Mistaking A Billionaire For A Gigolo

The tip of the expensive fountain pen tore through the crisp white paper.

Alexis Sweet pressed down so hard her knuckles turned stark white. She signed her name on the final page of the divorce agreement. The document that stripped her of everything. No assets. No alimony. Just the clothes on her back.

She folded the thick stack of papers, her fingers trembling slightly, and shoved them into her designer leather bag.

Sitting at the dimly lit bar of the Manhattan luxury hotel, she grabbed the chilled martini glass in front of her. The cold condensation wet her palm. She tipped her head back and swallowed the clear liquid in one massive gulp. The alcohol burned a harsh trail down her throat, settling like a hot coal in her empty stomach. It did nothing to burn away the humiliation.

Her phone buzzed against the mahogany bar top. The screen lit up with a text from her best friend, Ayla.

I handled it. Top-tier entertainment for tonight. Room 5012. Go ruin yourself a little, Lexi. You deserve to forget that bastard Carlos.

Alexis stared at the glowing words. Her chest heaved. Carlos had spent the last two years treating her like dirt, and today he threw her out like garbage. She needed this. She needed to feel something other than the crushing weight of betrayal. She needed to use someone the way she had been used.

A sudden shift in the air pulled her attention.

A low murmur rippled through the entrance of the bar. The crowd naturally parted, stepping back as if repelled by an invisible force.

Jarrett Hughes walked into the dim light. He wore a charcoal, hand-tailored suit that clung perfectly to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His jaw was sharp, his expression entirely devoid of warmth. He moved with the slow, predatory grace of a man who owned the ground he walked on.

Behind him, his assistant Bruno leaned in, speaking in a hushed, urgent tone about that high-stakes real estate acquisition.

Alexis's alcohol-blurred vision locked onto Jarrett. Her breath hitched. The sheer, aggressive masculinity radiating from him made her skin prickle. Her buzzed brain connected the dots instantly. Ayla had paid for top-tier. This man, with his flawless face and expensive costume, had to be the high-end gigolo.

She slid off the high barstool. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor. The room spun slightly, but she forced her legs to move, swaying toward him.

Bruno noticed her approaching. His eyes widened, and he immediately stepped forward, raising a hand to block her path.

Jarrett lifted two fingers. Bruno froze and stepped back instantly. Jarrett's dark, piercing eyes dropped to Alexis's flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips. He watched her with a dangerous, quiet curiosity.

Alexis stopped inches from his chest. She could smell his cologne-cedar, bergamot, and something dark and expensive. She held up a plastic keycard between her index and middle finger.

She slapped the keycard flat against the hard muscle of his chest.

"You're mine for the night," she said, her voice thick with vodka and reckless defiance. "I bought your time."