Serving the Billionaire Page 8

It took a few moments for the meaning of her words to sink in. A thousand dollars? For one night of work? There was a catch of some sort—I was sure of it. “What, um. What kind of party? I mean, what’s going to happen in his private room?” I’d avoided asking any questions before, but if I was going to do this, I wanted to go in with my eyes open.

Germain pressed her lips together, but she nodded slightly. “You have a right to know. He typically brings a handful of companions, and requests... entertainment from a few of our dancers. The girls tell me that he never touches them, although his companions do; but that none of them have particularly exotic tastes. Lap-dances, a little groping. No actual sex.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“You can speak with him, if you’d like,” Germaine said. “He’ll be arriving soon. You don’t need to decide immediately if you’d like to serve for him. See what he has to say, and then I’ll work out the details. Or,” she went on, looking closely at my face, “you can work the main floor as usual tonight, and I’ll have another girl serve him in the future.”

I thought about it. A thousand dollars was a lot of money—and I would just be serving, not giving any lap-dances of my own. “I’ll talk to him,” I decided.

“Excellent,” Germaine said. “He’ll be in room 4 in ten minutes. You can wait for him in there, if you’d like.”

I still didn’t know who this man was, and the thought of waiting alone in a room for some wealthy, powerful customer made me a little nervous. Germaine didn’t seem to think there was anything unusual about it, though, and I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t up for the task. I put on my game face and went back out into the club.

Room 4 was along the back wall. I slipped inside and waited by the fireplace. I didn’t want to sit down. The room contained a number of over-stuffed sofas arranged around the fireplace, with low tables beside each one. The light in the room came from the fire and the lamps set on each of the tables, and the walls were paneled with dark wood, giving the room a cozy, intimate feeling. The carpeting underfoot had a thick, dense pile. Nothing was overtly flashy, but the room as a whole screamed money.

Endless moments dragged past as I waited. My stomach did somersaults. I didn’t know for sure who this mystery man was, but I had a feeling it was the man in the charcoal suit from the other night, and I knew that if he walked through that door, there would be no going back.

After a slow eternity, I heard a noise at the door, and it opened slowly. I held my breath.

It was him, of course: the man in the suit.

I forced myself to exhale. Passing out from lack of oxygen probably wouldn’t make a good impression.

He crossed the room and stopped directly in front of me. He towered over me, even with my heels, and I gazed up into his blue eyes and felt that same electric connection I’d experienced the other night. My heart beat rapidly. He was wearing a suit again, a navy one with a blue shirt and a dark red tie, and he looked good enough to eat.

“You spoke with Germaine?” he asked me. His voice was as deep and resonant and I remembered.

I swallowed, and concentrated on not stammering. “Yes.”

“So. One thousand for the night. Nobody will touch you.” He looked me up and down. “Are you easily shocked?”

“By what?” I asked. Easily shocked could cover a lot of ground.

His mouth quirked to one side. “Naked women. Drunk men around naked women.”

“I’m not a prude, if that’s what you’re asking,” I said. My mouth spoke without my brain’s permission. I couldn’t believe how bold I was being, or that I was even able to string two words together when he was standing there looking at me, smelling of wool and rich cologne.

“I shouldn’t think so. You do work at a strip club,” he said. Very calm and matter-of-fact, like he talked about public nudity and strip clubs every day of the week. Maybe he did, for all I knew. Rich people. He raised his eyebrows at me. “Do you agree?”

“I agree,” I said. How could I not, when he was standing there looking at me? The money had been enough of a temptation—I probably would have said yes even if it was some old, creepy geezer; but with him, this man with intensely blue eyes, there was no chance I would ever say no.

“Good. The rest of my party will be arriving shortly. Please bring in a bottle of your best Scotch.” He reached out and touched me on the chin with his thumb and forefinger. “You’ll be a good girl for me tonight.”

It wasn’t a question. I could feel myself blushing. “Will you tell me your name?” I asked, stunned by my own audacity. Who was I to question him, this powerful man? I was just some girl who worked in a club. He was—well, whoever he was; but I was sure that he was far more influential than I could conceptualize.

“Carter,” he said.

“And your last name?” I asked.

He made that same half-smile quirk of his mouth. “Sutton,” he said.

Carter Sutton. It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “I’ll be a very good girl for you, Mr. Sutton,” I said, lowering my eyes demurely. Saying the words sent an unexpected thrill up my spine. I didn’t know what it meant.

“Wonderful,” he said. His voice sounded rough.

I didn’t linger. I went out to the bar and asked the bartender for his best Scotch, and then took it back to room 4. Carter had seated himself on one of the couches and was intent on his phone; he paid no attention to me as I set out the Scotch and glasses. I waited for a moment to see if he would acknowledge me, but when he just kept frowning at his phone, I slipped out of the room again.

I went to the bathroom and took my own phone out of my purse. I looked up his name. The first search result told me everything I needed to know, and more than I really wanted to: Carter Sutton, 31, CEO and chair of Sutton Industries, the biggest holding company since Berkshire Hathaway. Prodigy, wunderkind, billionaire several times over, and one of New York’s most eligible bachelors.

Holy shit.

I was in so far over my head that I didn’t even know which way to start swimming.

I wanted to splash some water on my overheated face, but I was afraid it would mess up my makeup. Instead, I rinsed my hands in cold water and dabbed them along my neck.

It helped a little. I took a few deep breaths and met my own gaze in the mirror. I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it through the night. But for a thousand dollars, I would do whatever it took to keep Carter happy. Mr. Sutton. I shouldn’t call him Carter, even in my own head, because I would definitely slip up and call him that to his face. Too intimate. Beth had told me that it was best to stay on a last-name basis, even if the clients told you to call them by their first names. I believed her.

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