Page 3 of Dirty Filthy Billionaire: Part 1

Weston

I haveto admit that buying a company worth more than a billion dollars is a fucking aphrodisiac. I feel like I can do anything, take on anyone right now. The view from this corner office is outstanding—Freedom Tower, Hudson River, Statue of Liberty, New Jersey, and all the small little buildings beneath us. It feels good to be on top.

First thing I did this morning was I let some poor sap named Mark Something have the day off—and every day in the foreseeable future—and then I promptly moved into his stellar office. I may be two years shy of thirty, but I know dead weight when I see it, and that guy Mark was sitting in this chair like a fat hog doing nothing but collecting his six-figure paycheck (with the six-figure annual bonus…for doing his freaking job) and leaving early every Thursday for his house in the Hamptons.

I look at my watch. It’s been two hours since I told him he didn’t work here anymore. I wonder if his place in Sag Harbor is on the market yet. Maybe I could buy it.

“Mr. Bridges?” I hear Cameron, my new frightened assistant, ask from the doorway.

“What is it?” I ask, slightly annoyed. The view out the window is great, but the one on the computer is even better—all the new things I own. The magazine, the television stations, the book publishing division…it’s all mine now. Jesus, it’s sexy.

“Your ten o’clock is here,” Cameron says. She consults her notes. “Mia Cassidy.”

“Well what is she here for?” I hope Cameron has cab fare because if she’s this terrible of an assistant she might be following ol’ Mark out the door.

“She came through HR with that pile of other applicants. You tossed them all but told Helen you wanted to interview this one yourself?”

“Oh, right,” I say. I don’t want to make a bunch of new hires but I kept this resume because the girl is so green I figure we could get her for cheap. Everyone else who came through HR had too much experience and would want too much money. This Mia girl just graduated from some Podunk college and is surely desperate for work, so I thought I’d bring her in, interview her myself. Not something I would normally do but hey, it’s my party and I want to have a little fun today.

“Send her in,” I tell Cameron.

I’ve got my eyes glued to the computer, watching the stock prices of Prerogative rise and picture that money going in my pocket. It’s a good day to be me.

From the corner of my eye I see a figure walk in through the door and sit in one of the sleek leather chairs in front of my desk. I pull up this person’s resume on the computer and look through her (very limited) credentials.

Without looking up I say, “Mia Cassidy?”

“Yes, hi,” I hear her say. “That’s me. It’s, um, nice to meet you.”

I grumble. She won’t think so by the time she leaves this office.

“Looks like you have very limited experience in journalism,” I say, eyes glued to the computer.

“I was the editor of my school paper,” she says. “And I was the lead reporter for the story that exposed high levels of sodium in school lunches in the county.”

“Sodium, huh?” I say, and I feel like I have to check myself—I just might laugh out loud. “Well, it is the silent killer.”

“Actually, Mr. Bridges,” she says, and I look up at her. “That’s hypertension.”

I’m staring at this woman and for a splash of a second, I forget myself—but only for a second. She—Mia is a real, live hottie. And…is that sweat on her forehead? There is something about a woman sweating that is hot as hell. Maybe it’s because I can picture her fucking when I look at that sweat beading on her forehead.

She’s got on some silk blouse that is open low on her chest, exposing her demure but beautiful cleavage. I don’t need a lot, just as long as it’s proportionate to the body, and this girl’s got it. She shifts in the chair, crossing her legs, which are smooth and tanned. Unfortunately I spot the cheap shoes on her feet. From across the desk I can see the wrinkled plastic of the shoe, meant to fool people into thinking it’s leather, and the scuffed heel. I may have grown up on a farm with a son of a bitch of a father, but he taught me one useful thing: If you’ve got a little money, spend it all on one good pair of shoes.

“Get yourself a good pair of boots,” he’d say, “and they’ll last you ten years.”

Clearly this Mia doesn’t even have little money. Or a little experience. Sodium levels? Oh, man. This is going to be so easy.

“Well, Mia,” I say, looking her right in her eyes, “we’re not here to write about hypertension. We’re here to write about sex.”

“I’m sorry, what?” she stammers.

“Blush is getting a new angle,” I tell her. “A sexier angle. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” she says, but her voice quivers on that one syllable. She tugs on her skirt, her eyes darting away from mine.

“If I were to assign you a story with a sex angle, what do you think you’d write about?”

Talk about blush—her face and chest immediately turn a deep pink, washing across her skin like ink in water. I have to casually move my hand across my mouth to keep from laughing.

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