The Billionaire Game 3(31)

I thought I saw irritation flash in his eyes for a second, but in the next instant it was replaced by understanding and amiability. “Certainly, certainly! But don’t put it off too long! I’m afraid that once our time limit has passed, it will be off the table and we will be contacting other designers. None as promising as you, of course, but if needs must…”

He wandered away with an absentminded smile on his face, whistling a cheery tune and leaving me more nervous than I had previously thought possible.

So naturally, Asher decided that this was the fucking perfect time to show up backstage too.

Asher’s gaze tracked Mr. Perthuis as he left. He turned to me, and said carefully, “So, you’ve decided.”

I looked up at him, his dark hair messier than ever, his eyes wide and worried but waiting to hear what I had to say.

And I thought about Mr. Perthuis’ veiled threats just now, and Asher’s veiled promises at the rehearsal dinner.

And suddenly, I was hardly nervous at all.

“Yes, I’ve decided,” I said. “I’m not selling.”

A grin lit his face like the sun. “Really?”

I felt an answering grin light up my own. “Yeah. Guess I can trust you a little longer. After all, a partnership is a promise.”

“Yes, it is,” he whispered, something wonderfully like hope brimming in his eyes. He swept me up into a hug. “Good luck out there,” he whispered in my ear.

“Thank y—” I started to respond, and then he kissed me.

His lips were soft but his intent firm as he pressed into me, his kiss a sweet and dizzying combination of passion and tenderness that had me melting into his arms, wanting never to leave.

I pulled away only with the greatest reluctance.

“Later,” I promised breathlessly. “For now—”

“I know.” He smiled. “For now you have to focus on the show.”



#



I watched each of my models take the stage with my heart pounding so hard I was certain it would fly from my chest. Each time, I was certain some fatal mistake would transpire, but each time, my designs and my models pulled through.

The audience whistled for Sasha in her teddy—supplemented by an actual teddy bear in her arms, which they seemed to find quite deliciously naughty. Keisha Mae won applause with her poses in her leopard print bikini-cut bra and panties, Alysha drew hushed whispers and cries of delight with her sheer peignoir in French silk and lace, and I saw several designers whipping out iPads to take notes when Hillary sauntered down the catwalk in an avant garde kimono made of silk-screened paparazzi shots.

Then the models came out for a catwalk together, striking provocative poses, and the crowd rose to its feet in a standing ovation. My heart sang with triumph—

But wait. Wait one damn minute.

What had happened to Colleen?

Just offstage, I spotted my last model in a sheer embroidered short robe, silhouetted by the floor lights behind her, and breathed a sigh of relief. The order was wrong, but nobody would know that. Colleen would just take the stage and—

Except it wasn’t Colleen. Whoever it was, they were too tall, and too muscular, and the hair—

—it was Asher.

I couldn’t believe it. I refused to believe it. What the fuck was he doing?

My heart lodged in my throat as the other four models gave the audience a sultry smile and parted to reveal Asher Young, San Francisco’s most eligible playboy billionaire, who shrugged off his robe and then strutted out onto the catwalk wearing nothing but a sexy pout, a pair of tight black satin undies, and a whole lot of lace in the form of a scarlet and ebony merry widow.

I hate to admit it, some part of my brain mused, but that man’s ass looks fantastic in red.

But most of my brain was just struggling to keep from crying.

The audience was thrilled; laughter was shaking the hall, overwhelmed only by the whoops and catcalls. I could hear, seemingly from a distance, people congratulating me on the brilliant joke as they shook my hand. Evangeline’s voice seemed to echo from far away, there’s really not enough comedy in fashion…

If only I didn’t feel like I was the punchline.

If only I didn’t feel like I’d just been kicked in the stomach.

After everything he’ d just said—after he’d just kissed me as if I were life itself—

How could he do this to me?





TEN




After the seventh person came up to me at the after-party and told me how much they had loved my ‘joke encore,’ I started to believe that Asher’s stunt had helped, not hurt, my presentation. Funny how that didn’t seem to lessen the hurt of it one little bit.

We were on a gorgeous rooftop overlooking the bay, with an antique wrought iron safety rail and orange trees planted all around the edges, perfuming the evening air as neon lights flashed and life went on below us. Models lounged in the infinity pool while designers lounged against the bar, sipping drinks with more umbrellas than alcohol and rehashing how glorious the show had been.