The Billionaire's Playmate ✔

11 | PLAYMATE

I give my coldest, most Arctic, most professional glare to Patronizer McChauvist, or Patrick McCallum as his business partner, my client, calls him.

He's laughing about what a "green" face I have.

I roll my eyes so well that I see everything in the conference room from the door to the refreshment setup to the projector screen to the other end. Scarlett would have been proud at that eye roll.

Dean Rivers, the patronizer's to-be business partner and my direct long-term client, is glancing nervously between him and me. He knows what I'm like and the business expertise that I am capable of. He knows not to question whether I can do my job. He's known for years and currently, he's looking like he wants to meld himself into the office chair he's seated on.

Meld away, Dean. You deserve it for bringing such a chauvinistic ass into my office.

"So, you're Arthur Hammond's daughter, huh?" he asks me, an ingratiating smile still on his face.

My glare becomes less professional. "Yes."

Dean visibly flinches at my tone, but Pinhead McChoke-Me-Please doesn't notice over how thick his neck is.

"So, your father must be where you get your" – he gives me a particularly slimy smile – "Business expertise."

Dean shifts uneasily in his seat, looking like he's about to melt into a puddle at any moment, while I raise an eyebrow at The Patronizer.

"The only thing about my business expertise that I have my father to thank for is giving me an excellent education," I tell him, glacially.

Patrick nods very slowly. "He must have helped you with this" – he waves a hand – "Little operation."

Dean pales and practically faints those words. He was never that good at confrontation, which is exactly why he needs a business consultant who will kick the asses of all the people who try and take him to the cleaners. She is currently involved in the process of kicking the ass of a maniacal, patronizing nitwit.

"This little operation is something I built off my own merit," I inform Patrick, without a trace of emotion in my voice, "And this little operation provides consultancy to over three-thousand companies of varying scales and industries all over the world, fourteen of which are Fortune 500 companies."

Patrick sniffs, looking slightly miffed.

I angle my chair and lean an elbow against the desk in one of my conference rooms, in my office and regard Patriarchy McSmall-Balls from the end of my nose. "Do you think you'd trust my judgement, Mr. McCallous?"

Dean taps his fingers erratically against my desk after hearing my completely accidental mispronunciation of his colleague's name.

The pathetic excuse for a man, whose ego is so loud that he didn't hear me misname him, cocks his head at me. "What do you mean?"