The Billionaire's Deal: The Complete Story: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (12 page)

"You got here early," he says.

I glance at my phone. Sure enough, it's 5:00 on the dot. No traffic on Saturday, I guess. Cars are fast compared to the subway. The dark seclusion of a limousine feels even faster.

I keep my attention on my sketch. It's not great. I was much better when I was drawing every day. But there's still something exhilarating about capturing the world on a piece of paper. I want to keep doing it. I want to do it all the damn time.

Blake moves closer. He sits on the couch next to me, peering over my shoulder to examine the sketch. His breath is steady. I can't see his expression, but I'm sure that wouldn't tell me anything either.

Doesn't matter. I'm not interested in his opinion on my artistic pursuits, whatever becomes of them. I flip the sketch pad closed, slide it back into my purse, and turn to face him.

He brushes the hair from my eyes. "Ashleigh should arrive soon."

Okay. Not sure why that should matter.

He holds my gaze. "She'll do your hair and makeup."

"Wow, quite the assistant. Dresses your girlfriends and does their hair and makeup. Wouldn't it be easier to get fake engaged to Ashleigh? She could do everything herself."

"Don't do that."

I slide back and swing my legs onto the couch. A solid barrier. "Do what?"

"Don't mock me. Or Ashleigh. She's a kind woman. But not for me." He pushes my legs aside and scoots closer. "You're the one I want."

"As your pretend fiancée?"

"There's nothing pretend. We're getting married."

"Except that we're not in love. We're not even friends. I don't know anything about you." I move off the couch. There aren't many places to go in this enormous apartment, at least not in the way of furniture. I take a seat on a stool in the kitchen.

"What would you like to know?"

"Something important," I say. "Something your fiancée would know."

"You know everything important. The documents I sent over with Jordan—"

"That's all stuff anyone could find online. What about the Blake behind the suit and the steel expression."

The steel expression softens. He slips out of his suit jacket, undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, and pulls it open. He points to a thin scar running across his chest. It's so light I hadn't noticed it.

"See this?" he asks.

I nod.

"I tell people I fell out of a tree. You'll see at my mother’s house. None of the trees are sturdy enough to climb."

"What happened?" I ask.

"My parents were fighting. I stepped in, and my father hit me instead."

My stomach flip-flops. That's something a lot of people wouldn't know. And the look on his damn face. He's still calm. Blake is part machine. That's the only rational explanation for him being so calm talking about his dad hitting him. "How old were you?"

"Twelve."

Breath and I were acquainted a little while ago, but not anymore.

He moves towards me. "It was a long time ago. It doesn't hurt me anymore."

"Yeah, of course." I offer him something close to a smile. "Thanks for telling me. I hope you're not... Well, if you want to talk, we could talk." I try to decipher the look on his face but it does me no good. "I know that talking isn't really our thing. Or your thing. You're very quiet and all. But, yeah, um... I could listen if you ever wanted to talk. And I could talk, too." My cheeks flush red. I'm still stammering on about talking. "If you want."

I resolve to stop babbling. Water. A glass of water would occupy my thoughts and my mouth. I slide off the stool and pour myself a glass.

"I appreciate that," he says.

Water done. "I really meant more like... a hobby or something. Your favorite book. That kind of thing."

"
1984
."

"Really?" I ask.

He nods. "Funny, I know. My company is basically Big Brother."

I nod. "You don't have personal access to that, do you?" My cheeks flare. "You couldn't see my search histories or emails. Could you? You could, couldn't you?"

He nods. "I haven't though. I won't. If I ever want to know something about you, I'll ask."

"Okay. Good. But you knew about my parents and my sister."

"All easy to find with a normal search engine and a few phone calls," he says.

I study his expression. Inscrutable as usual. No signs he's lying. He's probably telling the truth. Blake does seem like the type who likes a challenge.

"And you?" he asks.

"What about me?"

"What's your favorite book?"

My cheeks flush. "You'll laugh."

"Have you ever seen me laugh?"

Now, I'm the one laughing. "Come to think of it, no. I'm going to have to make more stupid jokes. Do something to get an expression on your face."

He is unblinking, as usual. This time, I'm pretty sure he's trying to mess with me.

"It's Botox, isn't it?" I ask. "The secret to your youth and your lack of expression. I bet it's Botox."

That elicits a smile. Not quite a laugh, but it's something.

"It's a graphic novel," I say. "Called
Ghost World
. It's about these teenage girls who live in a small town. There are all these little vignettes of their lives as they start to grow up and realize all their ideas about the world are wrong. There's a movie, too, but it's different in a lot of ways."

A smile. Holy crap, that's a full-fledged smile.

"Kat, you do realize that owning a tech company basically makes me a giant nerd?"

"But with the suit and the abs and everything." I clear my throat, trying not to turn red under his stare. "You've never done one nerdy thing. You've never even said you liked something remotely related to geek culture. Not even something that's really mainstream like
The Avengers
or
Star Wars
or something."

No reaction from Blake, of course.

"You don't even. Well, I guess, except for
1984
, I don't know much about what you like or do. Except work. And chess. You work and you play chess and you read
1984
." A comic book version of Blake filters through my brain. He's as built as any superhero, but his super power is work. Every page, he's at a computer, in a business meeting, or playing chess in a new, fantastical location. There's a copy of
1984
sitting in the chair where his chess opponent would sit.

"Kat."

I'm back to attention. "Yeah?"

"What's your favorite book that isn't a graphic novel?"

"You mean a book where all the pages are words?" I ask.

He nods.

"
Brave New World."
I wink.

He holds my gaze. "Are you mocking me, Miss Wilder?"

"Definitely. I mean, obviously, if I was going to go dystopia, I'd go with
The Hunger Games
." I rack my brain for a book I really love, one that will make me sound mildly sophisticated. Nothing comes. "I'm sticking with
Ghost World
."

He opens the fridge, pulls out a bowl of fruit salad and two forks, and makes a motion that can only mean
eat
. "You're sticking to your guns. I admire that."

"Thanks." I pick up a fork and stab a berry. Damn. The fruit salad is all berries. Blake has been paying attention. "I was writing a graphic novel back in high school. I might finally have time to work on it now."

His stare gets intense.

"I didn't have a chance to mention it yesterday, but Shana, my manager at the restaurant, well, ex-manager. She fired me. Too much commotion. She didn't want reporters scaring away customers."

His eyes flare with anger. "I can pull some strings. Have the place closed."

"Could you really?"

"Yes."

I stab a blackberry. "That's okay. I wouldn't want the other servers to be out of jobs. Even if it was a dick move."

His gaze connects with mine. "You always put other people first."

"It's common courtesy."

"It's not common at all."

Shit. I'm blushing again. Fake, fake, fake. Lie, lie, lie. No falling for the aloof billionaire. Not even a crush. Out of the question.

He moves closer. Three inches away. One hand slides around my waist, pulling up the fabric of my sweater. The other traces the outline of my lips. He brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean. He leans closer. Closer. My eyelids press together.

His lips make contact. It's not like any of our other kisses. It's not some big thing for show. It's not a smoldering kiss designed to make my panties wet. It's sweet. Caring even.

Lie, lie, lie! I dig my nail into my thumb to remind myself. There is no relationship. Blake and Kat is a lie. It's all pretend.

A knock interrupts us. Blake steps back. Desire flares in his eyes, but it's quickly replaced by a stony calm.

"That must be Ashleigh."

He moves far, far away. The front door might as well be another planet. I stab another berry. Blake and I were only talking. Friendly, not at all romantic talking. More like work colleagues at the water cooler. I hear that's a thing.

Ashleigh storms in with a burst of energy. Same tap-tap of her high heels against the hardwood floor. She's holding some kind of makeup kit and a garment bag. Too short to be a gown.

"She has ten dresses here, Mr. Sterling."

Blake glances at his watch. "You have an hour." He nods to both of us. "I'll catch up on work."

"I'm going to set up a make-up lesson at the salon in midtown. There's no reason why Kat needs me here every time she's going out."

"That's up to Kat," he says.

"Why does she need a full face of makeup to see your family?" She looks at me. "You've done your makeup before, right? For Prom or graduation or something?"

"Of course."

Blake is already on the other side of the room, his back to us. Ashleigh shakes her head, muttering under her breath. He stops short but he doesn't turn back.

The door to his office opens and shuts. It's the opposite of a slam. The calmest door shutting in existence. Blake is the epitome of calm.

Ashleigh unzips the garment bag. It's a cocktail dress. Knee length, purple satin, a deep V-neck, and a high back. She shakes her head. "He has a thing for your tits."

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry. I don't mean to be brash. But he specifically requested a dress with a low neckline. And God knows his sister will call you a slut under her breath if you're in anything more revealing than a turtle neck."

"She seemed a little—"

"Uptight? A cheating husband will do that."

"Shit. Really?" I ask.

Ashleigh nods. "She seems like she's on the evil side, and like she hates Mr. Sterling, but meets him at the office sometimes to talk. I've never heard the conversations, of course, but she must be confiding in him."

I try to imagine Blake listening to his sister and consoling her about her screwed up marriage. They didn't seem friendly at all. But siblings always fight. Maybe there is real affection between them.

She lays the dress over the couch. "He hired a PI, well, he had me hire a PI, after one of their conversations. The evidence was undeniable. He never showed it to her, but I think she already knew."

Figures Blake would spy on someone then keep his findings to himself.

Ashleigh drops her makeup kit on the kitchen counter. "This isn't even part of my job description." She picks out a lipstick and stares at it like she's assessing the color. "But Mr. Sterling needs everything just so."

"I appreciate it."

"I should put you in bright purple eyeliner to teach him a lesson."

"It would match the dress."

She laughs. "So tell me something. There's no reason at all why you need all this shit to see his family. Does Mr. Sterling have a fetish?" She lowers her voice to a whisper. "I heard he has a sex doll."

"Not that I'm aware of."

"I'm sure it was just a rumor." She clears her throat. "I shouldn't talk about your fiancé like that. I'm so sorry." Her eyes get apologetic. "I had to cancel a date, but that's not your problem."

"He made you cancel your plans?" I ask.

"Not exactly. He made an offer I couldn't refuse. Student loans and all that." She moves on to picking out eye shadows.

"I feel a little like a doll. As long as we're being honest."

"Well, get used to being rich and semi-famous. Appearances are everything."

Chapter Eleven

Ashleigh spends twenty minutes on my hair and makeup. The next forty, she picks my brain about Blake. Seems she knows even less than I do. Imagine that.

At six on the dot, Blake exits his office and dismisses her. He is still perfect in his suit and tie. His hair is mussed just so, like a model in a perfume add. He wakes up like that, no doubt.

I step into the shoes picked for me. Black sling back wedges to match a tiny black clutch. It barely holds my cell phone. I hold my regular purse against my chest. It doesn’t match the outfit, but it’s mine dammit.

We make our way to the elevator. I ignore the mirrored walls and ceiling. No need to see the other version of Kat, the one who is a doll that other people scrutinize. They can scrutinize all they want. I'm staying out of it.

A few steps in the parking garage—still too many in these awful shoes—and we're safely in the limo.

I drop my regular purse on the limo’s floor. Apparently, I am not to bring it to dinner. Perhaps Blake’s family will die of shock if they discover I have my own set of keys.

His mother lives upstate. About half an hour out of the city. Traffic is light.

Half an hour in the limo with Blake, and I'm not allowed to mess up my hair or makeup. A great injustice if I ever heard one.

He nods to a bottle of champagne in the ice bucket. "The same you liked at the party."

"The party where we had our joyful engagement?"

The car starts. Pulls out of the parking garage. Once we're on the street, its movements become one comfortable blur. No wonder rich people take these things everywhere. You really do forget you're in transit.

Blake folds his hands. "Don't say things like that."

"Why? We're alone. This is the part that's real. That's what you told me."