The Billionaire's Indecent Secret

Chapter 1

PIP

“Zaza, are you sure we can get into the club?”

I smooth my sparkly flapper dress, glancing at the scantily dressed girls lined up outside the Taboo—the hottest new club in the luxurious Columbus Circle retail center.

Zaza, however, radiates pure confidence in a cleavage-baring top and curve-hugging vinyl skirt. She grabs my hand. “I have connections, remember?”

She yanks me toward one of the suited men guarding the entrance, whispering something that makes him smile. “Ladies, enjoy your evening.”

The hypnotic beat pulses through polished marble floors as we glide inside. The club’s so dark I can barely see two steps ahead. Yet Zaza navigates like she was born for this.

The VIP section glows like its own galaxy, roped off from the main floor.

Zaza works her magic again, whispering to another security guard, who unhooks the velvet barrier with a wink.

“When you said you had connections, you weren’t kidding.”

I follow her to a private bar. After another hushed exchange, two champagne flutes appear.

“Perks of working at a fitness center catering to Manhattan’s elite,” she grins. “My Equinox clients love throwing around their VIP access.” She hands me a glass. “Now, should we sit or dance?”

“Dance.” I sip my Champagne. “I’ve sat on my butt all week at my day job. Time to shake my tail feathers.”

“With that skinny ass you call a booty?” Laughing, she drains her glass. “Come on, Fletcher.”

The dance floor thrums with New York’s finest—men in tailored suits and women who look fresh from magazine shoots.

But it’s the DJ booth that catches my eye.

It floats above the crowd, suspended by cables that vanish into the darkness. The effect is magical, like he’s conducting the room from mid-air.

And the DJ himself...

I catch my breath.

He’s nothing like the tattooed guys I’ve seen at other clubs. His white shirt’s unbuttoned just enough to be dangerous. He moves with a sleek grace that adds to his allure.

“Who is he?” I shout over the ear-numbing bass.

Zaza follows my gaze and raises an eyebrow. “Out of reach, my friend. He’s a bigshot international DJ. Better to enjoy the guys in suits down here.”

I try to focus on dancing, but my eyes keep drifting up to the booth. The DJ catches me staring, and his gorgeous smile makes my knees weak.

I lose myself in the music, matching Zaza’s rhythm.

She’s in her element, drawing eyes from every direction. Her laughter carries over the bass. I notice a guy in an Armani suit nearly tripping over his feet watching her.

“Oops!” She spins directly into his chest. “Nice to meet you!”

And just like that, she’s in his arms, leaving me dancing alone.

I don’t mind.

The DJ’s mixing mesmerizes me.

He effortlessly weaves sexy, hip-shaking French rap with vintage American dance tunes.

An intoxicating sound cocktail that showcases his musical genius.

When I glance up at his floating booth, a spark ignites in my body—he’s watching me!

The DJ’s smile isn’t the practiced smirk I’d expect from someone who commands rooms like this.

His eyes aren’t predatory.

This hot-looking music man watches me with genuine curiosity, thrilling me to my core.

For the next few songs, we play an odd game of catch-and-look-away.

Each time our eyes meet, the music shifts—softer, more intimate, seductive...

It’s like he’s choosing tracks just for me.

Ridiculous thought.

Men like him—sophisticated, yet with ‘ultra cool’ looks and confidence—don’t notice girls who scour thrift stores for vintage gold.

Then the music changes abruptly. The beat hardens, the lyrics grow sharp.

I glance up. A new DJ is in the booth, all tattoos and attitude.

The magic is gone.

I scan the crowd for Zaza but find only a wall of suits and designer dresses.

That’s when I notice a man edging closer.

He’s a big guy, wearing a suit. But his tie is too loud, his watch too showy.

“Hey, babe, wanna dance?” His bourbon breath makes me dizzy.

“Thanks, I’m good.” I edge away.

Where’s Zaza?

I search the crowd again, but only see the backs of dancers, the flash of strobe lights.

“Come on, flapper girl,” he says, his tone ridiculing my vintage-chic attire. “Don’t be like that.”

I break away, spotting a red exit sign in the distance. I weave through the crowd, open the door, and find myself in a dim corridor.

My gut twists, uncertain if this was the right move. But I can’t go back—the jerk is probably waiting.

The door creaks open behind me.

I turn. It’s him.

My heart hammers.

I swivel my head to see what lies behind me.

A seemingly endless corridor stretches out, dimly lit and lined with cold, blank walls.

At the far end, a grimy trash chute looms, its metal surface dull and uninviting.

There's no way out back there.

No escape.

My only hope is to rush forward, dodge him, and race out the same door I entered.

... yet the corridor is so narrow.

Dare I risk it?

He's a towering figure, with broad shoulders and a menacing presence that fills the space.

All it would take is for him to extend his muscular arm and effortlessly scoop me up like a rag doll.

But what other choice do I have?

I'm fast, I remind myself. Quick. Nimble.

Go! Go! Go!

I surge forward, my heart pounding like a drum. I veer to the right, my feet barely touching the ground.

Damn!

As I feared, his hand snags me, his grip unyielding.

He slams me against the cool, hard wall with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs.

I twist away, but his grip tightens.

“Small packages are my favorite.” His dark eyes roam freely over my petite frame.

I try to wriggle out of his grasp.

But he's using both of his meaty palms to pin me to the wall.

My eyes go wild as I open my lips to shriek.

Too late. He clamps his clammy hand over my mouth, stifling my scream.

My heart thunders, beating louder than the disco beat I hear in the background.

A chill fills my lower belly as I realize that even if I could scream, no one would hear me…

Then, out of nowhere, a massive hand clamps down on his shoulder with a forceful grip, yanking him away with surprising speed and strength.

I look up to see the DJ I’d admired shove my attacker against the wall. His fist cocks back, ready to strike.

But before he can swing, two enormous security guards step in. “It’s okay, we got him a first-class ticket to the police,” one of them says as they hustle him out, kicking and screaming.

The DJ turns to me, his eyes wide with concern. “Are you all right?” He scans me for damage. “Your dress...”

I look down. The vintage beading is torn at the shoulder. And blood is coming from somewhere I can’t yet see.

“Yes... just a little shaky. How did you find me?”

“I noticed you on the floor. Wanted to meet you. Someone said they saw you walk this way.”

He offers his hand. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere you can fix that.”

I hesitate, Aunt Vivian’s warnings echoing in my head. But something in his striking blue eyes makes me trust him.

His hand is warm around mine as he leads me back into the club. I don’t keep up with the international music scene, but from the way everyone here at the club treats him, he’s DJ royalty.

The crowd parts for us as we walk. Girls go wild, throwing themselves at him. My gorgeous savior is quick to gently but firmly move them away. After we pass, high-pitched screams erupt.

Turning, I see two elegantly dressed girls fighting one another.

Fighting over a DJ?

Crazy.

But then I remember the spell he wove with his music. I thought I was the only one who felt it—but clearly, I wasn’t.

“Here’s the private elevator,” he says, producing a key card. “Unless you’d rather stay on the floor?”

I should say no.

I should find Zaza.

I should remember every warning about strange men.

Even impossibly handsome ones who just rescued me.

Instead, I hear myself say, “Lead the way.”

The elevator doors slide open silently, all mirrors and polished brass.

“Where are we?”

“Inside the Mandarin Oriental.”

“Why?”

“It’s where I live.”

I look at him, wide-eyed. “But it’s a hotel.”

Though I know this five-star hotel is attached to the Columbus Circle mall, I’ve never been here before.

“How is it possible to ‘live’ in a hotel?”

“People can live in hotels. Lots of people live in private apartments,” he says, as the doors close behind us.

Lots of people? Maybe rich people. I look him over. Do DJs make that kind of money?

Glancing at the elevator’s mirrored walls, my reflection shows a girl I barely recognize—flushed cheeks, sparkling headband askew, torn dress strap hanging loose.

He notices me noticing.

“It’s a shame about the dress. Vintage Vionnet, right? 1927?”

I stare at him. “You know vintage fashion?”

“I know beautiful things.”

His eyes meet mine in the mirror, and my pulse skips.

“The beading pattern gave it away. My great-grandmother collected pieces like that.”

“I’m impressed.”

“And I’ll accept the compliment.” He bows his head slightly.

“Excuse the question, but why are you wearing vintage to a trendy club? Granted, the ‘look’ has its place but?—”

“I have an online vintage shop. If I didn’t act as a walking advertisement for it, I’d never sell anything.”

“Makes sense.” He nods his approval.

“Not that I’m selling a lot online,” I sigh. “I’m saving up for a physical shop. I have a day job as a temp.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “A temp? What’s that?”

“It’s short for temporary secretary. I get called to a new office almost every day to field phone calls when someone’s secretary is out sick.”

The elevator rises smoothly. I should be scared, heading off to who knows where with a strange man.

But the way he noticed my dress, the respect in his voice when he mentioned it... it’s not the typical line I’d expect from a guy trying to impress.

As I watch the elevator numbers climb, I turn to him with a frown.

“Which floor?”

He smiles, and it transforms his entire face.

“The penthouse.”