Page 6 of The Billionaire's Ride

There’s something so inviting in his gaze that I agree with a smile, despite my nerves. I’m definitely coming back. If I can even move. My heels are glued to the floor.

A dim light radiates from the room as he enters and turns back to me. His gaze rolls over my entire body. “I’ll wait for you,” he says, leaving me breathless. And I believe him.

Better he waits for me than the other way around. I hurry around the corner, adjusting my dress but thinking it’s a futile pursuit. Nina Savoy’s hall bathroom is easily bigger than my master bathroom with her sunken tub surrounded by black-and-white-swirled marble and matching sink, beautiful recessed lighting, and a huge diamond-patterned beveled window.

I check out my dress in the full-wall mirror behind the tub, then my clutch vibrates on the vanity top. A familiar tune sounds from inside. I pull out my phone. It’s Beau, my best friend of forever. And by forever, I mean since the first grade.

“Sorry, Beau,” I utter and send the call to voicemail. That’s when I see I’ve missed her four calls in the last twenty minutes. Uh-oh. Something’s up. I swipe to call her right back.

“Thank God, Kate.” Beau’s voice is thick and cracks around my name.

My heart plunks into my gut. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Martino,” Beau sobs. “He posted a photo with some girl on Instagram. And it wasnothis sister. I texted him—Nice photo.Are we seeing other people now?—and he texted back, saying he’s been so lonely since I left Italy that someone had to keep him warm. What the hell kind of response is that? I thought we were in love. I was going to fly back in like ten days to spend the summer with him.”

Beau has a fetish for unavailable foreign men. She claims that each one of them is the love of her life. I’ve heard “He’s The One” at least sixteen times in the past seven years. But despite the string of heartbreaks it’s caused her, she never seems to grow tired of putting herself out there over and over and over again.

I want to tell her to get it together. But she’s my oldest and dearest friend. Not to mention the most loyal. She’s always on my side, and so I choose to always be on hers.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. You know how those European guys are. They’re players,” I say, literally about to fool around with one myself. “Remember Franco, and Milos, and Isak?” How do I remember their names? Oh yeah, she obsessively told me all about them during their respective seasons of love. “You should protect your heart. Save it for someone who’s really worthy.” While I give this sage advice, I can’t help but think that no one is really worth a broken heart.

No one.

“But I thought hewasworthy. I thought he was the love of my life.” She lets out a long, dreamy sigh. “The way he made love to me when we spent the weekend in Manarola, I knew he was my sex soul mate.”

A handful of men she’s been with have won the title of sex soul mate. I don’t believe in soul mates, sex or otherwise. But I do believe in chemistry. And I need to go back to that room with Drew and find out how explosive our chemistry really is.

I sigh, slouching my shoulders and leaning my hip against the bathroom sink. “I know you did. I’m so sorry, Beau. If I could make this better by bringing you animal-style fries from In-N-Out, I would, but I can’t. Can I call you back? I’m at this party?—”

She let out another huge, heart-wrenching sob. “Kate, I really need you right now. I feel so lost.”

I take a deep breath and glance at my frown in the mirror. “Okay, I’m here.” I slip out of the bathroom with the phone glued to my ear, consoling my friend as I trek down the stairs, and making my way outside. Chemistry with some guy isn’t nearly as important as Beau’s broken heart.

And if it is, I guess I’ll never know.

Chapter Three

DREW

I knewshe wouldn’t come back. “Just Kate” is not theprivate-party-with-strangerstype. I waited anyway. Waited. And waited. And waited for the chance to listen to her pretty voice and, if I was lucky, feel her body intertwined with mine. That girl was gorgeous with the sexiest pair of legs I’ve ever seen. And those lips . . .

The zip on her pink dress would’ve come down so easily. And what else would’ve come undone? I like the idea of seeing her vixen side. But who am I kidding? Good girls like her don’t go for guys like me. Too bad she wasn’t feeling rebellious last night.

It would’ve been a perfect situation. Girl takes a trip to London, has a fling with some Brit she can brag about to all of her American girlfriends, then goes home, never expecting anything more than what she got. That’s all I really offer anyway.

I’m not the kind of lad that gets attached. And I haven’t been someone’s boyfriend since secondary school. I’m more of the lone, wild horse variety. At least that’s how I feel now, cruising along the M25 on my vintage Triumph motorbike I’ve dubbed Black Jack. Yes, Black Jack is one of my first bikes. Probably the only thing I’m truly loyal to. Gripping the handlebars andweaving through traffic, the open air gives me a rush of freedom that never gets old.

This morning, I’m heading to a photo shoot forLux Magazine. Some boudoir-style, lingerie thing that Nina Savoy requested of me. After the other night, the timing couldn’t be more perfect. A sexy model in a lacy bra is exactly what I need to brush off Kate and her olive-colored eyes.

I park Black Jack near the three-story studio building in Soho, double-checking the address on my phone. This place just opened up a few weeks ago. Lifting my helmet off my head, I smooth back my hair, then grab all of my equipment. I ride the lift to the third floor and follow the chatter to a studio at the end of the hall. Two ladies surround an empty makeup chair. One guy adjusts the white canopy curtains around the four-poster bed, while another levels out the white sheets. The rest of the crew’s scattered about the room. Rays of sunlight stream in through the window, hitting the bed perfectly. We only have about an hour to get the shot before the light changes.

“There you are.” Francesca’s steps echo over the studio’s bare walls as she approaches and adjusts her blue-framed glasses. Her black bun is perfectly balanced atop her head.

She’sLux Magazine’sproduction director, who I’ve worked with many times. Just work, no play. Francesca’s married to some finance fellow from Sussex. I may live on the edge, but I’d never mess around with a married woman. Even one with cat-shaped eyes like hers.

“You’re looking beautiful today, as always,” I say, pecking a kiss on each of her cheeks.

“Thanks, babe.” Francesca glances behind me. “Where’s your assistant?”

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