The Billionaire Dating Game: A Romance Novel (6 page)

“Are you cold?” Piers asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You can have my jacket, love. You can put it on top of my other one.”

“Stop calling me love,” I said, my insides twisting at the word.

“You got it, darling.”

“Ugh, fine. First question,” I said, blowing back my bangs. “When did you pick up a British accent?”

Piers squinted at me.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“I was just curious why sometimes you have an accent, and sometimes—”

He leaned forward all the way, so that his face was nearly touching mine. Startled, I drew back.

“I get recognized everywhere I go,” he said. “That’s the only reason I lose the accent when I go out. I didn’t mean to lie to you, or whatever you think that was.”

My lips dropped open in surprise. He actually sounded sincere, and his features were drawn in hard lines.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Do you know how hard it is, to not be able to do anything without a thousand cameras descending on you?”

“Right,” I said, blustering into sarcasm. “It must be terrible to be a famous celebrity.”

“Yes,” he said, in complete seriousness. “Sometimes it is.”

“Alright,” I said, giving up the fight and moving onto the next question. “What kind of contestant are you looking for on your new show,
The Billionaire Dating Game
?”

“Thanks for getting that plug in,” Piers said. “What kind of girls are we looking for? Girls who are enthusiastic, beautiful, and entertaining. If you’re going to get with a billionaire, you can’t just lay back and relax. After all, he already has everything he wants.” He smirked and leaned back.

I realized that I had been holding my breath, and I let it out. He was just a guy. Just a normal guy. My eyes flickered to the next question.

“And the billionaire bachelor on your show? What’s he like?”

“Oh, he’s a real catch,” Piers said. “He’s got at least
two
Ferraris.”

Now he was really pressing me back. This wasn’t going to go in the interview article. I moved to the next question on Jessica’s list.

“What do you have to say about your recent breakup with celebrity singer Sasha Tiernan?”

The question was out of my mouth before I had even parsed it. As I looked up at Piers, his face froze. It was like looking at a marble statue.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t—”

“You’re just like the rest of them,” Piers said. “This is supposed to be an interview to promote the new show—”

“—I’m not—”

“And you come in here and drag my personal life into it—”

“Forget it,” I said quickly, but he was already standing up from the couch.

“Piers—”

“Mr. Letocci?” It was the woman from before. “Is everything alright?”

“We’re done here,” Piers said, brushing his suit pants with both hands. His eyes were dark, his lips pressed together. “Escort Miss Forrester out.”

“Wait—”

But he was already halfway across the stage, his stride long and fast. He didn’t look back.

And after the question I’d just asked, I didn’t expect him to.

Chapter Six

“One more day.”

“Why? Why can’t you write up what you have right now?” Even over the phone, I could hear Clarence scowling with his whole face.

I shivered.  The sun had gone down over an hour ago, and I was starting to get cold with only Piers’ jacket on. The coffee-stained blouse was still sticky and wet. My cell battery was quickly running out, and I had nothing to do but stare at the door where I hoped Piers would exit.

“Mr. Letocci didn’t have time right then,” I told him, crossing my fingers he wouldn’t check in with the studio. “He said he’d answer my questions later.”

“Lisa, we need this column for press tonight—”

“I sent you another article,” I said.

“
Ten Ways to Tone Your Tummy
? That one?”

I cringed. It was one of the dumbest articles I’d ever written, and I’d shelved it in my backup folder for emergencies. Glancing up at the skyscraper where Piers Letocci was still holed up, I bit my lip. This was definitely an emergency.

“I know it’s not the best replacement—”

“We had an interview with Piers Letocci, and you give me a list of
ab exercises
?!”

“We still have the interview,” I lied. “Just give me until tomorrow. I promise you’ll get a great article.”

“Lisa—”

“I know, I know,” I said. “I’m on your shit list until I come through with this. I—”

Just then, the door of the building swung open. A tall man in a business suit came out. He was wearing dark glasses, although it was night, and he had on a huge scarf. It had to be Piers. He walked with the same determined stride as before.

“Gotta go,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Make it good!” That was the last thing I heard before I stuffed my phone back into my purse.

I darted across the street toward Piers. He already had his back to me, and when a dark gray Mercedes Benz pulled up to the curb, the valet hopped out quickly. This was my only chance.

“Wait! Piers!” I cried out, running as fast as I could to intercept him. He was handing a tip to the valet when he heard me, and instinctively ducked his head.

“No photos—oh. It’s you,” he said, doing a double take as I came up to him, breathless. I’d hoped for a smile, or at least a look of recognition. But he only glanced away, annoyance hardening his mouth.

“Shall I call security, Mr. Letocci?” the valet asked.

I held my breath, but Piers glanced back at me and seemed to decide that I wasn’t as much of a threat as he’d thought.

“That won’t be necessary. What do you want, Miss Forrester?”

He turned to me, standing up to his full height. I inhaled, a lump forming in my throat. I’d forgotten how tall he was.

“To—to apologize,” I said, trying to catch my breath.

“Apology accepted. Anything else?” He had his hand on the car door handle.

“Please—” I said, desperation coming into my voice. “I’m sorry.”

“You already apologized. I don’t need to hear it twice.”

“I wanted to explain.”

“No explanation is necessary.” He opened the door and got into the driver’s seat.

Frantic at the thought of losing him, I opened the passenger’s side door and jumped in. He turned to me, shock and irritation written on his features. He whipped off his dark glasses, and his aquamarine eyes tore the air out of my lungs once more. Even angry, he was so beautiful it hurt.

“What are you doing in my car, Miss Forrester?” The words hissed across his taut lips.

“I— I need to give you back your jacket!”

“Fine. Give it back.” He extended his hand. I stared at it, speechless.

“I—uh—I—”

“No? Then kindly get out, before I reconsider calling security.”

“No!” I said, finally finding my breath. I grabbed his hand with both of mine. “Piers, please just listen to me!”

When I touched his skin, it was like a shock went through both of us. His eyes widened slightly, but he made no move to pull away. I could feel his pulse beating through my fingertips.

“I’m so sorry about before,” I sputtered, rushing through the words I’d practiced in my head. “It wasn’t my question sheet for the interview; my boss wrote them up. I didn’t know that one was on there, and I would never have asked it if I hadn’t been so late, and flustered from running into you in the hallway, and losing my shirt, and—and—”

Everything I had to say fell away as his hand turned and his fingers wrapped around mine. His thumb traced a slow circle on the flesh of my palm. His features softened.

I swallowed back my embarrassment. His eyes flickered to the rearview mirror.

“Anyway, I was hoping that you would—”

“Buckle up,” he said. His eyes were fixed in the rearview mirror.

“What?” I hadn’t expected him to agree so quickly. “I mean—”

He let go of my hand and shoved the gear shift into first gear. Before I could even turn to grab the seat belt, he was roaring away from the curb.

The force threw me back against the leather seat, and I squealed as much as the tires. He swerved expertly around a delivery guy riding a bicycle through a red light and dodged a jaywalker before zooming out again into an open bus lane.

“What the hell are you doing?” I cried out, my hand fumbling for the seat belt.

“Driving,” he said calmly, as he jerked the wheel and careened around a Lexus who was double parked on the curb. The tires squealed again as he sped through a yellow light. I finally got hold of the seatbelt, but then he jammed down on the brakes. My shoulder slammed into the dashboard and my breath went out of my lungs in one whoosh.

I looked up to see a mom with a stroller coming out from a car right in front of us. She took her time crossing the street, and Piers swore, tapping the steering wheel with his fingers. As he accelerated around her, he leaned out the window and swatted the phone out of her grip. I could hear her yelling at us as the phone clattered to the asphalt.

“What the—”

“I’m all for the Darwin award when it comes to idiots,” Piers snapped. “But I don’t appreciate parents using their children as human shields.”

He sped through another intersection. I gulped and finally grabbed hold of the seat belt. Moving quickly, I buckled it in before he could do any more stunts out of
The Fast and the Furious
.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered, swinging into an alleyway and coming out the other side. I had no idea what he was doing, but when he took another detour through a parking garage, I started to get weirded out.

“Are you kidnapping me?” I asked finally.

“And I’m the one who’s arrogant? Ha!
Ha!
”

The next turn he made tossed me sideways toward the driver’s seat, and I braced myself instinctively.

“Ahem,” Piers said, straightening the wheel. I looked down and realized I was gripping his upper thigh, right next to his—

“Sorry!” I said, pulling my hand back into my lap.

“Are you
sure
you’re not a stalker?” Piers asked, making another sharp turn.

“I’m not—what the hell are you doing? Where are we going?”

“You would make an awful celebrity,” Piers said, glancing into the rearview mirror.

“Thanks, I kind of already knew that,” I said. “That’s why I’m a writer and not a famous TV host. But that doesn’t answer—”

“What I am doing,” Piers interrupted, “is getting us away from the paparazzi who were waiting for me. If those turn out to be your people, I’m going to be quite upset.”

“They’re not
my people
,” I spat. “I didn’t even know they were there!”

“And as for where we’re going, well, I know this nice Italian place uptown.”

“I—Italian?”

“Do you not like Italian?” His head swiveled toward me, and I nodded quickly, anxious to have him look away from the streets for even a split second.

“I—uh—you— sure. Sure. Italian’s great.”

“Brilliant.”

“Wait here,” he said, pulling up to a curb. He was out of the car before I could even ask him what was going on.

What in the
hell
was going on? I had just wanted to ask him a few questions, but here I was, waiting for him to come back to take me to
a nice Italian place
. It was only when I reflected on this that I realized he might be taking me to a discreet mafia location where I could be executed and disposed of.

I pulled out my phone. Ten percent battery left. I texted Jessica.

“Going to dinner with Piers Letocci,” I wrote. There. That served two purposes. The first was, of course, bragging rights, even if I hadn’t known who the hell Piers Letocci was before yesterday. The second was that, if Piers was trying to pull off a mob hit on me, there would be a clear trail. I didn’t know why that thought made me feel any better. I’d still be dead.

A knock on my window made me jump in my seat. I stuffed my phone back in my purse and rolled down the window.

“Here,” Piers said, shoving a bag through the window. “Take this.”

I took the bag and he walked around to the driver’s seat. What was in there? Was it drugs? Booze? A gun? I bet it was drugs. High-level celebrities always had designer drug addictions, if the articles in
Moi
were to be trusted.

“Well?” he asked, settling in behind the steering wheel. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

I pursed my lips in confusion.

“Open it?”

“It’s for you.”

I peeked into the top of the bag, expecting to see bottles of prescription painkillers or baggies of uncut opiates. Instead, I pulled it out—

“A shirt?”

Now I was really confused. And Piers was confused at my confusion.

“Maybe where you go to dinner, the standards are lower. For the rest of us, a shirt and shoes aren’t optional.”

“Oh!” I said, pulling out a brand new blouse. It was a soft pink-orange, and flowy, and completely not my style at all. “Um, thanks. Thank you.”

“Put it on,” he ordered.

I stared at him.

“What? Don’t get all prudish on me. I’ve already seen you in your bra.”

The reminder made my skin turn hot.

“But we’re on a public street—”

“In a car with tinted windows. In New York City, where at any time of day you can find women dressed only in bodypaint and thongs parading down the sidewalk.”

“Okay, okay.” He had me there. I started pulling off his jacket, then stopped.

“Do you have to look at me like that?” I asked.

“Like what?” A wolfish grin spread across his face.

“Like you’re enjoying it.”

“Oh, I am.”

I clenched his jacket back over my chest.

“Cover your eyes,” I said.

“What?”

“I’m not changing until you cover your eyes.”

“You are the most ridiculous—alright. Alright.” He put his hands over his eyes. “Let me know when you’re done.”

I was already out of his jacket and pulling the top over my head. I struggled to find the right armholes. In my hurry, my head accidentally went through one of the armholes. I tugged off the top to re-evaluate, twisting it on my neck. Was this on backwards?