THE BILLIONAIRE'S CONTRACTED ESCORT

Elara

If Caspian Beaumont touched the small of my back one more time, I was going to snap his wrist.

"And then I told the pilot, if we aren't in Ibiza by sunrise, he can find a new hangar for his career." Caspian whined, his breath a foul cocktail of vintage gin.

He laughed at his own joke, an annoying, honking sound that made the nearby socialites offer tight, pained smiles.

I forced my lips into parting smile, suggesting fascination.

In reality, I was counting the seconds until I could leave him at the bar. At twenty-seven, I had spent five years perfecting this mask. I was the "Expert", the woman who could walk into a room of vipers and make them think I was their favorite pet.

But tonight, the stakes weren't just about a high-end escort fee. My mother's past investments had turned out to be a looming debt, hovering over my head.

She had loaned money from loan sharks and had forged my signature into being a guarantor. With her defaulting to pay up, I was a target to men who didn't take IOUs, and two million dollars didn't just fall from the sky.

Unless you knew which clouds to target.

'Shut up, Sterling. Just shut the hell up.' I thought, my eyes drifting away from his bloated face to scan the Grand Ballroom.

The Pierre Hotel was a palace of "Old Money," dripping in gold leaf and suffocating under the scent of lilies. But the man I was here for wasn't in the center of the room. He was a shadow at the edge of the light.

Arthur Sterling.

Thirty-four years old widower. The titan of the Sterling Group. If you had a heartbeat in this country, a Sterling-brand monitor had probably tracked it. If you'd had surgery, a Sterling-brand laser had probably cut you.

He was the king of the biomedical industry, but standing there by the terrace doors, he looked less like a king and more like a man facing a firing squad.

Devilishly handsome, 6'4 and had the body of a sexy underwear model which was currently covered by a sophisticated charcoal-grey suit. He stood perfectly still, too still.

While every other billionaire in the room was engaging, interacting, Arthur was a statue.

His jaw was set so tight and he didn't make eye contact. He stared at a point exactly six inches above everyone else's heads, his fingers twitching in a rhythmic, three-beat tap against the champagne glass in his hand.

He wanted nothing to do with this gala.

The crystal chandeliers were too bright, and the social vultures circling him for a piece of his medical empire were getting too close.

And then there was the boy.

Julian.

Four years old, looking like a miniature, terrified version of his father. He was clutching Arthur's hand so hard his knuckles were white. The boy was blinking rapidly, his small chest heaving in the way a child's does right before a meltdown.

"Wait