The VIP Room (46 page)

"I wouldn't be paying you for sex."

All intentions of whispering go out the window. I get loud. "What--you'd pay for the time and we'd happen to have sex? I know how this kind of thing goes. I wasn't born yesterday." I push my chair back and jump to my feet.

Blake takes a slow sip of his whiskey and motions for me to sit. "No. It's a job."

I dig my hands into my thighs and take a step away from the table. "Whatever you want, I'm not interested."

"Kat Wilder," he says.

"So you know my last name--so what?"

"Your parents died three years ago. You live with your sister in an apartment in Brooklyn. There should be about ten years on the mortgage. And since you're working here, I'm guessing you didn't inherent all that much."

"What's your point?" I snap.

"There's no way you can afford to support yourself on your salary here. You sister is eighteen-"

"Don't fucking talk about my sister."

"Okay. Let's leave her out of this."

Again, he motions for me to sit. I do.

Blake speaks in a calm, even voice. "You're twenty-one. No college education. No safety net. You need money, and you don't have many options."

"And?"

"It would be a difficult job, but nothing you can't do."

"I'm not a whore."

"I wouldn't pay for sex. That would be because you want me." He brushes his hand against the inside of my knee.

My breath catches in my throat. "No, I..."

"It wasn't a question." He leans closer. "I want you, too."

"But..." My heart thuds. That flutter is in full affect. It's ridiculous. I don't even know the guy but the thought of him wanting me... I'm on fire.

"You'd be playing a part. My loving girlfriend. All of that would be fake. The two of us, alone together, that would be real."

"I don't know how to be a pretend girlfriend." I wipe my palms on my jeans. "I don't even know how to be a real girlfriend."

He stares at me, studying me. "You're perfect. I'm willing to negotiate if you're interested."

"No, I couldn't." I break away from his gaze but I'm still hot all over. Stand up. Step back. Like I'm almost done with work.

"Take a few days. Consider it."

I shake my head. It's ridiculous. Absurd even. Blake Sterling, super-hot billionaire CEO, can get any girl he wants. He doesn't need to pay someone to be his pretend girlfriend.

A
t home
, I spend half an hour doodling in my sketchbook. Before the accident, I shelved my thoughts of studying art or design for something that would please my parents. Funny, at the time that seemed like the worst thing in the world. Now, I'd kill for the chance to study something practical.

My drawing is decent but not great. I'll need some serious focus if I want any kind of career as an artist. And school won't exactly come cheap.

I close the sketchbook and slide it to the back of my desk.

Would it really be so bad playing his girlfriend? Difficult, maybe, but worth if I could pay off the mortgage and pay for Lizzy's school. God, I can't even imagine what it would feel like to finally be able to breathe again.

Blake Sterling. Sterling Tech CEO. Owner, too. I looked him up, using Google instead of his search engine. He created his company as a teen. Was offered millions for it but decided he'd rather run it himself. And he did, all while attending Columbia. He's twenty-six now.

He's willing to negotiate.

But there's no way he'd pay off the entire mortgage and finance Lizzy's degree.

He can't be that generous.

But it can't hurt to ask.

Kat: It's Kat. I'm considering your offer but I'm not particularly negotiable.

Blake: Send me your address and I'll send a limo. Anytime. I'm at the office all night.

Deep breath. Here goes nothing.

I send my address.

E
xactly thirty minutes later
, there's a knock on the door. Lizzy beats me to it. She stares quizzically at a man in a suit.

"Uh, Kat, what are you doing?"

"It's complicated. Fill you in later."

She spins to face me. Takes in my formal dress and flats--the only nice outfit I own--and raises an eyebrow.

"Do all your homework," I say.

"It's done."

"Then clean your room or something." I nod to the guy in the suit. The driver Blake mentioned. "Nice to meet you. I'm Kat."

We shake. "Jordan. Right this way, Miss Wilder." He holds the door open for me.

"Just Kat is fine." My phone buzzes in my purse. Lizzy, no doubt. I'd explain if I knew what I was explaining.

Jordan walks me to a limousine. It's a sleek, black thing, shiny and new.

I run my fingers over the fiberglass. Ah, the feel of money. There is something intoxicating about it.

He opens the door for me. "Watch your head, Miss, I mean, Kat."

It's more amazing inside. Bench seats in soft leather, a mini bar, a tiny TV. Jordan shuts the door and slides into the driver's seat.

"Help yourself to any refreshments. That grey button between the seats will roll up the partition if you'd like some privacy."

No doubt Blake makes use of this privacy all the time.

No doubt, if I agree, he'll make use of the privacy with me.

I grip the thick leather seats in an attempt to calm down. They're too smooth. My fingers slide right off.

I text Lizzy.

Kat: It's a date. No big deal.

Lizzy: In a limo? Not buying that story. Fess up.

Kat: It's a school night and it's past ten. Go to bed!

Lizzy: If you promise you'll be careful.

Kat: I promise.

The ride is smooth. It's like the car is gliding over the city. I close my eyes and rest my head against the tinted window. The glass is cold. It's almost spring, but it's still so damn cold.

The car comes to a stop. "We're here." Jordan steps out and opens the door for me. He offers his hand.

I take it and step onto the street. A rush of cold, even in my heavy winter coat. We're in downtown New York City, in front of a very tall building. Jordan walks me inside. He slides a key card in front of the elevator's sensor and punches the button for the penthouse floor.

"Mr. Sterling's office is to the right."

I step into the elevator and the thick steel doors slide together. Penthouse floor. The top of this massive building.

The walls and ceilings are all mirrors. I look okay enough, but certainly not like the kind of girl a guy like Blake would date.

Ding. Penthouse. A chrome sign reads
Sterling Tech.
It's shiny and new, just like the limo. Fluorescent lights are off. Desks are empty. The soft glow of the city at night streams through the windows. It's that gorgeous shade of royal blue--a mix of sky and river and office drones burning the midnight oil.

I turn right, as directed, and there it is--a huge office with double doors labeled
Blake Sterling, CEO.

This is so beyond my league it's funny.

I knock gently.

"It's open," Blake says.

Deep breath. I step inside. His office is sleek and modern. Hardwood floors. Wall to ceiling windows. A sit to stand desk and one of those nine hundred dollar chairs.

Blake nods to a couch. "Have a seat." He moves to a wet bar in the corner of the room. "What do you drink?"

"What do you have?"

He doesn't blink. "Anything you want."

"Really? What if I want iced rooibos tea with a hint of lemon and a splash of lime vodka?"

"Then I'll get it."

I stare at him, but it doesn't help me figure anything out. "Really?"

He nods. "Is that what you want?"

"Gin and tonic."

He mixes drinks, takes a seat on the couch, and hands me a glass.

His eyes fix on mine. That stare is penetrating. I feel naked despite the coat buttoned at my chest.

This drink is nothing like the gin I drink at home. It's smooth, pure, and very expensive.

"It seems like a nice place," I say.

His stare softens. "Would you like a tour?"

"Sure."

Blake sets his drink on a side table, stands, and offers me his hand. I take it, and we step into the main room.

He reaches for a light switch.

"Don't. I like the dark," I say.

He looks at me like I'm crazy.

"You can see the entire city. The view goes for miles and miles. See." I move to one of the tall windows and look out at the Hudson. I turn, and I can see all the way up to midtown. The Empire State Building is lit up in blue today.

He nearly cracks a smile. Nearly. There's some kind of joy on his face. He's pleasantly amused at the very least.

"I suppose you're used to it."

"Would you like to work here?" he asks.

"Doing what?"

"I can find an entry level position for you. Any department you want."

"Better for your fake girlfriend to work in an office than in a restaurant?" I ask.

"Appearances are important." His eyes pass over me. "I'm glad you understand that."

"It doesn't take a genius to figure you’re judgmental." I take a long sip. It manages to cool some of the heat inside me. "People treat me differently if I'm in my restaurant gear."

"Worse?" he asks.

"Sometimes. Sometimes there's this wage slave solidarity. If I'm at Duane Reade or Staples or something. People will complain about their long day or their bosses if they can tell I'm on my way home from work."

Blake studies me. It's like he's a scientist and I'm an animal at the zoo. His eyes pass over me slowly. I can see him making mental notes, assessing my potential. If only I knew what the hell my potential was.

"You're a smart girl," he says.

"And what convinced you--my cleavage?"

He says nothing.

I manage not to roll my eyes. "Next thing I know, you'll be taking off my clothes and telling me how smart I look in my lingerie."

"I wouldn't waste my breath if you were in lingerie."

I swallow hard. "Of course. I just mean-" I clear my throat. "You don't know me. Or that I'm smart."

"You posted about your college acceptances on Facebook."

"That was a long time ago," I say.

"But it's still there. Even though you haven't updated your page in two years." He makes eye contact. "You were accepted to two Ivy league schools, to three SUNYs, to NYU."

"And?"

"You could have done anything with your life, but you stayed here."

"You already know about my parents," I say.

"You value family."

"Yes."

"You're smart."

I open my mouth to object, again, that Blake has no handle on my intellect, but he's already on to his next point.

"You're beautiful."

My cheeks flush red. "Thank you."

"You have terms."

I nod.

"What are they?"

I press my palm against the window. That same sleek, cold glass. "What would we even be doing?"

His hand brushes my shoulders. Then my cheek. He tilts my chin so we're eye to eye. "You would play my girlfriend. It’s mostly dinners, weekend trips, events. Some fun, most dull."

"Okay."

"It needs to seem real. You need to convince everyone you're in love with me."

"I'm not an actor," I say. "And I'm not keen on lying to anyone, much less everyone."

His eyes are on fire. "My intentions are good."

"You're still lying."

"Some things can't be avoided."

I polish off the last bit of my drink. This time, the crisp bite does nothing to cool me. I'm still hot all over.

I consider refusing, throwing my ice in his face, and protesting the whole idea of this charade. But I'm intrigued. And if he really is willing to compromise...

I unbutton my coat. Blake slides it off my shoulders and hangs it on the door to his office.

He offers me his hand. I take it and that same heat builds in my body. There's something about Blake, something overwhelming, captivating, and sexy as all hell.

"Why do you need me?" I ask. "Why not find some girl who wants to be your girlfriend?"

"That wouldn't be fair."

"Why?"

"She'd have expectations." He steps back into his office and slides his suit jacket off his shoulders. "I don't fall in love. I never have, and I never will."

"How do you know?"

His voice is even. "I don't buy into the concept."

What the hell? I nod like it's normal to not buy into the concept of love.

He takes my glass and pours another round of drinks. I sit on that same leather couch, my eyes glued to the forearms peeking out of his rolled up sleeves. Who knew forearms could be so damn sexy?

"What are your terms, Kat?" He hands me a drink.

Our fingers touch, and it ignites a fire inside me. Is it even possible I'll survive playing his girlfriend? He's so intoxicating. It will be impossible not to feel something for him.

"The mortgage to my apartment." I take a deep breath, attempting my best
I'm as badass and confident as any tech executive.
"I want it paid in full."

"Done." He says it like he's agreeing to coffee.

"You don't even know how much is left on it. What if it's three hundred thousand dollars? Or half a million?"

"Send me the bank information, and it's done."

"Like that?"

He nods. "What else?"

I struggle to form a coherent thought. The mortgage, done, like it's nothing. That can't be possible. That payment has been a pain in the ass the last three years and it will be gone. Done.

"My sister got into NYU. She's worked hard to keep her grades up. She deserves to go to whatever school she chooses without six figures of student loans."

"Elizabeth Wilder?"

"Yeah." My heart races. I know he owns a search engine, but I still don't like him having all these details about my sister.

"Sterling Tech selects scholarships students every year. She placed in a math competition last year. Is she studying STEM?"

"What, you don't know?" I polish off this glass too. My face flushes. The heat travels down my throat and chest, settling in my stomach.

"Not yet."

I nod. "Computer science or programming. I forget the difference. She wants to study artificial intelligence."

He holds my gaze for a long moment. He shifts off the couch and types something into his computer. "Done."

"What?"

"Your sister will be offered a scholarship. One hundred percent of her tuition for four years."

I swear my heart stops. "What? How did you... You can't..."

"It's done."

"But what if I leave now? What if I say no."

"You won't." He sits next to me on the couch. "Anything else you want?" His hand brushes against my arms as he moves my drink to a side table.

Heat races through my body. His hand feels so good on my arm. It's a pleasure I haven't experienced in years, and it's only my arm. It's practically innocent.

"I want to keep my job."

"I'll need you a lot of nights and weekends."

"Still. At least a few shifts a week."

He nods. His fingers brush against my inner knees. "You're independent."

"Yes."

"I respect that." He drags those fingers up my inner thigh. "But I will pay your living expenses while we're together--food, clothes, anything else you need. I'll have a credit card sent to your house tomorrow."

"I can't take your credit card."

"Kat. Do you know my net worth?"

I swallow hard. "No."

"I own fifty-one percent of Sterling Tech. The company is valued between twenty and thirty billion dollars."

Oxygen. It's a silly thing. I take a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm me down. "Oh."

"If we were madly in love, I would take care of you."

"Right."

"So, while we're together, you will have everything you want."

"I'm not using your credit card."

"Then I'll take you shopping personally. You'll need to look a certain way for these events or people won't believe we're together."

"So everyone thinks you’re shallow, basically," I say.

He doesn't blink. "There are expectations."

"Spare me. I understand. You would shower your girlfriend with expensive clothes and she would know her place enough to be young, pretty, and well groomed."

His eyes find mine. That same intense expression. "That's a cynical interpretation."

"It's a realistic interpretation."

He brushes his fingers over the hem of my dress like he's brushing off my comment. "I'm never going to love you, Kat. But while we're together, I'll make sure you don't want for anything."