by Cynthia Sax
I can understand asking for one paternity test. While I was growing up I often wished my dad would ask for one. I knew he’d love me whether I was biologically his or someone else’s, and having another dad would have explained why I’m so different. Maybe there’s a green-haired former hippie sitting in front of a computer somewhere.
Nate’s dad, being a billionaire, would have more reasons to ask for a paternity test. I watch the news. I see how baby mamas come out of the woodwork whenever a man becomes rich and famous.
Asking for five tests seems a bit excessive, though, veering from the realm of helpful and informative into hurtful and vindictive.
The other Nate-related expenses are more innocuous. They include a parade of around-the-clock-care nannies, candles for his birthday cakes, the braces he needed as a preteen, his private-school tuition, the brand-new Mercedes given to him when he turned sixteen, summers in Europe, and a Harvard education. Even the silver Rolex Nate wears is listed, a graduation present given to him by his mom, the expense reimbursed by his dad.
Why would anyone track this information? I toss the papers onto his desk. And why does Nate keep this summary? Does he think this is his worth, that all of these monetary expenses represent who he is or how much he is loved? Is this why he buys love, paying for sex?
I walk to the windows and stare at the darkening sky. Nate left his keys for me. He knows I’ll find this file.
He believes I can help him.
Chapter Six
* * *
WHILE WAITING FOR Nate to return, I complete my exploration of his office, finding nothing more of interest, no more clues about his family history. I then check his schedule for tomorrow.
His lunch hour is booked, the appointment mysterious. It has no internal attendees and is labeled with the month. This vagueness provokes my curiosity, not my jealousy. Nate is strictly a one-hooker man, preferring serial paid monogamy.
My snooping concluded, I temporarily push thoughts of Nate aside and work on my data-sharing program. The subcontractors I’ve hired are asking me for guidance. I’m great at fighting other people’s decisions. Making them isn’t my strength. I study the four website templates a guy in India designed for me.
The door opens and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. Nate’s scent intensifies.
“Good. You’re here.” I frown, suppressing the urge to run to him, to throw myself into his arms, to tell him he’s greater than the dollars in his bank account. “Tell me which one of these you like.” I turn the screen toward him.
“Consulting on your projects isn’t in our agreement.” Nate saunters closer, appearing cool, unapproachable, perfect. “And why are three of my best analysts processing the legal department’s expense reports?”
I ignore his question. “Kissing isn’t in our agreement either. Stop following your rules for one freakin’ moment and help me choose.”
Nate leans over and studies the designs, his body seductively close to mine. “If you actually read our agreement you’d know it covers kissing.”
If I don’t read the agreement I can break his rules and claim ignorance. “Sit,” I command. Nate slides into the seat and I shimmy onto his lap, using him as my personal chair. He stiffens, his muscles flexing beneath me, his cock hardening, and I brace, waiting for him to issue a protest, to push me away. He says nothing, his attention focused on the screen.
“What are you trying to accomplish?” he asks.
“I want rich folks to either donate their unused data capacity or donate buckets of money so we can buy data capacity.” I settle deeper into his physique, his form firm and deliciously warm, his pants-covered erection pressing against my ass cheeks. “I figure you’ll know what appeals to rich folks. You’re loaded.”
“I know being referred to as loaded doesn’t appeal to them,” Nate states dryly. He splays the fingers of his left hand over my stomach, stopping my wiggling. “Mrs. Blaine told me you’re starting a business together.”
“Mrs. Blaine has baby brain big-time.” I roll my eyes, very much aware of him, his scent, his breath, his touch. “She’s not starting anything. And business is so . . . so materialistic. This is better. This could change the world.”
Nate says nothing, enlarging one of the images.
“Because if we’re not careful,” I continue, “the mobile revolution could be used to oppress the less fortunate. Sure, the ruling elite gives money-challenged individuals their obsolete phones, presenting the image that access is available to all, but that is simply an illusion.” I warm to my topic, my body vibrating with excitement. “Without voice and data plans, the phones are useless. This impending disaster is similar to the way we gave third-world countries computer equipment when they didn’t have the infrastructure to operate them.”
“If I recall correctly humanity survived the computer equipment disaster.” Nate rests his chin on my shoulder. “This is the best of the four.” He taps on the screen. “Change the font and the stock photo and it’s workable.”
“Awesome tips, lover.” I check the box for that image, add his notes to the comment section, and send it back to the designer.
“We’re not lovers,” Nate points out. “We have a business arrangement. Don’t get any ideas, Miss Trent.”
“I guess I should call off the wedding, then. Mom and Dad will be disappointed,” I tease. Nate frowns, his breath blowing against my ear. “That’s a joke, Mr. Serious,” I clarify. “You don’t have to worry about shotgun weddings. My parents aren’t even married.”
“I’m aware of your parents’ marital status.”
He knows a lot about me for someone in a business arrangement. I open my next e-mail. A different subcontractor asks which payment alternatives we’ll accept. “Ugh. There are so many decisions.”
“Decisions come with running any organization.” Nate checks all of the options.
I send this answer to the subcontractor, turn my head, and kiss Nate on his square chin, showing my gratitude physically. He stares at me, his body suddenly still, his confusion palpable.
“We aren’t fucking,” he bluntly states. “I have work to do.”
I raise an eyebrow. Does he think kissing always leads to fucking? “You’re right. We aren’t fucking. We’re kissing.” I capture his face between my hands and slant my lips over his. Nate doesn’t open to me, and I prod the seam of his lips with my tongue, striking again and again and again, plunging deeper into his heat.
He sighs and concedes defeat, parting his lips. I surge inside, hitting him hard and fast, bombarding my executive with my passion, thoroughly kissing him, leaving no inch of his mouth unconquered. His chest heaves against me, his tongue entwining with mine.
This is my signal to retreat. I withdraw as quickly as I advanced, returning my attention to my overflowing e-mail box, acting as though nothing has happened, showing him we can kiss and not do more.
“What was that all about?” he demands.
“That was a kissing break.” I scan my e-mail inbox. “What should we work on next?”
“We are not working on anything, Miss Trent.” Nate eases me off his lap. “I pay you. We have sex. That’s the end of our relationship. No kissing breaks, no helping with other projects, and no changing expectations.”
He’s setting more rules. I fume, my temper flaring. He knows rules drive me ballistic. He knows I’ll storm off and leave him alone. That is what he wants me to do.
He won’t trick me this time. I force myself to remain calm, to stand next to his chair, to not leave his side. “Thank you for supervising the movers.” I stroke across the breadth of his shoulders, brushing my fingertips over him, back and forth, back and forth.
Nate leans into my touch, his body hungry for what his lips won’t ask for. “You’re never returning there.” He scowls. “Ever. It isn’t safe.” He opens a drawer, removes the unsigned checks, and plunks them on the desktop. “That apartment building is a potential crime scene, and one of the next
victims could be you.”
“Would you care if I was the next victim?” I swirl my fingers into his muscles. His body is firm, his tension tangible.
“You’re not setting one foot inside that building.” Nate doesn’t answer my question. “You deserve better, the best.”
“You deserve happiness and love.” I press my lips to his nape and his shoulders shudder. “That’s my definition of the best.”
He gazes down at the first check, not moving, not saying anything, his forehead furrowed. It’s a simple vendor payment, unworthy of this serious consideration.
“Spit it out, Nate,” I urge, pushing him as I always do. “Say what you want to say.”
“I’m working.” He cradles the fountain pen I returned to him in his fingers. It is one of the most expensive pens an executive can buy. “You can show yourself out.”
I pressed him too hard and he’s dismissing me. Again. “I don’t think so.” I remove my jacket and drop it on the carpet. Nate doesn’t look up, his blond head bent over the checks. “I’m keeping you company, lover.”
“We’re not lovers.” He sets one check to the side. “And I don’t need company.”
“You don’t know what you need.” I walk toward the windows, unzipping my skirt as I move, uncaring that the door is open, that any of Nate’s employees could walk in, see me half-naked. My skirt falls to the floor.
The nib of the pen rasps against the paper faster and faster. I unfasten my leather corset, loosening the laces hook by hook.
The door clicks closed. “I don’t have time for sex,” he bluntly states.
“I’m not offering you sex, Romeo. I’m thinking.” I grip the window frame and spread my legs. “I do my best thinking naked. Freeing the body frees the mind.” I glance over my shoulder. “You should try it sometime.”
“My mind is too damn free around you.” Nate stares at me, his gaze fixed on my back. “I knew you’d have one.” His voice is low.
Does he like it? “It’s my only permanent tattoo.” The green ivy creeps up my back, the two entwining vines thin and fine and delicate, the color matching my hair.
The temporary tattoos I wore in the past were changed to shock and appall, public works of art designed for whatever audience I wished to warn away from me. This permanent tattoo is an expression of my inner self and is completely concealed by the corsets I wear, kept private. Very few people have seen it.
I don’t know why I’m showing it to Nate. “It’s a reminder of our connection to the earth.”
I turn, and his gaze shifts to my stomach. A tiny green stone gleams in my belly button. “It’s not an emerald if that’s what you’re thinking.” I flick it, and reflected rays of light dance across the carpet. “I doubt it has any value.” I slide my hands upward and cup my breasts, my nipples tightening. “It certainly isn’t the best.”
I wait for him to say something, anything. Moments pass. Fear of his disapproval flows into anger, defiance. He doesn’t like it? Fine. I don’t care about his opinion.
“You’ve removed your other body jewelry,” he finally states, his tone flat.
I however hear the judgment I always expect to hear. “Well, I’m not removing this piece of body jewelry.” I glare at him. “I’m not becoming whoever you think I should be, Nate. I can’t conform.”
He opens his mouth.
“And don’t try to use the contract to control me.” I stop him. “I’m here because I want to be here, not because of words on a paper.”
“If you read the contract,” Nate’s eyes cool to a frigid pale gray, the temperature in the office dropping a couple of degrees, “you’d know you could wear as much body jewelry as you wish.” He returns to his chair, sitting down behind his massive desk. “And I don’t need you here. I have work to do.”
“You might not need me here,” I retort, “but you want me here. That’s why you gave me your keys.” He doesn’t look at me, his lack of attention driving me crazy. “Don’t let my presence stop you from completing your precious work.”
I flop down on the floor, the carpet immaculately clean and sinfully soft against my bare skin. Nate taps on his keyboard, his keystrokes forceful and fast. I stare up at the ceiling and count the gray specks in the white surface, gradually calming.
He didn’t ask me to remove my body jewelry. He didn’t suggest I cover up my tattoo. He has admitted to sucking great big hairy donkey balls at pillow talk, and I jump all over him for making an innocent observation. I groan. He’ll never talk to me again.
“Everyone else asks me to change,” I explain, trying to repair the damage I’ve caused. “I assumed you wanted me to change also.” He says nothing. “And I can’t change. I’ve tried, lord knows I’ve tried, but I am who I am and I refuse to be seen as less, as a disappointment because I’m different.”
The silence is deafening, my executive remaining angry with me.
“Right now is a prime example.” I take a deep breath, count to ten, and exhale. “You likely want me to shut up because all you desire is a sexual relationship. I thought that’s what I wanted too, but I’ve been so lonely,” I ramble on, unable to stop talking. “Anna has Mr. Blaine and Emily. Kat has Mr. Henley and the wedding to plan. My parents live on the hippie commune with a shared phone. I need to talk, and I want to talk to you for some strange reason.” I frown, unsure why I want to talk to him. “But you don’t have to listen if you don’t want to.”
Nate offers no reply.
Taking this as agreement, I close my eyes and talk. I talk about the project I’m working on, how I don’t know if anyone will be interested in it. I talk about Michael, a guy I liked at my previous job. He kissed me twice in the parking lot yet wouldn’t acknowledge our relationship in public, calling me a freak in front of his friends, making me feel less than I was. I talk about how I’d go to extremes with my appearance, wearing a Mohawk, body jewelry, temporary tattoos, to filter out the people who would never accept me.
My words and thoughts slow, my limbs growing heavy. I had very little sleep last night, having worked on the data donation project until the early hours of the morning. Tonight will be another late night. I have code to write and boxes to unpack and a lover to please.
“We have a business arrangement.” Nate’s voice finds me in the darkness. “We’re not lovers.”
Nate is with me, watching over me, keeping me safe. I smile and drift into the abyss.
I’M FLOATING IN the clear blue skies above one of the commune’s many gardens. This plot of land is planted with thyme, basil, cilantro, and other herbs. All I smell is mint, the scent engulfing me, soothing my soul. The sun warms my body, adding to my sense of peace and tranquility. I’m safe and protected, accepted by the universe.
“Fuck,” the universe curses, the sky shaking.
I open my eyes and gaze up at Nate’s handsome face. His jaw is jutted, his cheekbones defined, his tanned skin shadowed. He’s clad in his shirt, his black tie loosened. I’m wearing his jacket and his arms are wrapped around me tightly. “You’re carrying me,” I state the obvious.
“You sleep like the dead,” he grumbles, crimson creeping up his neck.
“The commune had shared accommodations.” The other girls I shared a dorm with were homeschooled and would take turns trying to keep me awake, seeking to sabotage my attempts to connect with the outside world, to force me to become who they wanted me to be. I refused to conform, stubborn and stuck in my deviant ways even as a child.
Nate carries me down a hallway. The walls are painted a classic white. The black furniture and fixtures are simple and tasteful and very expensive, the best of everything. Black and white works of art hang on the wall. There are no personal photos, no color, no chaos; every item is in its rightful spot. “This must be your home.”
He says nothing, walking purposefully, his grip on my near-naked body secure. I’m awake. There’s no reason for Nate to continue carrying me unless he wants to hold me.
I want him to hold me. I
want him. I flatten my right palm against his chest. His heart beats under my fingertips, strong and reliable and true. “Why am I wearing your jacket?” His cotton shirt is delectably soft.
The flush moves to Nate’s chin. “Your suit disintegrated when I tried to dress you.”
He tried to dress me, to take care of me. “I guess I’m going to work naked tomorrow, then.” I smile at him, too drowsy to be concerned. “Miss Yen won’t like that.”
“There are suits in your closet.” Nate pushes a door open with his right shoulder. “You could choose one of those to wear.”
I could choose to wear something I wouldn’t normally wear, to change for him. “Okay.” It would only be for one day, and I don’t have any other options. Blaine Technologies’ has a very strict dress code. Nudity is frowned upon.
We enter a huge bedroom and my jaw drops. The furniture and hardwood floor are black, matching the rest of the house. The walls, curtains, and throw rug are an unexpected green, the same color as my hair. My mom’s rainbow-colored bedspread partially covers the massive bed, bright and happy and familiar. “You have color in your home.”
“This is your room.” Nate’s voice is gruff. He carefully sets me down on the bed. “Your clothes are folded in the dressers. The contents of your bathroom are in there.” He waves at the brightly lit connected space. “The things I couldn’t place remain in boxes downstairs. Arrange them wherever you want.” He steps backward.
The things he couldn’t place. He personally arranged my things. I hook my fingers around Nate’s belt, holding onto him, preventing his retreat. “Where did you put my herbs?”
“If you’re talking about the plants the gardener set them on the kitchen windowsill.” Nate’s spine is straight, his form rigid and unyielding, his expression stern.
He has a gardener and a kitchen with a windowsill. My gaze lowers. And a hard-on, the ridge in his dress pants pronounced and undeniable. “Everything is taken care of.” I rub one of my hands over him, savoring his size, his energy. “Everything except this.”
