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"I like your hair." His gaze drifted over the absolutely unexceptional French twist that was secured by a broach that once belonged to Elizabeth Taylor.
"I'm not a prostitute.” I addressed the possibility directly, in case the rumors were true.
His mouth didn't change, but his eyes warmed. "I can overlook that fact."
It was the first five lines of our meeting, uttered two hours into the fundraising gala. Talk about an unromantic start to a love story. I can only blame my crude participation on alcohol, two glasses of wine already downed, my self-loathing slightly pacified by merlot.
Now, I studied the man, someone that I had followed ever since I got involved with the Homeless Youth of America.
Brant Sharp. Genius. Bachelor. Philanthropist.
He was even better looking than I imagined. The tiny thumbnail image used in press releases barely showed his features, and certainly hadn’t done his looks any justice. But it was his intensity that really surprised me. He peered at me as if I was a problem, and he searched my soul for a solution. He also seemed inordinately pleased by my hair, his eyes frequently leaving mine to sweep over their dark strands.
I can overlook that fact.I laughed at the response, the sound one he seemed to enjoy, his own mouth twitching into something that was almost a smile. I liked that he was close-fisted with his smiles. It was refreshing.
"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm a big fan of your work with HYA,” I said. Homeless Youth of America was the only holdover from my mother's painful rearing—a charity she'd pushed me at, one that ended up gripping ahold of my heart and refusing to let go.
The amusement left his expression and when his eyes darkened, they turned into molten heat. "I wouldn't call it work. My office cuts a check. Nothing else is done."
"The funds mean a great deal."Fundswas putting his contribution lightly. Last year I raised half a million dollars for the charity, six percent of their annual donations. His check covered ninety-two percent. It was enough to make him the honorary Chairman of the Board, though he'd never shown his face at the facility or the board meetings. Beth Horton, the permanently dour head of HYA operations, had been the one to tell me about the escorts.
"There's been hundreds," she’d confided at last year's board meeting, wedging an entire powdered donut into her mouth. I’d watched closely, as interested at the prospect of her choking as I was in the discussion of Sharp's sex life. "My driver's brother is a doorman at his downtown condo and said the girls show up all hours. Beautiful girls, but clearly prostitutes. He never leaves with them, and they only stay for a few hours." I nod, half-believing the words. It would explain why he'd never publicly dated, a fact that drove the women of San Francisco mad and had sparked rumors of homosexuality. Those rumors never went too far. Too many women who had met the genius, worked for him, dissuaded them. I liked the idea of prostitutes, of the man unleashing holy hell on a woman of the night in the privacy of his Silicon Valley condo.
The funds mean a great deal.Sharp didn't respond to the comment, and it hung between us.
I took a sip of champagne. "I'm surprised to see you here."
"Why is that?" The laser focus of this man was unnerving. When he stared at you, there was no wavering, pure certainty that he was listening to your words and processing them accordingly. I tried to relax, the pressure of an intelligent response high, well aware that I was in the presence of brilliance. I’d never been a woman that found intelligence sexy. Four years surrounded by Stanford nerds would cure any woman of that misconception. But this man ... he had a combination of intelligence with confidence and intrigue, all mixed in a martini glass of strikingly handsome looks.
I shrugged and took another sip of liquid courage, wishing for something stronger than champagne. He moved closer, and I had the unnatural urge to lean into him and sniff. Maybe test the waters by placing my hands on his tux's lapels and tugging him in. Would he hold the eye contact? Would he step back? Or would he drag me somewhere private and fuck me senseless? My reckless confidence of earlier wavered in his presence. Ninety-two percent of the annual HYA budget. Ninety-two percent, staring at me as if he wanted to eat me.
I swallowed and tried to bring my mind back to the conversation. “Well, you're a recluse. Never photographed. The word on the street is that you have the social skills of a hyena.”
The last statement was a complete fabrication, and I smiled to soften the joke. “And you’ve never come by the campus or attended a board meeting. I just assumed that the spring fundraiser would also be skipped."
“Hyena tendencies aside, Thomas Yand is on the guest list. I'm hoping to speak with him. He's been avoiding my calls."
"Ahhh..." I leaned closer and lowered my voice. "So this is an ambush."
"That was the plan. A conspirator would help." He raised his eyebrows at me, and every bone in my body came to attention.
Yeah, definitely not gay. I could understand why his female employees rushed to this man's defense. I'd spent two minutes in his presence and had experienced about nine spikes of arousal. I swallowed and painted a cool expression on my face. "What do you have in mind?"
* * *
He didn't need a conspirator. He was one of the wealthiest men in the world and as powerful as Zuckerberg in terms of the tech community. But we played our roles well. Flirted over cheese trays and whispered over champagne. Celebrated with conspiratorial smiles when Yand was cornered—me on one side, Brant on the other. I let their conversation take off, then stepped away. Retreated to the other side of the room, where Anne Waters, a bleach-blonde with double D's, pulled me into a chair at her table, licking crab cake off her fingers and diving into a long discussion over her spring shopping in the city. I nodded politely while my mind wandered, my resolution to live a different life strengthened with every unladylike lick of her fingers. I snuck a glance at Brant, who was focused on Yand, his face grim as he nodded at him.
Watching him, a surge of want curled inside my groin, surprising me. I’d always assumed, if I ever met the reclusive billionaire, that I would dislike him.
Reason #1: He'd been impossibly wealthy ever since he was a teen. With decades of being waited on and catered to—it was a tried-and-tested incubator for an asshole.
Reason #2: He was impossibly intelligent. I'd expected the ego to match the brains, producing a pompous, arrogant nerd, the type who'd spout off intricate facts while staring at my breasts.
What I didn't expect was everything that he was not. Quietly confident. Unassuming. Gorgeous, with intense interest that didn't play games.
He glanced away from Yand for a moment, and everything stopped as our eyes caught and held. He broke the contact and extended a hand toward Yand, ending their conversation with a polite smile. He moved toward me and I couldn’t look away. I could only watch as he stalked across the room until he was standing before me, his gaze warm as I tried my best not to swoon into his arms.
His arrival halted the conversation at my table. I glanced at Anne, whose mouth was half-open, her crab cakes forgotten. "Excuse me, please," I murmured, rising to my feet as Brant pulled out my chair. The circle of vultures watched closely, hopeful for a scrap of gossip to feast on. Brant led the way and we escaped toward the rear doors.
