Dance with the Billionaire (4 page)

I stumble out onto the street. What just happened in his apartment feels so unreal I wonder if maybe I imagined it. But as I begin to walk towards the nearest subway station, I remember all over again that I’m not wearing any panties.

No. That definitely just happened.

I can still hear his words echoing around my head:
We are not going to ‘make love’, Julia Tate. We are going to fuck.

And I have to admit to myself that something about it turned me on. Maybe it’s his confidence. The very thing that gets me so mad, that makes me want to throw my fucking drink in his face? Well, maybe, just maybe, it gets me hot, too.

But even so, I can’t do that. I can’t be ‘his’ for a week – to do with as he pleases.

Because that’s just prostitution, isn’t it? Plain and simple.

And on top of that, I don’t want to lose my virginity to some guy who thinks he can buy me like that.

But then I find myself thinking again about
why
I’m still a virgin in the first place. This goes
way
back ...

You never met a couple more mismatched than my mom and my dad. They had nothing in common, but they didn’t have that fiery opposites-attract passion either. It was just arguing all the time, fighting almost every night. And I mean
fighting.
Crying, screaming, slamming doors, smashing plates; that kind of fighting. They split up when I was really young – just before my fifth birthday. I don’t remember much, but I do remember feeling so relieved that all the shouting was finally over.

I guess you could kinda say it was all my fault. You see, the only reason they got married in the first place was because my dad had got my mom knocked up.

So when I got a little older, I vowed to myself never to get trapped like that. I was never gonna give up my virginity until I knew that the guy was really special, and surprise surprise, I’m twenty-one years old and that guy still hasn’t come along yet.

But don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m inexperienced. I may not have had
sex
, but I’ve done practically everything else. I’ve just drawn the line somewhere. And I’m not going to cross it for anyone ... anyone except The One.

So you see, it’s not out of some religious belief that I’ve stayed a virgin. It’s simply to protect my future – so that I don’t end up like my mom, some clueless pregnant kid, saddled with a baby and a husband she didn’t love.

Because if I wait for The One, there won’t be any of that. There won’t be any screaming or fighting, and I won’t have to work three jobs just to make ends meet. Because The One won’t bail on me.

But this situation is a whole other ballgame. If I say yes to Dylan Campbell, a hundred thousand dollars would protect my future way more than my virginity ever could. Because money like that could pay for my whole three years at Eldridge ...

I’m still lost in this last thought when I feel my cell vibrating in my purse, and as I pull it out, my panties go flying onto the sidewalk too, right in front of a young kid and his mom.

The mom shoots me an evil look as I quickly snatch them up and stuff them hurriedly back into my purse, and then I hit ‘answer’ on the call.

“So?” Nat’s voice says excitedly from the other end of the line. “How’d it go?”

For a moment I freeze stock still on the sidewalk. How the hell did
she
know about my meeting with Dylan?! I didn’t tell a soul. Then I clock that she means my audition, of course.

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “Good and bad. Listen, meet me at Countdown in an hour and I’ll tell you all about it. It’s been a weird few days. I could do with a drink and best of all, a dance.”

“Funny you should mention that,” she laughs. “I was about to suggest the exact same thing.”

§

Countdown is my favorite place in the whole of New York. It was the first club Nat took me to when we started hanging out together. It’s big and loud, laid out on loads of different levels, and sprawling enough that you can be totally anonymous and really let yourself get lost in the music. The DJ’s are
amazing
, and Nat’s been coming here so long that all the doormen love her and let her in for free, and because I’m her friend, I get to tag along for the ride.

We push our way into the busy club – crammed as usual with dancing, sweaty  bodies. But tonight, before we start dancing, we take a seat in one of the booths in the back room and order two frozen margaritas. Almost the moment we sit down, Nat wants to know just what I’ve been up to.

“What do you mean things have ‘been weird’,” she grins. “Oh and where
were
you earlier? I rang like three times before you answered. Were you on a date?”

“Oh, come on,” I sigh. “Like
I’ve
had the time to date recently! My audition’s taken up practically my whole life. You know that.”

“Then you need to re-evaluate your priorities,” Nat says, pointing a long, expertly-manicured fingernail at me.

I don’t want to talk about this right now, so I try and change the subject. “Hey,” I say, grabbing her hand to check out her nails. “These are really fierce. Where did you get them done?” I stroke a pointed fingernail; it’s painted a deep purple with glittery diagonal gold stripes and tiny diamante detailing.

“I just went to Lisa’s Nail Bar,” she explains, “but she’s got this new girl in and you gotta check her out. She is
the business
.”

Nat’s looking really smug; she just loves it when people compliment her nails. But she’s no dummy either. She can see exactly what I’m up to.

“Oh no no no no no!” she laughs. “You’re not getting out of it that easily! I said, where were you? You were on a date! There’s someone, isn’t there? I just know it!”

“Oh, come on Nat,” I sigh. “I don’t want to talk about this. We’re out having fun, aren’t we? You know how I feel about guys right now. In fact, you know how I feel about guys
full stop
. They’re only after one thing, but they give you all the talk, all the lines, and before you know it, you’re staring at your phone, crying, wondering why he hasn’t texted you back.” At this, I slam my hand down on the table. “Love is for losers,” I say, deadly serious, “and I’ve got to stay focused.” 

“So where were you then?” she persists.

“Nowhere.”

I don’t know why I can’t just tell her the truth. I mean, it’s a crazy story. I’d love to tell someone, and I know Nat would find it hilarious. What is it about me that keeps things so private? Why do I always keep everything to myself? Like my virginity. Nat’s my best friend. I should be able to tell her, right? I know for sure that she wouldn’t judge me. But for some reason, I always keep little parts of myself locked away from others. And on top of all that, I still don’t know what the hell I’m going to do about Dylan’s offer. I feel so torn, so confused. And I need to get out of this conversation ...

But just then, the DJ saves me. He switches up the music, and starts playing some old-school hip hop, and we can never resist that.

“Come on,” I say, pushing myself up from our table, grabbing her hand and dragging her to her feet.

She quickly knocks back the rest of her margarita then lets me pull her towards the dance floor.

Nat’s breath-taking to look at. Even just standing still, never mind dancing. Tonight we’re both dressed in matching barely-there mini dresses: red for me, while Nat’s is gold – metallics are her signature colors. She’s got long legs to die for, and in her heels she clears six foot easily.

She’s an amazing dancer, too – much more at home with hip hop than me, and there’s something totally hypnotic about the way she moves, that always gets people watching. I’ve told her that she should try out for dance school too, but she’s always shrugged it off. She says she just wants to dance for fun, or maybe to teach disadvantaged kids, or something. But not to learn it. She says that anything she’s studied, she’s ended up hating – and she sure as hell doesn’t want dance to become something she hates, too. 

I can totally understand, but I don’t think that could ever happen to me. When I’m dancing, it feels just as natural as breathing – and who could ever hate
breathing
, right?

“Nice moves,” comes a voice from behind us.

I turn around to confront the voice, only to see two guys grinding hopefully towards us.

Nat leans in to me. “They’re both kinda cute, no?” she says, just loud enough for me to hear over the music.

I nod, and we smile at the guys, wordlessly inviting them to join us. Soon we’re all dancing together, and when the song finishes, they offer us a drink. They always do, and we always accept.

As they go to the bar to fetch us a second round of frozen margaritas, we wink at each other. It’s not that we’ll let any old guys flirt with us just for drinks, and we’re certainly not going to go home with these two tonight. But they’re cute, and we’re broke, and this is fun.

No one’s getting hurt, right?

 

“Name?”

The impossibly blonde, perfectly-made-up receptionist at Campbell Finance looks me up and down like I shouldn’t even be allowed in the
lobby
, let alone to come in for a three o’ clock with the head of the company himself.

“Julia Tate,” I say, keeping my voice steady and my back straight, my head held high.

“Just one moment please.”

I cannot fucking wait for her to call Dylan’s office and realize that she’s gonna have to be nice to me.

“Oh, hi Chloe, I have a
Julia Tate
here? Says she’s got a three o’ clock with Mr Campbell?”

There’s a pause and she shoots me another catty little glance, like she can tell my black dress came from a Target sale rack, but then sure enough, her face changes and a thin-lipped smile flutters across her face.

“It’s the seventeenth floor, Miss Tate,” she says. “The elevators are in the far corner over there and Chloe will receive you when you reach the top.”

“Thank you,” I say, unable to keep the
see-I-wasn’t-lying
smile from my face.

Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip
, I repeat in my head like a mantra as I click over to the elevator in my heels. And as I step inside and punch in floor seventeen, I still can’t believe I’m actually going through with this.

“Ah, Miss Tate!” Chloe coos, as pristine and smiley as an air hostess, the very second I step from the elevator. “Right this way.”

She’s way taller and prettier than me – as flawless as any supermodel – and it makes me wonder,
why me
. What is it about
me
that’s got Dylan Campbell throwing his money around?

Chloe leads me to a small, elegantly furnished, wood-paneled waiting room outside the door to what I assume is Dylan’s office, and tells me to take a seat. I sink down into the plush black couch, glad for some respite from my heels, wishing I’d brought a pair of flats in my purse.

And then, as she returns to her desk, just around the corner, I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

A few times, I slip my cell from my purse to check the time – he’s ten minutes late, then fifteen, then twenty.

After half an hour, I’m furious.

That asshole
, I think.
Is he doing this on purpose? Is this just another one of his fucked up mind games?

I’m about to get up and leave, when all of a sudden the door opens and there he is, dressed the same as that first night in the bar: in an immaculately tailored charcoal gray suit, perfectly crisp white shirt and pitch black tie, cufflinks glinting, shoes shining, hair perfectly styled, as if he’s stepped directly from the pages of some glossy magazine.

“Excuse me,” he says nonchalantly. “My conference call with Hong Kong overran.”

Is he fucking with me, or is that really the truth?

I can’t work out whether he’s playing mind games, making me wait to want him even more. But true or not, that was hardly much of an apology, was it?

“Right this way, Miss Tate,” he says, gesturing into his office.

As I step past him into the room, I catch that same cologne again – so strange and distinct, strong yet subtle. It suits him perfectly.

His office is amazing. Floor-to-ceiling windows on three walls, offering a panoramic view of the New York skyline. He’s got a whole bar in one corner. It’s like something out of
Mad Men
, and he’s definitely the Don Draper character. In control, womanizing, not to mention devastatingly handsome.

“Please, Julia,” he says, indicating the chair facing his desk. And the word ‘please,’ when Dylan Campbell says it, means something totally different. It means,
Do it. Now.

I sit down, and he walks around to the other side of his desk, then sits facing me, black eyes locking onto mine.

“So,” he says calmly, “how may I help you?”

“Not
this
again,” I say, feeling the anger boil up inside me.

He is fucking with me, isn’t he? He knows exactly why I’m here but he’s determined to make me say it. He’s actually enjoying humiliating me. It’s totally obvious.

“We had a deal, remember?” I snap. “One week of my time for a hundred grand? Well, I accept. I’m here. It’s three o’ clock on Monday, isn’t it? Or are you gonna try and fuck with my head all over again? Because if you are, please tell me this time
before
I remove my underwear.”

I just can’t read him. His face gives almost nothing away. But is that the slightest hint of a smile on his lips?

Maybe he even
enjoys
being shouted at. It’s probably one of his kinks.

“Of course, of course,” he says, leaning back in his chair, cradling his head in his hands, his suit jacket coming open, the cotton of his shirt stretching taut against his broad chest, showing off what looks like a pretty muscular torso beneath. “Our little deal. I remember it well. But ...”

God damn it. Why is there always a ‘but’?

“I’ll need you to audition first.”

“What do you mean, ‘audition’?” I spit.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Julia,” he replies. “That much is clear. But this city is full of beautiful women. I need to know that you’re more than just beautiful. I need to know that you can turn me on, too.”

This is enough. He’s taken this too far.

Propelled by the anger, I push myself to my feet, slam my palms on the desk and practically scream in his face. 

“I came all this way and you’re telling me I’ve got to fucking
audition
?”

“That’s a good start,” he says, remaining perfectly calm. “I like your fire. But I’ll need to see more. Show me what your body can do ...”

How dare he. What a bastard. He has no idea what this body can do.

“I don’t
have
to show you anything,” I say. “All you need to know is that I’m good. In fact, I’m good enough to win a scholarship at the Eldridge School of Dance. And I think
they
might be slightly better judges of poise and technique than you ...”

“That may well be the case, Julia. But I’m not interested in poise and technique. In fact, I’m not interested in anything you’ve learnt in some fancy dance school ...”

“Now hold on there,” I interrupt. “I haven’t even started classes yet. My dancing’s
raw
.”

“And that’s exactly what I want to see,” he replies. “So show me.”  

“Okay,” I say, my breath shivering past my lips as the adrenaline courses through my veins. I strut towards him, encircling him, moving around behind his desk, so that he has to swivel in his chair to remain facing me. I’m standing by the window now, the New York skyline behind me.

“I can do this ...” I say, pushing myself up onto the toes of my right foot, then lifting my left leg off the ground and bringing my foot right up to my head, “and I can do this,” I say, spinning on my toes in a graceful full circle, “and of course, I can do this ...”

In one fast movement, I pull my dress up around my waist, then drop down into a full splits.

There you go, asshole.

I shoot a glance up at him. He’s smiling down at me, his legs spread wide apart, so cocky, so self assured – but I know my moves are working. Because between his legs, the clear outline of his cock, pressing and straining against the inside leg of his pants, tells me everything in need to know.

“Very good,” he says, a sharp tightness to his voice now, charged with pure animal lust. “Anything else?”

Just as gracefully, I rise back to my feet, pulling my dress back down, giving him only the very briefest flash of my panties beneath. Then I pace towards him, my eyes locked onto his, as sleek and graceful as a cat closing in on her prey.

“I’ve got a few other moves,” I say teasingly, steadying myself on the arms of his chair as I lean in towards him, pushing my chest out for a moment, bringing my face right up close to his, close enough that our lips are almost brushing, close enough to fill my senses with that amazing cologne he’s wearing. And keeping my eyes locked onto his, l reach between his legs and cup the hot, thickness of his cock for a moment, registering with a shiver just how fucking hard – and
big
– he is. Then I spin around, so that I’m facing away from him, again steadying myself on the arms of his chair, as I start to push my ass back towards him, feeling my dress riding up around my waist to show off my bare buttocks as I grind myself against him, the sheer hardness of his cock now right there between my legs, grazing me, my pussy throbbing so fucking hard as I work him up like that, feeling his hands move first to my sides and then slip further upwards, up towards my breasts ...

I let him almost touch me there, feeling my nipples stiffening into two tight buds, crying out to be touched and tweaked, and a part of me wants nothing more than to feel his hot hands enclose my breasts, but instead, just moments before he touches me there, I reach up quick as a flash and grab his wrists, pulling him sharply off me, spinning back around to face him again.

“Not until I’ve got the job,” I hiss.

“It’s yours,” he growls, our faces so close that I can feel his breath dancing against the tingling skin of my neck.

“That’s not good enough,” I say, pushing myself back to my feet and walking calmly and confidently to my chair, the only tell tale sign of what just happened, the hot dampness of my panties and the way my breath is still shivering a little past my lips.

I sit back in my chair and cross my legs, heart pounding, pussy throbbing, but keeping my face fixed and stern, giving nothing away.

“I want to see it in writing,” I say, my voice still trembling a little. “One week. One hundred thousand dollars.”

He stares at me, his legs still spread wide, his cock still rock hard between his legs, straining so tightly now against the tailored confines of his suit slacks it looks like it might tear the fucking fabric right apart.

“I’ve already prepared the contract,” he says, sliding a heavy, cream colored envelope across the desk towards me.

I lean forward and take it from the desk, sliding out the contents – a sheaf of carefully typed pages, outlining the terms of our arrangement, the wording as cold and precise as any business document. I can’t take it all in right now, but I pick out certain words, certain phrases:
confidentiality ... within the bounds of reason ... seven days and nights (inclusive)
...

It’s obvious that this is a proper legal document, and I wonder if he had his
lawyer
draw this up ...

At the bottom I see his name is already signed, and there’s a blank dotted line for my own beneath.

Before I can change my mind, I snatch the nearest pen – a beautiful, heavy Mont Blanc ballpoint – and hurriedly sign my name.

“There,” I say, slamming the pen and the signed contract back on the desk in front of him and fixing my eyes on his, showing nothing of the voice inside me that’s screaming:
What the fuck are you getting yourself into?

“So,” I say. “What happens now?”