Dance With the Billionaire - Book Two: Dance With the Billionaire, #2

By Charlotte Eve

This is the second book in the Dance With The Billionaire Series by Charlotte Eve!

 

"I'll give you a thousand dollars for your panties."

Wait ... what?

Tell me he didn't just say that ...
 

I didn't want a man in my life. I thought love was for losers, and all I needed to be happy were my friends and my dancing. But then, one Friday night, a gorgeous arrogant playboy called Dylan Campbell came crashing into my life and changed everything.
 

At first I hated him. I thought he was a spoiled, entitled a*****e. And he was - at least at first. But then he turned out to be so much more than that, too. Because he taught me who I really was - awakening desires inside me that I didn't even know existed.

 

He taught me about love and life, and maybe I taught him a few things, too. And now everything has changed. Because now he owns me completely ...

 

A must read for all lovers of romance -Kat Loves Books
This was one hot scorching read. I can't quitebelieve how good it was - Reflections of a Book Geek
A great story ... There's something aboutCharlotte Eve's writing that has me begging for more - Rapid Reviewer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Garden of Eden Press
• Release date: Jul 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393296867

Charlotte Eve

Charlotte Eve was born to English parents and grew up between London and New York. She returned to England to study, and has now settled in London, where she loves the history, the culture and the tea. Maybe not the rain though. Charlotte still visits New York as often as she can, to shop until she drops.

Book preview

Part One

Chapter One

I look around me nervously at the sea of new faces, reflected in the mirrored wall that runs along one side of the dance studio. Young men and women, all dressed in brand new dancewear. It’s kind of like the equivalent of when you bring in a new pencil case for the start of a school year: everyone’s proudly showing off their sparkly new kit, for once even me. I’m wearing all brand-new dancewear: a really great peach sports bra and a crisp white t-shirt that shows off my tan. I even went to Lululemon myself and bought some of their insanely expensive yoga pants. In the past, I’ve always thought pricey clothes like this were a total waste of money. I mean, hundred dollar workout pants don’t exactly make you any better at dancing. But at the same time, they’re really comfortable to wear, they don’t fall apart in the wash, and shopping for them was actually kinda fun, as long as you ignored the snooty sales girls, looking you up and down. I knew they were just jealous of my figure. And I’ve got to admit, it’s nice not to have to worry about money for the first time in my life.

Just then the door opens. It’s Maurice Ryman.

Good morning, fresh meat, he says as he struts confidently into the room, clapping his hands as he takes his place in front of us. "Enough gossiping. Enough checking out the competition. Let’s get dancing."

He nods to the assistant in the corner, and a moment later music bursts from the large speakers in all four walls of the studio, filling the room with a pulsing, insistent house beat.

Let’s start with some warm ups, Maurice calls from his place at the front of the class, clapping his hands in time to the rhythm of the drums. "Okay, and ... go, two three four, one, two, three, four ... Very good. Very good!"

He leads us through a fast, intense series of warm-up steps, never letting up for a moment, and wow, it feels so great to be back in a real dance studio. And this time, I remind myself, I’m not only in the best, but I’m learning from the best, too.

The rest of the day speeds by in a blur of dancing, orientation, and trying to remember a million and one new names, as Maurice and the other teachers all guide us through the different courses we’ll be taking over the first semester, everything leading towards our first production – the end of term recital.

As the tired class streams out through the double doors and onto the campus, the talk turns to the idea of a trip to a local bar for a getting-to-know-you drink. And I do really want to get to know my fellow students, but I sadly have to decline. You see, before I make some new friends, there’s an old one I’ve been neglecting ...

"Holy shit, Jules. You didn’t tell me you’ve got a doorman now! Nat squeals as I open the door to my new apartment. Oh my God. You’ve got to be shitting me. You’re telling me this is really your new place?"

I guess it is, and come in, I say with a sheepish grin.

I step aside to let her pass, watching her as she gazes in awe at my totally enormous new pad, situated right here in the center of downtown Manhattan. It’s got highly polished oak floors, loads of windows, exposed brick all along one wall, and a huge tan suede corner sofa, so comfortable you could live in it, so comfortable in fact that you don’t even really need a bed. But of course there is a bed, too: a massive king-sized one, as well as an en-suite with a shower and a bath.

Oh my God, Nat says as she takes in the apartment. This is amazing! This is everything!

She’s running around it, as excited as a kid on Christmas morning, while I lounge on the sofa letting her explore.

From the bathroom, I hear her squeal. Then she comes running back through.

Sweet mama! she says, throwing herself down on the sofa. "You’ve got a tub? You don’t know how long I’ve been dreaming of having a soak in a tub. You’ve gotta let me come round here for a few hours to soak. Pleeeeease?"

Of course, I laugh. It’s incredible, isn’t it? Before I moved here, I can’t remember the last time I actually had a bath either. Sometimes I wonder why we put ourselves through all this ...

Put ourselves through what?

New York! I say. It’s so crazy that the space to have a bath is something only really rich people can afford. You know what I mean?

Uh huh, Nat says. "I do know what you mean. And speaking of which, lady, you have got a lot of explaining to do ... she says, still looking all around her, open-mouthed in shock and excitement. First of all, your phone’s off for a whole week. Then I go to the bar, and they tell me you’ve quit. Next I go to your apartment and there’s no answer. Then I get a message, saying you’re busy and you’ll explain everything. And now you’re living here? What the fuck has happened? Did you win the freaking lottery or something?!"

No, I didn’t win the lottery, I sigh. But you’d better get comfortable. It’s kind of a long story ...

It takes almost an hour to get Nat fully up to speed. And okay, so I don’t quite tell her the exact truth. For a start, I’m too shy to explain that I haven’t even slept with this guy yet. And on top of that, I figure it would just be too weird for her to understand the full details of our little ‘arrangement’. And so, as far as Nat’s aware, Dylan is my new mega-rich ... boyfriend.

Okay, Cinderella, she grins, obviously still trying to get her head around this crazy new turn of events. I’ve just got one more question ... Does this guy have any friends?

I laugh, my heart flooding with a rush of tenderness for her. It’s so great to see her again. It’s only been a fortnight, but even so, I’ve really, really missed her. And then all too soon, she’s picking up her bag to leave.

Hey! Where are you going? I say in dismay.

I’ve gotta split, she says, looking at her watch. "Some of us still need to keep the cogs whirling in Manhattan’s service industry."

Okay, I say, sadly. But call me soon alright? We’ve gotta spend some real time together ... Dancing at Countdown?

It’s a deal, she says. But this time the drinks are on you.

Okay, okay, blood-sucker! I laugh back. But we both know that I’m only too happy to share as much of my newfound fortune as possible.

Nat’s only been gone a few minutes when my cell buzzes. I look at the screen: Dylan Campbell calling.

It’s only been a week since I said goodbye to him at the airport, but I feel strangely awkward, wondering if things will be the same between us now that we’re both firmly back here in New York.

Hello? I answer cautiously.

I’ve booked us a table at The 212 tonight, he says, confident as ever, for a pre-theatre dinner. Meet me there at seven o’ clock. Oh, and there’s a black Dolce & Gabbana dress hanging in your closet. I want you to wear it.

And with that, he hangs up the phone.

Dylan, that was out of this world, I say honestly, as the waitress clears our desserts away. I feel drunk and giddy, but not just because of the delicious wine. It’s like all my senses are tingling. The food was exquisite, the design of this place is amazing, and I have to admit that the company isn’t too shabby either. I’ll tell you something, I add, looking compassionately at the busy servers, all dancing gracefully around the tables, being waited on like this sure makes a difference from racing around on your feet all evening.

I’m glad you appreciate it, he replies. "So, what was the best part of your job?"

This is an easy one.

The tips, I reply, immediately.

And the worst?

Again, an easy one.

Entitled, sleazy customers treating me like a piece of meat.

Oh really?’ he says, arching a thick black eyebrow. Tell me more ..."

Oh, you know, I smile sweetly. Businessmen coming in after work, full of cheesy lines, thinking that just because they’re flashing their cash around, I’ll jump into bed with them ...

"Any particularly strange requests?" he teases.

Just one.

And?

"Well, I’ve kind of got this new policy, where I say yes to everything."

I lock eyes with him as I talk. His pupils are so big and black, I feel like I could disappear right into them. And a moment later, I hand my gift to him, under the table. He looks down somewhat incredulously at the pair of tiny black panties I’ve just placed in his palm.

How the hell did you do that? he says, shaking his head, totally amazed. I was staring straight at you the whole time.

I’m a dancer, I reply, unable to keep the grin off my face. "We are very flexible."

I take a long, slow sip of the delicious red wine.

So, I say. This is my first ever pre-theatre dinner. So what are we going to see, anyway?

The English National Ballet are in town, he says. I thought you should see their Swan Lake.

Oh my God! I gasp. "Dylan, are you kidding? I’d love to!"

It’s their finest, he says.

I’ve never even been to the ballet, I reply, feeling a strange pang in my chest, somewhere between frustration, sadness and embarrassment at all the things I missed out on as a kid; all the things my mom wanted for me but that we could never quite afford ...

Well, it’s about time we fixed that, he says warmly, reaching across the table and closing his hand over mine.

The gesture is so intimate – and dare I say it, romantic -- that it takes me by surprise a little. Then it seems like we both have the same thought, because we both pick up our wine glasses.

To a night of firsts, Dylan says.

To a night of firsts, I reply, gently clinking my glass against his.

The ballet is everything I could have hoped for, and like nothing I’ve ever experienced, all at once. I mean, sure, it’s not exactly my kind of dancing, but you’d have to be a total philistine not to appreciate its perfect mixture of emotion, grace and beauty. I’m so captivated by the performance that it’s only when we’re climbing into the limo, to head back to my new apartment, that I remember I’m not wearing any panties.

I need you, Julia, Dylan says, the very moment the car starts moving, and as if to leave no confusion as to what he means, he slowly begins tracing his fingers over my thighs, the electric touch of