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Daniel knew who the man was. The fact he’d actually spent time with his wife and family was a small Christmas miracle. He’d heard rumors—and his source was pretty reliable—that her father, Senator Johnson, had two girlfriends. Neither of which knew about the other. With Valentine’s Day approaching, it would be an expensive one for the politician.
Three women.Ugh.
Daniel shivered at the thought. He preferred his women in and out in an evening, not sticking around for breakfast or a ring on their fingers.
He glanced aroundBar Hugo, one of Manhattan’s most exclusive bars, and saw most of his key connections had now left. The only reason he was still nursing his Macallan was, to put it bluntly, his cock. The blonde, who wouldn’t stop talking, was going to have her mouth around it within the next hour.
Beep, beep.
Daniel, we need to speak. Meet me in your office in an hour.
After reading his father’s message, he mentally rearranged his plans. Dropping his crystal glass onto the polished wooden bar, he replied to confirm he’d see him there, and then took the petite blonde’s arm. “Shall we go?”
Her face lit up.
“Your place or mine?” she purred.
“I have a meeting in my office tonight, so let’s head there,” he replied, leading her to the private exit. The last thing he wanted was to be photographed with her and more gossip spread about his relationship status.
When would the media give up? He was never getting married.
She hesitated slightly as his offer sank in. There would be no breakfast in bed. Daniel held her gaze. The decision was hers—she could take it or leave it.
He knew she’d take it.
They all did.
A billionaire in a suit was an aphrodisiac to these types of women.
Like his brothers, he had inherited their father’s good looks. At six foot three with a muscular frame—which he worked hard to maintain in his gym—and a square jaw, Daniel was confident and powerful.
Some of it learned. Some of it was natural.
In the United States, and other places around the world, Daniel Dufort was frequently quoted in business and economic media, and unfortunately in less respected publications for the women he took to events. Rarely, if ever, was it the same women, and yet they insisted on discussing his marital status.
The gossip columns had a few cringeworthy nicknames for him. Try as he may, Daniel struggled to keep his sex life private. He only had a few rules.
No promises.
Nothing overnight.
No, do overs.
Okay, fine—he occasionally slept with the same woman twice, but not in the same quarter or it gave the wrong impression.
Daniel Dufort wasn’t interested in a relationship. Of any kind. He didn’t believe in true love, nor was he going to settle for something vanilla. However, he did enjoy female company, and the activities at the end of the evening, so he took dates to the events he had to attend, or to meet some social obligation.
And he wasn’t lacking in options.
But a relationship was not for him.
Settling down with abest friendand having missionary-style sex three times a week? No thanks.
As predicted, she’d walked through the door, so they head to Dufort Towers. Daniel hung his dark gray Tom Ford jacket on the hanger and turned.
Miss Johnson—fuck, he’d forgotten her name—lingered, taking in the valuable 57thAvenue view that overlooked Central Park. It was one of the best along Billionaire Row.
“Stunning,” she said, stepping up to the full-length glass.