Page 8 of Dirty Filthy Billionaire: Part 1

I swallow hard, the intensity from his gaze pinning me to the plush seats of the limo. “Thank you. So do you.”

A small grin plays on his lips. I bite my lower lip, and when I realize I'm doing it, I stop. This is an interview, and I have to be professional—even if the guy I’m trying to impress is totally checking me out, and I totally don’t mind. “Why haven’t you haven’t said where we’re going?”

“I think I’d rather watch your reaction than tell you.”

I don’t know what that means but I smile like it’s all just fine. Inside I’m really nervous and want to make a great impression, but it’s hard when you’re desperate for money and five times as hard when the person who will (or won’t) hire you looks like Weston Bridges.

When the limo stops and the driver opens the door for me, I’m standing in front of a swanky building with lots of well-dressed people coming and going.

“Are we having dinner?” I ask, assuming there’s a restaurant right here, although I don’t see the entrance.

“Not quite,” he says. “Follow me. It’s just down here.”

There’s a slim alley between two buildings that I hadn’t noticed. We walk down it, the noise from the busy streets fading away behind us.

We get to a door that has a red light above it. Weston looks back and me, and swings the door open.

“Welcome to Plaisir,” he says, guiding me inside.

“What is this place?”

“It’s a club, and the setting for your possible story.”

Inside, the lights are the same deep red as that outside light. Music plays from somewhere deep in the club, a slow thumping with drawn-out horns.

The walls are large leather panels, and a security guard standing by the door. He nods to Mr. Bridges but says nothing.

“What kind of club is this?”

“It’s a place where adults come to let loose,” he says. “Express themselves. Feel free.”

He puts his hand on my back, gently guiding me further inside. At the hostess stand is a woman with a gorgeous body, which is wrapped tightly in a black leather dress. I can’t see her face, though, because it’s covered by an elaborate eye mask, a sort of masquerade thing.

He still hasn’t answered my question.

“Yes, but what kind of club is this?”

The hostess hears me and gives me a curious look, like I’m dense or something.

Mr. Bridges leans into my ear and says, “It’s a BDSM club.”

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