The VIP Room(144)

By Crystal Kaswell




Kat Wilder is utterly screwed. Her parents are gone. Her meager inheritance is dwindling. Her attempts to get a better job are going nowhere. If she doesn't do something fast, she's going to lose the house she shares with her younger sister.

Billionaire tech C.E.O. Blake Sterling is a lifeline. An arrogant, controlling, impossible to read lifeline. He wants something from Kat and he'll do whatever it takes to get it.

He offers her a deal-- she plays his girlfriend and he digs her out of debt. It has to be so convincing that everyone believes they're madly, crazy in love.

It's Blake's way, Blake's terms, Blake utterly in control inside and outside the bedroom.

The Billionaire's Deal is a cinderella story with a strong alpha male hero and a feisty yet inexperienced heroine.





Chapter 1





The manager takes one look at my discount heels and faded pencil skirt, and he shakes his head. Not even polite enough to glance at my resume.

"Sorry, but the position is already filled."

A.K.A. No luck kid, this is called fine dining, not cheap-ass discount dining.

Expletives pop into my mind, but I hold my tongue. I can't afford to burn any bridges. "Do you know when you'll be hiring again?"

"It's very competitive here."

"I have a lot of experience." I thrust my resume into his hands. "I learn fast. I'll work any shift--holidays, weekends, even the slow ones no one else wants."

He takes the resume but doesn't look at it. "There are no slow shifts here. And we're looking for something specific. Good luck."

He turns back toward the office. The nerve of that *. Something specific. He's looking for someone prettier and thinner.

I take a not at all calming breath and walk out of the restaurant. Slow. Casual. Like I don't need the money desperately.

A rush of wind hits my face. Cold today. This won't be a fun walk. I dig into my purse for my phone. I need to check on Lizzy.

Another step and I bump into something solid. Or someone. My ankle shifts. My foot slips out of that stupid discount heel. Shit. I go down, palms flat on the concrete, purse in a lump beside me.

"Are you okay?" A deep voice asks.

Dammit, I was hoping I bumped into a mailbox or at least some normal New Yorker who wouldn't have the time to stop and help.

"Fine." I look up at the voice. Oh, crap. He's handsome. Tall. Broad shoulders. Square jaw and piercing brown eyes.

Embarrassing myself in front of a hot guy. A new high for the day.

"You look a little rattled." He leans down and offers his hand.

Okay. I take it and he helps me to my feet. He has strong hands, but they're smooth. No callouses. He's wearing a suit--expensive from the looks of it. Whatever the hiring manager wants to believe about me belonging at Lotus Blossom, the city's most pretentious Asian fusion restaurant, I know what money looks like.

This guy is pure money.

"I'm fine." I go to take a step. Shit. Pain shoots through my ankle. It's not quite sprained. Twisted, maybe.

"Sit down." He points to the bench behind us. "If you can walk."

"I don't need your help."

"Oh, really?" He raises an eyebrow and nods to my shoe as if to say put it on then.

I shift my weight to my non-injured ankle, but it's in the other discount shoe, and I can't balance at all. "I don't have time for this. I have work in an hour."

"I'll get you to work on time." He slides his arm under mine, like a human crutch, and he sets me on the bench.

My heart races. It's been a long, long time since anyone has touched me like that, with all that care and attention. It's almost sweet. Maybe Money Guy isn't a total *.

I take a deep breath, trying to convince my body to calm down. "What's your name?"

"Blake. You?"

"Kat."

He collects the things in my purse, grabs my abandoned shoe, and kneels next to me.

Those piercing eyes find mine. He presses his fingers against my ankle. "You winced when you put your weight on it."

"I've dealt with worse sprains," I say.

He stares at me with a penetrating gaze. This Blake guy is impossible to read. It won't matter soon. I'm no one. He's obviously someone. He won't remember me tomorrow.

"I ran cross country in high school," I offer.

"What do you do?"

"I work at a restaurant."

"A lot of walking?" he asks.

"Yeah. I'm a server."

"You need to rest or you'll aggravate it."

"Are you a doctor?"

"I know injuries."

"So, no."

He stares at me like he's waiting for me to back down. The * is sure he knows best.

"I appreciate the advice, but I have to work. If I don't work, I don't make money."

"When is your next day off?"

"Tomorrow."

"Wrap it well today. Ice it tonight. You'll be in pain, but you'll heal okay." He slides my shoe back onto my foot.

His fingers graze my ankle. Something in my body, something I haven't felt in years, lights up. No one has touched me like that in so long.