Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1)(27)

I liked to wander too much, experiment with new spots in the city and observe people as they met and chatted and said goodbye.

Human behavior was fascinating, and I found the more I studied it, the easier it was to manage all of my people-based businesses.

I glanced down at my phone, feeling guilty for checking it on my way to my first date with Georgia, but at the same time, not being able to help myself.

Nothing. All quiet.

My conversation from that afternoon with the mysterious Rose burned in my mind. I hated the fact that any woman would feel like being a virgin was something to be ashamed of or even be embarrassed to talk about it. But I was also a man, and f*ck, it wasn’t a stretch to understand why. I could feel myself becoming more and more irrational the longer she’d talked about it, even knowing that she’d come to me for honest advice.

I’ll be honest. I had to advise my dick to calm the f*ck down.

Very scumbag-like of me, I supposed, but I was convinced hearing or seeing the word ‘virgin’ or ‘anal’ or ‘sex’ fired some kind of hormonal response in the heterosexual male mind.

Maybe it fired it in the homosexual male mind too, but I didn’t have any firsthand experience to confirm.

Photographers lined the entrance as we pulled up to 30 Rock, a well-known skyscraper in New York City and home to several entities, including NBC Studios. For me, on this night, it was the Rainbow Room I wanted, an iconic restaurant on the sixty-fifth floor and host to the benefit for Mount Sinai Kravis Children’s Hospital. The fundraiser was being held by an outside organization made up of the well-meaning wealthy. I wished they’d spend less money on the event and donate it all to the f*cking hospital, but the truth of it was that this was what it took to entice people into donations and make it feel worthy of their money. Schmaltzy entertainment, expensive food, and an evening out.

I was here to hand over a check, make my mother happy, and enjoy the evening with Georgia, the level of importance of each not relative to their order.

The dog and pony show passed by in a blur, camera flashes and shouted questions melding and mixing together as I covered my eyes and stepped inside.

Security for the event had taken over two of the elevators, and a small line trickled from the doors of each all the way back to me.

I scanned the crowd for Georgia, hoping to find her sooner rather than later, but, after several sweeps, came up completely empty. It was one of the perils of coming separately, I supposed, but I didn’t want her to feel awkward or alone while she waited for me.

A check of my watch confirmed that I was on time, and the line was moving fast. I’d be up there to look for her in no time.




“Macallan on the rocks, half a lime on the side, please.”

The bartender confirmed my order with a nod, turning to the glass shelves behind him to grab my scotch. It was fifteen minutes past eight, forty-five minutes later than our agreed upon time, and still no sign of Georgia. I was beginning to think she might have stood me up—hoping that she had, rather than something having happened to her—when Stacey Henderson sauntered up to me and leaned her body into my space with an elbow at the bar.

“Where’s your date?”

I grabbed my scotch and the lime as the bartender set it down in front of me, squeezing the juice into my glass before handing the carcass back to him with a smile and a nod. Plucking a napkin from the top of the stack, I wiped the remaining juice off of my palm.

“Well, hello to you too, Stacey.” I turned to her in acknowledgment, but my body did it under protest. It feared the effects of cross-contamination if it got too close.

“Your mother told me you already had a date. That’s why you couldn’t come with me.”

“I’m aware. What I wasn’t aware of was the fact that she had arranged a date with you in the first place. Don’t you think that’s the kind of thing you should be asked directly by a man?”

She waved the thought away like a pesky fly.

“If you’re not here with someone—”

“I am,” I interrupted.

Her eyes narrowed while mine searched the room nearly desperately, and my brain tried to conjure up an excuse. My face and body portrayed an outward calm.

“Where is she, then?”

“The restroom. You know how you ladies are,” I patronized in the name of inserting frivolous, vaguely-insulting conversation into a still-civil exchange. As much as Stacey Henderson was asking for a big ‘go f*ck yourself,’ the Mount Sinai Kravis Children’s Hospital was not. “Always running to the restroom to touch up something or other or to relieve your peanut-sized bladders.”

Stacey scoffed rather indelicately, an effect of too much alcohol too goddamn early in the benefit, and I winced, fearing the turn of events when no one returned from the restroom.

Then, out of the crowd emerged a frazzled—but stunning—Georgia. Red framed her body from breast to foot, the tight material clinging to her in all the right places. Her tan skin peeked out of a cutout just below her chest, and a matching blood red painted her lips and nails. The only thing missing red was her head, her now blonde locks cascading and curling down and around her slim shoulders and damn near robbing me of the ability to think.

Worry from her late arrival ravaged her face as she approached the two of us without pretense or fear.

“Oh my God, Kline, I am so sorry I’m—”