In Service To The Billionaire (15 page)

All of them, dead just like that. He couldn't believe it. He
refused
to believe it, as a matter of fact, mounting a multi-million dollar rescue operation.

But there were no survivors.

The crash only brought back memories of his parents, of course. And these two points crossed and criss-crossed again, over and over in his mind, forming an impenetrable fence of withholding. He buried himself in his work ever since to hide the pain.

All of this engendered a deep, solid mistrust of the world and its fickle nature within Gerald Sand. Deeply seated inside of him was the severe, certain knowledge that the second he announced he actually loved someone or something that it would be ripped away from him forever.

And so, he did love Sophia. But he could not tell her that, not any more than he could cut off his own hand.

All he could do, really, was show her, and love her the same way he loved Carmen.

Better than he did Carmen, if he had his way.

Chapter 18

At noon on Saturday, after a lengthy visit with a zesty and very well-recovering Elle, she got a text from her Master just as she was entering her car.

Charity ball tonight. Sudden invite for me. You’re coming. Look nice.

A frown and a smile danced for space on her face as she turned the car on to start the air conditioning. Sudden shifts in plans normally weren’t her bag, at all. Sophia benefited from structure. But there was something comforting and awfully hot in knowing that he trusted her enough to look good enough for him on her own with such short notice.

He
wanted
her to take it as a complement that he trusted her to look good enough to be a billionaire’s date...and also that she just plain
was
the billionaire’s date.

And the whole bullshit line about the “sudden invite” wasn’t fooling her for a second. She was his personal assistant, for god’s sake. Perhaps he wanted her to call him on it?

Following the instinct (after all, they had guided her fairly well with him so far), she texted him back:

“
Sudden invite?” You don’t even receive invites unless they go through me six weeks in advance.

His response only took a minute:

What can I say? I felt suddenly compelled to show you off. Aren’t you up to it, slave?

She grinned wickedly.

Yes, Master.

And then the quick response:

Good girl
.

Her pussy moistening, Sophia put the car in gear to to make ready at his apartment.

* * * * *

Three hours later, he had landed and arrived at the condo.

“Are you ready?” he called out. “There's going to be a red carpet, photos and all of that, so make sure you're arranged.”

A red carpet? God. That was anxiety-spurring. Thank god she had gone out of her way to look perfect for him, just because he told her to already.

Holding her breath, she stepped out from the bathroom where she had been touching up her make-up, hoping she was dressed nice like he wanted.

Her gown was sparkling and violet, hugging her sexy curves all the way down her body. A corseted top framed her hourglass figure, sheer sides showing off her sexy bronze skin. Her shoulders stayed bare but for a loose dark mink fur shawl connected with a jeweled clasp over her hot cleavage. Slits on the gown ran up on either side up to the halfway point of her thighs, showing off just enough leg to let everyone know that, yes indeed, her gams were as gorgeous as the rest of her.

Her lusciously long dark hair was arranged in an elaborate double French braid that cascaded down one naked shoulder.

And, of course, she wore the diamond necklace he gave her—as she thought he would have wanted.

“You,” he said, shaking his head in admiration, “are a dream.”

He gave her a quick kiss and rushed to put on a tuxedo. He was ready within ten minutes—which Sophia would never get used to.

Within such a short time, he looked as sexy as a man possibly could, ever, without being completely naked. She had to work all afternoon to be as attractive as him.

But, as he hooked her on his arm, she decided she didn't care. It was nice, in a way, to work so much just to look nice because he told her to. It was so hot, still, following orders for him.

Downstairs, an entire security team surrounded his town car. Eight men, each of them large and carrying large guns.

“This is Dave,” said Sand, pointing out the biggest and burliest of the group. He was, in fact, the biggest and burliest man Sophia had ever seen.

Dave had a thick, dark handlebar mustache and burn scars down his right shoulder and hand. But when he smiled at her, it was full of warmth, not malice.

“Lovely to meet you, ma'am. We'll keep you safe.”

Sand ushered her into the back of the town car, and they were alone.

“Safe?” she asked. “Was that ever in question?”

Sand shrugged. “You don't get to be where I am without people at least wondering what it would be like if you were dead.” He pointed in front and behind of the town car, where the security team was loading up into two big, black SUVs. “They help people wonder less during my time in public.”

She shook her head. “Why haven't you been using them already?”

“Oh,” he shrugged. “They're always around. But I didn't want them to spook you. I told them to hang back a bit.”

“But they don't know...about you and me and...”

“How you're my perfect fuckslave?”

She blushed, pushing hard against him. But she nodded.

“No,” he said. “they don't know that.”

For the rest of the ride, she simply snuggled hard against him, enjoying his eyes on her. She was his decoration...and she enjoyed this bit of status with him.

Finally, they arrived. Outside, there was a bit of a red carpet, as he had warned her. Men and women lined the sides of the velvet ropes with cameras in their hands. Maybe twenty yards to make it through the door. He assured her that he didn't enjoy these sorts of photo ops, and would be walking as quickly as possible past it all.

“Two things,” he said, grabbing her hand before they exited the town car.

“Yes?”

“These people inside are...carnivorous. Be careful with them.”

It was an odd warning. She wasn't sure what he meant. But she could listen and obey.

“Yes, Sir. And the other thing?”

“You can’t be my personal assistant inside.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Too many questions. Too much attention. Make something up.”

“Make
what
up?”

“You’re a clever girl,” he said, opening the door. “You’ll figure something out.”

For a brief moment, she was mad at him.

She understood that, yes, probably, he felt she was more than capable of coming up with something. And that flattered her, that he thought so much of her intellect and improvisational ability. But at the same time...the car ride was twenty minutes long, for Pete’s sake! Give a girl some breathing room!

Unless...

Unless, it was punishment?

For whatever reason, she felt like he could sense that she was keeping something from him. Of course, he didn't know about Todd, but it wasn’t beyond him to guess that there was some kind of tumultuous activity in her love life.

So, as they stepped out onto the red carpet, the camera shutters sounding off like ten thousand mechanical birds, her mind raced.

As best she could, she waylaid the suspicion of his suspicions. She couldn't control such things anyway.

She tried instead to think of all the possible ways she could know Sand. Or rather, that a person could know Sand.

The charity for the night was some very specific kind of gland cancer that Sophia hadn't heard of. Several thousand people were affected—though of course none of them were invited. This was a ball for the rich and the few that the rich decided to bring along.

Inside the convention hall where the ball was held, all the men wore tuxedos, all the women had on beautiful evening gowns and furs. Sophia noted with satisfaction that at the very least, she looked as though she fit in.

The inside of the center was incredibly opulent. Enormous, ornate chandeliers hung down from the ceiling every dozen feet or so. Shrimp and caviar were served on small trays held by a veritable army of waiters. The tables had silk tablecloths, though no one sat at them. Everyone was just standing and drinking champagne.

“Why isn't anyone sitting down?” she asked Sand.

He shrugged. “No one really eats at these things. The tables are for when the old guard gets too drunk and want to start swapping stories.”

“The old guard?”

His hand gripped and re-gripped on her hip. “Old billionaires. Inheritors of billions, making billions more.”

That was the kind of crowd she was in now. It seemed beyond her, somehow.

She knew nothing about billionaires or how they lived, really. All she knew was Sand. He didn't seem to have any opinions on her class, but everyone that looked at her seemed to carry with their gaze a heavy dose of condescension. It confused Sophia...and it frightened her when she thought of her prospects with Sand.

“Come on,” he said, guiding her over to a group of women. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

“This is Bill and Anna Sanders,” he said, showing her to a young handsome man and his lovely wife. “They're the ones taking all my money to run for office next year.”

“You say 'taking,'” said Bill with a grin. “I say 'stealing wholeheartedly.'”

Everyone laughed.

“Who is this lovely date you have tonight, Gerald?” Anna asked.

Her voice was lilted and heavy, the kind that Sophia had only heard before in black-and-white movies about private detectives.

Sophia held out a hand. “Sharon Page,” she said. It was a simple name, something she could remember.

“That's just lovely, dear,” said Anna.

And then Gerald and Bill were talking, with she and Anna drifting to the background, expected only to smile attentively. Sophia had crafted an entire backstory for Sharon Page—she was the daughter of expatriates from Slovenia who managed to escape the Iron Curtain and start a bottling business in Latin America...but for nothing.

These people didn't care at all who she was. She was just someone next to Sand.

In a way, she supposed she enjoyed that—being Sand's property. But at the same time, she was still existing, she still
mattered
enough to just hold a decent conversation, right?

After two more minutes, Sand led her through the crowd with her dangling on his arm. She tried to let herself have fun, drinking away at a flute of champagne that had been brought around on a tray by a waiter. He introduced her to an enterprising old software magnate and his congenial old wife, Greta.

“And who's this?” asked Greta.

What the hell, she figured, taking a long drought of champagne. These people didn't care.

“Maria Marmalada,” said Sophia.

“Marmalada? That's a lovely name.”

“Yes,” said Sophia. “You've heard of marmalade?”

“Of course!”

“Well, my family makes it.”

Sand's sudden snort of laughter turned into an impromptu coughing session while he regained his composure.

The rest of the night went something like that. Maria Marmalada lasted for about three more encounters and another glass of wine and a half. Sophia found herself caring less and less about what everyone there thought—you were only someone to them if you had something they could take.

She became:

“Yolanda Cruise. My mother owns three cruise lines.”

“Rebecca Statesman. My uncle is a senator and a judge.”

“Veronica Fork. My father invented the fork.”

With each new name, Sand could not stop chuckling. Most people were perfectly clueless as to her lies or—more likely—not actually interested in anything she had to say. Nothing that Sophia said or did would likely ever raise her status in their eyes.

After an hour or so of this, she extricated herself from the line of sycophants rushing to meet Sand, and slipped off to the bar at the edge of the floor. It was nearly abandoned. Sitting there alone was a petite, dark-haired woman with heavy glasses. She was staring at her scotch as if she wanted to dive into it.

“So who're you?” the woman asked, clearly a bit drunk. “Billionaire Gerald Sand doesn't go around with just anybody.”

“My name's Candy Stripes,” said Sophia wryly. “Gerald just picked me up from the club. He's gonna take me back there later, make it rain, do some blow with me, all that jazz.”

The woman looked Sophia up and down and gave her a disbelieving laugh. “Okay, jeez. Sorry.”

Leaning up against the bar next to her, Sophia gave her an apologetic look. “No, I'm sorry. It's just...this whole thing is...stressful.”

She nodded. “It is. I'm Harriet Hussman.”

“The editorialist?”

Downing her drink, she hiccuped a bit and laughed. “The one and only. “

“I've read your stuff! Your article on the banking system a few months ago was...wow! I loved it!”

“Well,” said Harriet. “You were alone, I'm afraid. They've moved me to gossip. I've no idea why. I'm terrible at gossip. I make most of it up.”

Suddenly, Sophia became afraid. It must have shown on her face.

“Oh, don't worry about me, sweetie. Billionaires with beautiful ladies on their arms isn't hot news for me, really. Now, if you were a hot guy...”

A small wave of relief washed over Sophia. “That's good to hear. At least there's one place where it's okay not to be of note.”

Harriet stood up a bit, surprised. “Oh, you figured it out already?”

“What do you mean?”

“You're not part of this crowd. Can't you see?” She clearly thought Sophia took offense. “I don't mean anything by that, of course. But look around you—this is all old-hat to them. They don't care about any of this. Or about people, really. It's all a game to them, ways to create more wealth and own more people. That's the only thing that matters to a millionaire, billionaire, any of them. Controlling people. And once they're done controlling you and don't have to try to do it, boop! They're gone. I'm just glad the revolution's coming.”