Entry-Level Mistress - By Sabrina Darby Page 0,6

he were going to speak, but then kept shutting his mouth. Clearly he wasn’t finding a casual enough way to ask, “Hey, do you know Mr. Hartmann or did he ask you to lunch ’cause you’re hot?” Well, maybe James wouldn’t phrase it quite that way. “’Cause you’re hot,” sounded a lot more like what my last boyfriend, the video installation artist, would say.

We met up with Frank and Suzie, who, as James had said, worked in Research and Development. They were new to the company, and had both been recruited from one of the graduate programs at MIT. Apparently MIT was one of the biggest feeding troughs for Hartmann Enterprises. That and Harvard, where Allison had received her MBA. I was the odd man out in this gathering.

Any cozying up to Allison to find out the inner details of the company or the man was pointless. The other woman, whose trousers and tailored jacket were clearly not from a discount store, had no such compunction as James. At the first opportunity, when I stupidly asked, “So what’s Hartmann like?”

Allison raised a thin, well-tended eyebrow and returned, “You might know better than me. Didn’t you have lunch with him today?”

I brushed it off with a laugh and a deflecting comment. Studiously ordered a cold lemon drop martini and then welcomed the distraction of needing to hunt through my bag for the phone when it vibrated. I flipped open the phone and the room spun a little.

He’d texted me. Which also meant he’d made the effort to get my cell phone number from personnel.

I’ll pick you up at 8 tomorrow. Dinner. /Daniel

That was it. No question. Just that same assumption I had avoided responding to earlier in the day. Right, the date on which he was going to kiss me.

Outrageous. High-handed. Surprisingly sexy.

And despite everything that was wrong with the situation, despite the sleepless hours spent analyzing and reanalyzing every moment of that lunch with him, twenty-four hours later I found myself getting ready for that date, with the clock stubbornly ticking down the hour.

What did one wear for dinner with a billionaire? I stood in my boyshorts and camisole staring at my closet. It was packed with clothing, with costumes for any situation or eventuality. Except for this. I had the wardrobe of a rebellious, impoverished art student. And those sweater sets. The last time I’d worn anything elegant or designer was the dress for Hartmann’s mother’s funeral. Twelve years ago.

I’d even worn pants to prom.

But I needed to convince Hartmann that I was more fascinating than any of those models. Because the only excusable reason to go on a date him was to find some way to hurt him. We were both clearly attracted to each other. History is filled with examples of attraction being used to bring down foes.

Of course, if he was only interested because he knew who I was, then he might be more of a danger to me than I was to him. Perhaps he wasn’t yet through ruining my life. I stilled.

“Ooh, naked girl alert!” Leanna sashayed by, plucked a purple tank dress off of a hanger. Then she continued to rifle through the closely pressed clothes, despite the fact that Leanna’s own closet was filled to the brim with designer labels, both new and vintage.

“You are in my room,” I pointed out.

“Yes, I am, my dearest, darling friend. And why are you still in your underwear when you are about to go on a date with Cosmo’s Most Eligible Bachelor of the year?”

“Because what does one wear on such a date?”

“Oh.” Leanna paused, turned and surveyed me. “Better underwear?”

“Hmmph.” I crossed my arms and waited for Leanna to give a real answer. After all, there had to be some sort of perk for living with someone who worked on the fashion pages of a life and culture magazine.

“Okay, okay, maybe an LBD? Or what is it they are saying? Pink is the new black? So you’d better make that a little pink dress. Or purple. I guess you can wear this instead of me.” With a long-suffering sigh, Leanna held out her purloined tank dress. “This with my Wolford stockings and my black Miu Mius.”

“Really?” I accepted the dress and then followed Leanna across the apartment to her bedroom. Leanna’s blonde hair swung down her back, beautifully glossy. In spite of four years of friendship, I had a rare moment of jealousy. Thanks to the nearly black dye in my own hair, glossy