Beddable Billionaire. Alexx Andria
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