The Hotel 2 (The Billionaire Seduction) by Lola Darling Page B

shake my head.
“This isn’t a swap meet.” Sometimes people think
that just because I run an illegal fighting circuit and betting ring,
I must be dishonest or inattentive to keeping the books, or maybe
just dumb. So they try to take advantage of me occasionally. They
think I won’t notice or care if they siphon a little cash or
don’t pay in full or don’t pay at all, that I’m
just a guy who made his money beating the shit out of strangers while
debutantes and their dates made their bets. All brawn and no brains.
But they’re wrong.
    In the ring, I
didn’t mind being underestimated. It helped me win. Some
spectators think when you look like me, tall, muscular,
broad-shouldered, you won’t be agile enough to dodge a right
hook. So they bet against you. They don’t realize those muscles
aren’t just for showing off to the female members of the
crowd—not that I minded when they noticed. Those hard biceps
mean you’re strong, and those washboard abs make you quick, and
it all adds up to making my bank account big.
    But
as the boss outside the ring, I can’t have people not take me
seriously. The Armani suits I wear on fight nights look damn good on
me but they don’t come cheap, so when I loan money I expect to
get it back when the handshake said I would. It’s only fair.
I’ve got a reputation to protect, not to mention a legitimate
business career to support, owning two of Atlanta’s most
popular nightclubs, a cocktail lounge, and Altitude, a bar some
buddies and I run together. I got to the top flying like a butterfly
in the ring, but I stay there because I sting like a bee outside it.
    And
Jamie McEntire’s about to feel what I mean.
    “You
know where this kid’s house is?” I say, clapping Tyler on
the shoulder. He nods. “Good,” I say. “You’re
driving then. Grab Valero and let him know that as soon as this crowd
clears, we’re making a visit.”
    Tyler
leaves, and the woman in the tight dress with the lucky beer bottle
approaches. The dip of her neckline is as low as her skirt is short.
“Someone should wash your mouth out,” she says.
    “Sorry
if I offended your delicate sensibilities,” I say, smiling.
We’re at an underground bare-knuckles fight. Fuck is
hardly the most offensive thing she’s been exposed to tonight.
    “Not
at all,” she says. “I like a man who talks dirty.”
She takes a sip from the bottle, tipping it toward me. “Want
some?”
    I
don’t think she just means the beer.
    Over
her shoulder, behind her in the crowd, I see a guy in a
decent-looking grey suit. He’s standing with a few other
people but his attention is clearly fixed on her, watching. I tilt
the bottle back toward her with my index finger. “Who are you
here with?”
    “No
one special,” she says, taking a step toward me. “Unless
you want some company.”
    Women.
They smell good, they look good, they taste good, but they can be so
bad for you.
    I’ve
been Grey Suit back there. Even in the shadows of the warehouse I can
read the look on his face, the narrowed eyes, slightly turned down
mouth. He’s a guy who knows that just because he’s the
one who’s taking this girl out tonight it doesn’t mean
he’s going home with her. Back when I was fighting, my
girlfriend at the time used the hours I was knocking guys’
blocks off to get her rocks off. She even slept with some of my
opponents, who I beat anyway, but still—I don’t know if
she was just bored or mean, didn’t love me or herself or both,
but when we broke up two years ago, I swore off relationships. My
motto is get in and get out, in all ways possible.
    So
Tight Dress standing in front of me, just the right size to straddle
my lap in the front seat of my Audi, would usually be the perfect
ending to a night.
    But
I can’t abide dishonesty, not even from a one-night stand. Like
I said: there are standards.
    “Your
date’s not doing it for you?” I say, nodding at Grey Suit
who’s now standing by the door where people are