Dance with the Billionaire (3 page)

How the hell am I going to afford that?!
I think as I squint at the brochure.
I can’t even afford a pair of sunglasses this year, let alone thirty thousand dollars in course fees.

I look around me, at all the students coming and going, laughing and smiling to each other like they don’t have a care in the world, and I wonder how
they
can afford to come here.

I think back to Maurice’s word:
some help from your parents.

Of course. All these people have moms and dads who have been paying into college funds since before they were born.

I think about
my
dad – there’s no way in the world he’d be able to help me. I mean, the last time I even saw him, three years ago, he
was the one who asked to borrow money off me. And thinking of Dad always makes me think of Mom
too, and I feel a sharp pang of sadness. She died when I was only nine years old. I was crazy about dancing, even back then. And if she knew that I’d actually been offered a place somewhere like this, I just know she’d be so proud, and she’d do anything she could to help me realize my dream.

I stuff the brochure back in the envelope, feeling my spirits sink.

You’ll just have to tell Maurice you made a mistake ...

But then I hear another voice inside me, a stronger, more decisive voice – louder than the first.

Oh no you don’t. Don’t give up now. You’ve fought to get this far. You’ll find a way to do this somehow. You’ve got to do
everything you can
to get the money together to get on this course.

And come to think of it, I know the perfect place to start ...

“I’ve changed my mind,” I say.

“I’ve been waiting for your call,” he replies, his voice just as deep and resonant as I remember it from last Friday night at the bar.

I’m standing in the middle of my apartment, phone pressed to my ear, heart racing, staring down at my laptop screen, open on the website for Campbell Finance – complete with a photo of him. Dylan Campbell, smiling out at the camera, his teeth Hollywood white, his hair jet black and cut a little shorter and neater than I remember it, his tailored suit showing off the broadness of his shoulders, and that same entitled
I can get whatever I want
glint in his eye.

“
How
did you know I was gonna call?” I hiss.

“They always do. I know girls like you. You might play hard to get, but deep down you want it. I could see that in your eyes. I’m right, aren’t I?”

My mind works its way back to the other night in the shower – my fingers stroking my clit as I let my head fill with him.

God damn it. He is right
. 

“So?” I snap, unable to give him the satisfaction of answering his question. “How do we do this?”

“All in good time,” he says, a strange playfulness entering his voice now, as if he’s really fucking enjoying this little exchange, as if he’s enjoying just how nervous and out-of-my-depth he’s making me feel. Of course he is. He knows
exactly
the effect he has on people. “I’ve got a few questions first,” he continues. 

“Okay,” I say, swallowing back my nerves.

“First of all, what’s your name?”

Why the fuck does he need to know my name? I thought he just wanted to buy my panties for Chrissakes.

“Julia,” I find myself saying. “Julia Tate.”

“And how old are you, Julia Tate?”

“I’m twenty-one.”

This is like some fucked up job interview
.

“And how did you even get past my secretary, Julia?”

“I told her I was Gigi Hadid, and you met me at a fundraiser last night.”

“Very good,” he replies. He sounds begrudgingly impressed.

There’s a pause, and I glance down at his picture again, imagining his dark eyes on me,
owning
me, just like they were that night in the bar.

“Come to my apartment,” he says. “Nine o’ clock tonight. The Ingram Building. If you can Google my phone number, you can easily find the address to that, too.”

I don’t even get a chance to answer before he hangs up the phone, leaving me standing there in the middle of my apartment, wondering just what the hell I’m getting myself into.

§

I pull on the tiny black Victoria’s Secret panties that I bought just a few hours ago, calculating again that I’m about to make a $985 profit for this little exchange. Then I smooth down my dress and give myself a final look over in the mirror.

This red mini-dress is so tight, it leaves little to the imagination. But that’s how I like to dress. I’ve got toned abs and a great ass from all the dancing, so my figure’s in awesome shape. Why not flaunt it? My breasts might be a little on the small side, but they’re pert and my push-up bra is doing its best to give me some cleavage.

I’ve put on more makeup than usual; smoky eye shadow and vampish red lip-liner and lipstick to match my dress. Heavy makeup’s not my usual style, but tonight I feel like I’m playing a character. Like it’s not really me who’s about to go out and sell her underwear to a stranger.

Just as I’m about to grab my purse and leave the apartment, I think:
If he’s willing to pay a thousand dollars for a single pair of panties, what else might he want from you, too? Come on, Julia. Don’t be stupid ... 

And for a moment, I find myself wondering just how far I might go ...

§

I stare up at the imposing Ingram Building, a menacing black silhouette against the darkening sky. It’s exactly the kind of place someone like Dylan Campbell would live in. It’s taller than everything else on the block, like it’s trying to intimidate the rest of the street. I walk into the lobby, feeling the eyes of the desk clerk watch me as I make my way towards the elevators, my heels clicking loudly on the marble floor, ringing out around the huge cold room, the air-conditioning causing my skin to come out in a prickle of goose bumps.

I half think the guy at the desk is going to ask me just what I think I’m doing in here. I feel like such an outsider. But I make it safely to the elevators, push the button, then quickly step inside, feeling a small rush of relief as the doors swish closed behind me.

I punch the button for his floor, and then the elevator lurches into life, rushing me upwards. I try to make the most of the final few seconds before I have to knock on his door.

The doors open onto a plushly carpeted gray corridor, and I step out, looking around me to see which way to go. But there’s only one door, so there’s only one way to go. I pause for a moment and look back at the elevator.

You could just leave now. You don’t have to do this.

But instead I continue, until I’m standing right in front of the door. I reach out and knock, as loudly and confidently as I can, then wait, forcing myself to keep my hands straight down by my sides and not fold my arms to cover my breasts. I’m trying to summon all my inner strength. I don’t want Dylan Campbell to think that he can intimidate me.

The door finally opens and there he is, dressed in a white shirt and navy chinos. His eyes lock onto mine and a smile flickers on his lips.

“Julia Tate,” he says, looking me up and down with a deliberate slowness, like I’m some piece of meat, before eventually standing back to let me into his apartment.

It suits him – it’s cold and grey and masculine, all hard edges, chrome and glass and shiny black leather. When I turn around, he’s right behind me, close enough that I can smell his cologne: a woody, musky scent that I find myself drinking in with pleasure, despite myself.

I look again around the apartment, then catch his eye, and say, “Nice place. It’s kind of ... lacking in personality though.”

The smile drops from his full lips, instead replaced by a look of pure disdain.

“You don’t think I actually
live
here, do you?” he says with a dismissive shrug.

“Well, it is your apartment isn’t it?” I reply unsteadily.

“It’s my apartment in the sense that I own it,” he says, strolling confidently towards a built in cabinet on the farthest wall, “but no, I don’t live here.”

Okay Mr Bigshot. I get it. You’ve got more than one apartment. Who cares. God, he’s such a prick. 

He turns his back to me to pull open the cabinet, revealing a number of expensive bottles of spirits – imported Scotch and Vodka – the kind of things we charge insane amounts of money for at the bar. 

“Drink?” he says.

I shake my head, and he shrugs again, then pours himself a generous measure of neat Ketel One vodka into a large cut-glass tumbler, swirling the clear liquid around the glass for a moment before raising it to his lips.

As I watch him, I feel the anger rise up in me again.

That fucking douchebag. He thinks he can do whatever he wants, talking to me like some idiot servant, just because he has money, making me feel stupid just because I don’t know he owns more than one apartment ...

I want to just get the hell out of here as soon as possible, so I bend forwards, reach beneath my dress and step out of my panties, then stand up straight again, holding them out to him.

“Here,” I say, fixing him square in the eye, willing my outstretched hand not to tremble. “A thousand dollars, right? That was the deal.”

“Oh dear,” he says so slowly and confidently, his gaze moving to the wisp of black fabric clutched in my fist, then back to my eyes again. “I’m afraid
that
offer is no longer valid.”

I feel a sharp stab of embarrassment, quickly pulling back my hand and stuffing the panties into my purse.

“In that case,” I spit back, “I guess I’ll be going. Thanks so much for wasting my time.”

I turn and stomp towards the door, almost losing my balance on the stupidly tall heels I’m wearing. I’m red-faced with embarrassment. But then another emotion overwhelms me. It’s white-hot seething anger; anger at this asshole’s behavior.

I turn back and scream, “Why the fuck did you give me your business card if you were just going to change your fucking mind? Do you think that just because I make less than you, just because I served you a fucking drink, you can treat me however you like?”

Pause.

“One thing I learned in business?” he says calmly, appearing in the doorway to the hall, the drink still clutched in his hand, the look on his face giving nothing away. “Never accept the first offer.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I hiss, still trembling with a mixture of rage and embarrassment.

“Please,” says Dylan, “come and sit down. I might just have a better proposition for you.”

“You sure you don’t want a drink? You certainly look like you could use one.”

“Fine,” I reply, perched awkwardly on the edge of the couch, my knees pressed firmly together, totally aware that I’m no longer wearing panties beneath this tiny little dress. “Vodka. Ketel One. Same as yours.”

“Very good,” he says, patronizingly.

“I work in a fucking
bar
, remember?” I snap back. “I know the best vodka to drink neat. And I’m paid fifteen bucks an hour to serve it to guys like you.”

Dylan Campbell chooses to ignore this latest outburst of mine, and turns to head back to the liquor cabinet. And this time, it’s my turn to check
him
out. I can’t help it. There’s something frustratingly
magnetic
about him, as if my eyes are drawn to him almost beyond my own control. And even though I know he’s just some creep, I still find myself watching him as he fixes my drink, the way his black hair shines in the light, the glow of his lightly tanned skin, the sheer broadness of his back beneath his shirt, the crisp white cotton giving away the sculpted form of his body beneath.

What the hell are you doing, Julia? Why are you checking this guy out?!

I force my eyes away from him, to the dazzling New York skyline, shown off by the huge floor-to-ceiling windows that run all across one wall of his apartment. I’ve never seen the city from this high up before and wow – it’s beautiful. I’m blown away, one hundred percent. After all, I’ve never quite got the spare bucks to take a trip to the top of the Empire State building. But now I don’t need to. This is just as good.

“Here you go,” he says, standing so close to me now that I can feel the tiny space between us buzzing with

as he places the chilled cut glass tumbler in my hands.

“Thanks,” I mumble, lifting the glass to my lips, glad for the sharp jab to the senses that the neat vodka gives me.

“So?” I say, watching as he takes the velvet armchair facing me, reclining comfortably, spreading his legs wide apart, black eyes burning. “This
better offer
? What is it?”

“The deal,” he says, “is this.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, never taking his eyes from mine for a second. “You will come and stay with me for a week. During that time, you will be mine, to do with as I please. And in return, I’ll pay you a
hundred
thousand dollars.”

Is this guy fucking serious?!

“Woah, woah, woah Richard Gere,” I blurt out. “What do you think this is? Pretty Woman?”

But I’m the only one laughing. I think he
is
fucking serious.

“If that’s where you get your ideas about rich guys from,” he says with a sarcastic shake of his head, “then you’ve got even more to learn than I thought. This is no fairy-tale romance, and I am
certainly
no Richard Gere. You intrigue me, and I want to see more of what you can do. But you need to understand, this isn’t going to be some kind of sanitized Hollywood bullshit, either
.
We are not going to ‘make love’, Julia Tate. We are going to
fuck.
”

As he says the word, I feel a chill run down my spine, and I press my knees even tighter together. My heart’s booming as I lift the glass to my lips and drain it, feeling the clear liquid burn my throat. And despite myself, I can feel another sweet ache, too, right there between my legs. 

“I’ll need to think about it,” I say, steadily as I can.

“I’ll give you the weekend,” he replies, standing and taking my glass. “If you decide to do this, I’ll see you at my office on Monday, 3pm. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some business to attend to.”