The Billionaire's Allure Read Free Page B

you tantalize me in a way I can’t even describe.” He reached into a cabinet beneath the bar and withdrew a pair of wine glasses.
    I pursed my lips, speechless. Me? I tantalized him? He could have just about any supermodel in the world and he wanted me? “Thank you.”
    “Do you care for a drink?”
    I wasn’t sure how I felt about adding another glass of wine to what I’d already consumed that afternoon, but I was less sure how to politely turn him down. Plus I had a suspicion that his wine was going to be much higher quality than mine. I decided that a sip couldn’t hurt.
    “Sure.”
    He poured me a glass of deep crimson liquid and passed it over, then poured a second for himself. “It’s a Rioja.”
    I sipped it and was immediately impressed by the smoothness and faint taste of cherries.
    “Do you care for it?” he asked.
    “It’s excellent.” It was easily better than anything I had ever tried.
    “I just purchased the vineyard a few months ago.” He re-corked the bottle and set it in a guilded cage on the bar.
    “I know you’ve been with the company for six months. Well, I suppose that you were with the company. And your transcript was very impressive. What did you hope to do before we let you go?”
    “I was planning on law school. I’ve applied to Georgetown for next year.”
    “I see. Just using us as a stepping stone then?”
    I opened my mouth to respond, but the limo stopped and the window behind Mr. Adamson’s head lowered. “Mr. A, we’re here,” said a gruff voice.
    “Thank you, Thomas.” The window slid back into place. A moment later the door opened, and a white gloved bellman looked inside.
    “Good evening, Mr. Adamson,” the bellman said. Another man stood behind him, this one with silver hair and a tuxedo.
    Adamson climbed out, then leaned back into the car, holding forth a hand. I let him help me out of the car. Flashbulbs snapped as soon as I was on the sidewalk. The building itself was just red brick, but the throng of people crowding the entryway gave it an air of importance that belied the architecture. Photographers zoomed in on both of us.
    My heart fluttered. I had seen paparazzi on TV, but I had no idea what it would be like on the other end of their cameras. I was scared shitless. Adamson must have sensed my hesitation because he stepped in between me and the cameras.
    “Mr. Adamson, your table waits,” the silver haired man said.
    “Thank you, Geordie,” Adamson said. He cocked his elbow, and not knowing what else to do, I slid my arm into the opening.
    We followed the older man--I realized he must be the maître d’--past the crowd of people. More flashbulbs went off as we walked.
    “I’m a little overwhelmed,” I whispered, to Adamson. “It feels like I’m in Hollywood.”
    “Just smile and keep moving,” he said, as we passed through the doors.
    Linen covered tables were scattered around the restaurant. Black-suited waiters with white ties moved between them. The maître d’ led us to the back of the restaurant and seated us at a table tucked into a corner.
    A waiter was with us and pouring waters even as we sat. The maître d’ stepped aside. “What can I bring you to drink?” the waiter asked.
    “A bottle of the ’95 Veuve,” Adamson said.
    “Very well.” The waiter slipped away.
    “The usual, monsieur?” the maître d’ asked.
    “Please,” Adamson said.
    “And for the mademoiselle?”
    I looked around, unsure what my options were. With Adamson’s order of “the usual,” I didn’t have any frame of reference for what I should get. The menu didn’t even have prices, so I couldn’t just pick something in the middle. Citronelle was so unlike any restaurant I had ever been inside, and the whole date was so unlike any date I’d ever had, I was at an utter loss.
    “Ah…”
    “The promenade gourmande,” Adamson said.
    “Excellent choice.” The maître d’ disappeared in the same direction as the waiter.
    “It’s a bit of