The Billionaire's Princess - Ava Ryan

1

Damon

She glides in like the queen of everything without bothering to notice the fancy Friday night crowd here at Bemelmans in the Carlyle Hotel on the Upper East Side. Forget about making eye contact with anyone or acknowledging the pianist plinking away on the grand. The server gets a nod of thanks as he seats her at the leather banquette against the wall at one of the small round tables nearest where my brothers and I sit. A hint of a dimpled smile as she accepts the menu. Then the server walks off and she lowers her eyes to study the drink selections, retreating into a cool bubble of aloofness that only the brave would dare try to penetrate.

I am nothing if not brave.

Don’t get me wrong. Brave is probably not the first word people use to describe me. Ruthless comes to mind. As do arrogant, brilliant and rich. Generally followed by the word bastard.

For example? Damon Black is an arrogant bastard.

Not that I care what anyone thinks of me. You don’t bring your late father’s floundering property development company back from the brink of disaster and turn it into a billion-dollar-ish real estate empire by the age of thirty-four by tiptoeing around people’s feelings.

But her…

I notice everything about her, oblivious to my brothers’ ongoing conversation and too riveted to bother lowering my dirty martini all the way back to the table.

The pale skin and vivid auburn hair that seem to distill and concentrate the room’s rosy glow on her sleek face and swelling cleavage. The way the spaghetti straps of her little black dress skim her kissable shoulders. The graceful neck and the way a single gleaming corkscrew strand of hair escapes her severe bun and trails down her back. The way her long and shapely legs culminate in pretty feet that feature pink-tipped toes strapped into killer heels.

No rings on her left hand. A funny detail I usually don’t care to notice one way or the other but that now gives me a surge of satisfaction that I plan to pretend I don’t feel.

She studies the menu. I study her, my skin prickling with awareness as I experience the slow curl of desire in my belly and lower.

“Damon?”

The thing is, this is new for me. Not noticing women in bars, obviously. I notice women. I hook up with women. But lately I do both with all the enthusiasm of a man brushing his teeth before bed. My body needs it and it’s got to get done. I may as well get it over with as quickly as possible so I can move on to more important things. My boredom, which teeters on complete indifference most of the time now, is a hazard of the singles scene here in the city as much as my chronic workaholism. I’m not excited by too much of anything these days, except for the huge deal my brothers and I closed this afternoon.

Wanting someone to screw is not new for me.

Wanting anyone the way I suddenly want ye olde ice princess over there? Brand new for me.

I don’t believe in romantic love. Let’s put that out there right now. My parents blasted the idea out of my head and left a crater for my heart when they savaged each other during their divorce back when I was ten. I jeer at friends who fall “in love.” But a woman like that? I can understand how she’d put a crazy thought or two into an unsuspecting guy’s head.

“Damon? You with us?” one of my brothers asks.

“Shut the hell up,” I say mildly without ever looking away from her, ignoring their round of sniggering at my expense as best I can.

The server delivers the woman’s martini and slips away again. She looks up suddenly, possibly feeling the weight—or maybe the heat—from all my focused attention on her face. She looks across at me, and our gazes connect. I freeze and do my best to overcome the sensation of landing flat on my ass and having the wind knocked out of me.

She’s insanely gorgeous. Huge eyes with sweeping brows. Oval face. The kind of plump berry mouth that’ll make a plastic surgeon rich quick around these parts.

I watch as she freezes like I just did. As her mouth opens into a surprised little O. As a telltale blush originates across the tops of her breasts, creeps north and settles in her high cheeks. As her expression cycles through surprise and subtle feminine appreciation before ending in an