Romance: The Billionaires Collection (Watched By A Billionaire, Stranded With A Billionaire, Caught By A Billionaire, Billionaire Stepbrother) Read online

  He leaves me with a 'we'll be in touch by the end of tomorrow', and I don't hear a thing.

  The other interview is even worse.

  To my great surprise, my ex boss's wife's influence seems to have spread all the way across the nation, and the guy interviewing me is well aware of my indiscretions.

  However, he appears to have decided to use such a thing as an opportunity when he asks me how far I'd go to secure the job.

  He looks at me with probing eyes from within a face withered by too many winters and carrying a ruddy appearance that suggests he enjoys his booze just a little bit too much. A smile reveals slightly yellowed teeth and his breath reaches me with a whiff of whiskey.

  Basically, he's asking me if I'll fuck him to get the job, and I'm starting to feel sick to my stomach just looking at him.

  I storm out without answering and tell myself that I'd never stoop so low as to use my pussy to get me ahead in life. I mean, sure, I'll fuck people for my own pleasure. But a dirty old man just to get a shitty job?

  No thanks, I think I'll pass.

  Each night I return home finding my mom with hopeful eyes. And each time I return I feel just that little bit more sure that my life might not end up quite how I was anticipating.

  My dad, who's rarely around because he's constantly working late on a new case, offers me the odd word of encouragement and advice, but I can tell his mind is always elsewhere.

  Frankly, as much as I love my parents, I'm finding it all very claustrophobic having to conduct my job search for here, under their roof. My mom always looking at me in the hope that I've got some good news, but too afraid to ask outright whether things are going well or not.

  I'm glad for that, because I wouldn't know what to say.

  “Terrible, mom. Absolutely, fucking terrible.”

  That would sum it up quite nicely.

  It goes that way for nearly three weeks, and before long I've begun to widen my search even further. I know, when I spend an entire day scouring the local bars and restaurants looking for waitressing work, that I've taken a tumble from the lofty heights I set myself.

  I return home on my first day of looking for menial work, my spirit damper and darker than ever. Yet still, I have to try to smile and pretend as if everything is going OK, if only to avoid further questioning from my parents.

  In my room, preparing to put a film on my laptop and forget the world until morning, I hear my mom calling me from downstairs.

  “Ashley, there's someone at the door for you.”

  I begrudgingly pry my tired body off my bed and go to the door. Again, my mom calls, this time pacing up the stairs to make sure I've heard.

  “Ashley, there's a man here to see you...”

  I open my door to my mom's face.

  “Who is it, mom?”

  “He called himself Mr Taylor. He looks very smart, if a little eccentric. Is this to do with work?”

  I shake my head, doubting it and not remembering meeting any eccentric looking people on my travels. And yet, eccentricity is a common trait of those involved in fashion, particularly when it comes to their dress sense...so maybe it is related?

  With a sudden hope lighting inside me, I turn to the mirror to make sure I look presentable. I don't, wearing only a pair of lazy sweats and a hoodie. But there's no time to change.

  “Ashley, come on, you can't keep him waiting.”

  She pulls on my arm, dragging me from my reflection, and ushers me toward the staircase. I pass by the gallery and start descending, my mom hovering behind me, and gradually the man at the door comes into view.

  Eccentric was right on the money.

  He's wearing a white suit, dark blue shirt, and straw hat, and looks quite the character. Dusty brown hair flows over his head, receding slightly and graying at the sideburns, and his skin carries a tan that suggests he sees the beach, or the sunbed, quite a lot.

  But his most striking feature is definitely his smile. It's wide and charming and immediately disarming, and somehow makes me involuntarily return the look as soon as I see him.

  “Ah, you must be Ashley Fisher,” he says as I step into the hall, my mother still behind me. “I must apologize once more,” he continues, turning to her, “for mistaking you for your daughter.”

  “Oh, no apologies needed,” says my mom with a surprisingly flirty laugh.

  The man smiles and turns his eyes back to me. “You're as beautiful as your mother, Ashley, and that's saying something.”

  The mood I'm in, I'd expect to find such a comment yawn-worthy, but it actually makes me half giggle, to my great surprise.

  “Now, we haven't met before, but I'd like a word in private if I could?”

  I turn to my mom, who nods and quickly takes herself back off to the kitchen.

  “This way Mr...”

  “Mr Randall Taylor.”

  He sets his hand forward, and I take it. He then proceeds to lift my palm and kiss the back of my hand, a greeting you don't see too often these days. Then again, Randall Taylor doesn't look like your average guy.

  I lead him through into the living room and we sit down facing each other. His eyes drift around the well appointed room, always kept clean and tidy by my mother.

  “A lovely home you have here.”

  “Thanks, but it's my parents home, not mine.”

  “Of course, you don't expect to be here for long, do you?”

  “Um....no.”

  Does he know I've just moved back here or something? Who is this guy?

  “Sorry, Mr Taylor...but who exactly are you?”

  He smiles once more, that toothy smile that shatters your defenses, and looks me dead in the eye.

  “I'm the man who's going to present you with an offer of employment, Ashley. One that might just change your life.”

  Chapter Three

  Now he's got my full attention.

  “An offer of employment? What sort of offer?”

  “The sort you wouldn't get expect to get, and the sort that you will most likely be offended with at first. It's also the sort of offer that you will almost certainly turn down, at least at first. They always do.”

  “They? Sorry, Mr Taylor, I'm a little confused.”

  “And I'd expect so too. I'm being completely vague, but I'll reach my point eventually. I do have a tendency to go off-piste, but I'll try to keep it all succinct for you. And please, Ashley, call me Randall.”

  “OK, Randall...”

  “Excellent. Now, let me first tell you how I've come to be here. I offer a very specific set of services to a very specific group of clients. I heard, through a couple of people, about your run in with your old boss and his wife, and subsequently I find you here.”

  Shit, what the hell is this about. My run in? I suppose he knows I was fucking my boss then....but why is that relevant?

  “Now, please don't take offense, but the situation with your boss has enlightened me to your, how shall I put this, sexual openness...”

  My eyes narrow into a frown and I look at the guy as if he's just murdered my puppy.

  “Excuse me...”

  “Please, Ashley, do not be offended. I understand you are a girl who enjoys sex and isn't afraid to admit it. Is that true?”

  I'm wondering just how he knows that, aside from speaking with my old boss, but nod my head anyway.

  “Well good, and that's fine. Women should be free to enjoy sex and sleep with men freely, just like men are. Isn't it unfair that men are labeled as 'players', while women are called 'sluts' when they enjoy various different sexual partners?”

  I nod again, still shocked at the turn of the conversation. Frankly, he's hit the nail on the head there. I agree with that wholeheartedly.

  “Well, with all that in mind, let me explain to you what the service I offer is.”

  My breath seems to hold in my chest, the oxygen in the air suddenly growing thin as I await an explanation. Given how this conversation has started, I'm not expecting him to offer me a
job at his fashion magazine.

  “My clients like to watch two highly attractive people enjoying a session of carnal activity...”

  My mouth drops.

  “I can see from your expression that that's not what you expected when I first arrived at the door. But, if you'll indulge me, please let me finish before chucking me out.”

  His manner is so charming it's impossible not to defer to him and let him continue.

  He nods reverently as I say 'go on', before proceeding to continue with his story.

  “The two sexual partners are put into a room and they simply enjoy each other's bodies until they both climax. Usually each performance will last for 30 minutes. Trust me when I tell you, Ashley, that each man and each woman used in these performances are truly stunning. You, I must add, are one of the finest looking creatures I've ever seen.”

  I stay silent, not knowing what to say or how to react. He takes my lack of speech as an invite to continue.

  “Now, the clients are not visible to those performing. They are behind glass walls that only they can see through. So, while they are watching the performance, the performers are not put off by their presence. All they can see is their own reflection in the glass, which is mirrored on the inside. Most performers love that they can watch themselves having sex from all angles.”

  I'm having a hard time processing all of this, and he clearly knows it. It's obvious that he's had this conversation with a hundred girls before.

  “Do you have any questions so far, Ashley?”

  I slowly shake my head, still unable to form words.

  “Now, you will, of course, be well compensated for your efforts. Like I say, my clients are special men, and I service some of the wealthiest men in America and across the world. Trust me when I tell you that this is all above board and legit. It is incredibly high class and isn't seedy at all. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I croak.

  “Your compensation will depend upon the ratings your receive during your performance. You will be paid a flat rate and then will receive additional payment for doing a good job. Naturally, if my clients like you, they will want to invite you back.”

  “Porn...”

  It's the only thing I can think to say, the world slipping from my lips.

  “Pardon me?”

  “It's....just live porn then?”

  “Porn is an ugly word in my estimation, Ashley, and is suitable for the masses. The shows I put on are, as I said, high class affairs for very wealthy men. They are akin to the shows the Romans used to enjoy. That is the slant you should look at this with.”

  “I don't think I could...”

  “I understand, Ashley, I truly do. I've done this many times, and everyone says the same thing – I don't think I could do it. Well, I can assure you that this is no different from sleeping with another handsome man in your own private room. The only difference is that you'll know you're being watched, and you'll be getting paid a lot of money for it. And, well, the men are some of the finest lovers in the world. You'll never have sex quite like it...”

  He's probing hard, pushing my buttons. I suppose he must pick girls like me who he knows enjoys sex and, well, are struggling for cash. Certainly, both of those apply to me...

  “How much money do you get paid?”

  His face lights slightly at my interest.

  “As I say, it depends. But you get at least flat rate of twenty thousand for the one night. Often, that can be many times higher.”

  My eyes widen.

  “Twenty thousand dollars?!”

  He nods with a smile.

  “I told you, Ashley, this is a high class affair and is very lucrative. As soon as you get past any moral barriers you might have to face, I'm sure you'll make the right decision.”

  His words draw a close to the conversation, and he leaves me with his cell phone number and the knowledge that a week on Friday, a performance is being planned for Manhattan to which I can get involved if I so wish.

  “And, as long as you pass the medical,” he adds, before walking out the door.

  Once he's gone, I have to deal with my mother, who reappears asking questions about the mystery man in the white suit.

  Half dumbstruck by the conversation, I struggle to come up with a suitable excuse, telling her that he was nothing but a fashion designer who'd heard about my situation and might be able to help me find work.

  That sends my mom bouncing with glee and hope, but as she hugs me all I'm doing is thinking about sex, me having it with a beautiful man, men watching me from behind glass walls...

  She takes my lack of speech for some sort of repressed excitement, but I've already forgotten exactly what I told her when she starts asking more questions. I extricate myself with a word that I'm feeling ill, which she also puts down to the excitement, and manage to escape to my room without further hassle.

  And there, and only there, do I let my mind fully wrap around the idea and digest everything that the enigmatic Randall Taylor said to me.

  But what sticks in my mind most of all isn't the idea of prostituting myself or fucking some random guy in front of people.

  No. What really lingers is the promised base rate of twenty grand, and the thought that, with a good performance, I could get a whole lot more.

  And then, suddenly, the dream of having my own design studio, of crafting my own designs and starting my own label, starts to stir once more.

  Chapter Four

  For the next few days, the conversation with Randall Taylor festers in my head. I spend my time going back and forward over it, at one time turning my focus back to finding a job, and then at another being unable to concentrate on anything but the money.

  Of course, the money itself would bring problems, not least the questions I'd get from my parents. But then, since I keep them in the dark about just about everything else in my life, why not this as well?

  “I won the lottery,” I could tell them. Or maybe just not tell them at all.

  Frankly, there's no real reason why they'd find out, especially because an influx of money like that into my bank account would have me hightailing it straight out of here and back to the West Coast where I'd gotten very used to the fine weather, fine beaches, and tanned, muscular men.

  Randall had, however, given me a deadline, and told me that if I missed it he'd assume that I wasn't interested at all and would never consider me again for future 'work'.

  And after another fruitless week at the employment search coalface, I'm all but ready to agree to his terms and say 'fuck it, why the hell not'.

  So, that's what I do.

  I pick up my cell, phone his number the morning of the deadline, and listen to his mellifluous voice running down the line into my ear.

  “Randall Taylor speaking.”

  “Mr Taylor...it's Ashley.”

  “Now, Ashley, didn't I tell you to call me Randall?”

  “Um, yes Randall, sorry...”

  “So, I assume you're calling to accept my offer?”

  “Yes,” I say weakly, still doubting my decision but, obstinately, not willing to go back on it.

  “Excellent. Are you at home?”

  “Yes,” I say again.

  “Perfect. I'll have a car come and collect you within the hour...”

  “A car...what for?”

  “Testing, Ashley. We need to test you for sexually transmitted diseases and other such issues. The doctor, who is female, don't worry, will also inspect your body. Our clients have certain requirements and, well, they only like girls who appear fresh and new, if you understand my meaning.”

  I can only assume he's talking about the state of affairs between my legs.

  “I'm very neat and tidy down there, Randall,” I venture, slightly embarrassed for having to mention it to him.

  “Yes, well we'll just want to make sure of that. Now, dress comfortably. You'll have to sign the contracts too.”

  I wave of nausea pulses through me at the idea of a
ll of this. But then again, it does make it sound even more official, which gives me some solace that this isn't just some big set up and that I'm going to find myself in a crack den somewhere surrounded by sex starved addicts.

  I tell my mom that I'm going out looking for work again when I leave the house, and find a black saloon care waiting outside. The driver, who looks quite handsome with his hat on, takes me a short way to a doctors office, where the tests are officially conducted.

  Then the doctor inspects my body, asking me to strip naked and taking her time to prod and probe and take my measurements. When she asks me to get dressed she tells me, in some sort of clinical way, that I'm 'perfect', to which I don't quite know how to respond.

  Randall, however, appears delighted by the doctor's report when he calls me later that night.

  “You're going to be just what our clients want,” he tells me. “Now, all you have to do is perform well and both they, you, and I will be extremely happy.”

  The rest of the week goes like a shot, my mind now fully absorbed in what I'm about to do. All I know is that the guy will be handsome and dynamite in the sack, the sort of guy I'd happily go home with if I'd met him in a bar or club.

  So, the only thing I have to get my head around is the idea that there will be a bunch of men watching me through the glass. Sure, I won't be able to see them, but I'll certainly know they're there.

  And that's enough to ensure that my nerves begin to build several days in advance.

  By the time the big day itself dawns, I'm a bag of nerves and considering jumping ship and doing a runner. Only I can't. I've signed contracts. And now I'm committed to the performance.

  It's late afternoon when I'm picked up by the same car and driver as before. He gives me a cheeky smile, the sort that suggests he knows exactly what I'm going to be doing in a couple of hours, and we set on our way.

  Within 30 minutes, we're in Manhattan and are parking outside a grand mansion fairly centrally located a little to the east of Central Park. The driver opens my door, and Randall greets me outside, looking over me like a proud parent about to watch his daughter in a school recital.