The Billionaire's Claim: Obsession

“It’s so hard to decide what to drink.” The brunette laughs, the sound reminding me a little of a documentary I watched about hyenas. But it isn’t just the laugh. It’s also her mannerisms.

When she thinks they aren’t looking, she stares at her companions with a hint of resentment…something canine and feral. I used to see that same expression on Aunt Dorothy’s face when she looked at my parents…and at me and my younger sister.

I’m not sure what the brunette’s jealous about, though. The redhead and blonde aren’t wearing anything particularly expensive, although they’re a thousand times better looking than her. But that’s what plastic surgery is for, and L.A. has its share of surgeons who’ll make anybody beautiful for a price.

On the other hand, the brunette isn’t going to lift a finger to help herself because she has the lazy, entitled attitude of a girl who’s had everything handed to her. It’s in the way she looks at the people around her, like they’re beneath her, and the way she talks to me—as though I should be honored she’s addressing me at all.

“How about three martinis?” the brunette says finally.

“Your IDs?” I don’t like it that my voice is curt. I didn’t mean to let my irritation show. I’m a pro. And definitely not petty.

The brunette gives me a “you gotta be kidding” look.

“Sorry. No ID, no alcohol.”

The redhead and blonde hand over their driver’s licenses. The brunette reluctantly follows suit.

I check them, making sure they aren’t fake. The brunette’s Marcella West, the redhead Vanessa Glazier.

The blonde is…

I look at her smiling face in the photo. Elizabeth Anne Reed, just turned twenty-one last month.

“Well?” Vanessa cocks an eyebrow. I realize I’m taking too long.

I give the IDs back, but not before checking Elizabeth’s address to see if she’s local. She lives in Orange County. Although I’m still stinging from the earlier rejection, I feel slightly more optimistic as I mix their martinis. For some ridiculous reason, it seems like I still have a chance with her if she’s local. So what if SoCal is huge? We could still run into each other, especially if she’s attending UCLA or something. Hell, I bump into my cousin Andy from time to time, and he lives with his parents in a nice upper-middle-class suburb ninety minutes from campus.

Apparently still peeved I wanted to see her ID, Marcella grabs t

he martini sullenly. Vanessa’s thanks buzz by like a fly.

Elizabeth doesn’t say anything, but takes a sip of her drink. A smile curves her lips like a bow. “Cold and crisp.”

Jesus, that voice. It’s sweetly feminine and slightly husky, like a woman who’s just gotten up—or who’s had a screaming-hot orgasm. It tugs at my swelling dick like a lover.

She pulls the first olive from the pick with small white teeth and chews. “This is great.”

Of course. I’m a damn good bartender. And her praise causes me to feel ten feet tall.

Another group of customers flags me, and I go over to get them their beers. Drying glassware and wiping down the counter, I eavesdrop on the trio. I want to know more about Elizabeth. What does she like? Does she have a boyfriend?

Between serving other customers and dealing with servers who come by with orders, I’m not able to listen very well, although I learn the trio speaks a language other than English because they switch back and forth a couple of times, and I catch a few names as they continue to order martinis.

Justin. Ryder. Nate. Hopefully geriatric uncles or something.

“Shirley’s been so…coldly disapproving ever since I told her I was going to law school,” Vanessa is saying, this time in English, when I’m within hearing range again.

“So don’t be a lawyer, duh,” Marcella says. “It’s not like you need to work. You have your daddy’s money.”

“That right there is the problem. Daddy’s money.”

Marcella waves a hand dismissively. “Marry somebody rich, then.”

Elizabeth scrunches her nose, then finishes her fifth martini. “Why bother with marriage when you can make your own money?”

Marcella huffs. “Easy for you to say. Your father—”

“Oh, come on,” Vanessa interrupts, her tone sharp, like a DA addressing a particularly annoying perp. “We didn’t come here to talk about our dads.” She pulls out her phone, which has been ringing for a while. After a glance, she drops it back into her purse and asks for another martini, then downs the whole thing in one long swallow.