Page 2 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

I stare at her, my mind floundering as she stares back.

Here are the basics: she’s got big blue eyes and a sun-kissed California girl look, complete with a dusting of golden freckles across the bridge of her nose, that reminds me of a young Christie Brinkley. Full lips. Dimples. The whole deal.

So she’s got the bare-bones looks covered. No question.

But that’s not the thing that makes me feel as if I’ve been hit with Cupid’s Taser.

I live in Manhattan. I’m used to beautiful women. They grow on trees here. But a large chunk of them—the ones who seem to cross my path most often—have a calculated and vaguely overdone look to them that speaks of thousands of dollars spent on stylists, dermatologists and plastic surgeons that are probably kept on both retainer and speed dial. These women wear fake eyelashes that are like whisk brooms designed to keep you from coming in for a kiss and hundred-dollar lip gloss that winds up smeared all over your lower face if you ever get close enough for the privilege.

Not this woman. That’s not what she’s all about. I see it on her face. I feel it in my gut.

Don’t get me wrong. She’s wearing makeup. I’m observant enough to know that. But she was ninety percent this beautiful when she rolled out of bed this morning.

But that’s still not the thing that makes me feel as though my third eye has been struck by a lightning bolt.

No, the thing that’s got me so undone is the stark contrast between her current frostiness with me and the warm girl-next-door aura she exuded on the phone with her friend just now. The woman I glimpsed before she knew I was there? I’m betting she’s a ride-or-die person. You can trust her with anything. Tell her anything. A woman like that will slide into your life and make it better in ways you can’t even imagine yet.

I’m a great judge of character. That’s one of the skills that keeps me on top of the real estate world. I size up my friends and competitors, make a split-second decision and go with my gut.

My gut is never wrong.

That’s why I listen when it warns me, as she watches me with narrow-eyed suspicion, that something just happened here. Because I want to see the warm side of her again. I really want to earn that right. And, knowing me, I won’t stop until I do. Nothing motivates me like a challenge.

I tell myself to get my head screwed on again, but easier said than done.

I take a steadying breath and plunge in again.

“Am I supposed to apologize?” I ask.

She eyes me skeptically. “Would you mean it?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Not even a little bit.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Honesty is the best policy.”

“Agreed. So let’s be honest,” she says, swiveling to face me.

Her pull on me is such that I ease closer even though her cold front now rivals the atmosphere on Jupiter.

“Let’s,”I say.

“It’s Friday night. You came here to get a drink and get laid. You saw me and decided I was a likely target.” She makes a show of scanning the room. “Probably because I’m the only blonde here right now. But let me help you out. Just so we don’t waste each other’s time.”

“By all means,” I say, fascinated.

“I came here to meet my friend for her birthday. I have no intention of hooking up with some random guy.”

“I’m not that random,” I say, vaguely offended. “I’ve got a good job. Nice suit. Nice car. Nice apartment. I’m not bad on the eyes. I’ve got all my own teeth. I’m great in bed. Isn’t that a win?”

“Maybe,” she says with an offhand shrug. “For someone else. But I’m not in the market tonight.”

“I heard you say you won’t be getting fucked anytime soon.” I press my hand to my heart in what I hope is a convincing show of sincerity. “I’m willing to do my part for the cause.”

She remains stubbornly unpersuaded by my charm.

“Let me cut to the chase. I’m sick of men,” she says. “And I’m not even a natural blonde. So you’re wasting your time.”

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