Читать книгу Beddable Billionaire - Alexx Andria - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

Nico

“NICE TO MEET YOU, Mr. Donato. Lauren Hughes, Luxe magazine.”

The tall brunette thrust her hand toward me as if she were a man—strong, no-nonsense, obligatory—her deep brown eyes the only feature worth noting if I were to go off first impressions.

The handshake lasted all of two seconds, no lingering, and then she was sitting primly at the farthest point on the sofa in my living room, recorder in hand, expression blandly expectant, as if preparing to mentally vacate as soon as I started talking.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hughes,” I said, my gaze quickly taking in the shape-swallowing shift dress that completely obscured her figure and the functional flats that finished off the wretched ensemble. I think my maid dressed better than this woman. “I hope the traffic wasn’t too heavy.”

“Dealing with traffic is just one of those things you get used to when you live in New York,” she said with a brief smile. The look in her eyes told me she wasn’t one for small talk, which suited me fine because I hated it, too—but I was definitely not quite sure what to make of this stiff-as-a-board reporter.

Definitely not what I was expecting, and I was fucking disappointed. Where was the hot chick in the curve-hugging pencil skirt, glasses sitting demurely on the bridge of her nose, hair upswept in a delicate yet artfully messy bun? Not sitting on my sofa, that’s for sure.

“Have you always been a New Yorker?” she asked with a direct stare. No makeup that I could tell. Not even a hint of mascara to brighten up her eyes. A pity. Those dark eyes with a little assistance might even be pretty. “My editor tells me that your family is from Italy, originally.”

“Yes, so the legend says,” I answered, trying for a little wry humor. When she didn’t so much as offer a polite chuckle, I cleared my throat and followed with, “Tuscany, actually, but we’ve been in New York for two generations now. Our Italian roots are fairly weak at this point. All I inherited from my Italian ancestors is a love of fine women, wine and pasta.”

“Ah.”

“Your skin tone is beautiful. Are you Latina?” Was she Latina? Or perhaps Native American? Maybe even Creole?

“A hodgepodge of nationalities,” she answered, adjusting herself on the sofa. “Just lucked out in the skin department, I guess. So, tell me, how does it feel to be named one of New York’s most eligible bachelors?”

“Well, you know the saying, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about,” I said with a wink. “But it should be interesting to see what crawls out of the woodwork once the magazine hits the stands. I’m always down for an adventure.”

“If you’re not interested in finding love, you could’ve turned down the interview,” she said, again with that brief smile that I was beginning to suspect was patronizing. “I’m sure we could’ve found someone who was more aligned with the purpose of the spread.”

“Who said I’m not looking for love?”

“Well, I mean, it was kind of implied by your earlier statement. To call the women who might be interested as things that ‘crawl out of the woodwork’ sounds insulting, don’t you think?”

Annoyance threatened to color my tone as I admitted, “That was a poor choice of words. Maybe I’m more embarrassed by the attention than I like to let on. The truth is, I’ve never considered myself interesting enough for an entire magazine spread, and I’m not quite sure how I was selected.”

False humility was always good for a few grace points, but I think Lauren saw right through my attempt, which, in itself, threw off my game.

Hell, everything about this woman threw me.

I’d thought Luxe might’ve sent one of their show ponies to interview me. Maybe an intern with a tight body, perky tits and an ass that would put a gymnast to shame; or, a more sophisticated staffer with legs for days and long blond hair, perfect for a man’s fist to wrap around to guide a hot mouth onto a ready cock.

I bit back my growing disappointment. No nubile intern; no savvy staffer. Luxe had sent her.

The dour killjoy.

Was that a coffee stain on her dress?

And that austere bun squatting on top of her head was tight enough to give her a poor man’s face-lift.

“So...you work at Luxe?” I asked, sinking into the sofa, regarding her curiously. Perhaps she was a freelance writer...

“Three years now,” Lauren answered with a short smile before moving on. “I can appreciate how busy you are, so thank you for agreeing to this interview. My editor, Patrice, was excited to have one of the hottest bachelors in the city as the center feature.”

Funny how her words said one thing but her tone said something completely different. This was starting off as the weirdest interview I’d ever granted. Didn’t she realize I was a catch? That there were scores of women who wanted to be on this sofa with me? Beneath me, specifically. Frankly, on a hotness scale of one to ten, she was reaching for a four; she ought to be the one excited to be interviewing me.

But she didn’t look tickled or impressed. Or even happy to be there. Was that a tick of boredom in those chocolate eyes?

My male pride demanded a better response. I couldn’t have a four turning her nose up at me. Maybe I just needed to warm her up.

“Tell me about yourself,” I suggested with a charming smile, the one that never failed to soften even the most rigid of women. “Do you enjoy working for Luxe?”

“Not here to interview me,” she said with a wag of her finger like a schoolmarm. “We’re here to talk about you.”

“I like to get to know the people who are interviewing me,” I returned, lobbing the ball back into her court, which she let drop with an unsatisfying splat when she remained silent, her fake, professional smile firmly in place. “Nothing? Hmm...have we met before?” I asked, half wondering if I’d slept with her at some point and forgotten to call her afterward. I mean, I couldn’t see myself purposefully sleeping with a four, but if vodka was involved...anything was possible.

“Not likely,” Lauren answered, puzzled by my question, and frankly, I was a little relieved until she said, “I doubt we run in the same circles,” and it was that tiny undercurrent of condescension that narrowed my gaze.

“It just seems that maybe we’ve met before and perhaps I made a bad impression...”

“Not at all,” she assured me, but her gaze remained unimpressed and flatly disinterested with anything that came out of my mouth, as if she were doing penance for a crime in a past life. Did I smell or something? I shifted against the unfamiliar sense of disdain emanating from the woman. “So, just tell me what you’d like the people to know about Nico Donato,” she suggested as if being helpful. “Charities you support, hobbies, what you do to make the world a better place?”

Suddenly, everything clicked. I saw her game now. It all made sense. The frumpy clothes, the sour attitude, the barely concealed contempt...and now the leading question that she was fairly certain she knew the answer to...all meant to paint me into a corner of her choosing.

Lauren Hughes wasn’t here to give me a fair shake; she was here to judge me. Time to make things interesting. If she thought she had me figured out, I’d give her something meaty to chew on. I grinned, sharing, “Actually, I don’t mean to brag but last week, I paid all the alcohol tabs at Buxom. Probably spent close to ten grand on that bill, but I was happy to do it. That’s just me...always giving.”

“Buxom...the strip club?” she repeated, her expression screwing into a frown.

“It’s more of a gentleman’s club, but yeah, I suppose you could call it a strip club, but you know, those girls work so hard. It’s really a misunderstood profession. I’m sure at least one of those ladies is working to put herself through law school, and how can you not support higher education, right?”

“Very generous of you,” Lauren returned drily, her lips pursing a little before saying, “It must be very nice to be able to fund other people’s vices.”

“Vice is fun, you should try it sometime.”

“Thanks but I think I’m good.”

“Oh, come now, surely there’s something taboo that flips your switch.”

“Sorry, pretty boring.”

That I can believe. But for the sake of argument, I said, “Indulge me,” my interest in the interview taking a hard left in a different direction. I wanted to see how ruffled I could make Little Miss Sourpuss’s feathers. “Perhaps...you enjoy a little spanking now and then? A little ‘tie me up, tie me down’ action behind closed doors?”

A flush climbed her throat to stain her cheeks as she shut me down. “Not really,” she answered, gesturing with professional courtesy to the recorder in her hand even as I sensed I’d gotten under her skin. “Shall we return to the interview, please?”

“Oh? Isn’t that what we were doing?”

“I can’t put in the article that you frequent Buxom. It’s not the most savory bit of information for an article trying to make you sound like a catch.”

“I am a catch.”

She shrugged as if to say, we can agree to disagree, but suggested, “Let’s get back to basics. I have some tried-and-true questions that usually lead to good, safe answers. Shall we?”

Sounds boring as hell. “Lead on.”

“Puppies or kittens?”

“Neither. They both shed, vomit and shit all over the place.” I gestured to my penthouse suite. “Clearly, I value a clean space in which to entertain.”

“Hmm...do you like any sort of pet?”

I considered her question, but I really couldn’t think of anything. Living things were too much work. Unfortunately, I learned that the hard way when I was seven. RIP, poor Bubbles the goldfish. “No, not really.”

“Nothing?” she pressed, as incredulous as if I’d admitted I enjoy tripping old people in my spare time. “Not even a hamster or a rabbit?”

I smiled, wondering how far I could push Miss Hughes’s boundaries. I wasn’t above playing dirty either—because dirty was fun. I drew a breath as if in thought, then said, “I do enjoy games.”

“Oh? Like board games? Clue, Monopoly, that sort of thing?” she asked, cocking her head with curiosity. “Or like card games?”

“Have you ever heard of pony play?”

Her expression screwed into a cute mask of confusion. “Pony play? Like polo or something?”

I chuckled, enjoying this way more than I should, but I was hungry for that sudden blush that would follow my explanation. For a brief—and I’m talking nanosecond brief—moment, when the high color brightened her cheeks, she was almost pretty.

And I was curious just how far I could push.

I started to explain, using my hands for illustration. “Imagine a beautiful mane attached to a short, notched column and then imagine that column going straight up a lovely ass, held in place by the cheeks, then you fit your sweet horsey with a halter and a bit and if you’re lucky, you get to ride her all night.”

She gasped in shock, thrown off her game. Flustered, she shut off her recorder, shooting me a dark, exasperated look, but those cheeks were so hot I could fry an egg.

And holy fuck, miracle of miracles, she’d just rocketed past a level four and hit a solid seven.

“Mr. Donato...that...that...that’s disgusting.”

I laughed. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“And inappropriate. Like, really inappropriate for the purposes of this interview. I can’t go writing that you like to stick things up women’s asses and ride them like horses. I mean, c’mon!”

I pretended to be perplexed. “I thought you wanted something authentic. This is the real me. I believe my potential mate should share my open-minded views on sex. Otherwise we’re not going to make it. I’d rather be honest and up-front from the start, don’t you think? Imagine all the pain and heartache we’d both suffer if I wasn’t honest and then when we discover we’re incompatible sexually, it’s nothing but tears and accusations. I’ve seen it too many times. Honesty is the best policy when it comes to sex. If you haven’t learned that yet, you will.”

I’d caught her neatly with seemingly earnest logic, and there wasn’t much she could say to refute my point.

Lauren pursed her lips as if holding back what she really wanted to say. Go ahead girl, let loose. Tell me what a perverted dick I am. I wanted to push all her buttons. “Mr. Donato—”

“Please call me Nico. Mr. Donato is so formal and boring. Besides, when I hear Mr. Donato, I immediately look for my oldest brother, Luca, or my father—both are giant killjoys, if you know what I mean, and I’m nothing like either of them.” I settled my gaze on her with intrigue and fluttered my fingers suggestively as I followed with, “Tell me, what taboo sexual act gets you all revved up? Surely, there’s something that gets the home fires burning...”

But instead of taking the bait, she narrowed her gaze and shut me down with a hard “May I speak frankly?”

This ought to be interesting. I gestured with magnanimous flourish. “Please do.”

“I know you have a reputation for being a playboy—”

“I have a reputation?” I repeated, pretending to be concerned. “Tell me...are they talking about my cock? Pardon my bluntness, but if they are saying it’s anything less than a full eight inches, they are lying through their damn teeth.”

Lauren ignored my provocative statement and pushed forward, saying, “Your reputation as a Lothario precedes you, Mr. Donato,” deliberately using my formal title rather than my name. “But I’m here to interview you as an eligible bachelor—an interview you agreed to, if I may remind you, so if you wouldn’t mind at least pretending to take this seriously, we can finish with the interview and I’ll be on my way. How does that sound?”

Now it was my turn to be annoyed. What would it take to knock loose the stick wedged up her ass? Even as she was determined to keep me at arm’s length and locked out, the subtle widening of her eyes gave away more than she knew—and that fired up my need for more.

“How about dinner, tonight?” I proposed, imagining what she might look like if her hair wasn’t pulled to the back of her skull like a nun’s visiting the pope.

“No, thank you,” she answered, pursing her lips with irritation. “The interview, please.”

Such a dogged sense of duty. I released a sigh and leaned back, motioning for her to continue. “Fine. I’ll answer your questions but only if you’ll answer mine.”

“That’s not how this works.” Exasperation colored her voice but not to the level I imagined she was feeling. If I were a betting man, I’d say Lauren Hughes wanted to hog-tie me, land a swift kick to my nuts and stuff my silk tie down my throat.

Not the usual response I received from women.

And, fuck me, I liked it.

The game we were playing had just leveled up.