One Night with a Billionaire

He was gazing at her, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Cade? Buckle up.” When he just continued to study her, she wondered if he was an “out of it” kind of drunk. He probably wouldn’t remember this in the morning, any of it. So she reached across the car and pulled his seat belt over his legs. Her hands accidentally brushed over his groin, and she jerked away. “Oh, God, sorry!”

“S’okay,” he told her, voice strangely husky. “I’ll get it.”

She waited as he fumbled with the belt, but eventually was able to get it snapped in place. That done, she nodded at him and turned the car on. “Okay. Now, what hotel are you staying at?”

“Peninsula.”

Of course. It was only the most expensive hotel in Chicago. Daphne’s crew was staying at a chain hotel while Daphne herself stayed someplace decidedly more upscale. “All right,” Kylie said, easing the car forward. “Let’s get you home, then.”

The drive to the hotel was an easy one—even the Chicago streets weren’t terrible at three in the morning. She pulled up to the front of the massive hotel and the valet immediately stepped out to open her door. She grabbed her purse and then hurried over to Cade’s side. He’d been quiet on the drive, and she wondered if he was half-asleep.

But he got out of the car just fine. He leaned on Kylie as they headed into the hotel, and then draped an arm over her shoulders. And since he was tipsy, she allowed it. She was sure he didn’t mean anything by it. Guys like him didn’t claim girls like her.

“Floor?” she asked him as they went through the big doors of the hotel.

“Eighteen.”

She nodded and steered them toward the elevator. The doors shut and they were alone. She looked up at Cade, only to see him gazing down at her with that same glazed fascination. It was a little intimidating, and she wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking. She patted his chest with her free hand and smiled up at him, trying to make everything seem more casual than it really was. “Hanging in there?”

“I’m great, actually,” he murmured.

“Not falling asleep?”

“Not sleepy at all.”

They got up to the eighteenth floor and she gazed around her in vague wonder. There . . . weren’t many doors on this floor. “Which room is yours?” These looked suspiciously like the penthouse suites. Which shouldn’t have been surprising, given that he was trying to gift Daphne Petty with a car on a whim. But seeing all this opulence made her a little self-conscious. Just another reminder that the guy draped over her shoulders was way out of her league.

Cade pointed at a door down the hall and she led him in that direction, noticing that he seemed to be leaning on her more and more the further they walked. They got to the door and she looked at him expectantly. “Keycard?”

“In my front pocket.” He gave her an interested look. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to reach in and get it for me?”

Good lord, was Cade flirting with her? The man must have been truly plastered. “That’s very sweet,” she told him. “But get your own card.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying,” he murmured.

“You’re drunk,” she told him. “You wouldn’t hit on me sober.”

“Just because I’m drunk doesn’t mean I don’t have taste,” he told her. But he fished his keycard out of one pocket, winked at her, and then slid it across the scanner.

The door chimed open and Cade pulled his arm off her shoulders, leaving her feeling oddly bereft. “Want to come in for a moment?”

She hesitated. Going into a strange man’s hotel room at three in the morning? Probably a bad idea. “I really shouldn’t.”

“Just for a bit? I could use the company.”

Kylie waited on his doorstep a moment longer. She wasn’t thrilled about heading into the wilds of Chicago late at night by her lonesome, and she’d always wanted to see a penthouse. And Cade was harmless. He wouldn’t attack her . . . no matter how much she might wish it, heh. “Just for a minute,” she cautioned him. “And then I should get going.”

“You want a drink?” he asked, stepping into the suite. “I’m sure I have a minibar around here somewhere.”

She followed him in, closing the door behind her and trying not to stare at his hotel room.

It was . . . crazy. Crazy and ridiculous and utterly opulent. The beige carpet was thick underneath her shoes and the furniture shiny and new. Art—real art, not ugly hotel prints—hung on the walls, illuminated by their own personal spotlights. A pair of sliding doors led off to another “wing” of his suite, and as she stepped into the living room, she chuckled. “Is that a piano?”