Billion Dollar Stranger - Stephanie Brother Page 0,23

panoramic skyline view.

"It's beautiful," she says. "Amazing to have this to look at every day." I stay silent, watching as she takes her time gazing at the view. "Is this where you live most of the time?" she asks, and I nod. "It looks like you…like I would have expected it to look."

I smile at that because it isn't a comment about the luxury of the place or the size, but about the way its style is in line with how she perceives me.

She strolls toward a wall to the side of the seating area where I've displayed a small collection of art that I love. There's more in the upstairs rooms, particularly my study and bedroom, but it's quite sparse in this main area so as not to detract from the views.

"Wow," she says, looking them over. "These are amazing."

"I love icons. My grandmother was Russian, and she always had reproductions hanging in her home. It's nice to be able to buy originals. They remind me of her."

"So, these aren't copies?" Her voice is full of awe, and it makes something inside me bubble with warmth.

"They're originals. All around six hundred years old, although some are older. Most are Greek but some Russian. I bought rare scenes. It makes them more expensive. Most have elements of gold-leaf too."

Nicole glances at me as though she's searching for something, then focuses back in on the icons. "So, is that what you like? The most expensive things?"

I cross my arms over my chest.

"No, I like rare beauty."

Her eyes flick to mine, cautious but warm. It amuses me that she's trying to get to know me with these roundabout questions, and it impresses me. There's certainly more to Nicole than I would ever have expected.

Her hair shines in the sunlight that streams through the windows, hanging to where her lower spine arches. It's just how I like a woman's hair to be. Natural color, healthy, long enough to grab hold of when I'm fucking them, and so they can cover their breasts with it when they're naked. There's nothing like getting a glimpse of a little pink nipple or the white curve of soft flesh through the modest cover of long, sleek hair.

I lick my lips, considering how to move our encounter from art perusal to the sex we're actually here for. My cock is half-hard and ticking every time I look at her ass in that fitted skirt and her legs in those shoes. I want to fuck her in those shoes and nothing else.

The host in me realizes that Nicole hasn't had any lunch, and it's getting past that time. Her stomach grumbles as if it knows what I'm thinking, and she clutches at it scrunching her face with embarrassment.

"I think I need to feed you," I say, taking her hand and leading her across the hardwood floor to the kitchen. "Sean always prepares me a light lunch just in case I'm home early."

"Sean?"

"My chef. He lives downstairs."

"Oh, you have staff. There was me thinking you were going make me a bacon buttie."

"A bacon whattie?" I ask, laughing.

"Never mind," she says, shaking her head as if I'm a clueless idiot. "Let's see what Sean has cooked up for you."

I leave her perching on a stool at the counter and go to the fridge where the food is waiting. Sean has prepared a delicious-looking Asian salad and some sushi. There's also freshly squeezed mixed-citrus juice in a jug. Perfect.

As I spread it all out in front of her, she peers at each bowl and plate with interest.

"So, this is what the people on the Forbes list eat for lunch," she says. "It looks like something I could buy from M&S!"

"M&S?" I asked, feeling a little frustrated that I'm not getting her attempts at humor. Nicole grins, taking a swallow of juice, licking her lips. I momentarily lose my train of thought.

"Marks and Spencer. They sell posh food in England."

"Ah yes, I know that."

Nicole giggles. "I just had an image of you popping into M&S for a nice pair of corduroy trousers and some tartan slippers."

"You don't think I would look good in corduroy?" I say in mock indignation. Her raised eyebrow is comical. "And it's pants, not trousers," I add just to tease.

"Pants are what you wear under your trousers," she laughs. "Why is it that you Americans think that you can take our language, change it, and then correct us for continuing to the use the original?"

"It's because we're arrogant," I