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He grinned. “You got me there. And that reporter’s name?”
She tilted her chin upward. “Julian Bauer. He’s important. World-famous. This interview means a great deal to me. To the charity. So please leave.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Bauer. Julian Bauer.”
“Again.”
“Julian Bau—” She froze. Then whispered, “Julian.Jay.”
He grinned. “Hi.”
The room swirled around Skylar at lightning speed. He had to be lying. There was no way he was a reporter, no less the famous Julian Bauer. There was absolutely no way.
He pulled something out of his dark red tuxedo jacket pocket—a press pass. With shaking fingers, she took the pass, studying the photograph on the front.
“Julian Bauer. Reporter At Large for . . . ” Her voice trailed off as she read the list of names on his press pass, including the Times. He’d written for some of the most prestigious newspapers and news magazines in the world. She looked up at him, blinking. “This is genuine?”
He took the press pass back. “Sure is.”
“But you’re not a reporter. You’re . . . you’re . . . ” She sputtered to a stop.
Julian chuckled. “An escort? No reason someone can’t be both.”
“But . . . why?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “I love sex. Love women’s bodies—the feel, the scent, the taste of you. Love the way you all crawl the walls when you climax. How your hair feels as I run it through my fingers. How your breasts weigh in my palms.” He reached out and straightened a fold in her dress, just below her clavicle. “And I love journalism. The investigations, the writing, the deadlines, and how fucking fantastic I feel when a perfect line comes to me.”
She fought to regain control. Of the night. Of the conversation. Of herself. “You forgot how much you love money,” she said disdainfully.
He laughed. “Is that supposed to be an insult? Because it’s not. I very much enjoy the money I have. Have you ever flown to Italy just because you were craving authentic pizza from Naples? I have, and I can tell you, no pizza has ever tasted better.”
Skylar rolled her eyes. “I doubt even as the world’s highest-paid escortandreporter that you’d have that kind of money. But regardless, who are you tonight? Escort or reporter? Because I’m here for an interview and an interview only. If you’re trying to get me to pay you for—”
“I’m here as a reporter.”
Skylar spit out a laugh. “I don’t know why I bothered asking. Escort or reporter, you’re not getting what you came here for. I won’t answer questions from a man who less than a half hour ago suggested we fuck on stage in front of an entire ballroom filled with investors.”
Julian’s expression shifted, becoming heated. “I’ll bet you would have liked it.”
“I’m leaving,” she snapped out. Her heart was thudding heavily in her chest, making her dizzy. This was too much. He was too much. She rounded on her heel, marched to the door, and then . . .
She froze, her hand on the door handle. She’d intended to storm out of the hotel suite. Intended to leave escort-slash-reporter Jay-slash-Julian Bauer in the dust. But he’d called her out on running from him, and she abhorred that in doing so now, she’d be even more of a coward than she had already proven herself to be. If she left, Julian would have won this round.
He would hold the power.
She was done with men holding all the power.
Besides, if she kept running, she’d always run right into him. She didn’t believe in destiny, but she did believe in how small the world really was.
“I thought you were leaving,” Julian said.
Skylar drummed her fingers on the door handle. “Is there alcohol in here?” Her voice was tight. Almost unrecognizable.
There was a pause behind her, then, “Gin or vodka?”
Skylar let her hand fall from the door handle and turned back to face Julian. She had to fight to breathe—the gorgeous and sexy man took her breath away. “Gin.”
