Miranda wastes no time getting down to business. “I like all my girls to hear the rules from me, first and foremost.”
“The rules for being an escort?” I whisper to Sasha to clarify.
“Mmhmm,” she nods, never taking her gaze from the stage.
“First of all, professionalism. Though you may be dressed as a duckling in cosplay, or wearing handcuffs around your wrists, always remember to maintain that professional air. Though the world may look down upon us as working girls, we know we are, in fact, career women.”
Another huge cheer erupts in the room.
Wait, what? Duckling?
Handcuffs?
She holds out a manicured hand to tame the crowd. “Secondly, always be polite. Retain control but know your limits. It’s a tricky balance but after you get a few dates under your belt, you’ll be a pro.”
Sasha nods. “It’s true.”
Miranda makes a stern face, her gaze heavy as it scans the crowd. “And the final rule, albeit the most important… say it with me ladies—”
The room is filled with the deafening sound of the women chanting in unison. “Never! Fall! In! Love!”
“Good girls,” she says, a smile of pride on her face. “Now, I’ll let you finish your meals, and then we’ll hear from our etiquette master, who will go over the most important points of manners in the bedroom.”
When Miranda steps down from the stage, the other girls dab at their mouths with their linen napkins, taking the break to refresh their lipsticks and glosses.
I take another approach, shoveling in my last piece of bread and going up to the buffet for a refill.
When I return to my seat, I find a man in a black tuxedo standing by my chair. He stares directly at me. Sasha stands by his side, giving me a curious look. “Katie?” she says.
Busted. Damn. Now I’m going to be kicked out in front of all of these people. Should I take my plate of food with me?
“Yes,” I answer, offering a sweet smile. I place my plate on the table, licking off a bit of gravy that’s dribbled onto my thumb. “Can I help you?”
She gives a side nod to the waiter. “This gentleman has come down here looking for you. Apparently, Mr. Morrow’s requested you.” Her words cause a stir at the table, women whispering between themselves, their kohl-lined eyes looking up at me, wide in disbelief.
Brushing breadcrumbs from my lips, I manage an, “Um... what?”
Morrow... now why do I find that name to be familiar?
Sasha puts a hand on my shoulder, leaning in and whispers into my ear, “Darius Morrow.” When she sees my blank stare, she rolls her eyes. “The owner of the hotel. Babe, the billionaire? You mustn’t keep him waiting.”
Darius Morrow… the man who tripped my heart across a computer screen... wants… me?Chapter 2DariusSo much for my resolve.
Jesus.
It was just another night of work, supervising the going ons at my hotel, until... her. I’ve told myself I’m done with dating. I’ll focus my energies on amassing wealth, buying properties, and leave the whoring around to my brother.
She isn’t my type, but the second I got one look at the gorgeous, curvy little blonde, I lost my mind. Gold glitter shimmers on her lids, a hint at a playful personality, and her full lips are bright, cherry red. I want to bite those lips and suck them until she keens with pleasure and begs for more.
Pulling Miranda’s assistant to the side, I make my wishes clear. Giving me a tight nod, she hurries off to do my bidding. Leaving me with a few moments to return to my penthouse and prepare for my dessert.
It’s been so long since I’ve taken a woman to the privacy of my own room, I can’t help but cast a discriminating eye around the place. The large plate-glass windows in front of me overlook the enormous pools below, lit up with amethyst lights at night, dancing with an ethereal glow on the white tiles around the perimeter.
I hired a decorator and told her what I like. Simple lines, modern furniture, elegant and functional. But this is Vegas, Baby. And in Vegas, we do things right. There’s a whirlpool tub that overlooks the pools, beside the fully stocked bar. Plush towels sit in a basket beside the pool, with understated vases of greenery lending an air of sophistication.
The furniture is sleek leather, the wall art simple but meaningful. A print of Monet’s starry night, and an authentic Georgia O’Keefe above the mantel. The gas fireplace lends a romantic feel as well. I walk to the mantel and realize there’s a candle there I’ve never lit.
I’m not a sentimental guy.
And I don’t mix business with pleasure.
Why am I doing this?
Downstairs, I stood on the sidelines, watching the gorgeous women march in like they were on a runway, but none grabbed my attention. I wondered what the hell was wrong with me, why I couldn’t manage to get my shit together and find a single one of these beautiful women attractive.