A Ruthless Proposition

by Natasha Anders

  She was well past the point of no return and the inevitable was but a heartbeat away, and then . . . it was there and so cataclysmic that her whole body simply clenched. The sharp cry that she uttered died in her throat as every single atom of her being focused inward on an explosion of pleasure so powerful it tore her apart and left her feeling vulnerable and emotionally raw.

  His orgasm finally took him. She watched in fascination as his eyes slid shut, his head flew back, and every cord in his neck stood out in stark relief. He gritted his teeth, preventing even the faintest of sounds from emerging. Only the sharp catch and gradual release of his breath gave any indication of how much the climax had affected him. She resented his control. Hated how she had given herself so completely while he, for all intents and purposes, had kept a cool head from that first kiss to this last lazy thrust.

  His grip on her thighs finally loosened, and she imagined she’d have bruises in the shape of his fingertips on her butt and thighs by morning. She could barely move as he smoothly extricated himself from her, tugged off the condom, and fell flat on his face on the bed beside her, his long, muscular legs still entangled with hers.

  “Thanks, Chloe. I needed that.” His voice was slurred. He sounded like a very drunk or very tired man, and the gentle snore that followed a mere second later confirmed the latter fact. Cleo sighed, trying not to be completely demoralized by the fact that this man, whom she had known for nearly four frickin’ months, had just called her by the wrong name. She maneuvered her way completely out from beneath him, sat on the side of the bed, and pushed herself up onto unsteady legs, feeling like a newborn calf. She knew she should probably get back to her own room, because she very much doubted that he would appreciate waking up with her still beside him.

  She hunted around the room for her dress and underwear but couldn’t find her panties. Why did it have to be her panties? She dressed hastily and was thankful that her walk of shame would span only the length of his room to the connecting door that led to her room. Nobody else would see her.

  When she had the door firmly shut behind her, she wobbled over to the bed, where most of the contents of her suitcase were chaotically strewn all over the duvet cover, and sank down in relief. Her entire body still shook in the aftermath of the best sex—and the biggest mistake—of her life.

  She buried her face in her hands.

  “It’s just sex,” she told herself, and was embarrassed by the unsteady pitch of her voice. And by the lie. She was definitely embarrassed by the blatant lie, even if the only person she was trying to deceive was herself. That wasn’t just sex. That had been the most mind-numbing, bone-melting, awe-inspiring forty-five minutes of her life, and there was no getting around that. The irritating man certainly knew his way around a woman’s body. Her nipples ached just thinking about it, and to be frank, everything else was still tightening and convulsing in the aftermath of the soul-shattering orgasm she’d just had.

  But to sleep with Dante Damaso? She shuddered in a way that had nothing to do with the microexplosions still tingling all over her body and everything to do with the fact that she could barely stand the man. So what if he was mouth-wateringly gorgeous? He was still an obnoxious, misogynistic jerk with a smug self-assurance that rubbed her the wrong way every time he spoke. Then there was the way he practically sneered every time he said Miss Knight, or the way he couldn’t seem to look at her when he talked to her, or seemed incapable of a single please or thank-you. And—horribly—after one stupid mistake on her very first day of work, he now insisted on painstakingly checking every single letter she typed for him before she was allowed to e-mail it. It was humiliating, and while the mistake hadn’t been repeated since then, he made it absolutely clear that he did not trust her to do anything more challenging than make coffee, water the plant, and send his kiss-off notes. Of course, he didn’t micromanage the rest of his staff the way he did Cleo, and she knew if he weren’t one of her brother’s buddies, Dante would probably have fired her within the first week. But she was damned if she’d quit, the way he obviously expected—wanted?—her to.

  And she had slept with him. She couldn’t even blame alcohol, exhaustion, or temporary insanity . . . hold on. Maybe she could blame temporary insanity. She must have lost her mind. Why else would she have slept with the condescending, arrogant bastard?

  She headed toward the en suite bathroom, tugging off her hopelessly wrinkled dress as she went. She fumbled with the complicated bells and whistles in the shower cubicle. It’s a shower; why is it so damned difficult anyway? She finally got the water going and gratefully stepped beneath the powerful spray before swearing and fumbling with the knobs and buttons to set it to a temperature less than scalding.

  “Damn it.” The words were mild but heartfelt. She didn’t know if she was sophisticated enough to be cool about a one-night stand. With her boss. Whom she despised.

  She rested her forehead on the cool tiles before thumping it softly and rhythmically against the unforgiving surface. This was a disaster. She enjoyed sex, but she had never previously indulged outside at least a semicommitted relationship. This was uncharted territory for her. Where did they go from here?

  Of all the stupid . . . She shook herself. She wasn’t achieving anything with the self-recriminations. It had happened. Now she needed to figure out how the hell she was going to get through the rest of their time here and what she would do if she had to find a new job once they got back to Cape Town.

  It would suck if it came to that, because she really enjoyed the challenge of this job. Back in South Africa, Dante regularly swapped her for other executive assistants in the upper echelons of his global, multi-billion-dollar leisure industry conglomerate, and it was on those days Cleo truly liked her new job. None of the other executives seemed to doubt her competence and rarely gave her the mind-numbingly boring and simplistic tasks Dante liked to saddle her with.

  Cleo finished her shower and wrapped herself in the warm terry-cloth robe provided by the hotel. She sauntered over to the huge floor-to-ceiling window and stared out at the sprawling nightscape. She had always dreamed of visiting Japan—had hoped to dance here someday. She allowed herself a small, wistful smile and a momentary pang at the thought of all she’d lost before shoving the memory of what she’d once been able to do—what she still yearned to do—back into a box and placing it into a mental drawer. She could never fully shut that damned drawer; it was always slightly open, and every so often something—the dream of a different life—would escape from it and haunt her reality. She drew in a long breath and released it shakily. She had way too much else going on right now. She couldn’t allow the coulda/shoulda beens to intrude on what was already an emotionally impactful night.

  She tried to empty her mind of everything and focus only on the view. From her fortieth-floor vantage point, the shimmering lights looked as pretty as a Christmas tree, but she wondered at the constant frenetic activity in this crazy city that didn’t seem to have slowed down at all, despite the lateness of the hour. She knew she should try to get some sleep. It was after three in the morning, and Dante Damaso would undoubtedly be up, dressed, and disgustingly alert by seven. She crawled into the king-size bed, which was positioned so she could still see the skyline. She curled up on her side and stared down at the blinking lights of the traffic far, far below before drifting into a restless sleep.

  Dante woke as he usually did, fully aware of his surroundings and not the slightest bit groggy despite the lack of sleep and jet lag. For once that ability wasn’t a blessing, not when he was immediately bombarded by the memory of the colossal error in judgment he had made the night before.

  “Shit,” he hissed beneath his breath, wasting a brief moment of his very precious time on a twinge of regret before shrugging that smidgen of conscience away. Instead he attempted to focus his attention on a solution to what could definitely become a problem. The sex had been quite good, really, and just what he’d needed to blow off the frustrations of the day. But t
he girl was his employee, a very junior employee—and Dante hardly ever went there. Plus, she was his friend’s sister, and Dante for damned sure never went there. And yet he’d gone there last night and had no one to blame but himself.

  To give Chloe her due, she had never looked at him in that way, never hinted at wanting any form of sexual relationship with him. If anything, until last night, she had been indifferent toward him and even seemed to dislike him at times. He snorted at that last thought, dismissing it as unlikely. When women pretended indifference, they were usually playing hard to get, and she was definitely the type to play ridiculous games like that. Look how easily she’d fallen into his bed last night. Surely that was proof she’d been harboring some sort of attraction for him all along.

  He just hoped she didn’t think it would be the start of something; he really didn’t need the complication of breaking Luc’s sister’s heart. He liked the guy and they had been friends for a long time—and even though Dante had known of her existence, he had never actually met Luc’s sister until she applied for this job. He hadn’t been too enthused by the idea of giving her the position—especially in light of his unexpected physical response to her presence. But he wasn’t about to offend one of his few real friends by refusing to give the man’s precious sister a job—no matter how woefully underqualified she was on paper.

  He shook himself impatiently, irritated that he had already wasted this much time on the incident when he had to figure out how to approach the precarious situation with the Shinjuku metropolitan government. He resented having to devote any of his time to considering the possible ramifications of his ill-advised sexual encounter with a woman. Not when he had so many other pressing issues to deal with.

  He shook his head as he rose from bed and crossed to the bathroom for a quick shower. He had the utmost confidence he would handle this incident in the best way possible; it was just sex, after all. By the time he was dressed and ready to face the day, he had already dismissed the episode and was focused on other, far more important matters.

  When Cleo joined Dante in the living room, he greeted her with his usual morning grunt, keeping his focus on his laptop.

  “Miss Knight, I need you to send an urgent e-mail to Miles Kinross for the Phase One original blueprints,” he said without looking up.

  “Right now?” she asked, and he lifted his gaze from the computer screen to frown at her.

  “Yes, right now. I wouldn’t use the word ‘urgent’”—he used mocking air quotes—“if I didn’t want it right now.”

  Cleo gritted her teeth, bit back the sarcastic retort hovering on the tip of her tongue, and settled for saccharine sweetness instead.

  “Well, I only ask, sir, because it’s midnight in South Africa, and Mr. Kinross may not be checking his e-mails. I thought you might prefer the direct approach of a phone call instead.”

  “Then make yourself useful and get him on the line. Be proactive for a change.”

  She lifted her brows and picked up her company phone. She really wished she hadn’t fallen into bed with this man so easily. But having regrets now—while she still sported patches of stubble burn on her inner thighs and her breasts tingled tantalizingly—was a waste of energy. His sultry mouth had trailed over every inch of her skin, and his heavy stubble had left a pale pink trail in some of the places he had lingered. There was even a faint sting in the small of her back, telling her she probably wore the same naughty stubble burn just above her butt.

  Cleo endeavored not to dwell too much on the unwelcome and intimate physical reminders of her lapse in judgment last night. But that wasn’t an easy thing to do when she could barely suppress a shiver as she recalled how masterfully he had flipped her onto her stomach and dragged his wicked lips down from the nape of her neck to—

  “Miss Knight?”

  Whoa. She snapped out of the raunchy daze and stared blankly into his impatient face.

  “The phone call?”

  “Yes, of course,” she sputtered, feeling foolish as she dialed the number.

  Miles Kinross, as she had suspected, had already retired for the night and not alone, if the sultry feminine voice in the background was anything to go by. Kinross was a handsome man and—if office gossip was to be believed—like Dante Damaso, he rarely dated the same woman for longer than a month or two. Cleo was in the middle of explaining what they needed when the phone was yanked rudely from her hand and Dante took over the conversation.

  She straightened her shoulders, determined to ignore his boorish behavior, and headed over to the lavish buffet breakfast he must have ordered from room service. At least he’d remembered to order enough for two this time.

  She allowed herself another flash of aggravation at the memory of how he had completely overlooked her need for a meal last night. Inconsiderate bastard. No wonder she’d been so susceptible to his dubious charms; she’d been suffering from impaired judgment due to starvation. Dying of hunger now, she heaped her plate with scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and toast before sitting down to dig in.

  She barely managed more than a mouthful before he concluded his call.

  “There’s no time for breakfast. We’re running late as it is. Our first meeting is in forty minutes, and the driver has informed me that it’ll take at least half an hour to get there in rush-hour traffic. I don’t want to be late. It’s unprofessional and considered extremely rude in Japan.”

  “Oh, but . . .” She stared longingly down at her still-full plate.

  “If you’d been up earlier, you would have had more time to eat,” he pointed out as he picked up his briefcase.

  Yeah, right. Cleo had dawdled over her morning prep, gathering her courage to face him. She had tried to anticipate every possible scenario: he’d sweep her up into his arms and propose a torrid affair, he’d be unable to meet her eyes and unsure of what to say to her, he’d explain how their indiscretion had been only a passing thing, never to be repeated.

  She hadn’t expected this. This complete lack of acknowledgment of what had been a huge breach of office conduct. In fact, he was so completely normal and unaffected she wondered if he even remembered their little oopsie.

  She shoveled down one last forkful of eggs before getting up with a resigned sigh. She smoothed her black, pin-striped pencil skirt down over her thighs and glanced up in time to catch a smoldering look in his dark eyes.

  Oh . . . my.

  “Let’s go,” he growled, stepping aside and allowing her to precede him.

  For one glorious moment, that look helped her push aside her insecurities and made her feel powerful and feminine enough to add a deliberate little shimmy to her walk as she sidled past him.

  Dante bit back the stream of profanity threatening to escape his lips and focused instead on internalizing his annoyance. A resurgence of sexual tension was the last thing he needed right now. He’d believed he had successfully put the whole incident firmly behind him, but the way that no-nonsense skirt clung to her pert little ass was more than a little distracting. Especially now that he knew she was probably wearing cute little cotton cartoon-character panties—similar to the ones she’d worn last night—beneath the pin-striped twill. He ground his teeth as he followed her out, forcing his eyes up from the tight curve of her butt to her narrow back, and tried to regain his focus. He was only marginally successful, distracted by the light, fresh scent of her shampoo as it wafted back toward him, and the sassy bounce of her silky hair.

  He battled with his hormones all the way down to the car, where the stifling humidity and heat outside displaced his infuriating horniness with discomfort of a different kind.

  “Wow, this humidity is crazy,” his distracting little assistant said as they settled into the air-conditioned black luxury sedan.

  Dante grunted noncommittally and yanked out his tablet to check his notes for the meeting.

  “Is it always like this in Tokyo?”

  Why the hell was she still prattling on? She rarely made small talk with him, and
he preferred it that way. When they did speak, it was strictly work related.

  “I’ve never been to Japan before, so I didn’t know what to expect. Weatherwise, I mean. I knew it was summer and knew it would be hot, but I really wasn’t expecting this humidity. I mean, it’s like a sauna out there.”

  He sighed before putting his tablet aside. “Chloe,” he said, keeping his voice low so the driver couldn’t hear them. “Last night was just to relieve some of the stress of the day; you know that, right? I don’t usually fuck my employees. Too damned messy.” And quite frankly, he didn’t relish the potential sexual-harassment lawsuits from disgruntled sexual partners in the workplace, but he didn’t tell her that. God knows he didn’t need to plant that idea in her head. And then, of course, there was the fact this had happened so unexpectedly he hadn’t gone to the usual legal lengths to protect himself. He was generally a hell of a lot more careful and more discreet when it came to choosing his sexual partners. He cleared his throat before continuing.

  “We were both tense and in need of some stress relief. It’s not necessary to make this awkward.”

  She muttered something beneath her breath, and he frowned.

  “What?”

  “Cleo. It’s Cleo,” she said, meeting his gaze head-on, her ridiculously beautiful green eyes brimming with defiance. “My name’s Cleo, not Chloe.”

  Shit.

  “Right. Of course.” He cleared his throat. Of course he knew her name was Cleo. He even remembered thinking Cleopatra Pandora Knight was a damned stupid name. But for some reason, after months of calling her nothing but Miss Knight, that pertinent fact had completely slipped his mind. He felt his cheeks heat up as he recalled using “Chloe” during and immediately after sex the night before. What kind of asshole forgets a woman’s name while he’s naked in bed with her?