Bought By The Billionaire

Chapter 7: Bought By The Billionaire - Chapter Seven

“What do you think?” Those blue, blue eyes stare into mine. At some level, I feel that I should be outraged. This man, who I only met earlier today, is offering me a position as his personal … what? Concubine? Mistress? Whore? Call girl?

But it doesn’t feel like that. I like him. And he seems to like me. And if I could concentrate on my studies instead of cleaning up rooms after some jerk has had too much booze and thrown up …

He is still silent, gazing steadily into my face.

I make up my mind. “When do I start?”

He nods and smiles, then looks at me and says, “When do I start, Master?”

Yes, of course. I cast my eyes down. “When do I start, Master?”

“Right now,” he says cheerfully, but then pauses. “Outside this apartment, a simple Sir will be sufficient I think.”

“Yes, Master. And what would you like me to do, Master? Right now?”

“I assume you can type? Yes? There’s a computer and printer in the office through there.” He points at another door. “You can start by writing a letter of resignation. After that, you can join me in the bedroom.”

I wake up in my dingy bedroom, and for a moment, I stare up in confusion at the ceiling, the events of the previous day swirling up inside me.

It seems unreal—fantastic but unreal. I shake my head. After meeting and having mind-blowing sex with a complete stranger, he offered me a job as his … his what? Courtesan? Call girl? And I accepted.

He said he owned the hotel. He said he owned a huge company. And I believed it all. Took it at face value.

My stomach churns. Things like this don’t happen to girls like me. Was I taken in by some con man, after a quick roll with the maid?

I wrote a letter last night, resigning my old, horrible job cleaning at the hotel.

Oh my God! I resigned my job! What did I do with the letter?

Then I remember. It’s still in his suite. I’ve not delivered it yet, so technically, I’m still working at the hotel, and due to start my shift again this afternoon.

I shake my head. Can it be real? The whole of the previous day feels surreal to me — from my foolish decision to use the stranger’s shower, to the mind-boggling sex, when he found me there, naked in his bathroom.

I haul myself out of bed and set about making some coffee and toast. My head doesn’t work in the morning until I have coffee inside me.

The intercom buzzes. “Delivery for Elizabeth Kimberley.”

I buzz back. “Just leave it in the pigeonhole.”

“Sorry. Needs a signature.”

“Okay, I’m coming down.”

What could it be? Am I expecting anything? I shake my head, trying to think if I have perhaps ordered something on the internet and forgotten about it. Not very likely on my very limited budget.

The courier is waiting in the tatty lobby, with its peeling paint and the smell of dampness. In fact, he has two items for me, a letter and a package. Puzzled, I sign for them and take them back to my apartment. Opening the letter first, I take a deep breath as I read the contents on Haswell Corporation letterhead.

“Dear Miss Kimberley,

We are pleased to inform you that your application for an internship with our company has been accepted.

Please report to our offices …”

I read on, catching my breath as I do so at the stated salary, which is much, much more than I earn now in my miserable cleaning job. Then I do a double-take. I am being instructed to report to the offices this afternoon!

My eyes drift to the parcel. With slightly trembling fingers, I open it to find a skirt and jacket, blouses, and a pair of shoes, all very sensible and business-like, but beautifully made and expensive looking. I check the labels and take a deep breath. These designer brands cost a fortune. I would never be able to buy them myself.

I try them on, smoothing down the gorgeous slinky fabric over my curves. Looking at myself in my cracked mirror, I have to admit, the outfit looks great, and not quite as sensible as I had first thought. The jacket is tightly tailored to my trim waist and large breasts. The blouse is cut just low enough to suggest cleavage without actually revealing anything. The shoes have just enough of a heel to show off my legs, and the skirt, whilst at a business-like knee-length, is cut with a sexy swirl at the hem.

I love it. Obviously, it is a gift from him, but how did he know my size? For that matter, how did he know my address to have them delivered?

I check the time. I have two hours before I must report for my new job. I gulp down my coffee. A little low-key makeup and my long red hair confined into an orderly bun, and I feel ready to take on the world.

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Arriving at the Haswell Corporation office building, all steel and plate glass, I hand over the letter at the reception. The receptionist checks my name against a day book and directs me to the tenth floor, where I find a second reception desk, with a pleasant-looking woman sitting behind it.

Again, I hold out the letter. “Hello, my name is Elizabeth Kimberley. I was told to report here.”

The woman smiles. “Ah, yes, Miss Kimberley. Mr Haswell is expecting you. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

She buzzes through on an intercom. “Mr Haswell, Elizabeth Kimberley for you.”

“Thank you, Francis,” replies the voice I came to know so well yesterday, under such unusual circumstances. “I’ll just be five minutes. Please ask her to take a seat.”

Francis points me to a row of low chairs, and gesturing to a coffee thermos on a low table, she says, “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Kimberley. Do help yourself to some coffee.” But I am feeling too nervous already to want more coffee now.

After a short time, the intercom buzzes. “Francis, please show her in.”

“Come with me.” She smiles. “It’s just through here.”

Francis leads me through, taps on a door, and then after a moment opens it. “Miss Kimberley for you, sir.” Then she leaves, pulling the door closed behind her.

The room is a wide-open office; one wall is entirely glass and overlooks the stunning cityscape far below. Neutral colours and minimalist decor only accentuate a large desk in a beautiful polished timber, walnut perhaps. I do not study it, because behind the desk, sits Richard Haswell.

He rises, smiling. In a dark suit, white shirt, tie, and immaculately polished shoes, his slightly greying hair contrasts against deeply tanned skin and piercingly blue eyes. Ye gods, but he is handsome. And that smile makes me melt inside, as I remember the same smile the night before.

“Ah, Elizabeth, good to see you again. Have a seat.” He waves me to a couch overlooking the amazing vista. “Coffee?”

“Please, yes.” Still a little anxious, not knowing quite what is expected of me, perhaps some caffeine pumping through my bloodstream might help. We have a contract, this man and I, and so far, he is fulfilling his end of it perfectly. Does he expect me to perform my end of it here?

He buzzes through, “Francis, coffee for two, please.” Then he looks at me, perhaps divining my confusion. “Don’t worry, Elizabeth. Here and now, in this place, you are a trainee, an intern. Your other duties come later.”

I smile nervously and nod my head.

“The suit looks good on you. I see I got the sizes right.”

“It’s lovely. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Elizabeth, but it is not simply a gift. Working here, you are representing my corporation, and I cannot have my representatives looking like, forgive me, but looking like hotel cleaners. Those clothes you were wearing last night, while well-chosen I’m sure on your limited budget, are not the kind of clothes I want my people to be seen in.”

“However,” and he smiles again, arching his brows, “there will be others. Some should be waiting for you when you get home. I expect you to wear them when you visit me this evening.”