The Billionaire's Fantasy - Part 1. Kate Hewitt

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      Chapter One

      SHE WAS THE embodiment of every naughty nun and sexy schoolteacher fantasy he’d ever had. Which, Jaiven acknowledged, had to be stretching it since Louise Jensen didn’t look like either, dressed as she was in a perfectly normal wrap dress in some semiclingy material and a pair of low heels.

      It was the glasses, he decided. Chunky, square black frames that somehow highlighted rather than hid her vivid hazel eyes. And her laugh. She had a tense way of holding herself; she held a glass of wine in one hand and cradled her elbow with the other, as if she were only just keeping herself together. But she had a surprising, sexy, dirty laugh.

      The whole package—the glasses, the laugh, the ruler-straight posture and the fact that he knew she was a professor at Columbia—made him decide to take her to bed.

      Judging by the covert glances she’d been shooting his way, he was pretty sure she wanted to go there.

      Admittedly she wasn’t his usual type; Jaiven preferred his bed partners to be vacuous, shallow and well-endowed. Those qualities, he found, made sex the simple and pleasurable transaction he wanted and needed it to be.

      Louise Jensen was neither shallow nor vacuous, although she definitely fulfilled his well-endowed requirements. Different though she might be, Jaiven still wanted her. Still intended to have her.

      He drained the rest of his beer and glanced around the private ballroom, guests milling around all that gilt and marble, chatting softly. Even their laughter sounded entitled, like the tinkling of expensive crystal.

      Except for Louise. Her laugh was louder than everyone else’s, and every time he heard it, which admittedly hadn’t been that often, he experienced a jolt of lust.

      He normally avoided parties like this. He hated all the snobbery and schmoozing; everyone was trying to prove themselves in some way and he wouldn’t do that. Couldn’t even if he wanted to.

      He also stood out amidst all these preening peacocks. He could feel their curious, sideways glances taking in the tattoo visible on the side of his neck, the once-broken nose, the fact that even though his tuxedo was top-of-the-line it still felt like a monkey suit.

      He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to loosen the tension that knotted there, and then decided to hell with it. Sex was the easy and simplest solution. Best way to relax, hands down.

      And he knew just whom he intended to relax with.

      He glanced at Louise again, openly, not hiding his interest as she so obviously was. Even though her back was to him he knew she could feel his stare, saw it in the way she shifted slightly, clutched her elbow more tightly and took another hasty sip of wine.

      Did she have a thing for bad boys? Tattoos? Jaiven had certainly come across that little fetish before. Whatever it was, she was clearly interested in him, even if she wanted to act as if she wasn’t.

      She’d been sliding him glances while she was sipping her drink and then hurriedly looking away, quickly saying something or laughing too loudly.

      Jaiven smiled, the tension inside him already starting to loosen. This would be both interesting and easy, a particularly enjoyable combination, and the perfect way to end his evening.

      “Jaiven.” His friend and host of the party, Alex Diaz, clapped him on the shoulder. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked with a knowing smile, and Jaiven rolled his eyes. “I know this is your personal hell. Not just a party, but one celebrating an engagement.”

      “Two strikes,” Jaiven agreed equably. He wouldn’t begrudge the happiness of one of his oldest friends; it was just bizarre that Alex had found it with a woman, in a relationship. A permanent relationship, something they’d both vowed to avoid.

      People changed, Jaiven supposed, even if he didn’t think he ever had or could. Yet Alex seemed happy with Chelsea Maxwell, the once-celebrated talk show host and now head of some high-profile charity. He didn’t get it, but then Chelsea, with her glossy television looks and frosty attitude, was so not his type.

      But her sister Louise was. She would be. For a night, at least.