Dance with the Billionaire

By: Charlotte Eve

And for a moment, I find myself wondering just how far I might go ...


I stare up at the imposing Ingram Building, a menacing black silhouette against the darkening sky. It’s exactly the kind of place someone like Dylan Campbell would live in. It’s taller than everything else on the block, like it’s trying to intimidate the rest of the street. I walk into the lobby, feeling the eyes of the desk clerk watch me as I make my way towards the elevators, my heels clicking loudly on the marble floor, ringing out around the huge cold room, the air-conditioning causing my skin to come out in a prickle of goose bumps.

I half think the guy at the desk is going to ask me just what I think I’m doing in here. I feel like such an outsider. But I make it safely to the elevators, push the button, then quickly step inside, feeling a small rush of relief as the doors swish closed behind me.

I punch the button for his floor, and then the elevator lurches into life, rushing me upwards. I try to make the most of the final few seconds before I have to knock on his door.

The doors open onto a plushly carpeted gray corridor, and I step out, looking around me to see which way to go. But there’s only one door, so there’s only one way to go. I pause for a moment and look back at the elevator.

You could just leave now. You don’t have to do this.

But instead I continue, until I’m standing right in front of the door. I reach out and knock, as loudly and confidently as I can, then wait, forcing myself to keep my hands straight down by my sides and not fold my arms to cover my breasts. I’m trying to summon all my inner strength. I don’t want Dylan Campbell to think that he can intimidate me.

The door finally opens and there he is, dressed in a white shirt and navy chinos. His eyes lock onto mine and a smile flickers on his lips.

“Julia Tate,” he says, looking me up and down with a deliberate slowness, like I’m some piece of meat, before eventually standing back to let me into his apartment.

It suits him – it’s cold and grey and masculine, all hard edges, chrome and glass and shiny black leather. When I turn around, he’s right behind me, close enough that I can smell his cologne: a woody, musky scent that I find myself drinking in with pleasure, despite myself.

I look again around the apartment, then catch his eye, and say, “Nice place. It’s kind of ... lacking in personality though.”

The smile drops from his full lips, instead replaced by a look of pure disdain.

“You don’t think I actually live here, do you?” he says with a dismissive shrug.

“Well, it is your apartment isn’t it?” I reply unsteadily.

“It’s my apartment in the sense that I own it,” he says, strolling confidently towards a built in cabinet on the farthest wall, “but no, I don’t live here.”

Okay Mr Bigshot. I get it. You’ve got more than one apartment. Who cares. God, he’s such a prick.

He turns his back to me to pull open the cabinet, revealing a number of expensive bottles of spirits – imported Scotch and Vodka – the kind of things we charge insane amounts of money for at the bar.

“Drink?” he says.

I shake my head, and he shrugs again, then 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?”

Top Books