the bar started two hours after mine finished at Marianne’s office, which gave him just enough time to cook supper for us, before he headed out. Working in a bar wasn’t what Greg wanted to do long-term (he’d studied Business Management, but he just didn’t have the connections or savings to take one of those much-needed internships or MBAs just yet).

But still, he just made the best of it, happy to be picking up some managerial experience along the way and working himself ragged, both at the bar at night and at the library, poring over MBA textbooks, during the day. 

In a lot of ways, Greg was very traditional, way more so than me. It had been his idea that we make the time to sit down and eat together each night before he left for work. He’d even asked my parents for permission for us to move in together, seeing as we weren’t married! And, deep down, I knew that if it was up to Greg we wouldn’t even be here in Brooklyn, renting the only apartment we could afford between our two salaries, this tiny place with paper-thin walls in Ocean Hill.

No, we’d be back in Glenbrook Falls, settling down, ready to raise a family. He’d be working at my dad’s garage, while I set up a beautiful new home for us. Greg had never had much of a family of his own, you see: brought up by a working mom in Philadelphia, never really knowing much about his dad. And I knew for sure that my own family background — two parents who loved me dearly and who would do anything for me — was something Greg wanted to have so much, too.

But at the same time, despite all that, I reminded myself, he was here, willing to support me, to work night shifts in order to help me find out what I wanted to do first, to help me pursue my dream of becoming an interior designer, even if that was something I was secretly starting to doubt I’d ever achieve …

“So?” he asked again, turning to face me from his place by the oven, his face breaking out into a kind, warm smile. “How was the big meeting with Blake Matthews …”

If anyone knew how much extra work I’d put into that meeting, it was Greg.

Like last Sunday, for instance? It was his one night off, it was supposed to be our date night, but instead I'd spent it on his ancient laptop, researching Blake until 2 a.m., keeping Greg awake as I formed my picture of Blake Matthews, property developer and billionaire playboy, serial dater of Victoria's Secret models, a guy who'd never done a real day's work in his life.

But it was a picture I was beginning to doubt.

Maybe there was more to Blake than Business Insider made out.

I was desperate to change the subject, but I couldn't stop the flush of blood to my cheeks as I thought about the many times during the meeting when Blake’s eyes had met mine and the sheer electricity of our handshake.

“Oh, let's not talk about work for once,” I said, turning away so Greg couldn't see my blushes. “Tell me about your day.”

As Greg told me the minutia of his day, I felt guilt wash over me like a wave.

Admit it, you felt something when Blake touched you, didn’t you?

Marianne wasn’t quite so wrong, was she?

It did get your panties wet.

And I thought I wasn't that kind of girl.

§

“Okay, I’m leaving!” Greg called from the doorway, a little while later.

I’d been washing the dishes while he got ready for work, and I dropped what I was doing, quickly drying my hands then rushing through the apartment, overwhelmed by a strange urge.

“Wait a moment …” I called.

“What...” he began to ask, but I didn’t let him finish his sentence, pressing myself hard against him, kissing him on the lips, pushing my tongue urgently into his mouth, feeling a little shiver of excitement run through me as he responded, taking control, his hands cupping my ass eagerly through my skirt as I ground myself hard against him.

Still kissing him, I let my hand run down his chest, my fingers finding that hot firm bulge in the smart black pants he wore for his bar-tending job. I began to softly work him through the fabric, enjoying getting him all steamed up, feeling his cock grow harder and bigger. And then, just like that, I stopped, purposefully pulling myself away again, leaving him flushed and gasping, his brow knitted in playful confusion at what had just happened.

“What was that for?” he said, softly, his mouth curling into a smile.

“I just wanted you to make sure you thought about me tonight,” I replied, feeling a cheeky little smile of my own curl at the corners of my lips. “Have a good night!”

And with that, I turned around, feeling Greg’s hungry, lusty eyes on my ass as I sauntered sexily back to the kitchen, making sure to put a cute little swing in my step for good measure.

I heard the door slam closed, and then I was alone in the apartment, feeling the breath shivering in my throat, feeling my heart still pounding, feeling my pussy softly throbbing, the blood rushing through my veins. It looked like I’d turned myself on just as much as Greg …

I glanced at the half-finished dishes in the sink, but now my mind was elsewhere.