Billionaire Erotic Romance Boxed Set: 7 Steamy Full-Length Novels (122 page)

The walk was long, and full of time to think. She had horrible taste in men, clearly. First Christian, and now Henry. She’d thought he was different. He hadn’t been turned off by her scar or her inability to dance gracefully all the time. They’d talked, really talked. But he had given her very little in the way of personal information, she realized now. He was always vague.

She’d overlooked it because he made her feel desirable again. He’d danced with her, and that had been good. She’d let herself fall into bed with him because he was gorgeous and commanding and her body responded to him in a way it had never responded to anyone else. She’d known it was too fast, that she knew too little about the kind of man he was, but she’d let herself ignore it.

She was almost grateful when the clouds opened up and it began to pour. At least the cool rain bathed her heated cheeks, washing away her tears. She wished it could wash away her memory of Henry Medina instead.

Chapter Eight

Sophie counted through the box of homemade tie-on taps she used for the children’s intro tap class, making sure there were no strays. Many of the children couldn’t afford a pair of shoes just for dance, so these came in handy. She had them all wear regular shoes and then tied painted bottle caps around them. They weren’t really the same, but the younger students had enjoyed making them, and at their age it was mostly about exposing them to dance. They could get real tap shoes when they got older, if they were serious about it.

She was avoiding looking in any one of the studio’s myriad mirrors this morning. She knew she looked terrible. She’d looked terrible yesterday when she finally got back to her apartment, soaked to the skin with a runny nose and red-rimmed eyes. And that was before she’d cried herself to sleep. They’d been tears of anguish and betrayal. Some of them weren’t even for Henry. The whole ordeal recalled memories of the end of her relationship with Christian, and then she trotted out every rejection, mistake and deception she’d seemingly ever experienced and piled them all on top.

When she’d woken early this morning her eyes were puffy and her throat raw. She’d managed to reduce the swelling around her eyes with a judicious application of cold water and hemorrhoid cream (a trick from her dancing days), but she could do little about how bloodshot they were. And the sore throat remained even in the wake of aspirin and warm tea.

Her knee ached abominably, too. She shouldn’t have walked all the way home. Especially after the flare up the previous day. But she’d been so wrapped up in her volatile emotions that she’d needed to move, and a walk seemed like just the thing. She would have gone mad sitting in a cab through the morning traffic of New York City.

Sophie leaned on her cane heavily, glad no one else was around. She’d been up at first light and had been into the studio hours before Darren was meant to come in. So far she’d organized the front desk, rewritten the ad for next Sunday’s paper, balanced the checkbook (both hers and the business’s) and color coordinated the scarves she used with the children during Free Dance classes. Now she was working on the taps.

Next, she’d be buffing the damn floor, no doubt. Anything to keep her mind off of Henry. She was done with him. He was a mistake she wasn’t going to make again.

“Soph?”

She spun, startled at the sound of Darren’s voice behind her, and cried out as she spilled the box of tie-on taps across the wood floor. “Damn it, Darren, you scared me half to death!”

Darren’s eyes narrowed as he leaned back against the wall, arms locked behind him. He studied her face for a minute, evidence of her crying still apparent in her swollen eyes, before dropping his gaze to the hand that clutched at the cane. His wide mouth thinned into a white line. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Her fingers tightened on the cane’s carved metal grip. She lowered herself to the ground, gritting her teeth to keep from hissing in pain, and focused on sweeping the children’s taps together in an attempt to avoid Darren’s concerned gaze. How did he know there was anything going on? The man had an uncanny knack for ferreting out her troubles. “You’re in early.”

“Sophie. Look at me.” His voice was grim, nothing at all like his usual teasing tone.

“What?”

His brows were knit together over his eyes. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you and Henry Medina? Because I’m worried.”

Sophie jerked in surprise. “Nothing. What, are you psychic now?”

“No, I’m not psychic. I just know how to read.”

Confusion swept over Sophie. “Excuse me?”

Darren held out a copy of a newspaper. The
Post
. Sophie swallowed. The headline blazing across the top of the page seemed innocuous enough.

“Nice Piece of Real Estate!” it shouted.

But below that was a picture of Henry. And her. She instantly recognized the scene. It was in the lobby of Henry’s building yesterday morning, while they were still in the elevator. He was touching her cheek, head slightly bent as if he was about to kiss her while he handed her an envelope. In a small inset was a second picture of just her as she flung the envelope at the closed elevator door.

“Billionaire CEO attempting to acquire a new piece of property?” was insulting enough. But beside the inset, the paper speculated whether or not “Henry Medina’s lovely companion was a high-end escort.” Heat flushed her cheeks and fresh tears pricked her eyes. She looked up into Darren’s concerned face.

“At least they think I’m high-end,” she choked out. Then she burst into tears.

Chapter Nine

Reporters had gathered outside of Sophie’s dance studio, their cameras held aloft in the hopes of getting a good shot of Henry Media’s “high-end escort.” Sophie slouched lower in her chair at the front desk, trying to remain unseen.

Darren set down the phone gently, jaw tight. “That’s the last of them. Classes are all cancelled.”

They’d spent the entire morning phoning students and telling them not to come to the studio until further notice. “No one else will show up and get caught in that mob.”

It had already happened twice that morning, the first reporter arriving mere minutes behind Darren. Sophie had barely processed the horrible
Post
headline when the camera flashes started. She had tried to get ahold of all the students from her first class but hadn’t been able to reach a few of them.

The feeding frenzy that had ensued when one of her students had arrived had been brutal. Even through the closed doors and with the security shutters down, Sophie and Darren could hear the shouted questions. She cringed just recalling some of the things they’d asked about her. “How did they find me so quickly?” she asked, wiping futilely at the tears running down her cheeks.

“Well, clearly they’re all rats and they sniffed you out with their disgusting, twitchy little noses.” Darren grimaced, shuddering delicately. “Now, are you going to tell me what happened or are we just going to sit here devising slow and painful deaths for all tabloid reporters?”

Sophie blinked wet lashes. “The second one?”

“Sophie come on, you can tell me anything.”

She sighed, if she couldn’t tell Darren what happened how could she even begin clearing her name in the press? “Henry Medina offered me a thousand dollars an hour to dance with him. At his home. So, I went there the other night and we... danced.” She put her face in her hands.

She knew Darren wouldn’t judge her, but she was still feeling raw from Henry’s cruel gift of money and the reporters were only making things worse.

Darren straightened and leaned his hip against the desk. “Danced?” He poked the photo on the front of the paper. “Did it get horizontal?”

She kept her hands over her face, glancing briefly through her fingers. “Yes.”

His brows rose in surprise. “And?”

“It was incredible.” Her shoulders sagged. It was the truth. It had been incredible. Mind-blowing. Fantastic. And a huge mistake.

Darren whistled. “‘Incredible’ is good. So how’d it go from ‘incredible’ to tossing envelopes of money at him?”

“What do you think happened? He tried to pay me off. Like I was some
whore
.” A fresh sob bubbled into her throat and stung the back of her nose as Darren reached for her hands, squeezing them reassuringly.

“Pay you off? Not just for the dance?”

“We barely even danced for an hour and there were thousands of dollars in the envelope!”

“Bastard. If I see him again, I’m going to kill him,” he said, matter-of-factly.

She opened her mouth to reply but a low, steady knocking interrupted her. It wasn’t coming from the front where the crowd of reporters were milling but from the back.

She and Darren exchanged a look of sheepish surprise. Clearly, neither of them had considered that anyone might try the emergency exit. Darren rolled his eyes, a gesture that spoke eloquently of how stupid they both were, and walked over to the back.

From her position behind the front desk Sophie could only see Darren’s face as he registered who was on the other side of the door. His jaw went tight, his handsome face cold and sharp. She’d never seen such a look of biting anger on her friend’s face.

“Darren?” she asked, tentatively.

“I should throw you to those wolves out front,” he growled at whoever was at the door. Cold dread seized her—there was only one person Darren would be that angry with right now.

Heedless of the reporters outside, she stood and hurried to her friend’s side. She could hear Henry speaking as she approached.

“...me in, I’m sure we can work this all out.”

She gritted her teeth. Not only had Henry screwed her and then sent her out with an envelope of cash, but he had also compromised her livelihood. What could he possibly say to try and justify himself? She touched Darren gently on the shoulder. “Let him in.”

Darren gave her a narrow look but pushed the door open further so Henry could slip inside. He looked firm and gorgeous in a dark Burberry London wool and mohair suit. Darren had swooned endlessly over the same one in a catalogue earlier in the year. It must’ve cost two-thousand dollars.

“Sophie,” he began. She slapped him. The flat crack of her palm on his stubbled cheek echoed through the empty studio. Crap. She hadn’t meant to do that; her hand seemed to have moved of its own volition. But she couldn’t deny that it felt good to take some of her anger out on him, although she was still livid.

Darren put an arm around her shoulders protectively, shooting Henry a look sharp enough to kill.

“What do you want, Henry?” Sophie said.

His gaze moved over her face beseechingly. “To explain.”

“I think you made yourself clear.” Her hands clenched into fists at her side. He’d been so  passionate when he made love to her, and at breakfast the next morning he was nothing but sweet. But in a matter of seconds he went cold, and she didn’t understand it.

Henry frowned. “That money wasn’t... ” He trailed off, shooting a glance at Darren. “Can I talk to Sophie alone, please?”

“No,” Darren snapped. “You’re lucky you’re talking to her at all.”

“Sophie,” Henry pleaded. But she shook her head. Be alone with him? No way. She seethed at the thought.

“You can say whatever you need to say in front of Darren.”

“That money was just for the dance. I swear. Nothing else.”

She bristled. “Just the dance? There was
five thousand
in that envelope, at least. What am I supposed to think?”

“That I’m incredibly grateful you agreed to dance with me? That I enjoyed that short dance more than I’ve enjoyed anything in a long time? I don’t know.
Anything
but that I was trying to pay you for what happened after.”

She didn’t believe him. Not entirely. She’d seen the distant look in his eyes as he’d practically shoved her out of the elevator and stuffed that envelope into her hand. He’d wanted her to go away as quickly as possible. He might not have meant to insult her, but he meant to brush her off.

Henry opened his mouth to speak again, but she raised her hand, palm out, to keep him from going on. “Fine, let’s just say that I believe you.” She waved an agitated hand toward the front of the building.

“I’m
dying
to hear this,” Darren interjected, voice cutting. He hadn’t removed his arm from around Sophie’s shoulder, and he was staring at Henry like he thought he could burn holes through him.

Tugging a chair closer, Henry sat heavily and rubbed a hand against his face. “When you’re young and rich the tabloids have an interest. Sometimes they hang around and catch something juicy. You just got caught in the middle of that. I’m so sorry Sophie.”

“So that’s it? I’m just collateral damage? My business can’t come back from this.”

Henry leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Your business isn’t ruined—”

“Do you think parents are going to want a
whore
teaching their children? And what about my professional students? Think they’ll stick around and put ‘trained by a famous prostitute’ on their CVs? I’m done, Henry. This,” she stabbed a finger toward the front of the studio, “
ends
me.”

He winced as if she’d struck him again. “It doesn’t have to. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

Sophie jerked out of Darren’s grip and flung her hands in the air. “How does all of New York believing I’m an escort not ruin my business, Henry? I’m all ears.”

She saw Henry’s shoulders tighten defensively at her words, but to his credit he didn’t try and placate her. He gave her a minute to breathe before he replied. “You show them you’re not.”

Darren crossed his arms, cocking his head. Clearly, Henry had piqued his interest, but Sophie wasn’t biting. “It’s too late for that, the story is out. No matter what I do or say they’ll just think I’m lying to cover up my sordid activities.”

“The story is that I’m paying to have sex with you. It’ll sell papers, and the people who want to make it a problem for me will make sure the story sticks. But you’re right, if we try and protest they’ll just think we’re trying to cover it up.”