The Billionaire Game

by Lila Monroe

  “You’re not listening!” I said, biting my tongue and trying to keep my voice even. If I could just make him understand… “I put thought and consideration into every design for every client—”

  “That could be our slogan!” Asher said enthusiastically. “‘Thought and consideration in every design’—I can see it on a billboard, just above a mall. It sounds just high-class enough to tempt people into making an unbudgeted purchase.”

  “A mall?!” I said, aghast.

  If I’d have been a ship sending out a distress signal, Asher would have interpreted it as ‘full steam ahead.’ He seemed to read my horror as mere surprise, because he took my hand and looked soulfully into my eyes. “I believe in you, Kate. With your designs and my business connections, we can have your lingerie in every department store in the country.”

  This was a nightmare. This was the worst nightmare I had ever had. Worse than the one with the clowns!

  “I can’t believe you,” I whispered venomously, yanking my hand back.

  Asher looked confused. “Of course you can. If you look at the projections—”

  I could see only one solution to this communications divide.

  I picked up a glass of that so-French-it-could-sneer-at-you wine and threw it in his face.

  EIGHT

  The thing about a dramatic exit is, it super helps if you have somewhere to dramatically exit to.

  My rage powered me all the way to the lane before I realized that I didn’t have a car, couldn’t exactly call a taxi, and didn’t know how to drive Asher’s helicopter even if I could steal the keys (and oh, how tempting that sounded right now).

  So I sucked it up and trudged back to the hotel in my heels, muttering curses under my breath, and made my way to the front desk. A room here would probably cost me an entire month’s rent, but maybe they would take pity on me and let me take a pallet in the kitchen or something.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the receptionist.

  She looked up and smiled as brightly as if she had just been told that she had won a trip to Disneyland. “Ah, there you are, ma’am. Here’s your key. Would you like a wake-up call, or a complimentary continental breakfast with our freshly squeezed orange juice, made from local oranges?”

  I stared at the key in my hand like it was an alien artifact. “Wait. What?”

  “Your cabin,” she chirped cheerfully. “Mr. Young reserved it for you.”

  “Oh, I bet he did.” I could just picture Asher smugly setting the seduction scheme, thinking I’d buy his patter hook, line, and sinker. Too bad he hadn’t done his research on my company, or I just might have fallen for it too. “Just the one cabin, huh?”

  “Yup!”

  This girl was so fresh-faced and innocent, I almost felt bad about what I was about to do.

  Almost.

  “Gosh,” I said, leaning on the counter and lowering my voice confidentially. “I’m so sorry about this, miss, but it seems you’ve been caught up in a little misunderstanding between me and my brother.”

  The girl paled slightly, visions of Appalachian family dynamics no doubt dancing in her head. “…brother?”

  “Yeah, we get that all the time,” I said with a sigh, “because he’s adopted, and people think we’re a couple. We’re actually expecting two more people—his girlfriend, and my fiancé. I know Asher hasn’t seen Maybelline in ages, and I’d love to be able to give him a little privacy—you don’t think you could just add another cabin to the account…?”

  Her hands scrambled on the keys, flustered. “I, I, I’m not sure—it’s just, Mr. Young is the name on the account, and since he didn’t authorize it—”

  “It’s those memory problems,” I said gravely, with a concerned shake of my head. “Ever since the orphanage—oh, they used to beat them so terribly there, sometimes when we were kids Asher would still wake up screaming and wetting the bed— thank goodness the U.N. shut it down and found all those children nice homes. But some damage can never be undone.”

  The girl’s eyes were so wide I was worried they might pop out of her head. “That’s so terrible!”

  “It is, isn’t it.” I laid my hand over hers. “Thanks for being so sympathetic. Not everyone understands what a trial it is, you know?” I sighed deeply, and tried to look melancholy. I thought about Asher’s betrayal of my hopes, and that seemed to help. “I wish he would open up more about it to me, but at least he has Maybelline. He can talk to her about anything. The last few years they’ve been together…he’s been so much more open, so much more able to enjoy life. A true American success story.”

  The girl’s eyes were filled with tears. “That’s so beautiful. I’ll add that extra cabin right away.”

  “Thank you—” I checked her name tag—“Ava. This means so much to both of us.”

  I salved my guilty conscience with a hefty tip, and then set out for my new cabin, courtesy—though he didn’t know it yet—of Asher Young’s apparently tragic childhood.

  #

  My room was gorgeous, with polished wooden beams and furniture so plush you could sink into it and never come back out, but I couldn’t calm down. The high I’d gotten from outwitting Asher’s trite little seduction scheme had deflated like a punctured hot air balloon as I faced the fact that it had all been a seduction scheme in the first place. He didn’t think my business could succeed the way I wanted it to. He hadn’t even been interested in listening to my strategy—he’d just leapt in and steamrollered all over it.

  I opened up my briefcase and spread my samples over the bed. The pale violet brassiere with the velvet lining, the cobalt blue teddy with lace fringe, the sheer babydoll sewn from silk so fine you could have pulled it through a wedding ring—they still seemed beautiful to my eyes. They still seemed like a worthwhile dream.

  So why couldn’t I convince anyone else?

  Maybe I was never going to succeed. Maybe I didn’t really have what it took. Maybe all my designs were uninspired trash and my clients were gullible fools and I was just deluding myself with thinking that I’d ever made a difference in the confidence and self-esteem of the women who came to me. Maybe it was just underwear.

  I looked out the window into the sculpted hedges as a tear rolled down my cheek. I’d wanted to believe so much that I wasn’t just doing what I loved, but that I was doing good, too. Inspiring self-confidence wasn’t exactly world peace, but it had been something.

  And now it was nothing.

  Another tear rolled down my cheek, and I felt a sob catch in my throat as I hugged myself against the sudden chill of self-doubt and despair.

  And then Asher, with some truly impeccable sense of timing, knocked on the door.

  He didn’t actually wait for me to open the door—probably that would have violated the bylaws of Overreaching Douchebags International—but barged right on in. “Are you calmed down now? I thought we could discuss—”

  “There is nothing to discuss!” I interrupted, my voice harsh as my sadness flared into rage. “You’re not even interested in discussing; you didn’t listen to a single thing I said. You just want to talk at me and talk at me until I’m buried under a huge pile of logic and cost-benefit ratios and I give up my integrity and do things your way!”

  “Because my way makes sense,” he said, starting to get hot around the collar. He took a step back, pulling his phone from his pocket and waving it in the air like a light saber. “Look at these projections!”

  I crossed my arms and gave him the stink eye.

  Asher took a deep breath, visibly reining himself in, and then held out the phone tentatively, like peace offering. “We’re talking a 150% return rate on investment here,” in a voice so carefully neutral it could have come from Switzerland. “I don’t see what the issue is. You could be sipping martinis on a beach this time next year, not a care in a world.”

  “But I want to have cares in this world!” I protested, pushing the phone back at him. How did he not get this? Had he already forgotten what it was like
for the part of the world that didn’t have their own private helicopters? “Cares in the world get me out of bed in the morning. Having cares in this world is what makes life actually interesting! “

  “That’s something that people say to cheer themselves up when they’re stressed out because they’re stuck running in circles in their little lives, never accomplishing anything!” Asher snapped in frustration. “Why would you choose to struggle when you don’t have to? There are so many interesting things in life that aren’t a struggle! Helicopter rides over canyons, movie premieres where you meet the stars you’ve idolized since childhood, exotic beaches where you can go swimming with dolphins and manta rays!” He ran a hand through his hair in bewilderment and aggravation. “I could shortcut you to success and I don’t understand why you won’t let me!

  “Because you and I have different definitions of success,” I said, striding forward to snarl into his face. He disgusted me, with his get-rich-quick attitude and his oblivious condescension and his gorgeous lips—whoa, back up there, subconscious. Get back to the yelling. “The only part of success you care about is the money, but I actually want to make people’s lives better.”

  Asher flapped his hands dismissively. “And you will, by making them feel they’re buying a high-end product—”

  “No, I won’t!” He still wasn’t listening to me, so through the burning red haze of anger I decided that I would get his attention by speaking in a language I knew he understood.

  I ripped off my blouse, buttons bouncing to the corners of the cabin. My skirt followed, landing on a lamp.

  Asher’s eyes grew wide, and then a grin started to work its way onto his face. “Not the turn I was expecting this conversation to take, but who am I to—”

  “Shut the hell up.”

  I shoved him backwards towards the wall—his annoying grin still pasted on his face like it had been attached with superglue—and planted my hands on my hips. Thank God it was laundry day, or I’d have been wearing my own designs and this little lesson wouldn’t have been nearly as instructive.

  “Do you see this bullshit?” I snapped, spinning to present my back. “I got these on sale at a department store, and they’re supposed to be high quality. But they use a low thread count fabric that scratches like a hobo with bedbugs, and their cheap-ass clasps dig into your skin like a scalpel if you do anything more physically active than breathing.”

  I ran my finger underneath the fabric and lifted the band a little to show him the hook and eye marks that I knew would be imprinted in my back.

  Asher let out a sympathetic breath. “Damn, that looks like it hurts.”

  “Of course it fucking hurts,” I snapped. “But that’s what you have to deal with when you get something mass-produced, when no one takes the time to understand your unique wants and needs.” I cupped my breasts. “Look at this sorry ass one-size-fits-all foam cup! It’s going to tear the second I put it through the washer. Thanks to that eh-good-enough mentality, I have to use an extender to even get this lingerie on in the first place! And what about these cheap straps that are already fraying?” I snapped the bra straps angrily, and he actually flinched. “And don’t get me started on this sorry excuse for panties, and the shoddy stitching on this elastic.”

  As I caught my breath and took in the perplexed expression on Asher’s face, hope rose in my chest: he was finally listening. Maybe I should have been ashamed that I was standing there in my underwear, but instead all I felt was triumph. It seemed like I was actually getting through to him.

  “And yours aren’t like this,” he said slowly, nodding as he looked over the samples I had spread on the bed. He ran his fingers down a triangle of embroidered silk, his brows knitting together thoughtfully.

  “Hell no,” I shot back. “I take my time. I get accurate measurements, and I use materials that feel good against your skin. So my stuff costs more? Well, it damn well should, because it’s special. It’s not some trick I play on women—it’s a real luxury, that makes a real impact, and the price reflects that.” I grabbed at a metaphor. “A minivan would be more practical than that spaceship you’ve grafted onto a Porsche. So why you do drive it?”

  “Because it’s better,” he said, understanding dawning in his eyes as slowly and beautifully as the rising sun. “It handles better, it’s faster, it’s more beautiful. It makes me feel better to have it. It costs more…but it feels worth it.”

  “Exactly!” I said.

  “Your product is high-end, designer,” Asher went on, the words coming more rapidly now, his eyes lighting up as the ideas began to pour in. He leapt up and grabbed for my hands, a grin splitting his face: “You want a smaller market, a higher price, to be exclusive!”

  Ding ding ding we have a winner, give the boy a medal and a microwave oven and an all-expenses paid trip to Hawaii, were the words that I had been planning to have come out of my mouth.

  But then I felt the warmth of his hands on mine.

  And then I felt the warmth of his breath, panting with excitement, against my skin.

  And then I looked deep into those brilliant green eyes, lit up with passion and intensity…

  …and I remembered that I was in my bra and panties, alone in a room with a man so hot it was a wonder he didn’t spontaneously combust, and I couldn’t remember a single reason why I wasn’t supposed to kiss him.

  Asher’s eyes darkened, pupils dilating as his hand traced up the suddenly tingling skin of my bare arm, and I knew that he couldn’t think of any reasons either.

  He leaned forward, the silk of his shirt rustling, the crisp clean smell of his sweat making me clench my thighs together in desire, and I couldn’t let him kiss me, if he kissed me he would win, he would get what he wanted, what he’d assumed was just his for the taking—

  And so I kissed him instead.

  He grabbed my hips and pulled me into him, growling against my mouth as he kissed me back with a furious need. I bit at his lips, demanding entry, and his tongue teased at my own. My breath caught in my throat as his hand began tracing a line along my abdomen up to my breasts, ghosting lightly over the sheer fabric of my cheap department store lingerie. My nipples hardened and I felt a flush spread over my chest, my skin burning with the need to touch his.

  I could feel his hard cock pressed against my thigh as he ground into me, and my own hands slipped down across the powerful muscles of his back to grip the perfectly formed globes of his ass and pull him closer. He groaned, squeezing my breast with one hand as his other slid around to my back, playing with the clasp of my bra, pulling just hard enough to almost snap it loose.

  I was wet with desire, and I reached up to tangle one hand in his hair and kiss him harder, as my other hand slipped under his waistband, closing around and stroking the thick length of his cock—God, it was perfect, and he was moaning now and I wanted to suck him, to lick around the head and take him all the way down my throat until he forgot every word in the English language except my name, rocking his hips gently against my mouth as his fist tightened in my hair, as my deft fingers teased across his balls, as my cunt clenched in anticipation, as—

  Police sirens went off in my head and I pulled away with a gasp, stumbling backwards out of his reach and hopefully out of reach of the sexy force-field he exuded. Asher’s eyes were locked on mine, hazy with lust as he reached down to unbuckle his belt. I felt my knees, and my resolve, weakening beneath me.

  I had to stop this.

  What we had just done was a mistake. A fun, sexy mistake, but not one that I could let continue. Because it was obvious he’d been playing me all along. This wasn’t about business at all, or investing in my company, or seeing me as anything other than his next temporary plaything, a plaything that I’d just mindlessly and idiotically offered myself up as.

  God, sometimes I hate being a responsible adult.

  “Stop.”

  Asher froze, mid belt-fumble, his brow creased in puzzlement. It looked adorable, and he was rumpled and disheveled
and God but I still wanted to jump his bones. “Kate—”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, and I was proud of how steady my voice sounded. Calm and cool, like I was actually in a business meeting, and hadn’t just been making out half-naked with my former potential investor. Like you do. “But I’m not going to make you millions. This meeting is over. We can’t do business.”

  Asher looked like a kid who had been told that the Tooth Fairy was going on vacation and wouldn’t be making any house calls. “But—”

  “We’re obviously not a good fit. I’ll find someone else. Thank you for your time.”

  I pushed him out the door, and he stumbled, wrong-footed, looking confused. It was a cute look on him. He’d probably do it even more if I grabbed his hand, pulled him back in and onto the bed, leapt astride him and—

  Whoa, Katie. Hold your horses and your hormones. Business first, remember? And Mr. Asher Young has conclusively proven that he is not interested in doing with you that which does not involve your ladyparts.

  “Bye now. Try not to trip on your assumptions on the way out!”

  “But I thought we were—”

  I slammed the door shut, locked it, and put in my iPod’s earphones, turning the volume up to the max as I loaded my favorite comfort track, the complete audiobook collection of Sherlock Holmes stories, including the little-known spoof ‘How Watson Learned the Trick.’ Then I climbed into bed. Alone. And tried not to think about the fact that I’d just screwed up what was probably the most important meeting of my life.

  Sometimes, when life gets complicated and stressful, it helps to concentrate on something comparatively soothing and simple, like violent murder.

  NINE

  Two days later, I was vacuuming my apartment for the seventh time—any dirt particles that remained were too small to be seen by any but the most powerful microscope, and there was a very real possibility that the continued suction was going to start pulling up the crappy carpet itself, but these were small considerations in light of the fact that compulsive cleaning let me avoid thinking about such niggling little questions like: where do I go from here? Do I even have any options left? Am I doomed to a life of unprofessionalism, hot make-outs with guys whose pictures can be found by the word ‘unsuitable’ in the dictionary, and business failure?