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.

God! I resigned my job!

I remember. It’s still in his suite. I’ve not delivered it yet, so technically, I’m still working at the hotel, and due to start

The whole of the previous day feels surreal to me — from my foolish decision to use the stranger’s shower,

bed and set about making some coffee and toast. My

buzzes. “Delivery

buzz 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. Not very likely on my very limited

fact, he has two items for me, a letter 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

“Dear Miss Kimberley,

you that your application for an internship with our company

report to our

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

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

them 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 with a sexy swirl at the

how did he know my size? For

my coffee. A little low-key makeup and my long red hair confined into an orderly bun, and I feel

*****

at the reception. The receptionist checks my name against a day book and directs me to the tenth floor, where I find a second reception desk, with a pleasant-looking woman sitting

out the letter. “Hello, my name

Haswell is expecting you. I’ll tell

intercom. “Mr Haswell, Elizabeth Kimberley