The Billionaire's Fake Girlfriend: Part 1 (The Billionaire Saga 1)

“I’ll check my schedule.” I squeezed his arm gently and smiled. “Now stop hogging me, old man, I have a billionaire to land.”

Another spray of spittle, but I was already back in the crowd, weaving my way outside to the door. There was a small commotion behind me, and I thought that I should probably say goodbye to Amanda, or even Marcus—at this point, but every instinct I had was telling me to leave before things got any worse. Both literally and figuratively speaking, I’d been dancing on the edge of a knife all night. It was time to go home.

“I can’t believe you just did that.”

Marcus’ voice behind me made me stop. I turned around to see him standing with two champagne glasses, one in each hand.

Yeah, well, I can’t believe I’ve done a lot of things tonight, I thought.

“I shouldn’t have said the billionaire line,” I said. “But I was just kidding. And he was laughing.” I ran my fingers up my scalp, only to have them buckle against the stiff helmet that used to be my hair. “It was great meeting you. Thanks for playing along. But you’re off the hook now. I’m going to find my friend and we’re going to get going. We had a lovely time at your wonderful party. Thank you for everything.”

He gave me a small smile. “I know you want to leave—but one more drink?” He held up the flutes hopefully and cocked his head up toward a balcony. “To celebrate our success?”

I wanted to go. And maybe I should have. But there’s something fundamentally impossible about leaving a gorgeous man holding a glass of champagne to return to a hovel in East Hollywood. After a moment’s pause, I cracked.

“Such as it is.”

I followed him silently past the velvet dividers up to the forbidden second story, casting wide-eyed glances up and down the halls.

“Is that a Degas?” I asked, curiously referencing the one painter I happened to know. It was hung side by side with a finger painting of a splotchy butterfly.

Marcus glanced back at the wall. “No, that was me when I was seven. The Degas is the one hanging beside it.”

Smartass.

With a rueful grin, I followed him out a set of glass-paneled doors to a tiny balcony nestled against the side of the house. We leaned against the curved stone and clinked glasses under the stars, toasting our great deception as the befuddled masses scurried below.

After a few moments of peaceful silence, punctuated by occasional sips of champagne, he spoke in a low murmur. “Do you know why I hate coming to these parties?”

“I thought you would love mingling with the über wealthy socialites of the world,” I said.

Or he had a Gatsby complex. I’d ask about that at a later time.

He shot me a look, but his face softened into a smile as he fixed his eyes on the people below. “Because they’re dull and boring.” The smile lingered, relaxing the lines of his face into something I could only describe as stroke-able. “Not tonight.”

For whatever reason, I warmed to hear it.

It was like those two words, not tonight, carried us through—exempting us from all blame and putting a perfectly fitted cap on a crazy evening.

I leaned down against the stone beside him, bringing my arms even with his as I peered over the edge. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He cocked an eyebrow and tilted my way, offering me a hand. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”

I couldn’t help but laugh as I accepted. “Yeah, the agency told me who was hosting the party.”

“Ah, you’re with the agency. Model or actress?”

I smiled. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He laughed. “Actress.”

“Yes. I’m Rebecca.”

He shot me that movie star smile. “Rebecca is a beautiful name.”

“Thank you.”

He gave me a quirky half-smile. “So my girlfriend’s name is Rebecca.”