Page 213 of The Billionaires

Sighing, I pull out my wallet and make sure I have my Amex Black Card so I can flash it if it looks like we might get kicked out. Then I step inside—and bump into Jane, who seems to want to escape.

“Leaving so soon?” I ask.

“They don’t have price tags on anything,” she whispers loudly.

I wave to a nearby saleslady. Given the way her eyes widen, I suspect she knows who I am.

“There’s been an accident,” I say. “We need to replace Jane’s outfit.” I point at a couple of mannequins. “She’ll try that on to start.”

The sales team swarms Jane like fashionista locusts.

Before I know it, Jane walks out of the dressing room in an Italian skirt suit, looking so professional she could get any job she wants, be it a CEO, an investment banker, or a mortician.

This is when it hits me. Another place where she would look great wearing that suit is by my side at the hearing.

Leo looks up at me with a lolled tongue. No doubt he can hear my heartbeat speeding up.

Great idea. Now go and pee around her, or do whatever it is humans do to mark their territory.

The more I think about this, the more excited I get. Thus far, from what little I know about Jane Miller, she’s light-years ahead of most of the candidates the agency has sent me.

What I like the most is that she has a wholesome girl-next-door vibe to her that would contrast nicely with Sydney’s cold beauty.

Is she single? Straight? Not a smoker?

If yes to all three, this is it.

Jane Miller is going to be my wife.

CHAPTER 3

JANE

“How much is this?” I whisper to the blond saleswoman next to me, and it takes all my willpower not to complain about how annoying the lack of price tags really is.

I know Mom would chastise me for being thrifty even when someone else is paying, but I can’t help it.

The woman names a number.

Gaping, I wait for her to chuckle and say that she’s just made a joke.

She doesn’t.

“I can’t let him pay that,” I hiss at her. “The clothes his dog got dirty are one-hundredth of this price.”

“He won’t care,” she whispers confidently.

“How could you know that?” I ask, eyes narrowing.

Now she looks at me like I’m making a joke. “That’s Adrian Westfield.”

“How do you know him?”

Did he sleep with her? When it comes to rakes, that’s the default assumption.

She furrows her perfectly trimmed eyebrows. “He’s a billionaire and the most eligible bachelor in?—”

I tune out the rest.

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