Dance with the Billionaire Read Online Free Page A

pours himself a generous measure of neat Ketel One vodka into a large cut-glass tumbler, swirling the clear liquid around the glass for a moment before raising it to his lips.
    As I watch him, I feel the anger rise up in me again.
    That fucking douchebag. He thinks he can do whatever he wants, talking to me like some idiot servant, just because he has money, making me feel stupid just because I don’t know he owns more than one apartment ...
    I want to just get the hell out of here as soon as possible, so I bend forwards, reach beneath my dress and step out of my panties, then stand up straight again, holding them out to him.
    “Here,” I say, fixing him square in the eye, willing my outstretched hand not to tremble. “A thousand dollars, right? That was the deal.”
    “Oh dear,” he says so slowly and confidently, his gaze moving to the wisp of black fabric clutched in my fist, then back to my eyes again. “I’m afraid that offer is no longer valid.”
    I feel a sharp stab of embarrassment, quickly pulling back my hand and stuffing the panties into my purse.
    “In that case,” I spit back, “I guess I’ll be going. Thanks so much for wasting my time.”
    I turn and stomp towards the door, almost losing my balance on the stupidly tall heels I’m wearing. I’m red-faced with embarrassment. But then another emotion overwhelms me. It’s white-hot seething anger; anger at this asshole’s behavior.
    I turn back and scream, “Why the fuck did you give me your business card if you were just going to change your fucking mind? Do you think that just because I make less than you, just because I served you a fucking drink, you can treat me however you like?”
    Pause.
    “One thing I learned in business?” he says calmly, appearing in the doorway to the hall, the drink still clutched in his hand, the look on his face giving nothing away. “Never accept the first offer.”
    “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I hiss, still trembling with a mixture of rage and embarrassment.
    “Please,” says Dylan, “come and sit down. I might just have a better proposition for you.”

   
     
    “You sure you don’t want a drink? You certainly look like you could use one.”
    “Fine,” I reply, perched awkwardly on the edge of the couch, my knees pressed firmly together, totally aware that I’m no longer wearing panties beneath this tiny little dress. “Vodka. Ketel One. Same as yours.”
    “Very good,” he says, patronizingly.
    “I work in a fucking bar , remember?” I snap back. “I know the best vodka to drink neat. And I’m paid fifteen bucks an hour to serve it to guys like you.”
    Dylan Campbell chooses to ignore this latest outburst of mine, and turns to head back to the liquor cabinet. And this time, it’s my turn to check him out. I can’t help it. There’s something frustratingly magnetic about him, as if my eyes are drawn to him almost beyond my own control. And even though I know he’s just some creep, I still find myself watching him as he fixes my drink, the way his black hair shines in the light, the glow of his lightly tanned skin, the sheer broadness of his back beneath his shirt, the crisp white cotton giving away the sculpted form of his body beneath.
    What the hell are you doing, Julia? Why are you checking this guy out?!
    I force my eyes away from him, to the dazzling New York skyline, shown off by the huge floor-to-ceiling windows that run all across one wall of his apartment. I’ve never seen the city from this high up before and wow – it’s beautiful. I’m blown away, one hundred percent. After all, I’ve never quite got the spare bucks to take a trip to the top of the Empire State building. But now I don’t need to. This is just as good.
    “Here you go,” he says, standing so close to me now that I can feel the tiny space between us buzzing with
    as he places the chilled cut glass tumbler in my hands.
    “Thanks,” I mumble, lifting the glass to my lips, glad for the