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Mistaking The Billionaire For A Gigolo

Gu Mumu

5.0

Romance

10 Chapters

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I was just a bottom-tier accountant fighting to survive a brutal corporate layoff to pay my family's medical bills. But after a reckless one-night stand to drown my sorrows, I found out I was pregnant. My malicious stepsister, who worked in HR, used the company merger to torture me with heavy manual labor, eventually pushing me to the brink of a miscarriage. Instead of being fired, my situation took a bizarre turn. I was suddenly moved to a top-floor VIP hospital suite with all expenses paid. Back at work, the executive chef personally served me custom Michelin-star soups every single day while my coworkers watched in shock. Terrified, I thought my female manager was using company perks to bribe me into marrying her autistic son. But when I confronted her, she was furious and completely clueless. If it wasn't her, who on earth was manipulating the entire Wall Street consortium just to secretly pamper a lowly, pregnant clerk? I didn't know the answer, and neither did my stepsister. She secretly stole a sample of my daily soup, tested it, and discovered it was a high-end pregnancy stabilization tonic. "A pathetic leech knocked up out of wedlock." She sneered, saving the lab report to her phone. She prepared to publicly destroy me at Monday's all-hands board assembly, completely unaware of the terrifying billionaire CEO who was watching her every move from the sixty-eighth floor.

Mistaking The Billionaire For A Gigolo Chapter 1

"Don't move."

The low, gravelly voice vibrated against Jannie Terry's bare shoulder, pulling her out of a pounding hangover. An intimate soreness pulsed between her thighs. The tender flesh there felt swollen and oversensitive, and every slight shift of the powerful body behind her sent a hot, aching reminder of how thoroughly she had been taken apart the night before.

Every muscle in her body locked up. A heavy, muscular arm was draped over her waist, pinning her against a chest that radiated scorching heat through the thin duvet.

Jannie held her breath and slowly turned her head in the dim light of the Manhattan penthouse suite. Inches away lay a man with a razor-sharp jawline and a faint, pale scar cutting through his left eyebrow.

His dark hair fell carelessly over his forehead, shadowing thick brows and impossibly long lashes. Beneath them were high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a sculpted mouth that looked dangerously sensual even in sleep.

He didn't look like a man paid to please women.

He looked like the kind of man who owned the hotel-and everyone inside it.

Her stomach dropped.

Shards of memory from last night crashed back into her head. Her boyfriend of three years had looked her in the eye and told her she wasn't gentle enough, attentive enough, or feminine enough. Then he had walked away with a wealthy heiress and boarded a flight overseas to pursue a doctorate with her.

Jannie could face vicious office politics and impossible audits without flinching, but beneath that hard shell, his betrayal had shattered her. She had stumbled into a noisy nightclub, drowned three years of devotion in whiskey, and mistaken the devastatingly handsome stranger sitting alone in the VIP lounge for one of the club's high-end escorts.

She remembered crookedly pointing at him and slurring, "How much for the night?"

Even worse, she remembered what came afterward-his mouth between her thighs, his large hands spreading her open, and the relentless thrust of his hips as he drove her into the mattress. She remembered clawing at his shoulders, wrapping her legs around his waist, and begging him not to stop while pleasure tore through her so violently that her mind went blank.

Twice.

Heat rushed into her cheeks.

She wedged her fingers under his forearm to pry it off. His flesh felt like solid iron. She couldn't budge him an inch.

The man frowned in his sleep and hauled her tighter against his ribs. Jannie bit her lower lip as her heart hammered against her breastbone, terrified of waking him up. When he finally shifted onto his back a moment later, she slid out from under the sheets like an eel. Her knees buckled as her bare feet hit the plush carpet, and she barely caught herself on the edge of the mattress.

With trembling fingers, she snatched her wrinkled white blouse and pencil skirt off the floor and pulled them on. Turning back toward the king-sized bed, a wave of hot shame washed over her face. She was a certified public accountant fighting to keep her entry-level job, not some reckless party girl.

She clicked open her handbag, pulled out her wallet, and counted the only cash she had left.

Three crumpled fifty-dollar bills.

Jannie gritted her teeth. Then she spotted a hotel notepad and pen beside the telephone.

She tore off a sheet and wrote in large, vicious strokes:

Handsome face. Impressive equipment. Too bad your technique doesn't match. All brawn, no finesse. $150 is more than generous.

It was a shameless lie. Her still-throbbing body knew exactly how skilled he had been. But after being discarded for not being feminine enough, she refused to let another man walk away with the upper hand.

She placed the note and all three bills on the nightstand, trapping them beneath the glass water tumbler. After one final glance at the sleeping stranger's chiseled face, she muttered under her breath, "That should knock your ego down to size, jerk."

She grabbed her heels in one hand, eased the heavy oak door open, and bolted down the empty hallway toward the elevators. She didn't let out a full breath until the metal doors slid shut.

Half an hour later, Dorsey Russo opened his ice-blue eyes.

He reached out to pull the woman from last night into his arms, but his palm met cold, empty linen. His brows snapped together. Sitting up, his broad, bare chest hit the cool air as his gaze swept the empty suite and landed on the nightstand.

Three worn fifty-dollar bills sat trapped beneath his water glass. Beside them was a folded note.

Dorsey picked it up and read every word.

For three full seconds, he didn't move.

All brawn, no finesse?

The same woman who had clawed bloody marks down his back, wrapped her legs around his waist, and come apart twice while begging him not to stop had rated his performance at a hundred and fifty dollars?

He was the chief executive officer of Apex Capital Group, a man who commanded hundreds of billions in Wall Street capital, and some woman had just paid him off like a cheap gigolo?

A vein throbbed at his temple. His ice-blue eyes narrowed as he crushed the insulting note together with the cash.

That damned woman had a death wish.

Throwing off the duvet, he strode to the floor-to-ceiling windows and yanked the blackout curtains open, flooding the room with blinding morning sunlight. He poured a glass of ice water at the bar and downed it in one gulp, his chest heaving.

As he turned toward the bathroom, a scuffed piece of plastic on the rug caught his eye.

Dorsey bent down and picked up the employee access badge. Under the logo of an Apex Capital Group subsidiary was a photo of a pretty woman with a stiff, polite smile: Jannie Terry.

A cold, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his mouth. Now that he had found her, she was going to regret every word on that note.

"Jannie Terry. You can't run from me. And you're going to correct that review in person."