Bought By The Billionaire

“What do you think?” Those blue, blue eyes stare into mine. At some level, I feel that I should be outraged. This man, who I only met earlier today, is offering me a position as his personal … what? Concubine? Mistress? Whore? Call girl?

But it doesn’t feel like that. I like him. And he seems to like me. And if I could concentrate on my studies instead of cleaning up rooms after some jerk has had too much booze and thrown up …

He is still silent, gazing steadily into my face.

I make up my mind. “When do I start?”

He nods and smiles, then looks at me and says, “When do I start, Master?”

Yes, of course. I cast my eyes down. “When do I start, Master?”

“Right now,” he says cheerfully, but then pauses. “Outside this apartment, a simple Sir will be sufficient I think.”

“Yes, Master. And what would you like me to do, Master? Right now?”

“I assume you can type? Yes? There’s a computer and printer in the office through there.” He points at another door. “You can start by writing a letter of resignation. After that, you can join me in the bedroom.”

I wake up in my dingy bedroom, and for a moment, I stare up in confusion at the ceiling, the events of the previous day swirling up inside me.

It seems unreal—fantastic but unreal. I shake my head. After meeting and having mind-blowing sex with a complete stranger, he offered me a job as his … his what? Courtesan? Call girl? And I accepted.

He said he owned the hotel. He said he owned a huge company. And I believed it all. Took it at face value.

My stomach churns. Things like this don’t happen to girls like me. Was I taken in by some con man, after a quick roll with the maid?

I wrote a letter last night, resigning my old, horrible job cleaning at the hotel.

I resigned my job! What did I

not delivered it yet, so technically, I’m still working at the hotel, and due to start my

head. Can it be real? The whole of the previous day feels surreal to me — from my foolish decision to use the

out of bed and set about making some coffee and toast.

intercom buzzes. “Delivery for Elizabeth

back. “Just leave it in the

“Sorry. Needs a signature.”

“Okay, I’m coming down.”

my head, trying to think if I have perhaps ordered something on the internet and forgotten about it.

and a package. Puzzled, I sign for them and take them back to my apartment. Opening the letter first, I take a deep breath as I read the contents

“Dear Miss Kimberley,

application for an internship with our

to

read on, catching my breath as I do so at the stated salary, which is much, much more than I earn now in my miserable cleaning job. Then I do a double-take. I am being instructed to report to the

parcel. With slightly trembling fingers, I open it to find a skirt and jacket, blouses, and a pair of shoes, all very sensible and business-like, but beautifully made and expensive looking. I check the labels and take a deep breath. These designer brands cost a fortune. I would

on, smoothing down the gorgeous slinky fabric over my curves. Looking at myself in my cracked mirror, I have to admit, the outfit looks great, and not quite as sensible as I had first thought. The jacket is tightly tailored to my trim waist and large breasts. The blouse is cut just low enough to suggest cleavage without actually revealing anything. The shoes have just enough of a heel to show off my legs, and the skirt, whilst at a business-like knee-length, is cut

he know my size? For

I must report for my new job. I gulp down my coffee. A little low-key makeup and my long red hair confined

*****

steel and plate glass, I hand over the letter at the reception. The receptionist checks my name against a day

my name is Elizabeth Kimberley.

Kimberley. Mr Haswell is expecting you. I’ll

an intercom. “Mr Haswell, Elizabeth