Page 5 of Fake Dating Daxton Hawk
Grateful to be rid of his assistance, I enter the lobby, where greenery drapes from the ceiling and shallow pools of water line either side of the walkway. The lobby bustles with people. Some lounge on the plush sofas with expensive cocktails in their hands. Others line up at the reception desk, waiting to be served.
The elevator takes me to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open and Daxton is instantly all I see, standing on the far side of a lonely corridor. He’s waiting for me in our usual meeting spot, right outside the restaurant entrance, and is occupied with a phone call. The deep tones of his voice send shivers along my skin, authoritative with whoever he’s speaking to. He’s talking in business jargon I can’t understand, but what I do sense is the frustration in his voice.
My stomach tightens with nerves as I approach him. Like always, Daxton is dressed in a three-piece Italian suit and his dark hair is slicked back. As much as I don’t want to admit so, Daxtonishandsome. The first night we met, it was all I could think about. He approached me at Club Noir after my feather dance performance, was all charming by saying I was beautiful, that he would pay me generously if I accompanied him to a business event while pretending to be his date for appearance’s sake, and that the evening would be strictly professional.
I had no idea of his identity or his wealth. All I knew was I was pinned beneath his intense brown gaze, could barely think straight due to his velvet-clad voice, and that I’d be lucky if I ever saw a man that beautiful again. For once, Steel wasn’t on my mind. This handsome stranger had all my attention.
Look how well that turned out.
Honestly, I have no one to blame but myself. What kind of delusional idiot is flattered by a man asking them to be a paid date? Me, apparently.Iam a delusional idiot, which makes perfect sense since I’m delusional enough to have romantic feelings for Steel. But regardless, Mina is right—I’m not cut out to be an escort. I shouldneverhave let my feelings get involved where Daxton Hawk is concerned.
My heels click across the marble corridor, my heart beating faster with every step I take closer to Daxton and his tall frame of muscles. He doesn’t acknowledge my arrival until I’m standing right beside him. Daxton’s eyes lock onto me and trail down my body in a lazy gaze—an inspection, deciding whether I look appropriate for tonight’s dinner. With a few more deep words, Daxton finishes his conversation and slides the phone into his pocket.
“Delphine.”
Though his voice doesn’t rise in volume, he sounds angry when he says my name. Mystagename—the one I gave him that first night at Club Noir. I have never shared my real name with him. Separating my identity from burlesque dancing is a lesson I learned the hard way, years ago in Australia when a guy from the audience tracked down my address and kept leaving lingerie on my front doorstep.
“Thank you for joining me this evening. How are you?”
I raise an eyebrow. Seriously, I can’t deal with this guy pretending like he’s a gentleman. “Let’s just get this date over with.”
His gaze lingers on me, examining me after my clipped response. “Bad day, baby?”
I suck in a sharp breath of air at the pet name. He chuckles at the shock I’m sure is visible in my eyes, then places a hand on my upper back. “Come on, let’s go.”
The exposed skin on my back burns at the touch of his palm. I wiggle out of his reach and he laughs again.
That goddamn laugh is so infuriating.
“I’ll follow you into the restaurant,” I say.
“Suit yourself.” Daxton heads inside, leaving me to trail behind.
The quiet chatter of elegant guests fills the restaurant as soon as I step through the entrance. Wine glasses are clinking. There’s laughter. A jazz pianist plays background music on a grand piano.
“Mr. Hawk.” A young blond and busty seating hostess appears by our side, smiling at Daxton. She’s beautiful. The kind of woman you’d see on a runway. “I saw your name in the reservation book and was pleased to know you’re back in town. We need to catch up over dinner soon.”
I never knew Daxton was out of town. We don’t talk about our lives to one another.
He smiles at her, which is enough to annoy me because I never get a smile from Daxton unless he’s acting or it’s some smug gesture. “I’d like that, Amabella. Send me a text and we’ll set something up.”
Wow. He’s stooping to a new low, picking up women right in front of me. I don’t know why I’m so annoyed. I don’t even like the guy, and he sure as hell doesn’t like me. But Iamannoyed. I guess these billionaires think they can do anything when women are involved.
“Is the other half of my party here yet?” Daxton asks her.
“You’re the first to arrive. Let me show you to your table.”
Amabella doesn’t spare a single glance at me. We follow her through the restaurant, weaving among the many guests already dining. My guess is Daxton is sleeping with her. He’s probably sleeping with every woman he can get his hands on, which would be a lot, considering the way women throw themselves at him.
I did a Google search on Daxton before I first agreed to be his escort. He’s in the media more than I anticipated, not only for being a billionaire in hotel development at the age of thirty, but also for the number of women he’s seen with. A new woman every week. Sometimes multiple women in one week. I’m pretty sure Daxton was even asked to be onThe Bachelor. He probably turned it down because he didn’t want to commit to one woman.
Once Daxton and I are seated at our table, Amabella places a hand on his shoulder and leans in, whispering, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, Mr. Hawk.”
He smiles at her then is instantly on his phone again, his thumbs speeding across the keyboard. A tightness forms in his jaw and his brows draw together, much the same look as when he was frustrated outside the restaurant a moment ago.
As soon as Amabella leaves us, I roll my eyes and echo her words, mocking her sensual tone under my breath. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, Mr. Hawk.God, does every woman talk to you like that?”
It was a rhetorical question, which I thought was spoken quietly enough for only my ears, but Daxton responds, not sparing a glance from his phone. “Every woman except you.”
