A Ruthless Proposition

by Natasha Anders

  “And don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of making anything awkward for you. I’m just curious about the country. I’m not fantasizing about some happily-ever-after love affair with you or anything. The thought of that is as distasteful to me as it probably is to you.”

  Distasteful? Who the hell did she think she was? Better women than she would kill for the chance of a love affair with him . . . and why the hell was he even offended? She was nothing more than his employee. His very annoying and very temporary employee. So they’d had a little lapse in judgment. So what? Shit like that happened all the time. Not to him, but there was a first time for everything.

  “Let’s just keep our focus on work,” he stipulated. “The sooner we get this delay sorted out, the sooner we get out of here and on with our lives.”

  “Amen to that.”

  Cleo was proud of herself. Proud that she had managed to keep her temper in check and her mouth shut. And definitely proud that she had managed to curb the impulse to slap the stupid man right across his handsome, smug face.

  Just do the job, Cleo. Keep doing the job, and when something more interesting comes along, you can move on with your head held high.

  This wasn’t going to be another one of her failures. Another lost opportunity because she couldn’t hold her tongue or restrain her impulsive nature and uncertain temper. Working for Dante Damaso had tested her to her limits, even though—thankfully—she’d rarely had to deal directly with him until this trip. She wasn’t going to let him ruin this career opportunity for her. The potential for growth in this company was huge; Dante had hired her as a temporary replacement for his pregnant assistant, with the assurance that after Donna returned, they would find a permanent position for Cleo within the company. And while Cleo still wasn’t entirely sure this was the kind of work she wanted to do for the rest of her life, it was what she’d fallen back on when her true vocation had slipped beyond her reach. It didn’t light up all the empty spaces in her soul the way dance did, didn’t inspire her or make her want to leap out of bed in the mornings even when every muscle in her body protested the slightest of movements, but it was something. And she was relatively good at it. So it would have to do.

  Up until this job she’d been drifting from one temp position to the next, but this was the first one offering job security, benefits, and all the other good stuff grown-ups aspired to. Cleo, who had felt like a total failure up until that point, had jumped at the opportunity. God knows she had to stop depending on her big brother to help her out every time she failed at something.

  Luc was getting married soon, and while his fiancée, Blue, was a sweetheart, Cleo couldn’t keep staying with him every time she lost an apartment because she was unable to pay the rent. Luc had never minded; he insisted that the house, which had once belonged to their grandparents, was half hers anyway and she had as much right to stay there as he did. But with Luc probably starting a family soon, Cleo just wouldn’t feel right running to him every time life dumped an obstacle on her path. She already felt like a loser. And sleeping with the boss—just another thing in a long line of really bad decisions—intensified that feeling times infinity.

  Cleo had been good at only one thing in her life: dancing. And after years of hard work and countless personal and physical sacrifices, she had been well on her way to establishing herself as a talent of note before an accident just after her twenty-fourth birthday had robbed her of that career path. Doctors told her she would never dance professionally again, and it was a fact Cleo had difficulty accepting. She still felt like she could dance; it was still there in her heart and soul. How could they tell her she couldn’t do the one thing she loved above all else? Without dance in her life, she had found herself rudderless and devastatingly average. Now all she had left were her brain and a sharp tongue that kept getting her into trouble at the worst possible times. That tongue had been responsible for most of her past workplace failures, but her intelligence was what kept her constantly employed, even if she couldn’t quite keep the jobs.

  She glanced at Dante, who was poring over his iPad again, and managed, barely, to keep from rolling her eyes in derision. She watched him covertly and tried to keep her appraisal objective. He was sickeningly good-looking. Dante Damaso was all gorgeous golden skin, topped with black-as-night wavy hair he kept clipped ruthlessly short and combed back with a conservative side part. There was barely enough of the luxurious, thick and silky mass for a woman to run her fingers through. His honey-brown eyes were framed by lush, long lashes that curled slightly at the ends and stern, straight eyebrows. His mouth had a full, curved bottom lip and a thin, perfectly bow-shaped upper lip, and it would have been beautiful if not for the cynical sneer perpetually twisting his lips whenever she was in his general vicinity. And, of course, he had the straight nose and high cheekbones to go with his perfect looks.

  It was nauseating, really; a crooked nose would have made him more approachable, more human. It was almost obnoxious for him to be this good-looking! And now that she knew what he looked like beneath his expensive, bespoke dark-gray suit, it was even worse. At thirty-three he was in his prime. He had washboard abs, a butt you could bounce a coin off, gorgeously muscled arms, and—her personal weakness—killer thighs and calves. And he certainly knew exactly how to use that perfect body to please a woman. No wonder his gorgeous lady friends were always hanging around even after he ended things with them—mind-blowing sex and multiple orgasms could become dangerously addicting.

  While Cleo could definitely empathize with those women, amazing sex wasn’t enough to make her moon over a guy or she’d be in serious trouble right now. Dante Damaso epitomized masculine perfection; it was a damned crying shame such good looks were wasted on a nasty specimen like him.

  To distract herself from the awkward situation with her boss, Cleo turned her attention to the city just a window’s breadth away. She couldn’t remember ever seeing this many pedestrians in one place, hustling and bustling and going about their daily lives. She craned her neck and couldn’t prevent a giggle from escaping when she spotted a guy in a panda suit crossing the intersection in front of their car. She scrambled for her phone and managed to catch his back as he walked away, his gigantic panda head towering above the other, completely unconcerned pedestrians. Nobody even stared. She absently started taking a few more pics and then several selfies, trying to get as much of the city in the background as possible and adding the really good ones to Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. She positioned herself with her back to the window and took a few duckface selfies while they were stopped at a particularly busy intersection.

  Dante was so engrossed in his reading that it took a while before the annoying clicking sound penetrated the heavy fog of statistics eddying in his brain. When he finally became aware of it, the click that followed was almost jarring as it jerked him fully aware of his surroundings. He looked over to where Chl—Cleo—was sitting on the far end of the backseat and blinked when he saw her sucking in her cheeks, plumping up her lips, and lowering her chin as she held her phone slightly above face level and snapped a photograph. Well, that explained the annoying clicking. She shifted her chin slightly to the left and took another picture. Then another and another.

  “I hate to interrupt this narcissistic little lovefest you’ve got going on with your phone, Miss Knight, but surely you have something a little more productive to do with your time?”

  She jumped and dropped her phone, which bounced off the seat and landed right between his shoes. She swore beneath her breath and bent over to retrieve it. He gaped as she squirmed her way between the front passenger seat and his knee, her round butt sticking up and wriggling temptingly right within cupping range of his hands. He held said hands up and away from her body in case they were tempted to do something stupid, like explore the silky smooth skin of her thighs, which was being revealed one tantalizing millimeter at a time as she maneuvered her way a little farther down.

  He wasn’t quite sure what to do with
the provocative, twisting bundle of femininity half draped over his lap, but when one sharp little elbow missed his groin by just an inch, he cursed and took hold of that same elbow and dragged her up onto the seat beside him.

  “What in the ever-loving hell are you doing?” he asked, sounding livid even to himself.

  “My phone . . .”

  “Yeah. I know. And I would have retrieved it for you. You didn’t have to drape yourself all over me to get to it.”

  “I didn’t.” God, her cheeks were flushed, her usually sleek hair was a mess, and two of her mother-of-pearl blouse buttons had come undone to reveal the pretty blue-lace edge of her bra. She looked like a woman who had just been soundly kissed, and because it aroused him to the point of pain, it brought his suspicious nature to bear.

  “Are you coming on to me?” he hissed. “Wasn’t one night enough for you? If you want more than that, you need but say it. But don’t expect anything other than sex from me. Just because you’re Luc’s sister doesn’t automatically entitle you to more than that. Once we get this deal out of the way, we can fuck again if that’s what you want, but it will never be more than that. Entender? Understand?”

  “Oh, I entender,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, making him wonder at the extreme emotion he could sense just beneath the surface. “I entender that you’re a smug, arrogant butthole who thinks the sun revolves around him. I don’t like you. But then I don’t have to like you; you’re just my boss. And while I may have had a moment’s weakness last night, it just makes me human. And trust me, one night was enough to last a lifetime. It was great, but I’m not looking for an encore.”

  Cleo let her words sink in, knowing she had just kissed any future with this company good-bye. She allowed herself a moment’s regret before clearing her throat and pointing to the floor between his feet.

  “Now, would you mind fetching my phone for me please, sir? I’d hate for you to get the wrong idea if I went fishing for it again.”

  He kept his gaze level with hers, and the grim set of his mouth told her he wasn’t at all impressed with her. Well, to hell with him. His opinion mattered not at all.

  “Just because we have shared some level of intimacy does not give you the right to speak to me so,” he said after a long and unnerving moment of silence. His voice teemed with barely restrained menace. “We are not contemporaries, we are not friends, and we are certainly not lovers.”

  “No, we’re employee”—she touched her chest and then lifted the same hand to point at him—“and employer. You’re my boss, and as I very much doubt I’ll have a job after this anyway, I should probably voice my opinions now, while I have you here.”

  “Why would you not have a job after this? You think I am so lacking in morals I would fire you because we spent a mutually pleasurable night together? That was last night, and we were done with work. In this car, right now, I am your employer, and I will be spoken to with respect.”

  “Oh, does that mean I get to call you an arrogant butthole after hours?” She watched his face tighten and knew she was pushing every single danger button he possessed.

  “What you call me in the privacy of your thoughts is of no concern to me. Just keep those thoughts to yourself.”

  “So, you’re basically placing a gag order on me,” she clarified.

  “If that is how you wish to perceive it, then so be it.”

  He reached down to retrieve her phone—a clear indicator he considered the conversation closed—and glanced at the screen before handing it over.

  “This isn’t exactly what I would call professional behavior,” he said, nodding down at the ridiculous pouting picture of her on the screen.

  Embarrassed, she cast her eyes down, hating to feel so completely wrong-footed.

  “It was meant to be ironic,” she attempted to explain even while she knew he would never understand the intended humor behind the picture.

  “I trust you will conduct yourself appropriately at this meeting?”

  Damn it. So much for trying to impress the man with her professionalism and ability to do the job. She tried her best to keep her reply humble.

  “Yes, sir. I apologize if my earlier lack of professionalism caused you to think otherwise, sir,” she said in her best no-nonsense voice, although she couldn’t quite disguise the sarcasm dripping all over that last word. He raised his eyebrows, indicating he hadn’t missed the acerbity, then raked her body from top to toe with his gaze.

  “You might want to run a comb through your hair,” he said, the words dripping with disdain. “Maybe reapply your lipstick while you’re at it. Oh, and I’m sure you’d like to adjust your skirt and button your blouse before we get there as well.”

  Bastard.

  She scooted back to her end of the seat and quickly straightened her skirt and fumblingly fixed her blouse, flushing a little when she noticed her bra was showing. A quick check of her hair and makeup confirmed the former was sticking up a bit and her lipstick was smudged at one corner of her mouth. Wait, how on earth had she managed to smudge her lipstick while trying to pick up her phone? Who did that? This day just got worse and worse and it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. She reapplied it and quite pointedly turned her back on him to stare out the window.

  She wasn’t going to let him dampen her excitement of being here, and if this was all she got to see of the city, then she was damned well going to soak it in while she could. She heard him snort softly behind her but ignored it, willing him to go back to his oh-so-critical preparation. He only needed her here to take notes, write his correspondence, and do all the other menial crap that required little to no thinking.

  She knew Donna, his executive assistant, had a very challenging and intellectually stimulating job—she handled projects, ran the office in his absence, and had all manner of other important and interesting duties. But Dante didn’t trust Cleo to do even a small percentage of what his precious Donna did, and she didn’t expect him to. She was nowhere near as qualified. He gave her the basic secretarial stuff to do while designating the more important tasks to other personal and executive assistants. The little he did entrust to her was always gone over by the man himself with a fine-tooth comb.

  Naturally the other assistants were already swamped with their own regular duties and were starting to resent Cleo for not doing the job she was being so handsomely paid for. They knew Luc and Dante were friends because Cleo had foolishly mentioned it to one of the younger admin assistants in an aborted attempt to make friends. The woman had wasted no time spreading rumors that Cleo had been hired because of the relationship between the two men. Nobody would ever accuse Dante of nepotism to his face, of course, so Cleo bore the brunt of their hostility. After that, Cleo had been a lot pickier about whom she spoke to at work. Luckily there were a number of other people who didn’t give the rumors any credence. People like Florence, the lovely tea lady; Solomon, the cheerful company driver; Dante’s personal protection guys; and some of the junior staff members who didn’t get saddled with her extra work. Despite the short time she’d been working there, she had no shortage of new friends.

  But the irony was that Cleo hadn’t for even a second realized the Dante Damaso of Damaso International, Inc., was the same “Dan” whose name Luc casually dropped into conversation on occasion. Luc and Dante had met in college and had become friends but were hardly the type of guys to invite each other to family gatherings, so Cleo had never had the opportunity to meet the man. She had also been way too involved with her own life and her dancing—too wrapped up in herself—to care about Lucius and his boring friends. So it had come as a shock to learn Luc’s “Dan” was the Dante Damaso of the renowned Damaso International chain of five-star hotels and resorts.

  Only after Luc had gone all stern and disapproving big brother on her for using his relationship with Dante to get a job, did the penny drop. That’s when she’d understood that she’d probably gotten the job because she was Luc’s sister. A favor neither Luc nor Cleo had
actually asked for. By that time it had been too late to back out, and Cleo had been determined to make the best of the chance she’d been given. Of course, if she had actually met Dante Damaso during the interview process, she may very well have told him to shove his job. But his minions had conducted the recorded interviews, and Dante had—supposedly—made his decision after watching the recordings.

  Cleo didn’t know what she’d expected of Dante Damaso, but from the very first day he had made it clear he merely suffered her presence, and just half an hour into her first day—after asking her to make him a cup of coffee, photocopy some documents, send two e-mails (one of which she had messed up by leaving off a zero in a seriously huge number), and water his frickin’ ficus—he had sent her downstairs to a junior executive. Once there, the junior exec’s assistant had patronizingly ushered Cleo to a desk and instructed her to answer the phone if it rang, before the woman checked her makeup and swanned off with a breezy “Mr. Damaso needs me to assist him today.”

  The memory still made Cleo seethe—four months later—and she clenched her teeth when she thought of how consistently after that first encounter the same thing had happened. She began every day in Damaso’s office suite, and after half an hour—during which she had the dubious privilege of making his coffee and watering that stupid ficus, or sometimes sending one of those loathsome little “Thanks for the sex” notes—she got shipped off to a different exec. Luckily the other executives had stopped giving her mundane tasks to do, and she’d started enjoying her daily little soirees away from the boss’s office. Still, the half hours in the mornings had become almost unbearable. Dante was scathing, brutally frank in his dismissal of her skills, and almost unbearably rude. He never greeted her, never used common courtesies like “please” and “thank you” when he spoke with her, and Cleo was convinced a smile would crack his perfect face.