Beddable Billionaire (Dirty Sexy Rich 2)

CHAPTER ONE

Lauren

“AND I WANT YOU, Lauren, to cover the story.”

“Excuse me, I’m sorry, what?” I paused my notes to meet my editor’s stare, stifling the groan that wanted to pop from my mouth. Truthfully, I was only half listening during this morning’s staff meeting, but what little I’d heard wasn’t exactly flipping my interest switch.

“‘Hottest Bachelor in Town.’ I want you to write it,” Patrice answered, tapping her manicured finger against the slick tabletop. “Pay attention, please.”

I didn’t say the actual word, but my expression clearly said blech, and Patrice Winneham, executive editor of Luxe magazine, wasn’t known for her willingness to hear objections. “Problem?” she asked with a layer of frost blanketing her tone.

The last thing I wanted to write was some frivolous article on New York’s most eligible and, more important, rich bachelors, but I needed my job. “No problem,” I lied through my teeth. By now it should’ve become second nature, but it still curdled my guts to pretend to care about stories that held no bearing on actual life.

Like the world needed another spread on complete and utter nonsense. The longer I worked for Luxe, the more I was certain I would be required to turn in my feminist card because of crap assignments like this.

Who knew the going rate for a piece of your soul is the bargain-basement price of rent on a shitty apartment in Brooklyn. From my peripheral I caught our newest and youngest staffer nearly wetting herself to land this gig, and I readily threw her a bone.

“Actually, I really think Daphne would kill a story like that,” I suggested, casting a helpful look down the boardroom table toward the young redhead. Daphne was practically nodding her head off in eager agreement, salivating at the prospect. I smiled. “She’s got that young voice that I think would really sell the piece far better than me.”

Also, because the idea of pandering to an overprivileged prick is about as appealing as jamming a pen in my eye. But I couldn’t exactly say that without risking my job, and as shitty as the job was, it paid the bills—granted, barely—but still, they were paid.

“Yes, and she’s also gullible,” Patrice replied without apology, continuing with a briefly held smile, “and would likely end up falling in love with the man before the interview was finished. That’s a headache I don’t need. No, you’ll do the interview. End of story.” Patrice added with a warning glower, “And wear something nice. You’re representing Luxe.”

I ignored Patrice’s not-so-subtle dig. Fashion wasn’t my God, and I didn’t worship at the altar of haute couture. I’d wear what I pleased. “Fit before fashion” was my mantra, and I didn’t feel the least bit sorry for the women who chose to trudge around the city in high heels who, by the end of the day, were rubbing the agony from their barking dogs.

Nope, I sailed right past them in my sensible flats, happy as a clam and stealing their cab because I could run faster.

I caught Daphne’s crestfallen expression. Poor girl, I could only imagine how her dreams of working at a high-end magazine like Luxe were nothing like the reality.

I remembered being that idealistic newbie.

Now I was the jaded staffer who ran on a steady diet of cynicism and sarcasm, with the occasional sprinkling of “WTF?” thrown in for flavor.

Patrice, satisfied that her word was law, moved on with a smug smile. “We have managed to snag one of the sexiest bachelors yet from a distinguished family, old-world money, if you can imagine such a thing anymore. A real Italian stallion, if you will, and having this hottie on the cover is going to snag eyeballs, but I need someone experienced to handle the copy.”

Irritated and bored but having at least the sense to put on a good face, I forced a smile to ask, “And the name of this sexy and single vagina hound?”

“Wait for it...” Patrice paused for dramatic effect before gushing, “Nico Donato of Donato Inc. His family hails from Italy, starting with a humble yet wildly successful winery in Tuscany. Isn’t that dreamy? Does anything else scream romance more than the Italian countryside?”

I wouldn’t know, I wanted to quip. It’d been a long time since I’d experienced anything resembling romance after my ex ran off when I was five months pregnant—six years ago.

It was safe to say the most romance I’d had in my life consisted of furtive moments spent hiding in the closet with my Magic Wand.

Was it TMI if I admitted I’d already burned through three of those hardy vibrators? I rubbed at the phantom scorch mark left over from my last vibrator when it rudely caught fire in my hand.

So, yeah, romance? Not even sure I would recognize it if it bit me in the ass, but that was okay because men were a complication I didn’t need in my life. I was perfectly happy with the way things were, and I didn’t need wine and roses from some man to feel complete.

Did I miss an actual warm body to cuddle with on cold nights? Yeah, but then, I could always get a dog or a cat and achieve the same effect, which I’d been seriously considering.

“Wow, I’ve seen pictures of Nico Donato, and

he’s definitely a hottie,” Daphne gushed, her eyes alight with envy. “I can’t imagine a woman alive who would turn him down if he asked.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. Continuing my Golden Globe?worthy performance, I nodded like a good staffer and agreed with Patrice because I needed my job. “Sounds fantastic,” I murmured, trying not to gag.

Daphne sighed, and I could practically see the cartoon hearts and rainbows floating around her head. Good grief, Patrice was probably right. Sending someone like Daphne to interview this Italian stallion would be like sending a lamb to slaughter. Daphne was probably still in that stage of her life when her bra and panties matched.

I was sporting underwear with a hole in it, and my bra was three years old.

Any seduction attempt for my benefit would end in laughter. Mine and his.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ugly and I do probably (maybe) own a matching bra and panty set, but let’s face it, fancy panties are uncomfortable, and these days, comfort was king.

#singlemom.

#allmymoneygoestomykid.

#myvibratordoesntjudge.

Patrice was talking again. “I don’t know how this man has managed to remain single, but after this issue comes out...we might be able to do a follow-up for the engagement because someone is going to snag him up, I can guarantee it.”

“Maybe he’s an asshole?” I suggested, and the table erupted with nervous laughter, except Patrice, who frowned. I shrugged, just pointing out what everyone else was thinking but was too afraid to voice. “I mean, that seems like the obvious answer, right? Good-looking, rich but maybe his personality is rotten. There isn’t enough money in the world to compensate for a shitty attitude.”

“I’m sure he’s a lovely human being,” Patrice said pointedly. “And it’ll be your job to make sure that comes across.”

“And what if, just clarifying, he isn’t a lovely human being?”

Patrice tapped her Montblanc pen on the polished table surface, the chipped ice in her blue eyes growing colder. “I’m sure he is,” she finally answered. “And you’ll do a fine job. I look forward to reading your copy.”

More anxious laughter floated around the conference table. Why was I poking the bear in the designer suit? I don’t know. Maybe I was PMSing. Maybe I was tired of writing stupid, fluff articles that did nothing but perpetuate the stereotype that all women cared about were hot men with big cocks.

Or I was PMSing.

Honestly, it could go either way.

It was now or never if I wanted to throw something serious into the ring. I stilled the sudden bouncing of my knee beneath the table and pushed forward with my own idea for the magazine.

“I was thinking we could do an article on Associate Justice Elena Kagan, maybe focus on how women still have to fight for positions historically held by men?”

The silence was not only deafening, but the disdain was actually painful.

Patrice sniffed with distaste. “This is Luxe, not The Legal Review. No one wants to read about a dusty old woman in a black robe unless she’s wearing Donna Karan on the bench.”

Daphne tittered and I wanted to shake some sense into the young twit, but Patrice was right. Luxe wasn’t going to be breaking ground in the advancement of women’s rights anytime soon. Luxe was all about designer shoes, perpetuating the harmful stereotypes that fostered unattainable body goals and kept women bitching and fighting among themselves.

God, maybe I was beginning to hate Luxe, or maybe I was just becoming a bitter bitch because I hadn’t gotten laid in forever. Seeing as that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon, I had to suck it up, smile and agree to interview Mr. Big Cock or else I could lose my ability to pay rent.

“I’ll make the arrangements,” I said, privately scribbling, Sacrifice dignity and interview man-slut. “Have you already set up the photographer?”

“All done. Jacques will be shooting the spread. We’re thinking...Hamptons...beach time...crisp whites and blues.”

“It’ll make for good pictures,” I agreed but inside I was rolling my eyes. Like that idea hasn’t been done a million times before. “Everyone loves a hot guy on the beach,” I said, parroting what I knew Patrice wanted to hear.

“That they do.” Patrice nodded in wholehearted agreement as if she were relieved I’d finally agreed to pull my head from my ass. “And it’s easy to sell advertising for beach-themed spreads. Anyway, you all have your assignments. Go on, go forth, amaze me.”

As I left the conference room, Daphne attached herself to my hip, saying, “Have you seen Nico’s picture? He’s gorgeous. Blue eyes to die for, a body made for sin, and he’s so sweet. A real charmer.”

“How do you know he’s sweet?” I countered, wryly amused and vastly curious. “Have you met?”

“Oh, no,” Daphne admitted but added quickly, “just look at that face...he seems so sweet. You can tell from the eyes. His eyes tell a story.”

“I’m sure they tell some sort of story,” I agreed, resisting the urge to roll my eyes so hard they bounced from my skull. Perhaps I should burst her bubble and tell her the story of my sweet ex. The one who bailed on me and our son when he realized being a parent was going to be a full-time job that would likely cut into his playtime? I swallowed the urge because I wasn’t into wasting energy, and I doubted Daphne would see anything but my being a salty bitch—especially if she found out who my ex was.

Instead, I said, “Sounds like trouble to me, but I’d be happy to be wrong. It’s not likely, but it would be a nice surprise.”

“You seriously don’t want this assignment?” Daphne said, flabbergasted that I would turn my nose up at the opportunity to fawn over some rich guy. “I mean, Nico Donato is mega rich. I’m talking obscenely rich. Like golden toilets, I-wipe-my-ass-with-hundred-dollar-bills Dubai rich.”

I smirked. “That rich, huh? Sounds like a delight.” Although, why would anyone want to be that rich? Seemed like a lot of headaches. I’d rather be comfortable, not obscenely wealthy. Apparently, I was in the minority, considering present company. “Personally, I prefer actual toilet paper, but the good stuff, not the tissue paper that shreds the minute you slide it across your ass.”

“Are you seriously talking about toilet paper?” Daphne stepped in front of me just as I headed for the break room to grab my yogurt. “Take me with you,” she pleaded. “Please? He’s the man of my dreams. I’d kill to meet him. What if he’s my soul mate?”

“And that’s exactly why I won’t let you tag along,” I said, maneuvering around her. “Trust me, I’m doing you a favor. Men like Donato are narcissists and they spread heartbreak like disease. I’ll bet if I did a little digging I’d find scores of women who were used and tossed aside by this rich prick. Just because he’s got a nice face—”

Daphne injected, “And body.”

I exhaled in irritation as I continued. “Yes, and body, doesn’t mean he’s not the devil.” I retrieved my yogurt, adding for Daphne’s sake, “You’re young. When you get a little more seasoning, you’ll figure out that Dubai-rich guys are usually the ones you want to steer clear from.”

“You’re not that much older than me,” Daphne pointed out with a frown. “Why do you act like you’re an old lady?”

Are we close to the same age? Impossible. Most days I felt a hundred.

“Because I don’t think I was ever your age,” I answered, popping the spoon in my mouth. “But if you must know, I’ve been burned before by a sweet talker, and experience breeds wisdom, you know?”

“So, because you got your heart broken you’re never going to let anyone else in?”

Ick. When did this conversation turn into a Dr. Phil session? “As much as I adore this little tête-à-tête, I have work to do so...”

Daphne pouted but didn’t continue to dog me to my desk (thank God), and I was able to eat my yogurt in relative peace

while I did some poking around on the net about Donato.

My Google-fu was pretty decent, and with a few clicks I had pictures and background information on the youngest Donato.

Okay, so he was handsome, I’d give him that.

Yeah, those blue eyes were panty-droppers, and that body looked fairly chiseled from clay.

And Nico was Dubai rich, as Daphne liked to call it.

But I couldn’t find any information on anything useful or worthwhile that he might’ve been associated with.

No philanthropy.

No peace work.

No good deeds on record.

However, I did find some paparazzi photos of Nico doing body shots off the belly of a hot-bodied coed during spring break at Lake Havasu.

Yep. I took another bite. Total douchebag. Life was so unfair. How did guys like Nico always get ahead when hardworking people, like myself, had to struggle and scrape for every dime?

I wallowed in a moment of self-pity before sighing and printing out the relevant information I would need for my fluff article.

“I love my job,” I murmured to myself. “I love my job.” To ground my motivation more firmly, I glanced at the picture of my son on my desk. Grady’s gap-toothed smile was all the motivation I needed to shut my mouth, put my head down and get the job done.

Houston Beaumont was a useless human being, but our son was the light of my life and I couldn’t regret deciding to cancel the adoption paperwork.

Grady wasn’t planned—hell, my relationship, if you can call it that, with Houston hadn’t been planned either—but I’d do anything for that cute little dirty-blond imp who called me Mama.

And I thanked my lucky stars every day that Houston hadn’t tried to sue for custody. He’d been more than happy to forget all about me and his son.

I didn’t mind being a single mom if it meant knowing that Grady didn’t have to be shuttled between two different worlds—mine and his father’s.

Drawing a deep breath, I nodded to myself, girding my loins, so to speak, so I could swallow my dignity without choking.