Page 1 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

1

Ryker

So much for the best laid plans of mice and men,I think as I drink the last of my bourbon, toss some bills on the table and get up to go home.

The plan was to meet my two older brothers, Damon and Griffin, here at Bemelmans on the Upper East Side for Friday night drinks. We like to do that every now and then just to debrief and verify that none of us have run our real estate empire into the ground while the others weren’t looking. Things started out well tonight. We got here early, excited over the big deal we closed this afternoon, found a table before the standing-room-only crowd arrived and ordered our liquid refreshment. The pianist struck up something mellow but not drowsy and all was right with my world.

For roughly thirty seconds.

Then Damon caught sight of some sultry redhead at the next table over and took off for greener pastures. Leaving only Griffin and me. Still workable, right? Not so fast. Griffin’s indispensable executive assistant, Bellamy, arrived to deliver some documents on her way to her twenty-sixth birthday party, distracting him with her choice of sexy dresses. I managed to talk him down from the suicide ledge of trying to hook up with her, but my gut feeling tells me that that was a temporary victory at best. At any rate, thwarted sexual desire soured his mood for the night and he left.

Now it’s just me, calling it a night before ten o’clock.

Sad.

Back in the old days, I’d enjoy the prospect of scoping out the room, setting my sights on someone and zooming in for the seduction. Now? Not so much. Been there, done that. A lot. Don’t feel like doing it again anytime soon. The whole dating scene has lost its appeal now that I think about it, although I use the term dating loosely. As a thirty-year-old workaholic who values his sleep, I’ve discovered that it’s much easier to hook up with one of the trustee standbys that I keep on speed dial (my ex-wife comes to mind) than to start from ground zero with someone new. I could do that now, matter of fact, but I’m not horny enough to muster up the energy. My current idea of heaven involves Chinese takeout, another bourbon and me lounging on the sofa in my apartment watching some team somewhere play some sport. I’m not picky.

Besides, I think as I head for the door, scanning the room a final time just because that’s what men do. It’s not like anyone here tonight has caught my… Has caught my…eye.

My attention snags on a blonde sitting by herself over at the bar, talking on her phone and featuring the holy trifecta: long hair, long legs and heels.

I freeze, my brain sparking out and another set of plans my evening’s activities going up in smoke.

Hang on.

Who is that?

Someone worth a closer look, I decide. Just to see if her face matches the insane body.

I work my way through the tables, grateful for the opportunity to indulge my curiosity about her for a second or two. She’s angled away from me with her legs crossed. Her hair falls in thick waves past her shoulders, sunlight streaked with honey. Her dress is a sky-blue off-the-shoulder-number with the kind of ruffle that always reminds me of fantasy farm girls primed for an afternoon romp in the hay. The skirt cuts away at the top of her thigh, revealing tanned and toned legs that would be a real pleasure to nibble. Her toes are tipped with an angelic pink polish that provides a thrilling contrast to her CFM heels.

Come fuck me.

My pleasure, sunshine.

She’s got a pink pastry box from Valentina’s tied with a white ribbon sitting on the bar in front of her, further piquing my interest. I approach from her left side, easing onto the next barstool down and noting both the absence of ring-finger rings and the sexiness of her laugh. The sound is throaty. Unabashed. Thrilling enough to make the hairs rise on my nape. She smells like some sort of X-rated berry. Sexberry, maybe.

Oh, and the answer to whether her face matches her body is a resounding no.

An angelic face like this shouldn’t belong to any earthly being, in my humble opinion.

And in case you were wondering? I am not the type to wax poetic about some woman at a bar.

“Enjoy yourself,” she tells the person on the phone. She’s got a nice voice. Throaty and amused. “Have a fuck for me, since I won’t be getting any anytime soon.”

I choke back a surprised laugh at this pronouncement.

“Don’t be so sure,” I say, startling her before I think to stop myself.

“Excuse me?” she says, lowering the phone and turning to face me for the first time.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Did I say that out loud?”

“Yeah.” She looks me over, eyes widening before she catches herself and scowls. I get the feeling she’s intrigued as well as outraged, but maybe that’s my healthy ego talking because it knows my brothers and I did okay in the looks department. “You did.”

I shrug. That’s all I can manage until I get my bearings here.

My speechlessness makes this a good time to pause for a moment. I want the record to reflect how difficult it was for me to maintain my game and utter those last couple of sentences when confronted with a woman like this. We’re not talking standard gorgeous here. This is next level. Worse, the electrical surge to my circuits is off the charts. It’s like I’m a bargain-basement amplifier and Jimi Hendrix plugs his guitar into me and riffs his ass off. I’m not used to this kind of power and velocity. What do you want? You think you could do better under the circumstances? Fuck you.

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