Page 29 of Beauty and the Billionaire

Zain hooked his jacket on a peg in the corner.

“Zain?” Someone shouted. My fists tightened. Did he have enemies? I made a move to step in front of Zain when a young man pushed through the crowd. He was tall and toned, wearing a sleeveless top that bared his muscular arms, and his hair parted in the middle, making a double arch above his brow, with locks closing around the outer corners of his eyes. He didn’t notice me at all but stretched his lips into a welcoming smile. “I don’t believe it.”

“Tristan?” Zain replied as he stood next to me.

“You just disappeared,” the young man said with a touch of accusation. “Mama Viv was worried sick. Your father wouldn’t tell her where you were.”

Zain’s eyes widened. “My father met her?”

Tristan looked at Zain with surprise all over his face. “I still need fresh herbs, man.”

Zain chuckled, but I could hear the force his laughter required. “Oh, of course.”

“Where were you?” Tristan pressed on.

I was sorely tempted to ask him to back off when Zain flashed a more genuine smile to the young man. It was warm and bright,like sunshine. Something turned cold in me. “I got a job. Of sorts.” He turned a little to me. “This is Dominic. My boss.”

The cold sensation thickened in the pit of my stomach. His boss? Of course. I was his boss. And ten years his senior, too. It would be smart if I remembered that. This other guy, however, was much closer to Zain’s age, and the foolish optimism of youth was painted all over him. I could see how someone inexperienced could find that attractive.

“Pleasure,” I said, embracing the outstretched hand and shaking it.

“You look familiar,” Tristan said. “Do you come here often?”

“First time,” I said, causing a bewildered expression to flicker on Tristan’s face. A moment later, his eyes widened a little as he placed me.

“Oh,” Tristan said, eyebrows rising high. “Welcome to Neon Nights.”

I nodded, pulling my hand back.

Tristan turned back to Zain, although he had lost his balance a little after recognizing me. “Gotta dash. Cedric’s waiting for his mojito. But find me later. You have to tell me about the job.”

Zain hesitated a little; he was clearly pleased that he should receive such attention from a handsome young man. I wasn’t sure what it was that I felt—if anything—but it couldn’t possibly be jealousy. “Will do,” Zain said.

“Let me get us drinks,” I told Zain when Tristan disappeared into the crowd.

The bartender was mixing cocktails like an expert but in a somewhat flashy manner typical of these places. His top was sleeveless and tight, emphasizing his physique, and I wondered if people fell for that. Did they order drinks more often because an attractive bartender would flash them a grin?

I pulled out a crisp bill and waved it when the bartender finished serving a pair of purple-haired goth girls whose blackclothes were covered with “fuck the patriarchy” badges. The bartender looked at me flirtatiously and asked me what I would like to drink in a smooth, seductive voice. It was all I could do to stop myself from telling him to rein it in a bit. I asked for a surprise, one whiskey-based, another nonalcoholic. And when he was done, serving me a plain-looking glass of whiskey with a drizzle of something else and an elaborate and colorful concoction in a tall glass, I handed over the bill and told him to keep the change.

I carried our drinks to Zain, who had moved a little further away from the entrance and stood by the windows, one arm resting on the long, narrow bar that ran along the length of the wall. He wasn’t alone.

A short-haired young man around Zain’s height was chatting with him. A possessive sensation flared in me as I stepped closer, putting our drinks on the bar.

The young man turned to look at me. “It’s true,” he declared, looking into my eyes.

“What is?” I asked, hackles rising along the back of my neck.

The young man looked much more hostile than Tristan, one side of his upper lip lifting as he mock-smiled. “Be honest. Are you here to try turning this place into a luxury restaurant?”

Something clicked in my brain as worry passed over Zain’s face. Part of me was offended, of course, but amusement was a much stronger sensation. “You must be Roman Cross.” My hands were deep in my pockets, but so were his.

“You heard of me?” Roman asked, glancing at Zain.

“I don’t think there’s a rich person in the city who hasn’t heard of you, Mr. Cross,” I said. “You keep the old-money boys awake at night.”

Roman snorted. “It’s not about the age of the money, Mr. Blackthorne.”

“You’ll forgive me if that doesn’t particularly worry me,” I said.

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