Beddable Billionaire. Alexx Andria

       CHAPTER TWO

      Nico

      “NICE TO MEET YOU, Mr. Donato. Lauren Hughes, Luxe magazine.”

      The tall brunette thrust her hand toward me as if she were a man—strong, no-nonsense, obligatory—her deep brown eyes the only feature worth noting if I were to go off first impressions.

      The handshake lasted all of two seconds, no lingering, and then she was sitting primly at the farthest point on the sofa in my living room, recorder in hand, expression blandly expectant, as if preparing to mentally vacate as soon as I started talking.

      “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hughes,” I said, my gaze quickly taking in the shape-swallowing shift dress that completely obscured her figure and the functional flats that finished off the wretched ensemble. I think my maid dressed better than this woman. “I hope the traffic wasn’t too heavy.”

      “Dealing with traffic is just one of those things you get used to when you live in New York,” she said with a brief smile. The look in her eyes told me she wasn’t one for small talk, which suited me fine because I hated it, too—but I was definitely not quite sure what to make of this stiff-as-a-board reporter.

      Definitely not what I was expecting, and I was fucking disappointed. Where was the hot chick in the curve-hugging pencil skirt, glasses sitting demurely on the bridge of her nose, hair upswept in a delicate yet artfully messy bun? Not sitting on my sofa, that’s for sure.

      “Have you always been a New Yorker?” she asked with a direct stare. No makeup that I could tell. Not even a hint of mascara to brighten up her eyes. A pity. Those dark eyes with a little assistance might even be pretty. “My editor tells me that your family is from Italy, originally.”

      “Yes, so the legend says,” I answered, trying for a little wry humor. When she didn’t so much as offer a polite chuckle, I cleared my throat and followed with, “Tuscany, actually, but we’ve been in New York for two generations now. Our Italian roots are fairly weak at this point. All I inherited from my Italian ancestors is a love of fine women, wine and pasta.”

      “Ah.”

      “Your skin tone is beautiful. Are you Latina?” Was she Latina? Or perhaps Native American? Maybe even Creole?

      “A hodgepodge of nationalities,” she answered, adjusting herself on the sofa. “Just lucked out in the skin department, I guess. So, tell me, how does it feel to be named one of New York’s most eligible bachelors?”

      “Well, you know the saying, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about,” I said with a wink. “But it should be interesting to see what crawls out of the woodwork once the magazine hits the stands. I’m always down for an adventure.”

      “If you’re not interested in finding love, you could’ve turned down the interview,” she said, again with that brief smile that I was beginning to suspect was patronizing. “I’m sure we could’ve found someone who was more aligned with the purpose of the spread.”

      “Who said I’m not looking for love?”

      “Well, I mean, it was kind of implied by your earlier statement. To call the women who might be interested as things that ‘crawl out of the woodwork’ sounds insulting, don’t you think?”

      Annoyance threatened to color my tone as I admitted, “That was a poor choice of words. Maybe I’m more embarrassed by the attention than I like to let on. The truth is, I’ve never considered myself interesting enough for an entire magazine spread, and I’m not quite sure how I was selected.”

      False humility was always good for a few grace points, but I think Lauren saw right through my attempt, which, in itself, threw off my game.

      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