Dance with the Billionaire (5 page)

I wake in a panic, pushing the unfamiliar sheets off my naked body, wondering just where the hell I am. Because
nothing
looks familiar.

Okay, relax, Julia. Relax. You’re in a room. A fucking huge white room. And it’s morning and you’re naked and ...

Then it all comes flooding back.

The last twenty-four hours.

§

After I signed the contract, Dylan made a couple of phone calls, telling his secretary to clear his schedule for the rest of the afternoon, and then we both walked out through the building. And as we went, I could feel the knowing looks of all the other employees at Campbell Finance burning into me.
Do they all know what we’ve just agreed to?
I wondered. From the dismissive scowl of Dylan’s beautiful blonde secretary as she watched us walking out towards the elevators, I’m pretty sure she knew
exactly
what was going on.

By the time we stepped out through the front doors of the building and into the hustle and bustle of Wall Street on a Monday afternoon, there was already a limo parked and waiting, its engine purring, the driver holding the door open for us.

I slipped inside first, registering the plush tan leather interior and the smoked glass that separated the driver from our seats in the back. A moment later Dylan got in too, pulling his door shut then giving the driver a nod to set off.

I remember darting a glance at that smoked glass separator, wondering just how private these seats really were, because already I could feel it: the scorching heat coming from Dylan, the intensity, the
expectation
of sex, and it seemed magnified by our little enclosure, like two tigers in a cage.

The car crawled along for a while through heavy downtown traffic, and eventually I had to ask the question that had been puzzling me since we first set off.

“Where are we
going
exactly?”

“To the airport,” Dylan said, his black eyes piercing me for a moment, as if challenging me to ask further questions.

“But,” I began, “I mean, well, I don’t have a passport with me or anything. I won’t clear security ...”

“It’s my private jet,” he replied in a lazy drawl, “and we won’t be leaving the country. So you won’t need to worry about any of that.”

“Well, um, you see, well,” I continued, now feeling
really
unsettled, my head whirling with all this new information. “I still don’t have my stuff. Let me call in at my apartment and get my stuff.”

He smiled cruelly.

“What is it you think you’re going to
need
?” he asked, as if I were asking the most stupid question in the world.

“My ...
stuff
,” I persisted.
“My things! My
clothes
for a start ...”

“You won’t need any clothes,” he laughed.

“Oh no, no, no,” I replied, holding my hands up. “You’re not keeping me tied naked to a bed for a whole fucking
week
...”

“That’s not what I meant at all,” he cut in. “Have a little more imagination, Julia. I have an extensive wardrobe for you
and
a personal shopper, should you need one. You shall have everything your heart could possibly desire.”

At this, I fell into an embarrassed silence, and on top of that, the closer we got to the airport, the more my worries and nerves seemed to increase. I was holding back the truth from him, keeping my lips pressed tightly together. When was I going to tell him? Because I could just feel myself getting more and more tense.

I remained silent as we were escorted quickly and quietly through security as if we were royalty, and then out onto the runway to Dylan’s own private jet, which seemed to be just
waiting
there for him, with a full crew and everything, its white paint gleaming in the late afternoon sun.

I just wished I could enjoy all this, but instead my heart was hammering mile-a-minute, and all the blood had left my face. I felt twisted up with nerves and worry, and as we climbed the steps and boarded the jet, I was glad to sink into the sumptuous tan leather seat, because if I’d stayed on my feet a moment longer I might have fainted completely.

By the time the engines rumbled into life and we began to speed down the runway, I was a complete wreck, my hands clasped together, my eyes wide, my jaw clenched tightly.

“Jesus, what
is
it?” Dylan asked from his seat opposite, utterly confused.

And I just couldn’t keep it in any longer.

“I’ve never flown before, okay?” I blurted out. “I’m freaking terrified!”

“You’ve never
flown
before?” he replied incredulously.

And I was about to remind him that not everybody was born into this kind of lifestyle, when our conversation was drowned out by the roar of the engines as we began our take off.

I closed my eyes and gripped the arms of my seat and waited for the rumbling and shaking to finish, feeling the plane begin to climb, my stomach lurching, and then all of a sudden the noise died down and we seemed to be quietly purring along in the air.

I cautiously opened one eye, then the other.

There was Dylan, sitting across from me, lounging in his chair like he’d done this a billion times before – which, of course he had – trying to keep the smirk off his face.

“See?” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

I released my grip on the arms of my chair a little and ventured a glance out of the window. I couldn’t help but gasp. It was beautiful – a perfectly white layer of fluffy clouds, as far as the eye could see.

“Here,” Dylan said softly, nodding to someone over my shoulder, “maybe this will help you relax.”

A moment later, a stewardess arrived, placing two champagne flutes down on the table and filling them from a large chilled bottle.

“To the week ahead,” Dylan said, holding his glass out towards me, his eyes full of expectation at what lay before us.

I picked up my own glass.

“Whatever you say,” I replied, clinking the flute against his, and then gulping back as much of the delicious liquid as I could in one go.

Just like flying, I had a feeling that there was going to be a
lot
of stuff I’d never done before, that Dylan was going to guide me through in the next seven days. And I wondered if there was enough champagne in the world to get me through it all ...

§

It felt as if we were only up in the air for a few minutes before we’d started to descend again. With the champagne inside me, I found the landing a little more bearable, although still kind of petrifying.

I still can’t believe that people fly frequently; I don’t think I’ll
ever
get used to it.

We landed at what seemed to be a really tiny airport, and again were quickly bustled through security as if we were celebrities, once more straight into a waiting limo. It was dusk by now, and I looked out of the tinted windows trying to make out any signs, trying to work out just where in the hell we
were
. But there were no clues.

“Where
are
we?” I asked, frustrated, as the car set off towards its mystery destination.

“You don’t need to know that,” he replied, obviously enjoying his complete control of the situation and how totally in the dark I was.

Of course,
I thought.

So I took out my phone and hit Maps, watching the cursor zoom over to my brand new destination.

“Newport, Rhode Island,” I announced proudly, pleased to have outwitted him.

“Very good,” he said with a nod.

And then, before I even knew what was happening, he’d reached out and snatched the phone from my hand.

“Hey!” I gasped. “Give that back!”

“Clause 14b,” he said, slipping the phone into the breast pocket of his jacket. “No cellular devices. You’ll get it back in a week.”

I sighed, knowing it was useless to argue.

After all, I’d signed his stupid contract, hadn’t I?

Like it or not, I was his for the week.

§

After a short journey, the car pulled up outside what could only be described as a
mansion
: private gates opening automatically, a huge tree-lined driveway, lit up fountains bubbling away in front of the beautifully designed house, a whole wing of garages off to one side, what looked like a private tennis court nestled in the acres of sculpted gardens that enclosed this place off from the rest of the world – the works. 

The driver opened the door for me, and as I stepped out – as corny as it sounds – I really felt like I was stepping into a fairy tale.

The house was beautiful, the grounds were breath taking, and there, moving around the limo to take my arm and lead me towards the house, was Dylan – my ‘fairy tale prince’ in what was most definitely
not
a fairy-tale romance.

Trust me to pick a prince who’s also a complete and total asshole, too.

The large wooden door to the front of the house opened just as we stepped up to it, and standing there was a man who I assumed was a butler or some other kind of help – he had a kind, smiling face, was in his fifties, and was dressed in the smart black clothes of a waiter.

“Good evening, Mr Campbell,” he said politely, stepping back to let us enter the house.

I took a few steps inside, then stood there frozen.

“Dylan,” I said breathlessly, “this is incredible.”

I’d never been inside a room this big before – and this was just the
hallway
. Above us hung a huge sparkling chandelier, to either side of us were two gigantic corridors, and in front was the most sumptuous curving staircase, with golden handrails and plush red carpeting.

“My mother has very good taste,” Dylan said. “I grew up here. This was my family home. We’re scattered across the world now, but we could never get rid of this place. It’s been in the family for generations. We use it as a holiday home. It’s the perfect place to entertain.”

The way he said it was so casual, like he was just talking about any normal family house. But the place was insane. I looked around me in amazement, unable to take in all the beautiful sumptuous furnishings at once, each time noticing some new amazing detail. And soon, a new question began gnawing at me.

“So, let me get this straight, do you just keep all these servants and fresh flowers around and all the lights blazing, just on the off chance that one of you is going to show up for the week?”

“No,” he said dismissively. “I called in advance to say I’d be arriving with a guest.”

“But when?” I asked, puzzled. “I’ve been with you the whole time. I didn’t see you make any phone calls ...”

“I called yesterday.”

Yesterday? Before I even knew whether I was gonna show up or not?

And I felt completely powerless, like it didn’t matter what I wanted. Because
he
knew I was going to come here all along, even when I hadn’t made my mind up. I’d stupidly thought I was the one making the decisions, the one calling the shots, but now I wasn’t so sure ...

Maybe I was doomed from the very moment I met him in the bar.

“Follow me, I’m taking you to your room,” he said, leading me up the huge plush staircase and down the longest corridor I’d ever seen in my life, past at least ten other bedroom doors before finally pushing open the door to the huge, beautiful room I’m in now – pure white walls, sleek minimalist design, massive shuttered windows, and a large and inviting-looking four-poster bed with crisp, white, freshly-washed sheets.

And while I wanted to just jump straight into it and go to sleep, it was clear that something else was going on – it was there again, I could sense it, that aggressive sexual intensity, just oozing from him, like in the limo.