THE BILLIONAIRE'S LOVER

2 | IN WHICH SHE WAS KISSED BY A STRANGER.

Numbly Malora heard the girls in the next cubicle giggling about what all girls giggle and chat about-men. When they left she flushed the toilet and opened the door.

Miserably, Malora walked toward the very large ornate, gilded mirror stretched across the wall. The other toilet seemed to be in use and a thin woman with immaculate hair was perched on one of the gold and cream chairs waiting her turn. There was an air of superior calm about her. Her eyes met Malora's briefly but curiously, before she entered the cubicle that Malora had vacated.

Malora stared at herself in the mirror.
Her face was deathly pale and the cheap mascara she purchased from the market was smudged and running; her lips looked as if she had smacked her mouth on a wall, and her eyes were red and puffy from crying. This was what Damian Gold saw. She looked like she felt.

Soiled.

The woman in the other cubicle came out. She looked identical to the woman who had perched on the chair before. With a quick, surprised glance at Malora, she went to stand at the other end of the mirror. She patted her immaculate hair, brushed away imaginary specks of dust from her soft pink leather playsuit and left.

Malora turned on the tap and rinsed her mouth with plenty of water. Scooping water in her palms she washed her face with hand soap and scrubbed it dry with a paper towel. Without her make-up she felt defenseless and naked. But she was not going to try and put lipstick on those swollen lips.

Malora hunkered down and weighed her situation.

There was a sick pervert out there who wanted to rape her and leave her torn and bleeding in the parking lot.

Five times.

Malora could walk away. Say fuck you. Actually, no she couldn't. It was so much money. And he knew it. She needed that money. Malora considered taking the money and not delivering. What could he do? It was not like he could go to the police or she would be running a refund desk. Then she remembered his eyes. How cold and dangerous. No. Anyway, she had always said, she'd rather be the one who bought the Brooklyn Bridge than the one who sold it.

Malora's thoughts turned to the strange man. Why was he on her mind? Probably the way he looked at her. No one. Absolutely no one had ever looked at her like that.

Malora indulged in a moment of fantasy.

Perhaps he wanted her. Maybe he was filthy rich so he would simply give her the money her needed. Gallantly, he would then fall in love with her and they would get married. As Malora was standing inside her dreams another woman opened the door and entered. It was a blonde in a red lingerie. She was tall and severely beautiful with an aristocratic nose and bottle-green eyes. She had the same superior air of some of the people at this club. The same air that mystery man had claimed for himself.

Malora could not help but watch her through the mirror. Their eyes met for a second, then hers slid away, but in that second there was pure speculation. Everybody knew she did not belong. Malora looked at her reflection. The only real thing she had was her sister and nephew. And there was nothing she wouldn't do for them. Malora thought of their father. How easily he had walked away when they had needed him most. How weak his love for them had been. Malora's love was different. She would not walk away even if she had to walk upon a path of thorns. Bleed in parking lots she would. And that would be the test of her love.

She would not let herself be distracted by anything. She would survive any sexual humiliation Damian could dish out. Five encounters? Her champagne-addled brain scoffed, that was fucking nothing. The beautiful blonde had turned away from the mirror and entered one of the cubicles.

Mystery man was welcome to her.

Malora straightened her spine. I can do this, she told her reflection. I love you, sis, better than Dad did, much, much better. Malora practiced the smile she would bestow on Damian in the mirror, and despite the revulsion in her belly she told herself that when she was old and wrinkled she would be glad she made this sacrifice. The price would always be worth it.