The Pleasure Contract

by Caitlin Crews

  Tomorrow afternoon. Four o’clock.

  And, naturally, she regretted it instantly.

  But it wasn’t until she was back home that night, eating a bowl of cereal as her dinner on the love seat, with Indy off on some or other adventure, that she allowed herself to think about what she’d done. And more, allowed herself to look at the texts that had come in from that same number.

  She only did it because Indy was out. If her sister had been there, there was no way Bristol would have let herself look. Indy would have made too much of it. Grabbed the phone, then started ordering Bristol around about what she should wear and what she should do.

  “I’m not even going to go,” Bristol assured herself, out loud.

  But the following morning, she couldn’t deny that she took a little extra time and care with her appearance. Just in case.

  Nothing crazy, but instead of piling her hair on the back of her head, she blew it out. Instead of the usual carelessly tossed-on clothes from the part of her closet she considered professional, she chose a business-casual dress she had last worn to a department cocktail party. The time before that, she’d worn it out to dinner with a colleague when she hadn’t been sure if it was a date or not, so had decided to shoot straight up the middle.

  Not that she was going to keep her appointment, because of course she wasn’t going to keep her appointment, but it seemed like the appropriate garment to wear for a panel meeting to decide whether or not she planned to hire herself out for billionaire sex.

  A notion that made her actually giggle to herself as she caught the uptown bus to work. She usually preferred to walk, but all the extra fussing had eaten into her walking time. A dour-faced older woman stared at her and she coughed, then assumed her usual blank stare.

  Bristol lost herself in her usual routine. Teaching, meetings, and attempts to avoid conversations about who was on which interview circuit with her fellow PhDs. She told herself she wasn’t thinking about the silly appointment, but when her phone chimed at her to remind her, it was a relief to get away from the university.

  Because everyone else was so sure about what they wanted and how to go about getting it, and Bristol wasn’t. She still wasn’t.

  Her goal had been getting her PhD. And now that was done, she just couldn’t seem to settle on a direction. The truth was, what she liked was being a student. A little bit of teaching. A lot of research. But no expectations or faculty meetings.

  On the other hand, there was also no tenure or job security.

  That postdoc was looking better and better, though Bristol was well aware that if she took it she would only be postponing this very same crisis for a year.

  She followed the instructions she had gotten by text both the night before and this morning. The interviews were taking place in a studiously discreet brownstone on a leafy, quiet street in Murray Hill. No doubt one of the Drummond family’s numerous properties, and, if she had to guess, nowhere near where Lachlan Drummond himself might be today.

  Or what would be the purpose of this exercise?

  She presented herself at the door, was buzzed in, and found herself in a hushed, offhandedly opulent front hall. A polite staff member ushered her into what looked to her eyes as a perfectly preserved drawing room from another time. She half expected characters from BBC costume dramas to sweep in behind her, but before she could register that she was on her own, she noticed the three immaculately dressed and obviously fashionable people in corporate business attire along one wall, studying her as she came in.

  The reality of what she was doing walloped Bristol then.

  She stopped dead, looking from one person to the next, waiting for...something. Any hint that they understood the magnitude of what it was they were doing.

  Which was, unless she was mistaken, soliciting women for their boss.

  She couldn’t seem to move.

  “Why don’t you take a seat?” one of the assistants said, in a voice of studied blandness that she recognized from her phone call.

  “You can start us off by telling us why you think Mr. Drummond should consider you,” the woman next to him chimed in.

  The third assistant only stared at her, stone-faced.

  And it all seemed to coalesce inside her then. It rolled over her like a terrible heat. A great big flash. She thought of the pictures she’d seen of Lachlan Drummond. Of her brisk march across the stage to grab the diploma that declared her a doctor, and also that she’d done the thing she’d spent her entire adult life working toward.

  She thought of her sister, draping herself across the furniture and acting as if what Bristol really needed, after all her years of study and hard work, was this.

  And she couldn’t help herself. She laughed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said when she was done, pleased despite herself that her outburst had elicited some kind of response in the wall of assistants in front of her. Even if it was clearly a negative response. “My sister signed me up for this and I don’t know why I’m here. But I’m a PhD, not a prostitute, so I’ll find my own way out. And I look forward to seeing who wins the opportunity to trail about after Mr. Drummond. At least until her contract runs out.”

  Bristol laughed again, though no one in front of her seemed to think it was amusing, and she figured that was as good a time as any to remove herself.

  She started for the front door, waving off the butler who loomed there, and gulped in deep breaths when she hit the street.

  One way or another, she would figure out what to do. One way or another, she would find herself and her new direction. She would. But surely selling herself was the nuclear option. There had to be a middle ground, surely.

  She just had to find it.

  Bristol debated whether to flag a cab—a luxury she rarely allowed herself—or let herself wander until she figured out where to go. Preferably to one of her preferred bookstores, like the Strand.

  When her phone rang, she glared at it, not recognizing the number.

  “This is Lachlan Drummond,” came the rich, dark voice when she answered. “I’d like to meet you for dinner.”

  Bristol didn’t ask him to prove who he was. She knew.

  She could feel all that power, all that inarguable magnetism, pouring over the phone line. It rooted its way into her, making her as breathless and melting as she’d been when Indy had started this whole thing.

  She ducked out of the flow of pedestrian traffic and stood there, her back against the wall of the nearest building. Maybe it was the only thing holding her up.

  “Whatever for?” she managed to ask.

  “I saw your video, and I—”

  “My video?” She was outraged. And more than that, embarrassed. “I never consented to any recordings!”

  “As a matter fact, you did.” He sounded amused, and Bristol had no idea why she was clutching her mobile even tighter, pressing it against her ear as if trying to get closer to him. “I think you’ll find it was in the fine print when you signed up for an interview slot.”

  “Oh.” Now that she thought about it, there had been a rather long paragraph of legalese on that page. She’d been too busy pretending she wasn’t doing what she was doing to read it. “Still.”

  “Dinner tonight,” he said, as if it was settled. He named an excruciatingly cutting-edge new restaurant. “Eight o’clock.”

  Then he hung up.

  And no matter how many times Bristol told herself that she obviously wasn’t going to go, she also couldn’t seem to put her phone away, or push off from the wall where she stood.

  She was unable to do anything but stand there, holding her phone like a talisman.

  Like it was her very last hope.

  By the time she moved on, at least an hour had passed.

  And she was already planning what she was going to wear for the dinner date she absolutely wasn’t
going to keep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LACHLAN DRUMMOND DID not wait for anyone. He was rarely given the opportunity to try. But he waited for Dr. Bristol March in the cavernous vestibule of New York’s current hottest restaurant that evening and stranger still—didn’t mind.

  He could have allowed the restaurant to seat him while he waited for her, as the hostess had offered to do approximately twenty-seven times already, but he wanted an untutored first impression. He wanted to see her before she expected to see him, because that was always instructive whether he was meeting someone socially or otherwise.

  People liked to wear masks, especially around a man with his power and wealth. They liked to hide things, disguise things, and play pretend. Lachlan had learned long ago that it was always better to see a person’s true face whenever he could.

  He might carry right along as planned, but it was always better to know.

  And in the case of this woman, he also wanted to see how she fit standing next to him, straight off. If her physical presence was even half as electrifying as her video had been.

  If she’d make him laugh again.

  Because that video had made him laugh out loud, and Lachlan couldn’t recall the last time a woman he might potentially care to date had even come close. Not like that, deep and surprised and sudden. It was his own fault, he knew. He’d boiled dating down to the system his older sister, Catriona, liked to call the squalid horror of your personal life.

  Often and to his face. While shuddering.

  Lachlan couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Catriona, his favorite person in the world, who had always acted as if the numerous boards she had to sit upon as one of the two remaining Drummond heirs was a terrible imposition instead of a privilege. All she’d ever wanted was what she had. What she would say she’d fought to have, given the circus of their celebrated upbringing. Her high school sweetheart, their kids, and a life as far away from any kind of spotlight as she could reasonably get when she was Catriona Drummond.

  From which she liked to make a great many pronouncements about her younger brother’s life choices, naturally.

  Which Lachlan allowed because she was Catriona, the only person on this earth he loved unconditionally. Because they’d survived their childhood, the loss of their parents, and the constant media scrutiny that went along with both. And they were currently both surviving “Life as the Last of the Drummonds,” as the papers liked to scream.

  They would have been forced to get along even if they didn’t, so it was lucky they always had.

  We get along because you need a voice of reason in your life, and I’m the only one you’ve got, Catriona would have said if she was there. Lucky you.

  But he shoved all that away, because his older sister was happily not here in this excruciatingly cutting-edge restaurant tonight. Because Dr. Bristol March wasn’t like the other women who’d shown up for what his personal assistant referred to as the casting call. That had been obvious from the way Bristol walked into that Murray Hill brownstone with entirely too much purpose. Then had stood there, blinking around at his panel as if she had no idea what she was doing there, and had perhaps expected to find herself in a classroom.

  One she was in charge of, clearly.

  And then she’d laughed.

  At them. At him. At the whole squalid horror of his personal life, he assumed, and how could he not follow up on that? Lachlan had felt as if he had no choice.

  When he never felt that way. Because he was Lachlan Drummond. He always had a choice.

  A swift glance at his watch told him she still had a minute to go before she was actually, technically late.

  He didn’t entertain the possibility that she might not come at all.

  The restaurant was set in a self-consciously industrial space, which meant there was a long way to walk from the entrance door to the hostess stand where he waited. It was deceptively lit, with dramatic stone sconces on each side of the walkway, but even more light from above.

  It meant that anyone who walked in was instantly recognizable, which was a feature or a bug depending on the person. Lachlan had entered through the private entrance out back, because he didn’t need to make announcements. And as he waited, he wondered if maybe he’d seen something in the video that wasn’t there. Would he even recognize the one woman who’d ever walked out of his interview process?

  But the moment she stepped inside, he knew it. He felt it, as if she’d brought the slap of winter with her when he knew full well it was a lovely spring evening outside.

  And he watched as she took in the long walk ahead of her, a look on her face that told him she was equal parts dubious and curious.

  He realized that he really hadn’t been sure she would show, and that almost made him laugh all over again.

  Because Lachlan couldn’t remember the last time a woman hadn’t been a sure thing.

  It was a sheer accident that he’d even seen her video, much less as quickly as he had. He probably wouldn’t have seen it all—because there was no way his assistants would have sent it up the food chain—but he’d happened to text his assistant about a different matter and had casually asked how the selection process was going.

  Well, boss, Ryan had replied in his usual cheeky manner, the first one laughed and walked out, so take that as you wish.

  That wasn’t the way the selection normally went. Usually the panel had to herd the candidates out because they went on for too long. Lachlan, stuck in a car between two tedious meetings, had asked to see the woman who had broken the mold. Ryan had sent over the short video, Lachlan had laughed, and here he was.

  In the video, Bristol had been dressed in an unremarkable short-sleeved, knee-length dress that he suspected was billed as the sort of thing a woman could dress up or down according to her preference. She had done neither. She’d worn no jewelry, save the utilitarian watch strapped to one wrist. She had long, dark hair, glossy and straight, that fell to the middle of her back. Her eyes were big and clever, and her face. It was clever, mercurial. She’d actually frowned and, more, looked as if she did so often—no regular Botox appointments to keep her muscles still and smooth.

  It was her face that had captivated him, switching from something like bewildered to straight-up entertained in a heartbeat. Her laugh had been wicked.

  And she’d turned and strode off without so much as a hitch in her step or a backward glance. Lachlan had been certain she would forget he existed the moment she stepped out into the street, and he’d found he...couldn’t have that.

  He’d expected to regret that choice.

  But he didn’t.

  Because tonight she marched toward him wearing yet another unremarkable dress. This one was not in the sensible navy shade from before, but was a richer, darker black. And somehow he knew that both the dress and the pair of serviceable heels she wore were the one version of each she had in her closet.

  He doubted very much that she had raced out to shop for this outfit. He would have sworn that if asked, practical Bristol March with her PhD in social policy had weighed the options and decided to make do with what she had.

  Lachlan didn’t know how he knew that. He just did.

  Maybe it was that every other woman who had ever gone through his selection process had come to dinner like a trap ready to be sprung. They’d presented themselves like a living, breathing PowerPoint demonstration. Breasts out for inspection or coyly hidden, usually with an open back instead. Stunning stiletto heels, formfitting gowns, and the kind of effortless, laid-back charm that could only be achieved after a full day in the salon and a trip through the city’s couture ateliers.

  But not Bristol March, PhD.

  Lachlan couldn’t seem to keep himself from wondering where else she would present herself like this—no frills, no games, just her.

  His cock was on board. Enthusiastically.

&n
bsp; He saw the very moment she recognized that it was him, standing there waiting for her way down at the other end of the long hallway. She slowed, but only for a moment. Then she simply soldiered on.

  She did not smile. She did not turn sultry. There wasn’t so much as the faintest hint of slinking.

  She marched up to him and Lachlan noticed that the only nod she’d given to adornment was a set of shiny studs in her ears that he doubted were real diamonds. That same watch that was clearly to tell time, possibly in several time zones, and not a piece of jewelry. No manicure and only a bit of lip gloss.

  He couldn’t tell, yet, if she was deliberately dressing down to appear as if she didn’t care about this, or him, as some had tried—though with significantly more quiet touches of cosmetics and couture, like the one woman who had feigned surprise that she’d actually turned up with her dress on inside out. It was possible Bristol was playing that game.

  It was also possible she was that rare unicorn. A woman out on a date with him who really, truly wasn’t trying to impress him.

  It was amazing, he thought as she stopped before him, how desperately he wanted it to be the latter.

  And how much his cock didn’t care either way.

  “Mr. Drummond,” Bristol said and thrust out her hand, as if this was a business meeting. One where she was in charge.

  Then again, given his selection process, he supposed it was a business meeting. Though he’d never thought of it that way when his actual business meetings were far drier and never the least bit sexual. More to the point, the women who usually held these meetings with him acted as if they didn’t think of it that way either. Because most women, in his experience, actually wanted to date him. Or have dinner with him. Or simply...be in his presence.

  Bristol March, PhD, was clearly withholding her judgment on that.

  Lachlan took her hand in his and smiled as that electricity he felt when he’d seen her video kicked through him again. Hotter and longer this time.