The Billionaire Game (3 page)

He kept on talking, but his words
fuzzed out in my brain and I felt my incandescent rage grow suddenly
ice-cold and hard and pointed. Stevie needed to shut the hell up, and
he needed to do it right now.

Luckily, a Girl Scout is always
prepared.

Or is that Boy Scouts?

Whatever, I was never in either of
them. But what can I say: I’m always open to inspiration.

I pulled the string I had run over the
edge of my door earlier, to a little contraption I had rigged up just
after he called, and armed just after Dove and Asher left. And
through the peephole I watched three gallons of expired aquamarine
dye cascade over Stevie ‘Jackass’ Jacobs.

My deposit on the apartment was going
to be completely gone to pay for new hallway carpet, but it was
totally worth it to hear Stevie screaming like a toddler, as if it
were actual acid and not blue-tinted water spilling all over him.

He shook himself, spluttering, blinking
dye out of his eyes. “You bitch! You fucking crazy bitch! Over
a goddamn book!”

“Magazine,” I corrected.

I turned away from the door with a
little smile on my face, humming a happy tune.

That was it. I was keeping the thing,
on principle.

Later that evening, fireworks burst
overhead, eager laughter swirled around me, and an attentive waiter
pressed a mojito with freshly crushed mint into my hand. Ah, this was
the life.

“This is the life, right?”
Lacey said to me with a grin. She looked resplendent in a knee-length
dress of shimmery golden gauze, accentuated by moonstone clasps at
the shoulders, and an ebony belt that brought out the deep brown of
her eyes. “Would you believe Grant wanted to have this
fundraiser in a stuffy old ballroom? On a beautiful clear night like
tonight?”

“It’s a good thing he has
you to talk him out of it,” I said with a playful dig at
Grant’s tuxedoed ribs. “I would not have wanted to miss
this.”

“I second the motion,”
Grant said, raising his glass as if for a toast.

Tonight’s
dance/banquet/concert/general purpose give-us-your-money event was to
raise funds for Grant’s latest favorite charity, a group that
bussed kids in homeless shelters to the library every day, and
watched over them while their parents were out working or looking for
jobs. This time last year, the only charity Grant Devlin had been
interested in was the Society for the Relief of Young Bimbos, but
Lacey had made him a changed man. These days he actually sought out
opportunities to do good on his own without any prompting, and when
he encountered a cause that didn’t have a fundraiser—or
even one that did, but didn’t seem big enough or glamorous
enough to raise the necessary awareness or funds—he made one.

“So, how much are we getting so
far?” I asked Grant.

He pulled up some numbers on his phone.
“Oh, about seven million,” he said off-handedly. “But
I think we can get it up to nine million by the end of the night,
maybe even eleven. Thanks for donating those items to the auction
table, by the way.”

“Well, I just hope you guys
aren’t counting on me for that last two million,” I
joked, trying to cover up my blush. Anything close to a compliment
about my work tended to do that, and being asked to donate an item
for a high-end auction definitely counted as a compliment. “I
mean, I’m good, but I’m not sewing blood diamonds onto
the fringes or anything.”

“Every little bit helps,”
Lacey put in. “And don’t underestimate yourself, Katie.
I’m pretty sure I saw Mariska Hargitay giving them the eye at
the auction table earlier.”

“
Detective Benson from Law and
Order: Special Victims Unit?!”
I squealed, traveling up the
scale in about three seconds.

Grant rolled his eyes fondly. “I’ll
leave you two ladies to the fangirling. I’ve got to circulate,
press the flesh.”

Lacey made a mock-warning face. “Press
the flesh, huh?”

Grant kissed her cheek. “Only of
the oldest, ugliest, and most wealthy couples in the western
hemisphere, I assure you.”

Lacey gave his butt a little swat.
“Well, alright. As long as they don’t press back.”

They gave each other a lingering kiss
on the lips before Grant headed out, and I looked steadfastly away,
trying not to feel the jealousy worming up inside me. It was easier
with Grant and Lacey than it had been with Dove and Asher, probably
because I knew and liked the former. But it was still hard, to see
that affection and to know that it was going to be awhile before I
had that level of ease and comfort and love with another person
again.

Lacey turned around just quickly enough
to catch the chink in my armor, and her eyes went wide with sympathy.
She patted my arm and lowered her voice. “How are you, really?
Is Stevie still being an ass?”

“Calling that douchebag an ass is
an insult to both donkeys and human anatomy,” I snapped,
boiling over like Mount Vesuvius. “I can’t believe what I
ever saw in that guy! I want to find a time machine and travel back
in time and slap myself in the face the second I said yes to a date
with him, and then slap him, and then slap him again, and then maybe
push him in front of some oncoming traffic!” My volume had
reached the point where people around us were pricking up their ears,
so I took a deep breath and continued, slightly more quietly: “Or
maybe just leave an anonymous tip with his advisor that half his
thesis is plagiarized from the undergrad kids he T.A.’s.”

“It’s not too late to do
that, is it?” Lacey asked, righteous indignation lighting her
face up. “He shouldn’t get away with that!”

That’s my Lacey: valiant champion
of underdogs everywhere. I felt a rush of affection for my best
friend, and gave her a little shoulder-shove.

“Ah, that smarmy jerkwad would
just have an excuse ready and waiting. Believe me, he’s agreed
with so many of his advisors’ opinions that the man thinks the
sun shines out of his ass and is responsible for our temperate
California climate.”

Lacey made a sympathetic noise. “That
sucks. Sorry it’s so hard right now.”

“He’ll get what’s
coming to him eventually,” I prophesied, though I wasn’t
sure how that was ever going to happen, especially when I had trouble
getting him to just leave me alone. Maybe an intervention by the
United Nations? “I don’t want to spend this whole evening
moaning about Steve the Thesis Hunter. Let’s talk about
something happy, like kittens or my imminent business success or how
fly you look in that dress. Present from Grant?”

“Bought this one myself,
actually,” Lacey said proudly. “From a designer I
discovered while we were in Milan. Although—” and her
eyes sparkled with mischief—“you could say that what I’m
wearing underneath is a present
for
Grant. From me, and
indirectly, from you.”

“You go, girl!” I said.
“Damn, but I remember when it was like pulling teeth to get you
to wear my designs for a man. It was all, ‘Kate, he’s an
asshole,’ and ‘Kate, I don’t like him like that,’
and ‘Okay, yes, Kate, we slept together and it was amazing but
now he’s brooding at me like he thinks he’s Heathcliff
from
Wuthering Heights’
—”

“I
never
said that,”
Lacey said, laughing and giving me a playful shove. “You’re
the one with all the fancy literary references; I just go for my spy
shows and the occasional movie. Though if you’re looking for a
Heathcliff, I think Mr. Dark and Broody over there has been giving
you the eye.”

I followed her gaze to a waiter who
indeed had a very brooding brow, with a low tumble of dirty blonde
hair, flashing dark eyes, and slacks that clung nicely to all
his…attributes.

“Mmm, yummy,” I agreed. “I
can’t go hit on someone on the job, though; I get enough of
people doing that to me all day long to ever turn it around.” I
spared him one last regretful look. Oh, but those shoulders would
look nice framed against my bedspread…

“Girl, we need to find you a
distraction,” Lacey said, slinging her arm around my shoulders.
“Want me to be your wingman? Grant’s got a lot of
yachting friends that, were I not happily about to be hitched, would
catch my eye. And possibly also other parts of my anatomy. So. See
anything you like?”

She was happier and more relaxed these
days than I’d ever seen her before in her life. And I was happy
for her. Of course I was. Really.

It was just hard, sometimes, realizing
I had gone from the happy-go-lucky friend with a bag of good advice
to the moping downer who needed to be cheered up.

“How’s that wedding coming
along, by the way?” I asked in a change of topic so transparent
you could have used it in manufacturing windows. “Got
everything sorted out?”

Lacey sighed, just slightly put out.
“We had to delay again, because we’re going to be in
negotiations with Genji Inc. in June. It’s just as well,
though, since that timeline works better for my parents—something
about Mars being in the fifth house—” she rolled her eyes
fondly; Lacey’s parents are great people, but man, sometimes
they are exactly like the cartoon picture you would find next to the
word ‘hippie’ in a kids’ dictionary—“and
it does give me more time to get the details just perfect.”

Uh-oh. When Lacey spends time obsessing
and over-thinking little details, it’s usually not long before
a freakout and tears are on their way. “What kinds of details?”

Lacey grinned. “Well, I had a
little attack of traditionalism, and I thought: you know what I want?
A trousseau! You know, the collection of linens, and clothes, and
lingerie that a bride traditionally—”

“Lacey, I know what a trousseau
is,” I said. “Do you need any tips on what companies make
good stuff?” I could feel my stomach doing a completely unfair
little roll and sink.
Lacey’s wedding is a big deal,
I
reminded myself.
She’s bought your designs plenty of times,
there’s no reason she’d be obligated to buy from you this
time. She needs it to be perfect, and professional, and and—

“Of course you do, sorry,”
Lacey said apologetically. “Anyway, and then I had a great big
attack of common sense, and I thought: you know who I want to make
mine? Katie!”

I felt an answering grin bigger than
the Grand Canyon split my face. “Oh my god, Lacey!” I
grabbed her hands and jumped up and down. “OMG, OMG, OMG, I
have so many ideas already! This will be the best trousseau ever, I
swear, all the other trousseaus will just go home and cry their
little trousseau hearts out! Oh, wow, I can’t even stop
thinking of ideas! Shit, I need to write them down.” I dropped
Lacey’s hand abruptly and began to paw through my purse for my
notebook. “Okay, so we’re going to go with, like, just
all the teddies for you, and a few babydolls. And a peignoir, I’m
trying to bring those back. Red is a good color on you, and purple,
and gold is pretty great. Can’t go wrong with black. Damn, I
wish I had my fabric notes! Okay, I remember you liked the design
with—”

Lacey let me ramble on for what was
probably ages, until my imagination ran dry, and shortly after that,
my pen. Before I could tell Lacey that I was fine, she motioned to
her assistant, who came running with a new one.

“Damn, girl,” I said, “free
pens
whenever
I need one? I knew hooking you up with a
billionaire was going to have its perks, but I can say with complete
honesty that I was not expecting this one.”

“Oh, you weren’t?”
Lacey said with a completely straight face. “But everyone knows
that billionaires have unlimited pens, staples, paper clips, and all
other office supplies. Except toner.”

“Oh really?” I asked,
trying to match her deadpan. “Why is that?”

“The Great Toner Wars,”
Lacey said, affecting a voice of deep sorrow. Then she ruined it by
nearly snorting champagne out of her nose as she broke into laughter.

I joined her. “You are the
silliest damn person I know,” I told her. “And I know me,
so that is saying something.”

“Oh, there’s Grant,”
Lacey said. “Good. He can rescue us from our silliness. He can
be our knight in extremely serious armor.”

It was just possible that we’d
had too much champagne.

Maybe. Just putting it out there as a
hypothesis. Were there any scientists at the party? We could ask them
to test it.

Grant came strolling up to us with the
self-satisfied saunter of a man who has successfully parted several
people from their not-terribly-hard-earned money for a good cause. He
was accompanied by two other guys, one tall and sandy-haired in a
rumpled suit, his square jaw and slight belly making him look like a
jock gone to seed. The other one—

—was Asher.

If I’d thought he’d looked
good in that T-shirt while at my apartment—well, shut my mouth.
And open it again, because those dimples were in danger of making my
jaw hit the floor.

He wore a midnight black suit, the
jacket unbuttoned and the tight red silk of his shirt making his skin
almost glow. He’d tugged off his tie in the heat, and was now
absentmindedly wrapping it around and around his strong, graceful
hands. His green eyes seemed to sparkle in the faint light of the
torches and fireworks, and his hair fell in defiant curls around his
face. A hint of stubble graced his cheeks, just enough to rasp
against someone’s skin if he leaned down to claim their mouth
with those full, pouty lips…

Oops, Grant was saying words. I should
probably pay attention to Grant’s words and not Asher’s
lips.

Though the lips were definitely more
interesting.

He’s got a girlfriend,
I
reminded myself.
He’s off limits, and also, he’s a
jerk! You have instituted a strict no jerk policy! All jerks must be
put in checked luggage; if you attempt to board this relationship
with a jerk, Security will ask you to step from the line.