Beauty and the Billionaire

He chuckled and brushed back the few strands of hair that I missed. His coarse fingers skimmed my bare shoulder and a fissure of electricity lit up my whole body. "It is for me. Let me guess, I'm not your type."

"I don't have a type."

"Yeah, sure, princess. Look, your friend's snagged a couple of financial district boys. Better go have a few free drinks." He took the last two steps in one stride and stopped an inch in front of me. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"I'm from Santa Cruz." It was important to put that distance between us. I had to tip my head back to meet his eyes, but my body refused to step back from him.

"Of course you are. Dammit." He shook his head and twirled one of my golden curls around his finger. "I'm there a lot for work."

"You work?"

The words were a defense mechanism. I didn't trust myself around him. His rock hard chest was only inches from my lips. If I was snobbish and horrible, he would back off and I could get myself back under control. At least, I hoped. I had never felt this knocked out of orbit before.

"Relax, princess. I was just walking by." He stepped around me and slowly let my hair slip through his fingers. Then, he shook his head again and disappeared into the nightclub crowd.

I reached Ginny and took a long sip of the martini her new friend in the gray suit handed me. She made the introductions and I smiled at the businessmen, but my eyes kept dragging to the man I'd met as if he were a magnet. I watched him shake hands with a waiter, then slip past a velvet rope and up a curving staircase.

He was the opposite of every man I had ever found attractive. Ginny often joked that my fantasies were cut from a J. Crew catalog. I liked clean-cut, clean-shaven men whose wardrobes were exclusively business casual or tailored suits. No jeans, no worn T-shirts—no matter how the soft fabric clung to his chiseled shoulders.

Tousled hair, thick beards, and tattoos did not mesh with the vision I had of my future.

Just one night off, I thought as I glanced at him again. What if, for one night, I was someone completely different?

"Come on; I want to sing."

Ginny bounced with excitement and grabbed my hand. We waved goodbye to the businessmen as she dragged me across the corner of the crowded dance floor to the arched doorway on the other side of the club.

"Wait, who was that guy you were talking to?" Ginny stopped with one hand on the doors.

"What? Nobody."

She fixed narrowed eyes on my face. "It didn't look like nobody. He looked like a whole lot more than that."

I smoothed my long hair. "He wasn't my type."

She tipped her head and grinned. "I think looks can be deceiving. I mean, you look like a million dollars."

"Very funny," I said. "One of these days, I'll have a million dollars."

"At the expense of fun." Ginny shoved open the padded doors. "I'm just glad he inspired you to sing."

She skipped ahead before I could correct her. Through the padded doors was another set of glass doors, but the bouncer had it open as soon as he saw us.

T

he karaoke lounge was a world apart from the nightclub. The round tables ringed a raised, black stage backed by black, velvet curtains. A piano player lounged on his bench and waited for singers brave enough to opt away from the karaoke machine.

Three chandeliers lit the stage and a wrought iron railing separated a second level. Black, leather booths and larger tables ringed the balcony where waiters darted back and forth.

"What's up there?" I asked.

The bouncer glanced up at the balcony. "VIP lounge. Access is at the staircase in the dance club."

VIP lounge. Is that where he'd gone? He didn't look like the VIP type. My stomach tightened. I wasn't the VIP type, either, but one day I'd be different. I wouldn't be the Midwest girl that ran away from my namesake hometown of Corsica, South Dakota. I would be rich, recognized, and standing at that railing with an ever-full glass of champagne.

Then, I caught sight of the vintage microphone on the small stage. I knew I'd get to the VIP lounge if I stuck to my practical plan, but there was always a wild twinge of hope when I thought about singing. It was silly. I'd never make a living as a singer. Yet that was exactly what my heart wished for every time I was near a microphone or a stage.

I stopped and shook my head at Ginny. Why get my hopes up?