The Billionaire Game (8 page)

“I wasn’t lying,” he
said abruptly. “When I was talking to your family. I think you
have real talent, and I’d like to have that meeting tomorrow to
discuss investing. If you would.”

My heart soared, and then trembled,
hesitating. Did he really mean it? He seemed sincere, but what if
this was a ploy to get in my pants? And worse, what if I was okay
with that? I had to make sure this meeting was all business, but how
could I manage it when he was so distracting? Even now, I couldn’t
stop my eyes from traveling down his crisp shirt, past his belt,
skimming over his—
focus, Katie
.

I had to take this seriously. The bank
had already rejected me, my savings account wasn’t going to
keep me going much longer, and Asher really believed in me, or at
least said he did. What did I have to lose by listening to his
proposal? He was just a man, albeit a ridiculously hot one. I could
keep myself, and him, in check.

“Okay,” I said, heart
hammering in anticipation, excitement, and a little bit of terror.
“You’re on. Business meeting tomorrow; you bring your
money, I’ll bring my vision.”

He grinned, a flash of devilish white
teeth in the early evening half-light. “Agreed.”

Going into business with him would mean
having to give up fucking him against a wall, but hey, we all have to
make sacrifices.

What do you wear to the business
meeting that could change your entire life?

If I listened to my gut I’d be
going in battle armor, but unfortunately Macy’s doesn’t
have a chainmail section these days. So I was stuck instead staring
at the entire contents of my dresser dumped out on my bed, trying to
decide: the little black dress, or the purple pantsuit? The floral
blouse with the blue slacks, or the blue blouse with the floral
slacks? Did a tie say ‘I’m professional’ or ‘I’m
trying too hard?’

At this rate, I was going to join a
nudist colony before I managed to decide.

This so wasn’t me. I never
worried about getting dressed up for some guy. But this wasn’t
just some guy, this was some guy who could either make my dream
come true or stomp it into tiny little pieces and flush them down the
toilet, and he could do it with a single word: yes or no.

I finally settled on a pinstriped
skirt-suit with a neckline and hemline both just long enough to be
intriguing without becoming unprofessional. I packed some of my best
lingerie samples in a variety of styles, fabrics, and colors into a
briefcase so that I could have them on hand to illustrate a point if
need be. Hopefully whatever restaurant Asher had chosen was set up so
that we could have a cozy little nook; I didn’t relish the idea
of arranging panties around bowls of linguini for the amusement of
all the staff and other customers.

The doorbell rang, and then rang again.
And again.

I pulled open a window. “Newsflash!”
I yelled down at Asher, still pushing the buzzer in front of my
apartment building. “The world doesn’t end if you have to
wait five seconds for something!”

“But why take the chance?”
he called back up.

I slammed the window back down, and
hustled out of the building.

“You look lovely,” he said,
immediately disarming anything rude I might have said about his
doorbell-pressing practices. Which was probably good; I needed to
keep my mouth in check if I was going to keep from driving away my
one and only interested investor.

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re
not looking so bad yourself.”

He was actually looking good enough to
eat, in a navy blue suit with a silk shirt and green pocket
handkerchief that matched his eyes, the shirt unbuttoned just a
little for another tantalizing hint of collarbone. The pants were
formal but tight enough that they didn’t leave anything to the
imagination. Barney the Dinosaur and his friends might have been
disappointed, but I most certainly was not.

Focus, Kate!
It was turning into
my mantra around this man.

Asher’s eyes traveled up and down
the length of my body again, and he flashed a grin so wicked you
could have arrested him for it. “I like this business proposal
already.”

“The business proposal’s up
here, Romeo,” I said, tapping the side of my head.

“Of course,” he said
graciously. “And now, if you’ll follow me, your chariot
awaits.”

He gestured towards his car, which was
a little less chariot and a little more spaceship, all sleek modern
silver lines except for a couple of retro fins.

“I had it refitted to run
entirely on vegetable oil,” he said proudly, patting its bumper
like it was a particularly precocious puppy.

“Did you steal this off the set
of a 1950s Flash Gordon serial?” I cracked.

Asher looked sheepish, and scuffed his
foot along the ground. “Uh, Doctor Who prop auction actually.”

And just like that, Mr. Business Mogul
got so much less intimidating. I practically shrieked with hilarity
and delight. “Neeeeeeeeeeerd alert! Nerd alert! Raise the
shields!”

“That’s Star Trek,”
he shot back defensively, still laughing a little, though probably
more at my reaction than at my joke. “Completely wrong
reference—besides, it was being a nerd that got me my first
billion. If I hadn’t known Cathy Bateson in college games club
and been able to invest in her imaging technology for films—why
are you still laughing?”

I shook my head, mentally comparing
this side of Asher to my own dorky tendencies. The tension was
broken. There was still a little nervous flutter in my stomach as our
space-car wended its way through the streets of San Francisco and we
shot teasing repartee back and forth, but it was a good nervous
flutter, full of promise.

This just might work out after all.

#

Asher pulled into a parking lot for a
helipad and I turned to stare at him.

“Uh, maybe you want to upgrade
your GPS on the starship Asher,” I said, “because I’m
pretty sure this place doesn’t have waiters.”

Asher just grinned, cockier than a
rooster in a henhouse. “And you might want to check your
assumptions. Who said this restaurant was in San Francisco?”

Does this man know how to do
anything small?

I looked up at the helicopter and
resigned myself to my fate. And by ‘resigned,’ I mean
‘barely restrained myself from whooping with excitement.’
“Well, what are we waiting for? Beam me up, Scotty.”

#

The second surprise after the
helicopter was that there was no hired pilot—Asher would be
driving himself. He handled it deftly, so smoothly I almost couldn’t
believe we had left the ground until I saw it dropping away below me.
The chopper swooped out over the sapphire blue sea before circling
back inland. Gradually skyscrapers melted away into small towns and
the countryside, vineyards and fields ringed by green mountains. We
cracked jokes at each other until the roar of the helicopter meant
that we couldn’t hear each other anymore, and then I just
enjoyed the scenery.

And I don’t just mean the scenery
outside the window.

There was something about the
confidence and grace with which Asher operated the controls, flicking
switches, pulling levers, and consulting a truly dizzying array of
dials, that made me want to jump his bones mid-air, and damn the
consequences and my resolution to remain professional. Was it the way
he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing ripped arm muscles?
Was it the elegance of his hands as they danced across the controls?
The way the wind ruffled his dark hair, curls tumbling in front of
those dazzling green eyes?

I think it might have been the fire in
his eyes as he hit the throttle and we went hurtling forward at an
even greater speed, and the way he leaned forward in excitement as
the sun began to paint the mountains in gold and purple. That utter
air of absorption, at once relaxed and at home, yet keyed up and
thrilling to the pursuit of adventure.

Before I knew it he was guiding us
downward into what he informed me was the San Ysidro ranch, acres
upon acres of rolling lawns and manicured gardens of groomed pines,
lilacs, and lavender around ponds, fountains, and pathways.

“Like it?” he asked smugly,
giving me his hand to help me out of my seat.

I stumbled from the helicopter, trying
to find my land-legs and slow my speeding heart. I tossed my
windblown hair back, exhilarated. “Dude, you are so teaching me
to fly that thing!”

Asher raised an eyebrow. “I
haven’t even heard your business proposal yet.”

“Well, I’m making that
stipulation one on the contract.”

“Noted.” He took my hand
again. Was it the lingering exhilaration of the ride or the touch of
his skin that was making my heart race madly and my skin sing the
Hallelujah chorus, my cheeks flushing?

I let him lead me to a quaint,
beautiful old building with a tile roof and whitewashed walls.
Despite the clean simplicity of its lines, it was plain that great
care had been taken with the selection of the materials and the
construction itself. We came to a stop out on the balcony, where
dinner was already laid out for us, an upscale take on Tex-Mex:
saffron rice, white beans cooked with bacon and caramelized onions,
lamb and veal enchiladas drizzled with a ghost pepper sauce, chilled
fruit juices and cucumber water, sangria, a fancy red wine with more
French on the label than I remembered from four years of high school
classes.

For a long time there was no talking,
or any sound other than two adrenaline-flooded people trying to shove
as much food into their mouths as possible while still retaining a
tiny semblance of dignity.

“So,” I blurted in between
sips of sangria, “your Fembot girlfriends really don’t
mind you taking other women out in your helicopter for gourmet
candlelit meals at secluded luxury resorts?”

Asher grinned as he refilled my glass.
“I conduct my business affairs as I see fit, regardless of my
relationship status, though I’m actually single at the moment.
Woefully so.”

“How sad for you,” I shot
back, ignoring my quickening pulse and diving into my enchiladas with
renewed vigor. “Please accept my sincere condolences.”

Eventually the banter died down and it
was time to get down to brass tacks, so I pushed my drink aside and
laid out my pitch: “My main problem moving forward is a lack of
capital to expand my business into something prospective clients,
investors, and advertisers will automatically take seriously. I do
good work, but I just don’t come off as professional right
now—I have a good client base, very loyal, but my lack of funds
makes the whole operation look more fly-by-night and hobbyist than it
really is.” I lifted my chin and fixed him with a gaze more
confident than I felt at that moment. “I know what I’m
doing.”

“Assuming you secured those
funds, what’s your plan to legitimize the operation and forge
ahead?” Asher asked, leaning forward.

“First I’d get a real
studio,” I said, ticking my points off on my fingers. “And
then I’d start hiring apprentices and training them in my
techniques, to increase production. Obviously I’d increase
inventory and continue to source materials as needed.”

“You mentioned advertisers,”
he pointed out. “What would be your strategy there?”

“I’ve done well on word of
mouth, but that can only take you so far,” I said. “Still,
at the same time, the kind of high-end stuff I do isn’t really
the right fit for a thirty second TV spot or a local radio ad. I’d
like to sponsor some fashion podcasts, get the word out that way.
Maybe send some of my products to fashion bloggers in exchange for
reviews. A few appearances at fashion shows or in art films wouldn’t
hurt either; do you have any connections there we could use?”

“A few,” he said, but
before he could expand on that, dessert was served, and the
conversation was derailed by a discussion of the crispy warm flan
with pear liqueur sauce and whipped cream, the fried ice cream made
with freshly ground vanilla beans, and the grilled watermelon slices
dusted with chili powder and chocolate—hey, don’t knock
it till you’ve tried it. And try someone else’s slice,
because I am eating mine.

Yup, the whole meal was going pretty
much perfectly, until Asher decided to ruin everything by opening up
his big mouth.

“So here’s the main
strength I see with your business,” he said, wiping said big
mouth with a napkin. “You’ve built up a good client base,
and established a brand identity that’s got a lot of trust and
reputation behind it. But the main problem I see with your business
as it stands: high production costs, and low output. Fortunately,
that’s a pretty simple issue to tackle.”

I leaned forward, interested.

Asher pulled up some maps on his phone
and showed them to me. “This is an unused factory in China.
It’s an area with high unemployment, so we should be able to
keep wages low without much discontent, and the officials will be
less likely to come down on us with a bunch of regulations about
foreign companies. You would move solely to design work, and we’d
outsource production to the China factory.”

I could feel the floor falling out from
under my feet. “You want me to
outsource
to a factory?”
I said, horrified, hoping that somehow I had misheard. “In
China?”

Asher misunderstood my reaction. “Well,
just one factory for now,” he said placatingly, “but with
the sales I’m projecting, by 2018 we could have as many as—”

I felt my rage building inside me, like
the magma of a volcano simmering and bubbling and threatening to blow
the top off of a mountain. “That goes against everything I love
about my designs! My whole thing is that they’re special, that
thought goes into them, that they’re hand-made—”