Dance with the Billionaire (31 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

The next few days passed by in a haze. I threw myself into my job — making a surprisingly good headway on the masses of work Marianne had thrown at me ever since our little incident, simply because if I was busy, then at least I wasn’t thinking about Blake Matthews.

Can I really do it?

Can I really set up on my own?

And of course, part of me wanted to find out.

But then at the same time, another nagging part of me told me this was wrong somehow; that it was too easy, too quick — that I hadn’t struggled enough to get this break.

Because when I pictured my own business, I imagined that it came after years of hard work and with a deep sense of satisfaction, because I’d really earned it.

How could my suggestions really have impressed him enough to offer me the job, flat out?

And what if ...

What if it’s not your skills as a designer that he’s after?

What if there’s something else about you that he’s taken a fancy to?

And I think it was this thought that had stopped me from calling him. I already felt more than a little guilty about the not-so-innocent thoughts I’d been having recently, even more since the email, not to mention the fact that I’d been keeping this latest development completely to myself, not telling Greg or Fallon or anyone …

I pushed myself out of my chair and headed for the small private bathroom, situated right next to Marianne’s office. I could hear her through the thin wall, laughing over some private phone call, as I assessed myself coldly in the mirror.

No, I thought.

I’m too plain.

He couldn’t want me like that.

But even if this offer was completely above board, I still just couldn’t bring myself to make the leap. To leave the security of a monthly paycheck. To strike out on my own.

And just then, as if she could hear my thoughts, Marianne let out a howl of laughter.

§

I’d made my decision. On a bright fresh Tuesday morning I emerged from the subway and prepared to start again as I strolled along Park Avenue, where Marianne’s office was based.

I’m gonna work hard and get there on my own, on my own terms, and you know what? I don’t need a guy like Blake Matthews to help me ... 

I arrived at the office and sat down at my desk, still feeling a small thrill of satisfaction at the fact that, when I looked at my to-do list, it was now almost completely under control, my hard work over the last few days finally paying off.

I was just about to get on with finalizing the color palette for the new Cohen place, when I heard Marianne’s voice behind me. “Jessica, are you busy?”

I swiveled in my chair, feeling ready to face Marianne, eager to show her what I could do, and maybe even finally get to like her a little.

“Yes, I’m just about to start on …”

“Good,” she interrupted. “I was wondering if you’d run along to Whole Foods. I’m having some friends over for dinner and I’ve not had time to pick up the ingredients. Think you can manage such an important task?”

She thrust a shopping list in my face.

“Sure,” I said quietly, taking the slip of paper, feeling all my enthusiasm and good cheer quickly draining away, replaced in seconds with my old friends bitterness and frustration.

“After all,” she continued, her thin lips curling in a tight little smile, “I think we might need to keep you away from the clients for a little longer yet …”

§

As I headed across Central Park, I tried to focus on my breathing. Back in college, I’d often find myself getting worked up over stupid, tiny things and I’d been taught that breathing was a good way of gaining control over stress and anxiety. But no matter how slowly and steadily I took the air in and out of my lungs, I still felt so out of control.

Doing her freaking groceries?!

Who the hell does she think she is?

This was a new low, and deep down I knew that Marianne was only doing it just to punish me. For all I knew, she probably didn’t even have friends coming over for dinner — she just wanted to humiliate me with a particularly menial little task.

I mean, who would want to go to Marianne’s for dinner anyway?

I was halfway across the park when I found myself unable to take another step.

I could feel it happening again: that same out-of-body feeling, the one that had got me into this mess in the first place.

No, not again ...

But, sure enough, that strong decisive person inside me was taking control once again. She was reaching into my coat pocket, taking out my cell, and opening the email app, quickly tapping on the mobile phone number written beneath Blake’s email signature, before I could stop her.

Wait, don’t do it ...

But it was too late.

I could hear the ring of Blake’s cellphone on the other end of the line as I just stood rooted to the spot, dog walkers, joggers and entwined couples all weaving their way past me.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Is that Blake?” I said, even though I was sure it was him. “It’s Jessica.”

“I’m glad you called,” he replied. “I was beginning to think that maybe you weren’t up to the job.”

Then suddenly it hit me.

You’ve just called Blake Matthews.

You’ve actually called him.

 “So, are you?”

An awkward pause, as I puzzled over his question, my head spinning.

“Sorry. Am I what?”

“Are you up to the job, Jessica?”

And when he said my name, I felt this flash of heat run right the way through me.

“Yes,” I replied. “I really, really am.”

“Good. I’ll cancel my twelve o’ clock. We’ll discuss this over brunch. I’ll have my PA email you the details.”

I remained there for a moment, my heart pounding, the phone still pressed to my ear, even though he’d hung up.

What kind of mess have you got yourself into, this time?

My phone buzzed again: an email from Blake’s PA, summoning me to a meeting in half an hour’s time.

It seemed as if he’d made my mind up for me.

§

I’d walked back through the park in a daze, and soon found myself in the restaurant of Blake’s newest hotel, The 212.  I’d read about this place in Wallpaper* during my initial research on Blake: all clean Japanese lines and polished wood, very masculine. And the food was supposed to be great as well, some chef Greg raved about. I’d actually thought about taking him here as a surprise for his twenty-third birthday, a couple of months from now.

No wonder then that it was so crowded; crammed full of smartly dressed men and elegant, sophisticated women.

I looked down at my own outfit and felt deeply ashamed.

Nobody else in here would be seen dead in a thrift-store skirt.

 “Can I help you, madam?” the Maître d’ asked, looking me over with a slight sneer.

I felt him assessing me coldly: my cheap skirt, my faded blouse, his eyes seeming to linger for a moment on the shabby MOMA tote dangling from my shoulder, and I realized I was probably the only woman in here without a Chanel handbag.

“I’m here to see, um, Mr Matthews?” I said, timidly.

But to my surprise, it seemed as if I’d said the magic words.

All of a sudden his manner changed, his face breaking out in a beaming smile. It seemed as if it wasn’t just me for whom the name Blake Matthews held a certain kind of power.

“Of course, madam, right this way, madam,” he fawned, quickly leading me through the throng to a corner table, set a little apart from the rest of the restaurant. And as we approached it, I caught sight of those startlingly grey eyes, watching me intensely.

His mouth on mine, his hand grazing my cheek, his tongue slipping into my mouth ...

With a blush, I had to quickly remind myself that this wasn’t a date — that this was a business meeting and I needed to cut those thoughts dead, right now.

“Hello,” Blake said when I arrived at the table, lifting himself out of his seat to shake my hand. He was dressed in a casual, loose-fitting blue shirt and cream chinos, casual but also obviously expensive.

Once again I felt the warmth of his skin, his firm grip seeming to linger a moment longer than necessary, my head filling with the intoxicating scent of his cologne.

“I’m glad you finally made up your mind,” he said.

We both sat down, and he fixed his steely gaze on me once again. It was too much. I kept looking away, around the restaurant, but every time I looked back there he was, staring at me, as if trying to read something deep inside me.

His mouth moving to my collarbone, his fingers tearing my blouse, exposing me ...

My thoughts were becoming deafening.

I had to say something, anything.

“So,” I began, hearing the nerves in my own voice, “what made you choose this place for lunch?”

“Well,” he replied. “Let’s just say it’s my job to ensure that all aspects of my business run smoothly ...”

Why did I say something so stupid?

I knew this was his hotel – I’d seen it in the portfolio!

“Of course,” I stammered.

I needed to change the subject, quick, to save my embarrassment. I felt the words forming on my tongue, and I worried that I was about to say something even stupider, but I just couldn’t seem to stop myself ...

“If I were to leave Marianne and come to you, I’d expect a pay rise, you know?” I blurted out.

“You don’t mess around, do you?” he replied with a wry smile.

I shook my head slowly, inwardly marveling at what I’d just said, and yet desperately trying to hold onto that confidence, too – to stay in character as the kind of sassy girl who could ask for a pay rise, negotiate her own terms, and hold her own against a guy like Blake.

“I’ll have a contract drawn up ... And if you have any reservations, don’t worry, all my employees are very well looked after.”

What does he mean by that?

Again, I could feel my mind straying, off topic.

His hands moving to my breasts, his fingers pinching my nipples, my thighs parting eagerly as I gasp at his touch ...

 “I want you to work for me, Jessica, starting with my apartment and then seeing how things go from there … I’ve just bought a chain of hotels that need renovating.”

“I read about that,” I replied. “I did my homework.”

Our eyes locked, and it felt just for a moment as if the hum of the restaurant died away completely leaving us alone in some silent bubble, just the two of us.

His mouth closing over my nipple, his tongue flicking at my sensitive flesh, his fingers grazing slowly up the inside of my thigh ...

Just then the waitress came to take our order, reality crashing back in as she leant over us, pouring out two glasses of water from the elegant jug on the table, then placing our heavy, leather-bound menus in our hands.

I looked down at the many options on offer — flitting back and forth between a healthy-sounding salad and what I really wanted: a greasy, fatty cheeseburger.

Screw it.

“I’ll take the cheeseburger, medium rare,” I said, “with extra pulled pork and shoestring fries on the side.”

I watched Blake’s right eyebrow slowly raise as I placed my order, and he shook his head a little, too, as if he’d never been out to lunch with a woman who’d order a cheeseburger before.

“And for you, sir?” the waitress chirped.

“I’ll have the same,” he said, as if this was a game of chess and he’d just reached checkmate. 

I still had my doubts, though.

I needed to know that this was real — that he really and truly wanted me to work for him, and that his email hadn’t been for some other kind of reason, despite my stupid little crush ...

Once we were alone again at the table, Blake leant in towards me, folding his hands in front of him, every inch the confident, successful businessman. “I need you to know,” he began, “that when it comes to matters of business, Jessica, I don’t play games. I’m deadly serious. I’ve built my reputation based on strong, fast decisions, and so far I haven’t made any mistakes. I’m not making one now, am I?”

It was so strange, it was like he was able to read my mind.

“You won’t regret it,” I heard myself saying. “I can do this.”

§

We talked as we ate, but despite my shyness and my efforts to change the subject, Blake managed to keep the focus on me. I found myself telling him pretty much everything: growing up in the sleepy, suburban town of Glenbrook Falls, my conservative parents, my years studying design at Savannah, and then finally moving here to New York and finding work at Marianne’s agency.