Page 57 of The Billionaires' Prize

I don’t think so. That part of the evening is hazy, but I distinctly remember an overwhelming desire for both of them to save face. For there to be no winner and no loser.

But now, as I push my way through a sea of humanity, I’m glad I didn’t find out who would have come out on top. I don’t ever want to know. In fact, I don’t even want to think about it.

It’s raining, again, which suits my mood. That doesn’t stop a handful of photographers from loitering on the sidewalk in front of my office building. The lobby is crowded as people rush to work.

Shon’s second choice in footwear is perfect. The black stiletto heels have a ring of silver spikes around the edge, and they make me feel like a total badass. It’s likely the only way I’m going to survive the day when I really just want to go back to my apartment and be all cozy and carefree.

But cozy and carefree don’t pay the bills, so here I am, jockeying for a spot in the throng waiting for an elevator. Acouple of people pay me a little more attention than usual. No one I know, of course. It’s always the strangers who think they know you so well and are all too happy to play armchair quarterback.

Just a little pet peeve of mine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man lift his hand. Before I can turn my head, Roman’s sliding away from me. He grabs the man’s arm, twisting a phone out of his grasp and shoving him around a corner.

A murmur sweeps through the crowd, and several heads pivot my way.

“Ain’t you that two million dollar girl?” a guy holding an armful of donut boxes asks. “Too rich for my blood.”

The man next to him snickers.

I keep my expression carefully neutral and slowly turn to see where Roman is. I don’t want to be in the elevator alone with these guys. My fingers relax around my purse straps when I see Roman’s dark-clad body around the corner.

The elevator behind me dings, and the doors open.

“Too good to talk to us, too,” the donut man says, sort of elbowing the guy next to him. Typical. No one ever wants to stand alone while harassing someone. They need a pack. A posse. A horde to help carry the pitchforks.

Roman calls my name and I turn to find him standing on an empty elevator, staring down the mass.

I glance at the man hiding behind the boxes. “My name is Katherine Montgomery. How would you like it if I called you Donut Dude?”

His jaw drops, but I don’t wait for a response. I don’t expect or want one from someone like him.

I step in next to Roman and breathe a sigh of relief when the doors close, and we’re soaring skyward.

“Thank you,” I say, relishing the quiet and peace of having an elevator all to myself.

“No problem.”

Ding.

The doors open, and I battle my nerves as we step onto the dull gray carpet. A cloud of lemon-scented furniture polish assaults my nose. The entire building needs a facelift, but my grandfather wouldn’t hear of it. He said the place had history. I think he didn’t care for change.

We pass a half dozen cubicles, then a series of desks that flank offices. My assistant is at her desk, glaring down her nose at her monitor.

“Good morning, Charlotte.”

“Good morning, Miss Montgomery.” She pushes away from her desk, and her gaze flicks to Roman. Her brows lift as she smooths a hand down her skirt.

“This is Roman Castrillo. He’s here to keep an eye on me.” I offer Roman a small smile. “Roman, Charlotte Rossi.”

He gives her a nod as she murmurs pleasantries, but his attention is everywhere all at once. Her attention is squarely on him.

I peg Charlotte as in her early forties. She came with the job and does good work, doesn’t gossip, and never fails to alert me when my mother is on her way down. And she’s taken great care of the little philodendron I gave her last Christmas.

“Charlotte, can you have a chair brought by? Something comfortable? Not those bony metal atrocities from the lounge. You can camp in my office until then,” I tell Roman.

“I can stand.”

He pulls his shoulders back, and I swear I hear Charlotte’s thighs clench.

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