THE BILLIONAIRE'S CONTRACTED ESCORT

Elara

If Caspian Beaumont touched the small of my back one more time, I was going to snap his wrist.

"And then I told the pilot, if we aren't in Ibiza by sunrise, he can find a new hangar for his career." Caspian whined, his breath a foul cocktail of vintage gin.

He laughed at his own joke, an annoying, honking sound that made the nearby socialites offer tight, pained smiles.

I forced my lips into parting smile, suggesting fascination.

In reality, I was counting the seconds until I could leave him at the bar. At twenty-seven, I had spent five years perfecting this mask. I was the "Expert", the woman who could walk into a room of vipers and make them think I was their favorite pet.

But tonight, the stakes weren't just about a high-end escort fee. My mother's past investments had turned out to be a looming debt, hovering over my head.

She had loaned money from loan sharks and had forged my signature into being a guarantor. With her defaulting to pay up, I was a target to men who didn't take IOUs, and two million dollars didn't just fall from the sky.

Unless you knew which clouds to target.

'Shut up, Sterling. Just shut the hell up.' I thought, my eyes drifting away from his bloated face to scan the Grand Ballroom.

The Pierre Hotel was a palace of "Old Money," dripping in gold leaf and suffocating under the scent of lilies. But the man I was here for wasn't in the center of the room. He was a shadow at the edge of the light.

Arthur Sterling.

Thirty-four years old widower. The titan of the Sterling Group. If you had a heartbeat in this country, a Sterling-brand monitor had probably tracked it. If you'd had surgery, a Sterling-brand laser had probably cut you.

He was the king of the biomedical industry, but standing there by the terrace doors, he looked less like a king and more like a man facing a firing squad.

Devilishly handsome, 6'4 and had the body of a sexy underwear model which was currently covered by a sophisticated charcoal-grey suit. He stood perfectly still, too still.

While every other billionaire in the room was engaging, interacting, Arthur was a statue.

His jaw was set so tight and he didn't make eye contact. He stared at a point exactly six inches above everyone else's heads, his fingers twitching in a rhythmic, three-beat tap against the champagne glass in his hand.

He wanted nothing to do with this gala.

The crystal chandeliers were too bright, and the social vultures circling him for a piece of his medical empire were getting too close.

And then there was the boy.

Julian.

Four years old, looking like a miniature, terrified version of his father. He was clutching Arthur's hand so hard his knuckles were white. The boy was blinking rapidly, his small chest heaving in the way a child's does right before a meltdown.

"Wait here, babe." Caspian muttered, his grip finally loosening as a tray of wagyu sliders passed by. "I need to refuel. Don't move. You're the best-looking thing in this room and I don't want to lose my view."

"I'll be right here, Caspian." I lied, my voice like honey. 'Go choke on a slider, you prick.'

The moment he turned his back, I didn't head for the champagne. I moved with silence toward the terrace.

I watched the scene unfold slowly. A group of loud, perfumed women cornered Arthur, their voices shrill as they tried to pitch a charity gala. Arthur recoiled, his shoulders tensed the slightest.

In that split second, he let go of Julian's hand to adjust his cufflinks and Julian didn't hesitate.

He saw the opening. The boy turned and bolted through the open French doors, disappearing into the dark gardens of the hotel.

Arthur didn't see it. He was trapped in a heated conversation about medical equipment patents.

I didn't wait for him to notice. I stepped out into the cool night air.

The gardens were a maze of high hedges and manicured stone paths. I ditched my heels near a fountain, the cold marble floor a relief against my aching arches.

I followed the sound of rustling.

I found him behind a massive boxwood bush near the edge of the property, with only the dim lights of the ballroom, illuminating that portion. Julian was on his knees in a patch of fresh, damp soil, his five thousand dollar tuxedo sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

He was staring at a worm.

I didn't stand over him. I knew better. I sat right down in the dirt, the midnight-blue silk of my gown, a dress that cost more than my first car, soaking up the mud.

"He's a traveler..." I said softly.

Julian didn't flinch. He didn't even look at me. He just watched the worm wriggle. "He has no eyes..."

"He doesn't need them." I whispered, reaching out to gently nudge a clump of soil out of the worm's path. "He feels the world through his skin. He likes the damp. It's quiet down here. No music. No shouting."

Julian finally looked at me. His eyes were wide, blue, and remarkably intelligent. His eyes made me almost coo at how curious and cute he looked.

"It's too loud inside." He confessed.

"I know." I said, and for the first time in a long time, I wasn't playing a part. "I hate the loud, too. I'm Elara."

"Julian." he muttered, then turned his attention back to the worm. I picked it up. I let the slimy, cold creature crawl across my palm, laughing as it tickled.

Julian's eyes lit up. He reached out, his small hand shaking slightly, and touched the worm. Then he giggled. It was a small, rusty sound that caused a small smile on my lips.

"Julian!"

The voice cracked through the quiet garden.

I looked up.

Arthur Sterling was standing at the entrance of the garden nook. His hair, which had been perfectly slicked back, was beginning to fray. His tie was slightly crooked.

His striking blue eyes landed on Julian. Then they travelled to the mud, then me, a woman in a couture gown sitting in the dirt with a worm in her hand.

"Get away from him." Arthur snapped, his voice low with fury. He marched forward and grabbed Julian, hauling him up.

He didn't look at the mud on the boy's suit, he was checking for injuries, his hands hovering over him frantically.

"He's fine, Mr. Sterling," I said, standing up slowly.

I wiped a streak of mud across my dress without thinking, my dress ruined, poise shattered, but my target was exactly where I wanted him. "He was just looking for some quiet. We were having a conversation about biology."

Arthur finally looked at me. He looked at the mud on my knees, the worm still writhing in my palm, and the way I wasn't intimidated by his glare. His eyes narrowed.

He was analyzing me. I was an escort for a Beaumont, yet I was sitting in the dirt with his son.

The silence stretched. I could see the gears turning in his head, the way he was struggling to process the deviation from his "perfect" evening.

"You're with Beaumont." he said, his voice flat, his gaze landing on the dirt on my face.

"I was." I said, stepping closer.

I tossed the worm back into the bushes and offered him my hand. It was covered in dark, wet earth and grit.

"Elara Vance. I think your son has a gift for the natural sciences. He's much more interesting than the people inside."

Arthur looked down at my extended, mud-caked hand. His nostrils flared, not from the look of disgust, but the lack of hygiene. He didn't take it. He didn't even acknowledge it.

Instead, he tucked Julian behind his leg, his eyes turning back to ice. "Clean yourself up, Miss Vance. You look like a mess."

He turned on his heel and walked away, his stride rigid and fast, leaving me standing in the dark.

I looked at my dirty hand and smiled. He was bothered, rattled even. And most importantly, he would never forget the woman who made his son laugh in the dirt.

The hook was in. Now, I just had to pull the line.