BILLIONAIRE (Part 6) by Juliette Jones Read Free Book Online

such.
    Claude
placed the bottle of champagne on ice and two glasses on the table outside the
bedroom door, clearly reticent about entering the room itself.  “I should
probably give him a call—” he began.
    “ No ,”
I said quickly.  Too quickly.  But I continued, unable to stop myself. 
“Please, Claude.  Please .  Please don’t call him.”  Then, I tried my
best to smooth his concern, to lay whatever qualms he might have been having to
rest.  “There’s no need.  Alexander will be back any minute.  I’ll tell him how
happy I am that you brought me champagne.  And so quickly.  Thank you, Claude. 
Alexander and I are celebrating.  I start work on Monday.”
    I
was babbling, I realized.  Claude continued to watch me with obvious
confusion.  Who was I?  Was I really Alexander’s employee?  And if so, what
was I doing locked away in his bedroom?   There were too many odd questions
floating around to work through.  It was easier to just ignore them, to let him
be on his way.
    I
stood in the doorway, watching him retreat, making sure the door stayed open. 
I poured myself a glass of the cold, bubbling liquid as I stood there, and I
drank it in thirsty gulps, feeling better already.  I took the new iPhone
Alexander had bought me out of my bag and placed it on top of the empty glass. 
I didn’t want him calling me.  Or tracking me.
    After
drinking one more glass of champagne, I closed the door behind me and walked
down the grand, curving staircase.  I didn’t have to enter the kitchen to make
my way to the front door.  Silently, I let myself out.
                                                                $
    It
felt strange to be back on the busy streets again, alone.  It had now been
several weeks since I’d been away from the company of Alexander for more than
brief separations.  The streets seemed dirtier than I remembered, and more
chaotic.  I’d grown accustomed to opulent order, after all, of an almost
complete removal from the real world.
    I
also wasn’t used to the extreme attention I seemed to attract.  People noticed
me, and I wasn’t sure why.  Sure, I was dressed in obviously-expensive
clothing.  My coat and my boots were both to die for; these were the details
the women noticed.  Their eyes followed me as I walked past, taking in the
impeccable cut of my garment, the stylish boots, and my long hair, I couldn’t
help notice.  Blond hair and expensive clothes were hardly traffic-stopping in
New York City, but I continued to feel like a freakish spectacle as I walked
along the streets, with no particular destination in mind.
    I
let my coat fall open to allow the late-afternoon air to cool me down.  Between
my anxiety attack and my hasty escape, I felt flushed, and spooked.  Several
men stopped in their tracks as I passed them, their eyes drinking in the shape
of me, the tight-fitting and very-short dress I wore.  I was almost amused by
their reactions.  Was I really that noticeable?  I’d run my fingers through
my hair after my shower but hadn’t bothered drying or styling it, so it was
long and loose, a little disheveled, like I’d just crawled out of bed, which,
come to think of it, I had.  Could they sense my vulnerability, and my newfound
sexual awakening?  Something about their expressions suggested to me that they
could.  That on some base, primitive level they were reading my femininity and
my fertility despite all the layers of civilization we found ourselves mired
in.  I might have been an unstable mess, but I was hot: this is what they
noticed.  I could see it in their eyes.  It was exactly the look I’d spent
years trying to avoid by wearing thick, unfashionable glasses and baggy, dull
clothes.  By stooping under the weight of books and never making eye contact. 
Times had changed.
    I
stopped to look at the window display of a swanky furniture shop.  The couches
and chairs were