Beddable Billionaire. Alexx Andria

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      Hell, everything about this woman threw me.

      I’d thought Luxe might’ve sent one of their show ponies to interview me. Maybe an intern with a tight body, perky tits and an ass that would put a gymnast to shame; or, a more sophisticated staffer with legs for days and long blond hair, perfect for a man’s fist to wrap around to guide a hot mouth onto a ready cock.

      I bit back my growing disappointment. No nubile intern; no savvy staffer. Luxe had sent her.

       The dour killjoy.

      Was that a coffee stain on her dress?

      And that austere bun squatting on top of her head was tight enough to give her a poor man’s face-lift.

      “So...you work at Luxe?” I asked, sinking into the sofa, regarding her curiously. Perhaps she was a freelance writer...

      “Three years now,” Lauren answered with a short smile before moving on. “I can appreciate how busy you are, so thank you for agreeing to this interview. My editor, Patrice, was excited to have one of the hottest bachelors in the city as the center feature.”

      Funny how her words said one thing but her tone said something completely different. This was starting off as the weirdest interview I’d ever granted. Didn’t she realize I was a catch? That there were scores of women who wanted to be on this sofa with me? Beneath me, specifically. Frankly, on a hotness scale of one to ten, she was reaching for a four; she ought to be the one excited to be interviewing me.

      But she didn’t look tickled or impressed. Or even happy to be there. Was that a tick of boredom in those chocolate eyes?

      My male pride demanded a better response. I couldn’t have a four turning her nose up at me. Maybe I just needed to warm her up.

      “Tell me about yourself,” I suggested with a charming smile, the one that never failed to soften even the most rigid of women. “Do you enjoy working for Luxe?”

      “Not here to interview me,” she said with a wag of her finger like a schoolmarm. “We’re here to talk about you.”

      “I like to get to know the people who are interviewing me,” I returned, lobbing the ball back into her court, which she let drop with an unsatisfying splat when she remained silent, her fake, professional smile firmly in place. “Nothing? Hmm...have we met before?” I asked, half wondering if I’d slept with her at some point and forgotten to call her afterward. I mean, I couldn’t see myself purposefully sleeping with a four, but if vodka was involved...anything was possible.

      “Not likely,” Lauren answered, puzzled by my question, and frankly, I was a little relieved until she said, “I doubt we run in the same circles,” and it was that tiny undercurrent of condescension that narrowed my gaze.

      “It just seems that maybe we’ve met before and perhaps I made a bad impression...”

      “Not at all,” she assured me, but her gaze remained unimpressed and flatly disinterested with anything that came out of my mouth, as if she were doing penance for a crime in a past life. Did I smell or something? I shifted against the unfamiliar sense of disdain emanating from the woman. “So, just tell me what you’d like the people to know about Nico Donato,” she suggested as if being helpful. “Charities you support, hobbies, what you do to make the world a better place?”

      Suddenly, everything clicked. I saw her game now. It all made sense. The frumpy clothes, the sour attitude, the barely concealed contempt...and now the leading question that she was fairly certain she knew the answer to...all meant to paint me into a corner of her choosing.

      Lauren Hughes wasn’t here to give me a fair shake; she was here to judge me. Time to make things interesting. If she thought she had me figured out, I’d give her something meaty to chew on. I grinned, sharing, “Actually, I don’t mean to brag but last week, I paid all the alcohol tabs at Buxom. Probably spent close to ten grand on that bill, but I was happy to do it. That’s just me...always giving.”

      “Buxom...the strip club?” she repeated, her expression screwing into a frown.

      “It’s more of a gentleman’s club, but yeah, I suppose you could call it a strip club, but you know, those girls work so hard. It’s really a misunderstood profession. I’m sure at least one of those ladies is working to put herself through law school, and how can you not support higher education, right?”

      “Very generous of you,” Lauren returned drily, her lips pursing a little before saying, “It must be very nice to be able to fund other people’s vices.”

      “Vice is fun, you should try it sometime.”

      “Thanks but I think I’m good.”

      “Oh, come now, surely there’s something taboo that flips your switch.”

      “Sorry, pretty boring.”

      That I can believe. But for the sake of argument, I said, “Indulge me,” my interest in the interview taking a hard left in a different direction. I wanted to see how ruffled I could make Little Miss Sourpuss’s feathers. “Perhaps...you enjoy a little spanking now and then? A little ‘tie me up, tie me down’ action behind closed doors?”

      A flush climbed her throat to stain her cheeks as she shut me down. “Not really,” she answered, gesturing with professional courtesy to the recorder in her hand even as I sensed I’d gotten under her skin. “Shall we return to the interview, please?”

      “Oh? Isn’t that what we were doing?”

      “I can’t put in the article that you frequent Buxom. It’s not the most savory bit of information for an article trying to make you sound like a catch.”

      “I am a catch.”

      She shrugged as if to say, we can agree to disagree, but suggested, “Let’s get back to basics. I have some tried-and-true questions that usually lead to good, safe answers. Shall we?”

      Sounds boring as hell. “Lead on.”

      “Puppies or kittens?”

      “Neither. They both shed, vomit and shit all over the place.” I gestured to my penthouse suite. “Clearly, I value a clean space in which to entertain.”

      “Hmm...do you like any sort of pet?”

      I considered her question, but I really couldn’t think of anything. Living things were too much work. Unfortunately, I learned that the hard way when I was seven. RIP, poor Bubbles the goldfish. “No, not really.”

      “Nothing?” she pressed, as incredulous as if I’d admitted I enjoy tripping old people in my spare time. “Not even a hamster or a rabbit?”

      I smiled, wondering how far I could push Miss Hughes’s boundaries. I wasn’t above playing dirty either—because dirty was fun. I drew a breath as if in thought, then said, “I do enjoy games.”

      “Oh? Like board games? Clue, Monopoly, that sort of thing?” she asked, cocking her head with curiosity. “Or like card games?”

      “Have you ever heard of pony play?”

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