Page 53 of The Reluctant Billionaire

That has my attention.

My head snaps up, and I stare at my assistant in horror.

‘She says she runs Venus, the company you’re doing the community project with? She also says she’s not leaving till she’s seen you, and that if you don’t want all the funding pulled you should let her come up. She seems really, really angry.’

Tish’s facial expression tells me exactly what she thinks of being railroaded like this.

‘Send her up,’ I say, punching the stop button on my Peloton Tread.

‘I can get rid of her like that if you want.’ She clicks her fingers.

Despite the growing sense of doom in the pit of my stomach, I swallow a smirk. Tish against Carlotta would be a lot of fun to watch.

‘Send her up,’ I repeat. ‘Thank you.’

After Tish has pursed her lips and left, I pace my office.

Fuck fuck fuck.

She’s outed me, and she’s going to see me like this, in my wanky corner office, which is the absolute worst.

I’m a dick. I thought I’d ease her into my truth. She’s made it very, very clear this past week what kind of kink I’m fulfilling for her, and the billionaire kink it isnot. I was the backstreet guy to her glossy uptown girl, to paraphrase Billy Joel, and that dynamic certainly did it for her, and I was delighted to oblige.

But my little lie of omission has backfired massively, and I may have done myself out of a chance of ever being inside her beautiful body again.

I straighten up my shirt collar and stick my hands in my pockets for something to do, and I wait.

Jesus Christ.

She’s a vision.

Don’t get me wrong. She’s a knockout in a t-shirt and cutoffs, but like this, in full battle mode, she takes my breath away.

I am so fucked.

She sashays through the doorway in a slim-fitting, fire-engine-red dress. It’s sleeveless and it skims over her curves in a way that’s feminine and sensual and powerful. Her heels are sky high and red. Her full lips are painted scarlet, and her dark hair is all sleek curls, billowing out behind her. She’s wielding an enormous handbag like it’s a kettle bell. I’m sure she’d like to take a swing at me with it.

Best of all, she’s spitting fire. Those gorgeous eyes are huge and dark, and I can practically see flames coming out of her nostrils.

She is fucking spectacular.

I would very much like to relieve her of that dress and gather up that all that hair in my fists and get her on her knees, but I’m not delusional.

In this mood, she’d probably take a chunk out of my dick.

‘You look beautiful,’ I say softly, both because it’s true and because I’m a fucking coward and I’d like to disarm her.

Doesn’t work.

Obviously.

She drops the dangerous-looking handbag at her feet, which I have to say is a relief, and eyes me up and down as she plants her hands on her hips. There’s no vest and steel-capped boots today. Instead, I’m in my standard investor-friendly uniform of black trousers and a white shirt, courtesy of Mr Ford. I tolerate spending money on good clothes, primarily because they last and also because people seem to expect it of ‘someone in my position,’ or so my team tells me constantly.

‘Aidan fucking Duffy,’ she says. ‘Well, well, well.’ She looks around, taking in my oversized office, as I try in vain to keep my eyes off her nipples, which, in a shocking twist, have come to join this little party.

‘How fascinating to see you in your natural habitat,’ she goes on. ‘Quite the office you have here.’

‘I like my own space,’ I say, which is both lame and true. I despise the implied status commandeering this much square footage gives me while absolutely loving the privacy it affords me. The space to think amid the circus.

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