Play Thing: A Billionaire Romance

by Kira Blakely

  Shit.

  ***

  “It’s hopeless,” I say to myself with an exasperated sigh as I lean my head on the door of the bathroom stall ten minutes later.

  Or has it been twenty? Thirty?

  It seems like an eternity since I ran to the ladies’ room after my gown tore.

  I never should have worn this gown.

  If I had at least two safety pins, this would have been manageable. But no.

  As I go through the contents of my purse for the hundredth time, all I find are extra batteries and memory cards for my camera, my wallet, my phone, a small pack of tissues, the keys to my apartment, my comb, and my lipstick. That’s it. I bet not even MacGyver could do anything.

  To make matters worse, I didn’t wear a bra, since this gown has only one strap and a sheer back. I am wearing bra petals, but they’re no use now, are they? I mean, they only cover your breasts from the front, not from the sides.

  I don’t even have a blazer, cardigan or shrug. I usually wear one over my gown, but nope, not tonight. Tonight, I only chose to bring a thin shawl because it’s been a hot day and the air was still warm when I left my apartment.

  I get off the toilet bowl and try experimenting with my shawl. I wrap it around my chest but it looks funny. I try tearing a piece of it so I can make some sort of patch, but that doesn’t work, either. The fabric of my shawl is tougher than my gown.

  What’s a girl left to do?

  I have only two options — go back to the ballroom with my ‘peek-a-boo’ dress and finish my job, which seems like a disaster waiting to happen, especially with Barry around, or go home. My editor, Nancy, will be mad, but hey, I can’t help it.

  There’s no way I’m going back in there looking like this.

  Even Cinderella in her torn after-midnight dress looked better. At least none of her private parts were sticking out.

  My mind made up, I send Mattie a message. She must be wondering where I am after all.

  Going home. Wardrobe malfunction. Sorry.

  Taking a deep breath, I exit the stall. Mrs. Hen is there, and she throws me a curious glance then a disapproving one. What? Has she been here as long as I have?

  Surely, she doesn’t think I’ve done something naughty.

  Does she?

  Ignoring her, I leave, one hand still under my right armpit as a first-aid measure, just to keep the tear from getting bigger and turning into a gaping hole.

  Now, all I have to do is make a sharp turn and a bee line for the exit, and I’ll be out of the woods. Easy.

  But then I never expected to see Nathan Landers running toward me.

  Shit.

  I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. The next thing I know, he’s grasping my arm and running off with me like a wildebeest on a stampede.

  Suddenly, he stops, his blue eyes locking with mine so that my breath is stolen before I can catch it. With one swift move, he pushes me against the wall, his free arm above me. His lips crash down on my still-parted ones, his tongue slipping past to give me a taste of alcohol, caviar and something else I can’t quite put a finger on but find completely amazing.

  Wait. Nathan Landers is kissing me?

  I hear footsteps approaching and I panic. But he kisses me harder, placing the hand above me on my cheek and the other on my back, pressing my body so close to his that my breasts become pinned against his chest, heat swirling there and spreading quickly throughout the rest of my body.

  Shit.

  “Nathan?”

  Quickly, I wrestle myself away from Nathan’s clutches, finding myself staring at the woman who has just spoken. If I’m not mistaken, she’s Cassandra Rockford. Her father is the head of Rockford Financial. Her brother is a senator.

  Not someone you want to mess with, and yet, here I am, on the receiving end of her scathing glare that reminds me of Medusa’s.

  Stomping her feet like a spoiled little girl who just lost an argument about whose doll was prettier, she leaves. Off to Daddy, no doubt.

  Uh-oh.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Nathan assures from behind me. “She’s harmless, all bark and no bite.”

  Maybe it’s the smug tone of his voice. Maybe it’s the way he just talked about another woman. Or maybe the realization that he just used me has begun to sink in. Whatever it is, the words bring me back to my senses. I whirl around, lifting my hand to slap Nathan but stop when I hear more fabric tearing.

  “Shit.”

  “Oops.” Nathan glances at my gown. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  I frown. “This is your fault, you know. If you hadn’t just dragged me off and kissed me…”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I glare at him. “What did you just say?”

  “You seem like you enjoyed the kiss,” he says as he leans on the wall.

  I blush, covering my face. Was it that obvious?

  “Seems like you needed it, too.”

  The nerve.

  “You shouldn’t have done that.” I wipe my lips with the back of my hand. “If you don’t want to go out with a woman anymore, you should just tell her, not hurt her like this.”

  “Oh. Is that what’s bothering you?” Nathan takes a step forward, all six feet of him towering over me. “You’re sweet. You know that?”

  I scoff. “Your pretty words are wasted on me.”

  “Are they?”

  He gazes into my eyes, the warmth and interest — dare I call it desire? — evident in his drawing me in, putting me under a trance. I look away.

  “Like I said, don’t worry about Casey,” he says. “She’ll be fine. Besides, you have bigger things to worry about, don’t you?”

  I glance at the hole in my gown. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. At this rate, I’ll be going home in rags.

  “You know what?” He touches his chin. “I’m pretty sure I have one in my room upstairs. Executive Suite.”

  “You have a gown?” I feel confused.

  “I have everything a woman needs.” He starts walking toward the elevator. “Are you coming or not? Of course, if you’d rather go home like that and give the driver a treat, you’re welcome to do so. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. Maybe he’ll even give you a discount.”

  Nope. He’s neither a lion nor a wolf. He has no honor.

  He’s a despicable raccoon.

  “Well?”

  The elevator doors open, and I make my choice. I have no choice, really. I rush into the elevator and he follows, the wide grin on his face making me feel like cornered prey.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter 2

  In the Lion’s Den

  The elevator ride is long.

  Thirty-six floors up long.

  Longer because I’m with a stranger who I can feel staring at me like a hawk, his gaze making the popped seam in my gown seem as big as a platter.

  Longer because I hate enclosed spaces.

  That’s right. I’m claustrophobic. Right now, just knowing that I’m in a seven-by-six-feet box and that there’s a possibility I might get stuck in it is making my heart pound, my stomach churn and my palms sweaty.

  My mom says I’ve been claustrophobic since I was conceived. After all, I kept kicking her when I was still inside her womb. I wouldn’t know. I was in a blissful state of ignorance then.

  I wish I was still in that state now. Then I wouldn’t be imagining the walls and ceiling closing in on me, sucking the air out of me, threatening to crush me.

  Shit.

  Breathe, Samantha. It will be over soon.

  19…20…21…

  It’s taking too long.

  I close my eyes and start playing the first song that comes to my head.

  If you love somebody, better tell them while they’re here, ‘cause they might just…

  “Are you all right?” Nathan asks me.

  I look at him and nod. That’s the best I can do, my throat still too dry for me to speak.

  He do
esn’t look like he believes me but says nothing more.

  31…32…

  I’ve had the highest mountains. I’ve had the deepest rivers. I take it in but don’t look down.

  Finally, I hear a beep and the doors open. I rush out, forcing air into my lungs like a whale that’s been underwater for too long.

  Afterward, I square my shoulders and follow Nathan — or should I call him Mr. Landers? — down the hall. I stick out my chin, too, trying to look dignified — as dignified as I can with the gaping hole at the side of my gown — to make up for that moment of weakness in the elevator.

  I break my silence. “Do you have a penthouse suite in every hotel or just this one?”

  “Not every hotel.”

  Okay.

  “And no.”

  “No?” No to what?

  “No, I don’t bring every woman I meet to my hotel suite.”

  I’m not sure what to think of that.

  “Just to be clear, you didn’t bring me. I came. And only for the gown, which you owe me.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “I owe you?”

  “It’s the least you can do after tearing this one.”

  He chuckles as he gets his key.

  “What?”

  “If I tore your gown, you wouldn’t still be wearing it.”

  I blush but push the image away.

  “But by all means, let’s get you into a new gown.”

  He opens the door and steps into the room, the lights turning on as he slips the key into the holder. I follow, eyes growing wide at the sheer size and elegance of the suite.

  The reception area alone is larger than my entire apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows on either side and a large, sheepskin rug surrounded by oversized black and white leather couches in front of an electric fireplace. There’s a long marble bar counter on the left, a shiny, black, baby grand piano in one corner and a statue that probably costs more than what I earn a year in another.

  I put down my things and run my hands over the piano as Nathan disappears, returning after a few minutes with gowns draped over one arm.

  “You can have whichever one you like.”

  I touch them. Beautiful gowns. Luxurious fabrics. Expensive.

  “Are they your sister’s?” I ask out of curiosity.

  He grins. “I don’t have a sister.”

  Where, then, did he get all these gowns? Did he just have them lying around?

  Then it hits me. Of course. They probably belonged to the women he brought up here.

  “Don’t worry,” he tells me. “I’m sure they won’t mind.”

  I wonder how they could have left such expensive gowns behind. What did they wear going home? New, even more expensive gowns? Hotel robes?

  Honestly, I don’t feel like wearing any of the gowns. The idea of wearing a gown previously worn by a woman Nathan once slept with unsettles me. I’m still in need of new clothes, though, and a beggar doesn’t have much to choose from, so I scoop the gowns from his arms.

  “Thank you,” I mumble, heading to the bathroom.

  There, I place the gowns on the chair — yes, there’s a chair in the bathroom — and I sit on the toilet so I can remove my shoes. Slipping out of the gown I’m currently in, I start trying the gowns.

  The first two are too small. I end up dumping them on the sink. The third is too big. Okay. Now, I’m starting to feel like Goldilocks. Finally, the last one, a pink lace gown, fits perfectly.

  Except for one thing — the neckline is a tad too low for my liking.

  Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I can see the top of my breasts peeking out. Oh, well. At least I’m wearing bra petals. And at least my breasts look bigger.

  The more I stare, the more I find myself wondering what the woman who owned the gown looked like. Was she blonde? Was she a brunette?

  As I run my fingers over the gown, another question comes to mind: How did he fuck her?

  Without warning, I see an image of Nathan running his hands over the lace and over bare skin as he slowly peels it off.

  Inch by inch…

  I suppress a shudder, placing my hands at my sides.

  Shit, Samantha. Do you want him to fuck you, too? Have you forgotten how he kissed you?

  No, I haven’t. I run my fingers over my bottom lip, which tingles at the memory of his kiss. In fact, that’s probably why I’m feeling like this, my heart pounding and heat buzzing through my veins.

  Now that I’m no longer suffering from either claustrophobia or a wardrobe malfunction, I’m suffering from something else — the full realization that I’m in the apartment of the man I’ve been fantasizing about.

  Alone.

  I shake the thought off, though, as I quickly scoop up the other gowns, including my old one. Then, after putting my shoes back on, I take a deep breath and exit the bathroom.

  “Great choice,” Nathan says when he sees me.

  And yet his words make me think the opposite, his gaze making my skin tingle as it sweeps over me from head to toe.

  “I’m sure its original owner wore it better,” I say to diffuse the tension as I hand him back the other gowns.

  He takes them and dumps them on top of the nearest table. “Honestly, I can’t remember.”

  He’s honest. I’ll give him that. And yet, I can feel that it makes him even more dangerous.

  I have to get out of here.

  I glance at my watch. “Mr. Landers, I—”

  “Nathan,” he corrects me. “You’re not one of my employees, so call me Nathan. And now that I have you in my suite and am providing you with clothing it might be nice to know your name as well.”

  I chuckle from a little nervousness. That’s right, I know him, everyone knows his name, but he doesn’t have any clue who I am. “I’m Sam, Samatha Willis. Nathan,” I repeat. It feels weird calling him by his first name but at the same time, I can’t help but feel fuzzy inside. “Thank you for the gown.”

  “I thought I owed it to you.”

  Right.

  “Besides, it’s not like I can wear it.”

  No. He can’t.

  “I better go,” I tell him. “I—”

  “Drink?” He offers me a glass of red wine. “Or would you rather have champagne?”

  I’d rather have you.

  I shake my head. “I should go.”

  Before I make more of a fool of myself.

  “Should or want to?”

  “Should,” I answer, gathering my things. “And want to.”

  He seems puzzled. “Are you going back downstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  So what if I’m wearing a different gown? I doubt people have noticed. I’m just the photographer, after all. Besides, I’ve got work to do and while I’ve told Mattie I’ve gone home, I’m sure she’ll be happier if she sees me back in that ballroom with my camera.

  He sets down the glass of red wine, pouring himself some Scotch. “You’re a photographer?”

  I place the strap of the camera around my neck as I nod.

  “For a magazine?”

  I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Prima Vida magazine.”

  “Ah. I’ve heard of it.” He takes a sip of his Scotch. “Is it good?”

  “It pays the bills.”

  “You sound like you’d rather be doing something else.”

  I shrug. “Well, we can’t all invent apps and become billionaires, can we?” I glance at my watch again. “If you’ll excuse me, I really need to—”

  “Do you resent all rich people or just me?” He sets down his glass.

  “Resent? No.” I shake my head. “I just find them…” Boring, I want to say. “Not interesting enough.”

  “And do you think of me that way?”

  No. Nathan Landers is hot, confident, fascinating. Anything but boring.

  “You’re… interesting enough.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  I look away.

  Shit. I can’t believe he
just forced a compliment out of me. He’s sly, this one.

  “Plus, rich people can be selfish sometimes,” I add quickly. “Not that I wish they’d give me money. I just wish they’d spend their money more wisely, like use more of it to help make the world a better place.”

  “How would you spend your money if you were rich?” he asks.

  I don’t think twice. “I’d build animal shelters and reserves.”

  His eyebrows crease. “You’d rather help animals than people?”

  I frown, not liking his tone. “Animals are just as important, you know.”

  “How?”

  How? “The wild ones maintain our environment, keep the natural balance. And the domestic ones give us companionship.”

  “We can make robot pets as companions.”

  “Robots?” I can’t imagine a kid playing in the mud with a machine.

  “And we can find ways to reproduce plants so they can survive even without animals to pollinate them or disperse seeds.”

  I blink, my temper rising. “Are you saying animals are unnecessary?”

  “I’m saying they’re more valuable dead. They give food, clothing…”

  He stops mid-sentence as I splash the glass of wine on his face, the crimson drops staining his white shirt. I don’t care. I can’t just stand there when some rich jerk is talking about killing off every animal.

  Nathan wipes a drop off his cheek. “Well, that was unexpected… and a waste of good wine.”

  I set down the empty glass. “So, it’s a crime to waste wine but not to get rid of all the animals on Earth?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I look at his stained shirt and click my tongue. “Well, well, well. It seems like our roles are reversed, and now you’re the one in need of new clothes. Funny, isn’t it? Let’s hope you keep suits as well as gowns.”

  I turn on my heel and reach the door, placing my hand on the handle. “Oh, and I take back what I said earlier, Mr. Landers. You’re not interesting enough.”

  Chapter 3

  A Weasel Out of Hiding

  “You threw wine at Nathan Landers?”

  Pamela, my best friend, otherwise known as Pam — some people call us SamPam or Spam or Sam-I-Am and Pam-I-Am — looks at me across the cafeteria table with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. Thankfully, she hasn’t taken a bite of her pasta or it would have fallen out.