20 Mia

It was another twenty minutes later when he pulled into a parking lot. I noticed the many flashy cars parked here. He switched off the engine and got out. Uncertainly I undid my seat belt and did the same.

He was already in front of me by the time I shut the door. "I won't run," I said, annoyed he should act like my unwelcome bodyguard. "I want to talk to my brother."

I glanced up and saw the slight smile lifting one side of his lips.

"Good," he said, wrapping a hand over my arm and steering me close to him.

As we walked to the door, I felt like I was glued to him by the hip. I scowled and tried to move him off. The feeling of him so close didn't sit well with me. I was hot and tense at the same time, and my breasts and nipples were growing aroused. I couldn't believe he was turning me on by just holding me close.

He tightened his grip on me and even went so far as to rest his other hand around the back of my neck, under my braided hair. I jumped, a gasp escaping my lips. He knew I was about to pull away and tightened his hold on me.

"Behave yourself, Mia." The warning drifted to me. He was referring to me by name.

I couldn't help myself and glanced up to him as the maître d' opened the door for us.

He flicked his gaze to me and said softly again, "Mia." To tease me, I was sure.

Heat rushed to my face after he repeated my name, followed by a gentle stroke of my neck. What was he doing? Stroking me in the open like this?

"Good evening, sir." The man in a polished black suit greeted us. Then he turned his attention to me, his smile bright. "And madam."

I shifted my gaze from the man who was causing such turmoil within my body to the maître d'. I had to behave myself in order to talk to my brother. So I did just that by ignoring the light stroking and smiling at the maître d'. "Hi," I said.

"Table for two," the billionaire said firmly.

"Of course, sir." He showed us to a lone table that boasted a great view of the city. The restaurant was dimly lit, so I was grateful my sorry state of dress didn't gain too much attention.

I glanced around, noting the big plates of delicious fare on almost every table. Steak, potatoes, pasta, steamed fish, risotto, salad. I hugged myself, suddenly feeling sad and sorry. I wanted to eat. But I was sure they cost the moon. I'd just have to sit and wait for this heartless billionaire to finish his meal so I could phone my brother.

The maître d' returned, asking for drink orders. I ignored him, and more so the billionaire, who looked right at home here, ordering wine in French.

"A very good choice, sir," the maître d' replied.

I shut my mind and sank into despair when the man returned with an expensive bottle of wine. He expertly poured some into a crystal glass for Maxwell to taste. When the powerful man nodded, the maître d' poured more. Then he turned to my side of the table and began pouring into mine as well.

I blinked as I watched the white liquid dance in the glass before me, luring me in for a taste. I clamped my lips tighter and glanced at James. A brow rose as the Prussian-blue eyes directed their gaze toward me. I could tell he found my reaction amusing.

When the maître d' left, I turned away and stared out at the beautiful view instead, avoiding that intense gaze that caused my heart to skip a beat.

"What are you having?" he asked.

Surprised, I turned my attention back to him. He was looking over the menu.

"I'm not hungry," I said.

My tummy, however, betrayed my lie by making a loud grumbling noise indicating I was indeed otherwise. Even though I'd just had some dinner—if one could call one tiny hamburger and a small soda a meal—I was still hungry. Food and I were the best of friends, except this best friend of mine kept deserting me when I needed it most. Of course, growing up poor wasn't fun, and I would wholeheartedly dispute anyone who claimed otherwise.

James rested the menu on the table and leaned back in his seat, observing me. Silence descended, and I felt uncomfortable. His hot gaze seared me as my eyes concentrated on the city below, trying to ignore him. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the maître d' returned, asking for his order.

"Steak for me," he said. "And the salmon and pasta for the lady."

I blinked and turned to him. My shock must have shown because I noted the satisfied smirk on his face.

"Drink your wine, Mia," he directed gently.

"I'm broke!" I blurted out. "I'll be even more broke by Friday."

"I see," he said. "I assume you've decided?"

"I told you I'd get the two million. Somehow, some way." A lump formed in my throat because I knew I was lying through my teeth.

"Good luck with that," he said. "I hope you realize how fruitless it is for a young woman of your experience—or should I say inexperience—to find such a sum in two days."

I fisted my hands and refused to back down. I was harshly taught to be independent by my aunt and uncle since I was twelve, after my wonderful parents had died. It was hard to suddenly accept this billionaire's offer, especially one such as this, becoming his mistress, completely dependent on him financially, totally secure and safe. Meanwhile, all I had to do was…

I couldn't even think further. Yes, Mr. James Maxwell was every girl's dream man. Heck, he was even mine. In fact, he was just my type—the dark hair, the blue eyes, the angular features, the toned muscles, and the tall, lean figure. I was very attracted to him, and I would definitely go out on a date with him in a heartbeat if the circumstances were completely different, if the circumstances were normal. But this was anything but normal.

I leaned forward and looked him straight in the eyes, a lovely fake smile playing across my face. I wanted to be a little sarcastic, but I knew I was terrible at playing the bitch. In fact, I could never because it wasn't my nature.

"Then won't you be so kind as to give me some suggestions?" I asked.

His eyes immediately drifted to my breasts. I felt the hot, intense gaze, and my core twisted into a frenzy of heat. Instantly, I was a little annoyed—first at how easily he could affect me, and secondly, because he was bloody persistent to have what he wanted, which was me in his bed as his mistress for five years. Why five years? Wouldn't he get tired of me in a couple of months? Wasn't five years a bit too long?

I bit my lip and said tightly, "Anything but that."

He folded his arms across his chest. "A pity."