Page 83 of How to Bang a Billionaire

Where I found a bunch of strangers making themselves very at home. Sprawled over the sofas I still hesitated to touch. Splashing champagne over the exquisitely simple, clotted cream rug I feared to put my feet on. Prepping lines on the pristine glass of the scary designer coffee table.

I felt like Bilbo Baggins if the dwarves had come to Play ’n’ Party.

“Um,” I said, taking control of the situation.

Silence fell.

A slight figure—a mere shadow against the floor-to-ceiling windows—turned, bottle and cigarette balanced in the same hand with effortless expertise. Regarded me for a long moment, before asking in this husky, lazy voice: “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m…I’m Arden. Caspian said I could stay here.”

Her eyes were the oddest shade, not quite blue, not quite green, cold and contrary and…oddly familiar. I wished I was wearing slightly more than a pair of boxers. “Why would he do that?”

“We…he…” What the hell was I supposed to say? I couldn’t imagine Caspian being particularly happy if I disclosed our probably already defunct whatever-it-was to random people who had somehow got into his building. “We’re friends, I guess.”

“My brother doesn’t have friends.”

Oh. Oh. “Sorry, he didn’t tell me he had a sister.”

“Google me.” She lifted the bottle with a clanking of bracelets and took a swig, bubbles running down her arm and splashing onto the floor.

I tried not to wring my hands in dismay. It wasn’t my rug or my champagne, but after Rosegate, I really didn’t want to be responsible for any further damage. “You know Caspian’s not here, right?”

“Right.” She threw herself down on the sofa, slamming a motorcycle-booted foot onto the table, where one of her friends was still faffing about with his drugs. “Fuck. I want some music.”

I wondered if I would ever have made the connection if she hadn’t told me. I could trace some similarities to Caspian, maybe, in her coloring and the cast of her features, but it was probably confirmation bias. She was nothing like her brother at all. My age, possibly a year or two younger, as careless as he was controlled. Striking, though, with her smoky eyes and her long, coltish legs in their torn fishnets. Her look seemed to be pissed off and messed up, as if she’d rolled out of bed and into her clothes.

“Then what are you doing here?” I asked a little plaintively.

The problem with pseudo-housesitting was not really knowing what the boundaries were. How far to make yourself at home. Was it my responsibility to make sure people I didn’t know didn’t cut coke on Caspian’s furniture? Was I supposed to be welcoming his sister or throwing her out?

“Needed somewhere to crash.”

“Um. Okay. So I’ll just go back to bed then?”

“Stay if you like. This is—” And she reeled off a list of names I wasn’t in any state to remember.

I gave the group a halfhearted wave. Thankfully, they were mostly unconscious, distracted, or making out in that desultory postparty way.

“I’m Ellery, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you.” And, with a desperate attempt to be a good host: “Do you need anything?”

“Never. I like your tattoo.”

I looked down in this idiotic way. As if I’d forgotten it was there. “Thanks.”

She pulled her legs up and swung herself over the back of the sofa. It was a move that took a certain amount of confidence—or fucklessness—to attempt, especially in a very tiny tank dress. Though mainly I was worried about the marks her boots were leaving on the cream and gold cushions.

When she was close enough, she traced the letters that were visible over the low-hanging waist of my boxers. “What’s it say?”

“Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time.”

“I like these too.” Her fingers came up to tug my nipple rings.

She was about my height. I was so used to looking up at people that it was a bit disorientating to have someone else’s eyes be inescapable. Hers had an almost hypnotic quality. Or maybe I was just searching for Caspian. I very gently removed her hands. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t think my brother fucked younger men.”