The billionaire's mysterious lady

Episode 10

STRIDING THROUGH THE kitchen, I pass the empty tray to the poor kid on dishwashing duty and give him a small smile. I swipe my arm across my brow and snag a bottle of water from the fridge. I swallow back half of it in one long gulp. Looking around the busy kitchen, the staff pay me no never mind. Two chefs approach, and I have to breathe in to allow them to pass. one of them winks at me, and I frown. I’m really not comfortable with being noticed, or openly admired, as a matter of fact. I give him a small, friendly nod in return and quickly exit the hot, busy kitchen.

Standing at the bar, sipping my bottle of water, I am under absolutely no illusions as to why I constantly refuse to assist Nancy in manning these events anymore. I am so much more comfortable in the office ordering the hors-d'oeuvres than I am serving them. It had taken me all of five minutes, from the moment I walked through the French doors, to remember the real reason why I used to bite my tongue when Nancy made me work my way through sixth form and college - my feet are on goddamn fire!

The guests started to arrive an hour or so ago, although the main event doesn’t actually start for another forty-five minutes, I’m already a hot, sweaty mess. Escaping into the safety of the staff room, I ease my sore feet from the constricting heels, hissing as my toes finally feel temporary freedom. As I rub them soothingly, I see Nancy standing at the door smiling.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been in the office much this last week.”

“That’s okay. It’s probably a good job since you keep screwing up my files and spreadsheets!” I smile at her. She laughs and inches closer until she is sitting next to me. She attempts to remove a tendril of hair away from my face that has bounced free, but I pull back fast.

“Nelly... I wish you would assist more often. I remember the good times we used to have at these things.” I raise my brow, wondering which events she was referring to because I can’t remember any good times. I remember sweating like a pig at the butchers, and getting covered in crap, but never good times. She nudges my side playfully.

“I know; I know. It's just hard for me, you understand?” I look into her stunning, icy blue eyes. She looks nowhere near her forty years. She has been like a mother to me since my own had let me walk out at fifteen without so much as a second glance. She has always treated me like I was her own. I love her more than I know how to express.

“I do understand, honey, and my door is always open to you. It’s your home, too. Anytime you need anything, all you have to do is ask.” I smile at her, and she gives me a look that speaks more than words ever could. She is offering me a way out of the current mess that Maxwell was dragging me into.

“I'm glad you agreed to do this tonight. Maxwell has been...different lately.” She raises her eyebrows, waiting for me to divulge whatever she thinks I already know.

“He's involved in something, I’m not sure what exactly. When I got home on Monday, he had two men in the flat. Then later in the night, he called to say he was in trouble, and I had to come and get him. He was beaten and unconscious.” I sigh. Nancy drapes her arm around my shoulder, and I allow her to. As much as it disturbs me, I need something right now.

“Brings back memories,” Nancy states. It’s not a question, it’s a fact, and I squeeze my eyes tight against the tears that are forming.

Nancy lets go and tugs my arm. “Come on. I gave you table one. They shouldn't give you any trouble, but if you need anything, you come and find me. Let’s go, honey.”

We walk back into the main reception room, which is now filled with double the number of bodies. My breath lapses, realising I might have problems keeping people away from my personal space tonight. There appear to be more attendees present this evening than at the events I have waited on in the past. I turn to Nancy in question, but she just smiles, squeezes my arm, and goes back to instructing her other staff.

I stand back and admire the beauty of the ballroom. It is clothed from floor to ceiling in shimmering, pale cream and dark beige silks. The tables are beautifully presented with arrangements of pink roses and white lilies. The only thing missing is the real reason behind this event; the victims. I haven’t seen one single piece of information or insignia surrounding the uncomfortable subject and, unlike past functions, there is no auction going on to raise money for the cause benefiting the event. I can’t quite make my mind up if it’s a good or a bad thing. There is nothing worse than having it swept under the carpet, or heaven forbid, shoved in your face.

The service is in full swing, and within an hour the guests are seated for dinner. All of New York’s successful and wealthy are out in force, with designer gowns and tuxes at every turn. I am standing at the bar, waiting for my drinks tray to be filled, when one of the other waitresses catches my attention.

“Oh, my goodness, look at her dress!” The girl squeals beside me in delight. I turn around to see what she is gawking at. If you’ve seen one dress, you’ve seen them all.

Sauntering through the entrance, is one of the most beautiful women I think I have ever seen. She is model tall; beautiful and slender. Her long, strawberry blonde hair hangs in immaculate curls down her back. The multitude of diamonds adorning her body reflect the light spectacularly. She is everything I wish I could be. I’ve never really cared for looks, but it’s the way she carries herself; confident and vibrant. I turn back to the bar, and wish I could run far, far away and hide.

My tray is just about ready when the girl squeals again. At this rate, I am going to be deaf as well as exhausted by the end of the night. I turn around and pierce her with my most thoroughly pissed off glare.

“Oh, my God! Have you ever seen anyone so beautiful?!”

God, if I had to look at that woman once more, I was going to throw up. I continue to glare at squealing girl until she does the absolute unthinkable – she grabs my arm forcibly and spins me around. Furious, I shake out of her hold and narrow my eyes at her in disgust.

How dare she f*****g touch me?

Beyond pissed, I follow her line of sight.

And, there, at the other end of the room, is Castro Desmon.

The whole beautiful, mesmerising, six-foot-plus, sexy package of him. His lean, tanned, muscular body is encased in what is probably the latest designer offering. His dark hair is styled half-heartedly and is still slightly long at the sides, skimming the collar of the crisp, white shirt, peeking through the form-fitting suit hugging his perfect, hard body. The same body that mine has been craving for the last few days.

Desire spikes every nerve ending inside me, firing them up and keeping them burning. I can feel myself starting to become damp in between my legs, and I rub them together inconspicuously, in a bid to calm the chain reaction his presence alone has initiated deep inside. Licking my lips, I close my eyes involuntarily, remembering the way electricity surged through me when he put his hand on me. I initially put it down to the cheap top I was wearing, but now I know better. My eyes start to feel heavy, and the sensation building inside my belly deepens dramatically.

Snapping my eyes open, I turn and grab a bottle of water from the bar and all but drain the contents; trying to cool myself from the inside out. I salivate copiously, but I still feel like I am swallowing sandpaper. I survey him attentively from the safety and anonymity of the bar, while he moves through the ballroom with complete confidence. He is stopped every few minutes by other guests wanting to talk to him. I watch a little too closely as he converses with each person and then moves on to the next vying for his undivided attention.

The girl next to me has long since left my side and is now serving drinks at her table, which is, unfortunately, next to the one I am allocated. Her head bobs around comically as she tries to serve and ogle Mr Perfect now taking his seat.

At my bloody table!

Oh, for f**k sake, this isn’t happening! Only it is, and my lungs have stopped functioning, and my heart is failing to beat. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

Performing a quick recce of the room, Nancy is standing in a corner, talking to one of the guests, no doubt touting for more business. Another member of staff walks by, and I quickly ask if he can deliver my drinks tray. He agrees with reluctance, and I thank him profusely, before briskly walking towards Nancy.

“What's up, honey?” she asks concerned, once I’m within speaking distance.

“I can't serve at table one, Nancy!” I blurt out breathlessly. The man she is conversing with shakes her hand and walks away smiling.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Never mind that. Has someone said something to you?” she asks annoyed. I shake my head and pull her back into the now empty corner, forgetting I’m the one that generally avoids all skin-on-skin contact. This unfortunate situation is taking precedence right now.

“No, no, no. Monday, when Maxwell was... Well, he was here, and he was here...and he gave me his number and… and...” I’m in deep s**t and sinking fast!

Nancy puts her hands on my shoulders ever so lightly to calm me down. I flinch, but catch my breath long enough to inform her of the entire tragic debacle in a more coherent fashion. Her mouth turns up into a sly smile before I have even finished imparting the whole sorry affair, and she shrugs.

She flipping shrugs!

“For as long as I have known you, no one has ever affected you this way. Well, only one person, if I remember rightly.” She takes a look behind me, no doubt scanning the occupants of my table, to see who has got my knickers in a twist. She makes a surprised face and then turns back to me. Her returning look is coy and smug, and I know exactly what is coming.

“Call me a b***h, because I know you will, but no. Sorry, table one is yours.”

There is no battle, and yet the war is already lost. Nancy's word is always final, and I know better than to argue with her. I had never gotten my own way when I was a teenager living under her roof, and there is no way she would let me have that advantage now. Blowing out my breath, I turn in defeat and discreetly pat my skirt down, simultaneously wiping away the Castro Desmon induced sweat from my palms. I already knew she would refuse, but it was worth a try. The heat of her breath tickles my neck as she stands close behind me.

“Go on, say it!” The smile is evident in the tone of her voice.

“b***h!” I respond playfully. Putting on my best game face, I walk away with my head held high, leaving her laughing behind me. I slowly approach table one, focusing on my breathing. In and out. In and out. Deep and even.

“Excuse me, girl. Can I have a refill?” I scowl, as a woman's voice cuts through my technique. I turn sharply in the direction the sound originated from, the irritation coming off me in waves at being so rudely interrupted. A woman is holding out her glass to me expectantly. Girl? She looks younger than I do! Well, she would if she didn’t have a face full of slap on.

And, unfortunately, she is also the woman who is the vision of perfection.

“Please!” I mutter quietly, clenching my jaw. Her face scrunches up, and I know she has heard me loud and clear. I might have a less than a desirable existence to these people, but it’s evident that money definitely doesn’t buy manners.

“I'm sorry?” she counters, in a tone that says she is not customarily pulled up on her social grace, or politeness, if at all.

“Yes, of course!” I reply over-enthusiastically, and give her a sickly-sweet smile.

Walking back to the bar to collect her drink, I’m half-inclined to get it laced with a triple vodka, just to knock her out for the rest of the night. I catch Nancy staring at me from the other end of the bar, shaking her head to tell me no. It wouldn’t be the first time I have done it. Many a forward, touchy-feely man has fallen foul of my secret vodka stunt in the past. I smile innocently at her and mouth the word b***h. She simply sticks her tongue out and laughs.

Straightening my shoulders, I hold my head high, slap a fake toothy grin on my face and glide through the bodies blocking my way. More than once I am touched, and it’s a miracle I haven’t gone arse over tit and spilt the b***h’s drink down me already.

A faint glimmer of calm flows through me as I get closer and closer to the table, and I notice that Castro has now taken his seat. Or maybe he has been there the whole time? I have absolutely no idea. Trying to breathe as normally as possible, I subtly peer at him through my lashes, wondering how long he has actually been sat down. I place the drink in front of the obnoxious cow, and see the way his eyes flit between me and where Nancy is standing, appearing both amused and annoyed.

Oh, my God, I am so screwed! Not only does he recognise me, but he has most likely been sitting here the whole time.

I raise my head up to the table and ask if anyone would like any more drinks. They all shake their heads and look at me ludicrously. And that's when I notice the various different bottles, both open and sealed, covering the centre of the table. The b***h did it on purpose to prove I am below her in the class ranks! I narrow my eyes and see her glaring at me, searching my face for whatever keeps vapid, silver spoon women entertained daily.

I square my shoulders in annoyance. She smirks and places her hand on top of Castro's, who is staring at me with such intensity, I fear I may burst into flames any minute while trying to work efficiently. Quickly shifting my eyes, which I’m sure will tell him what I am feeling, I look at her preposterously. She taps his hand with affection and gives me an unimpressed pout.

God, she can piss on him for all I care!

And that’s the real problem, I do care. More than I am willing to admit, even to myself. But why do I care? I ask myself the question that has plagued me since he put me inside his car and closed the door.

As I walk away from the table, in the corner of my eye, I see Castro snatch his hand out from under hers, and he whispers something in her ear. She looks crestfallen, but delicately picks up her champagne and drains the flute, trying to come across calm and unaffected by whatever pearls of wisdom he has spoken to her. Her eyes sadden, and for a moment, I can see through them in a way that I’m sure she doesn’t even realise. I can see the pain in them.

I shake the sorrow from my head. I don’t want to feel sorry for a woman who apparently thinks I am something she stepped in. I turn, and Castro’s eyes snare mine fiercely. A combined look of agitation and, dare I say, admiration, is definitely playing on his features. I hold his penetrating stare with confidence, as a multitude of sensations surge through me at the speed of light. My head feels fuzzy, my blood is tingling, and my skin is perspiring. My body heat is definitely rising a few notches a minute being this close to him. I don’t even want to admit to, let alone attempt to pick apart, the awareness that is burgeoning between my thighs and pooling deep in my abdomen. I’m not brave enough to acknowledge it just yet