Pretending I’m Yours (Forbidden Billionaires #3)

Chapter 7

chapter 7

ANTHONY

The city slides past the windows in a blur of holiday lights and gently falling snow, the roads uniquely traffic-free on this chilly Christmas night. But inside the cab, we’re toasty warm. The driver blasts the heat while a jazz station plays softly from the speakers, making the back seat feel cozy, intimate.

Maya’s head rests against my shoulder, her fingers laced through mine, making me think about how perfectly she fits against me. About the way she gasped my name in the garden.

About how badly I want to hear that sound again, this time while my mouth is between her legs, devouring her sweetness.

I’m thinking about all that, but I’m also thinking about…Dave Mackey.

Dave, who gave me my first real job in construction when I was sixteen and desperate to earn extra money for college. Dave, who taught me everything I know about building codes and load-bearing walls. Dave, who helped me flip my first property while I was still an undergraduate at Columbia.

Dave, who knows exactly who I am and exactly how much money I have and who might be the man inspecting Maya’s building on Wednesday. He has employees, of course, but he still does a lot of the on-site work himself.

What if I’d volunteered to join her at the inspection without checking who she was working with first? I would have some seriously uncomfortable explaining to do, and Maya would have felt like a fool.

Or worse, betrayed.

The last thing I want to do is be on the dealing side of betrayal.

The closeness of the call sits like lead in my stomach. I haven’t been a regular visitor in Red Hook in years—I’m too busy for more than a quick dinner with my family every other week or so—but the old neighborhood operates on an unchanging code. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone looks out for their own.

And everyone talks.

Anthony Pissarro showing up with a girl half his age, who’s looking to buy an apartment building in the neighborhood, would be gossip fit for spreading all the way from my uncle’s bar down to the pier by IKEA, where my friends and I used to gorge ourselves on cheap Swedish meatballs from the snack bar back in high school.

“Everything okay?” Maya asks, lifting her head. Her breath is warm against my neck, tempting, dangerous now that I know our paths might very well cross again outside our week of pleasure.

I hum and force a smile. “Great,” I lie. “Why?”

“You’re quiet,” she murmurs. “You’re usually pretty chatty for a guy.”

My smile is real this time as I curl my hand around her thigh and squeeze. “Yeah? For a guy? Is that good? Or should I work on being the strong, silent type?”

“It’s good. Great. It’s so much easier to get to know someone when they’re chatty.”

The reminder that I can’t let her know me, at least not all of me, makes my stomach twist. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

“Thanks for coming back to my hotel,” she says. “I know it’s a longer drive and probably not nearly as nice as your place.”

“Not a problem,” I say, kissing the top of her head, relishing the lightly floral scent of her shampoo.

And it’s not a problem.

Most likely.

I doubt I’ll know anyone hanging out at her economy brand hotel on Christmas, but I spend my fair share of time in Midtown. Before I left the firm, I had meetings in the area at least once a week. The chances that we could run into someone I know while we’re out grabbing breakfast this week or wandering through one of the neighborhoods that I’d love to show her are better than decent. New York is a big city with a huge population, but I’ve lived here for forty years and have the network to show for it.

A network that loves brunch in Chelsea and Greek food in Williamsburg as much as I do…

I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. There’s no way I’m going to be able to keep my real identity a secret.

I should end this now. Walk away before Maya discovers that I’m not who I’m pretending to be. Before her moment of independence and empowerment is ruined by learning that her “escort” is a jaded billionaire who’s abused her trust.

Before I get in any deeper with this woman who makes me feel things I haven’t felt in years…

But when Maya shifts closer, pressing a soft kiss to my jaw as she whispers, “Still. Thank you. I appreciate it,” I don’t even think about pulling away.

I can’t walk away from this sweet, sexy woman.

She deserves to have all her erotic dreams come true and, selfishly, I can’t stomach the thought of another man touching her. I want to be the man making her come, the one to make her feel safe enough to ask for everything she wants, everything she needs. I want to indulge her in every fantasy and then teach her a few things she might not have gotten around to fantasizing about yet.

I want to be her first.

You want to be her only , a possessive voice whispers in my head, but I ignore it. That kind of thinking has no place here. This is temporary. A week of pleasure, nothing more.

But it’s a week I’m going to make the most of, no matter how much smarter it would be to bail first thing tomorrow morning.

The driver turns onto Fortieth and slows far too close to Penn Station for my comfort. I look up, shocked to see the neon sign for The Traveler’s Rest glowing above a building with boarded up windows covered in graffiti. “This is where you’re staying?”

“It’s not that bad,” Maya says with a laugh. “I mean, yes, it’s a little scary from the outside, but the room is really clean. And this was one of the only places that accepted pets around here. And it’s only for a week.” She reaches for the door, stepping out onto the trash-littered curb.

After thanking the driver, I follow her with a dubious grunt.

“I promise the room isn’t bad,” she continues, leading the way toward the steps, fishing her key from her purse. “And it’s a nice size for New York. My mom and I came to the city to see a musical for her birthday a few years ago and we could barely get both our suitcases inside the room. We kept bumping into each other and left covered in bruises.”

“Older hotels do tend to have tiny rooms,” I agree, doing my best to keep an open mind as she taps the keycard to a sensor that lets us into the lobby.

The lobby, which smells like feet and stale coffee with a top note of aggressive cologne thanks to the exhausted looking man at the front desk who barely manages a mumbled, “Welcome back,” as we start toward the stairs…

“The elevator is broken,” Maya whispers as we climb. “But it’s only four flights up and you’re in way better shape than I am.”

I grunt again, fighting the urge to tell her that I’m moving her to a boutique hotel in the heart of safe, bougie Chelsea right fucking now. I’ll find one that accepts cats or bribe them with a large enough deposit that they’ll make an exception for her.

But I’m not supposed to be a billionaire who can afford five-star hotels. I’m supposed to be an escort who lives in a modest apartment in the East Village.

Still, the higher we climb, the tighter my jaw clenches. The stairs smell even more like feet and despair than the lobby, and the peeling wallpaper and water stains on the ceiling are doing nothing to change my low opinion of this dump.

Maya’s breathing harder by the time we reach the fourth floor, but when a loud yowl sounds from down the hall, she breaks into a jog, rushing past the doors of three other rooms before coming to a stop in front of the last door on the left and urgently tapping her key to the sensor.

I don’t believe in bad omens, but if I did, the crooked “13” on the battered wood would be a solid one.

“Pudge?” Maya’s voice rises with concern as she taps the key again and again, while the device continues to buzz and flash a red light. “What’s wrong, baby? I’m coming. Hold on!”

Finally, the sensor recognizes the key card, and she throws open the door.

Inside, the room is smaller than she let on and boiling hot, with more peeling wallpaper and a window that doesn’t quite close. The smell of lemon-scented cleaner is strong, but it can’t overcome that damp, foot smell that I’m beginning to think is due to some kind of mold.

Probably a mold that would make a person sick if they stuck around this hellhole for too long. Maybe that’s why the man at the front desk had puffy eyes and a red nose.

“Pudge? Pudge, where are you?” Maya asks, raising her voice to be heard over the radiator in the corner. It makes an ungodly sound, like a garbage disposal gargling a handful of spoons. “Pudge?”

A tortured yeowwwwl sounds over the racket, and Maya and I both lean down to see a massive orange cat crouched under the sagging bed, his tail puffed to twice its size as he hisses at the offending fixture. He casts an agonized look Maya’s way, as if pleading for his mom to make the madness stop.

“Oh no, honey. You poor thing. I’m here, it’s okay. You’re safe.” Maya drops to her knees beside the bed. To me, she adds, “He hates the radiator.”

“I also hate the radiator,” I agree.

She casts a quick glance over her shoulder, a half-smile quirking at her lips. “I know, it’s awful, but it doesn’t make that noise all the time, only when?—”

A crack like gunfire sounds from the street below, rattling the thin walls. Maya screams and launches herself into my arms. Before I can assure her that we’re okay, Pudge follows, scaling my leg and wool coat to drape himself over my shoulder like a furry gargoyle.

A very large, heavy gargoyle who makes me gulp as he wraps his paws around my neck and digs his claws into my scarf…

Thank God I haven’t had the chance to take it off yet or I’d be bleeding.

“It was just a car backfiring,” I say, hugging Maya close as I reach up to rest what I hope is a calming hand on the cat’s back. Thankfully, Pudge relaxes his claws, but the soft, miserable meow he offers in response is flat out pitiful.

The need to protect Maya—and her traumatized fur baby—hits me like a punch in the gut, eliminating my concerns about blowing my cover. “Pack your things.”

“What?”

“You're not staying here.” I release her long enough to gently gather Pudge off my shoulder. Proving he’s a sweet beast, he goes quietly, but continues to tremble as I guide him into Maya’s waiting arms. “Neither of you are. I’ll get you another hotel room, my treat. Or I have a spare bedroom if you’re okay with staying with me. Either way, I’m getting you both out of here.”

“I can’t, Anthony. I don’t want to?—"

“Please.” I cup her face in my hand, struck by how familiar she feels, how precious. It’s like I’ve known her for so much longer than a day, and I’d like to keep knowing her. Which means getting her out of this sketchy hotel and even sketchier neighborhood. “I need to know you’re safe.”

She studies me for a long moment, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as Pudge rubs his head against my sleeve. “Are you sure? I don't want to impose…”

“You're not imposing. I’m insisting.” I glance down to where the cat is still butting his large head into my arm. “And Pudge obviously agrees with me.”

As if to prove my point, Pudge starts purring like a motorboat, before straining his neck up to lick my hand and then Maya’s chin.

Maya laughs, tension easing from her shoulders. “He does seem to like you. Which is kind of weird. He usually hates men.”

“Smart. A lot of men are trash,” I say, agreeing with Pudge again. “But I’m not, and I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re comfortable and safe tonight.”

“Okay.” Her lips stretch into a slow smile. “Thank you. Again.”

“My pleasure, beautiful,” I say, and it is. Especially when she says she’s happy to come to my place, as long as it’s okay to have pets in my building.

I have no idea if pets are okay, but if there’s a problem, I’ll pay the Airbnb host whatever it takes to make it go away. That’s one of the best parts of having an obscenely large amount of capital at one’s disposal. Money can take care of a lot of life’s many problems.

But not all of them…

As I watch Maya gather her things, Pudge now in my arms, still purring like the cat who won the war against his evil radiator nemesis, I know money can’t help me out of my current predicament.

I’m starting to have feelings for this girl.

Already.

After one night.

God only knows what a fucking mess I’ll be after a week in her sweet company, but a demented part of me can’t wait to find out. Playing house with this woman will probably end in disaster, but until that happens, I like the idea of knowing she’s going to be sleeping right down the hall.

Or even better, in my bed.