by Ward, Penny
He’s both intimidating and arousing.
“I appreciate your time, Ms. Levin. Would you wait outside while we discuss your little app?”
He said little app--he thinks it’s a stupid idea.
Dammit.
“Yes, sure,” I say, deflated, before I gather my belongings and leave them to laugh at my expense, ’cause I don’t mind waiting for them to call me back for face-to-face mockery.
When I reach the waiting room, Glamorous Secretary offers me a coffee and a sympathetic smile.
I want to simultaneously bawl my eyes out and scream expletives at her.
Thankfully, I tell her, “No thank you.”
Chapter 4
After nearly an hour, the men in the boardroom leave one by one, except Zane.
All grin, wave, or wink as they pass me on their way to the elevators.
I wonder what Zane’s still doing in there and why the others left.
What’s this mean for my app?
Another three minutes pass, and I count every second until his secretary calls me over. “He’s ready, Ms. Levin.”
“Finally,” I blurt out. “Sorry, I mean, I’m coming.” In my haste, I stumble into a chair and bang my shin. “Shit.”
“Take your time, sweetie,” the perfectly composed secretary tells me. “You’re his last appointment today. No rush. And he isn’t nearly as scary as you think.”
“Last appointment?” We walk down the corridor. “Early day?”
“He doesn’t need to come to the office but comes in now and then. Made his money young--I’m sure you read all about it.”
“Wait, so Zane’s your boss?” Oh my, Daddy-long-legs hotness is Mr. Richmond. Um, I really needed to do more research.
“Yes he is. He’s filthy rich and only thirty-five.” She stops outside a less imposing door from the boardroom and winks. “If only we could all work for fun, eh?”
“Oh yeah, who wouldn’t?” Before she opens the door, I ask, “Wait, how do I look?”
“Great.” She grins and whispers, “Go get the deal,” as she opens the door. “Mr. Richmond, Ms. Levin’s here. Shall I show her in?”
“Please do.”
She softly pushes me through the door and mouths silently, “Be lucky.”
He’s waiting for me on a leather couch, jacket and tie off, with only the well-fitting pair of blue trousers, handmade leather brogues, and a white linen shirt remaining between us.
“Join me,” He pats the seat next to his.
“Oh?” Isn’t this a bit casual? “Sure, I guess.”
I approach him cautiously, horny as hell if I’m honest.
Hell, let me be candid: I never wanted to jump someone’s bones this much.
He’s too hot for this situation.
It’s all too much--all before I pile on his eligibility.
The couch is large, so I sit away from the temptation over at the other end. No matter what, I need to leave here quickly, but with the prize. “So, what’s the decision?”
“Straight to the point. I like it,” Zane grins, edging closer. “And yes, we all love the app.”
My smile comes from my tummy and warms my body before it beams from my face.
“Really? I mean, you’re going to invest? You’re going to help me?”
If there is ever a time for making out, it’s now.
His fine, sculpted face flushes; his eyes darken. “I will, Abbey, but I’m thinking I should be partner in this venture. Not an unnamed financier.”
What?
Oh no.
But this is my baby; I don’t want to share ownership.
“Oh.”
Yet I need his money.
This sucks.
“Why?”
He moves closer. “Because I believe the two of us have more chance of success. I’m pretty good at business, in case you hadn’t heard.” He laughs quietly, his gaze focused on my lips.
These attentions make me lick my lips instinctively, but I manage to pull back the sigh desperate to leave my chest. “Yes, I’m aware of your wealth and standing, but I want to do this myself. To earn my success on my own merits.”
“Ah, I see. You want to do it all on your own... with my contacts, know-how, and money?”
“Well...” My shoulders curve forward. “You’re an investor, right?” He wants to steal my idea and all the glory it might bring. “Investors support the ideas of others but let them get on with it.”
“Wow, attitude.” He raises his hands in surrender. “I love it. But you’re only making me more determined to share this venture with you. It’s my money, after all. I’d like to be sure it’s going to be used effectively.”
“Are you saying you don’t trust me to use it effectively?”
“Why should I trust you? Because of your honors degree in business?” He scoffs, making me want to slap him. “You’re a...”
“Woman?” This guy is a gorgeous billionaire, but he’s also a jerk.
“You’re intriguing, beguiling, and most certainly a woman. But that’s not what I was going to say.”
Oh. “Then what?”
“You are a stranger, Abbey.” Somehow, while we had our spat, he’d shuffled his way over to my side of the couch so we are now so close our knees touch. “Do you trust strangers, Abbey?” He tilts his head, sounding completely reasonable.
My lips pucker as my temper simmers, replaced by lingering lust. I stand for fear of losing my pants. “No, I guess not. And as there’s nothing I can do about us being strangers, I...”
“Do I scare you?” He glares up at me, frowning. “You’re awfully pale.”
“No... It’s hot in here.” Like you don’t understand what you do to red-blooded women. “And... I’m nervous. It’s a big day for me, this. Surely you understand.”
Oh wow, this is humiliating.
As he stands, the waft of spicy cologne reaches my nose again.
“There’s only one way to settle this,” he grins.
I peer up into his golden stare. “Oh yeah, how’s that?”
Just give me the cash so I can leave with my dignity intact.
“You come to my place in the Hamptons and we... get to know each other. Build a little trust?”
Seriously? “You want me to come to the Hamptons?”
One of his eyebrows shoots up. “Problem?”
“Well...” Gah...me in the damn Hamptons?
“You don’t have a job you need to get back to--”
“How do you know?” Am I so predictable?
He glances at his feet. “You must have mentioned it. Plus, you’re here asking for money, aren’t you?”
His mix of arrogance, cockiness, and raw sex appeal is crippling me.
But I need his help on this.
Without him, or his money, my app is as useful as a paraffin bath.
And without my app, I have nothing to show for all my hard work..
“Tsk,” I huff. “When, and how long for?”
He grins, and I swear he beams light into my face. Resting his hand on my shoulders, he says, “We’ll leave tonight and stay there for as long as it takes. I’ll send a car to pick you up... say around six?”
I’m unhappy about being forced into this.
It sucks to be poor, to yield to the privileged class.
Especially because the kind of yielding I want to do is so... wrong.
“Guess I’ll write down my address for you.”
He backs away and waves a hand. “No need.”
I study his shifty gaze. “Why? Where will you send the car?”
“Because your address is on file, of course.” He strides over to the door, grasping the handle. “Till tonight, Abbey. I’m looking forward to it.”
As I approach him, I try not to imagine his full lips on mine. “Like I have a choice. This is strictly professional, yes?”
“Of course. And you do have a choice, but you won’t regret deciding to get to know me.”
We rest our gaze
on one another for the longest moment.
When I catch up with him at the door, there it is again.
A kind of connection between us, fused with an electrical charge.
“Let’s hope so,” I say, sighing--I actually sigh. After clearing my throat, I add, “Till tonight, Mr. Richmond.”
Chapter 5
Zane’s driver, a fifty-something portly man who smiled instead of spoke, arrives on time in a white limo.
A white limo!
“Ms. Levin?” he asks.
“Here.” I call, waving, stumbling forward on my best heels, wishing that I knew Kylie’s neighbors enough to enjoy the curtain twitching or that Martin could see me climbing into a limo on my way to the Hamptons.
Even Kylie had to work late and misses it.
The silent driver piles my overnight bag into the trunk, opens the door, ushers me into the back, and drives me to the Hamptons.
I’m bringing a modest overnight bag not because I intend to sleep with Zane, but because one-night stands and business don’t work.
Well, I doubt they do... I wouldn’t know for sure, having slept with only one person.
I am bringing a bag because I hate not being able to brush my teeth or grab a clean set of underwear in the morning and well, I may end up staying over platonically.
I never attended a getting-to-know-you-in-the-Hamptons thing before, and Kylie told me to “be prepared for anything…”
My lack of designer labels will reveal me as an outsider as soon as I step outside the limo, of course.
Can’t help that, but my black, semiformal dress and heeled shoes would have to do.
Next time I come here and I’m some big-shot executive, I’ll stand out because of my achievements - designer labels or not.
As we ride through the wide, stretched, flourishing - though highly manicured - lanes, my stomach flips at the mansions leading off on either side. I never imagined in a million years that I’d end up visiting a place like this, surrounded by the wealthiest people, living in some of the most palatial homes in the world.
Soon enough, we reach Zane’s mansion and park around the back, along twelve other cars ranging from a brand-new silver Aston Martin to a vintage gold Jaguar.
I climb out of the limo, helped by the silent driver, and am greeted by a round woman wearing a monochrome traditional maid’s outfit complete with a white, frilly headpiece.
After looking me up and down and nodding at the driver, she says, “Come on,” and takes my hand. “Frank will bring your bags. Let me show you to your room. You can freshen up before dinner.”
Getting my own room is a good sign. “Sounds like a plan.” I turn to the newly named driver, who follows with my small bag. “Thanks, Frank.”
He tips his cap.
The maid leads me inside the building and through its lower quarters, passing around ten other members of the staff. I ask her, “Do they all work for Zane?”
She glares at my casual reference to her boss.
“I mean Mr. Richmond. Sorry.”
“Yes. Mr. Richmond keeps us busy, but he’s a benevolent boss.”
“Benevolent?” I scoff, knowing big business and generosity rarely combine well. I imagine she’s scared I’ll betray her confidence if she tells me the truth.
She scowls at my reaction.
After an awkward journey up a long flight of stairs, she walks me down a long, white hall decorated with painting after painting and lots of pictures of Zane with famous people, usually at formal parties or golf country clubs.
Then she opens an inconspicuous door. “This is your room for the duration of your stay.” She walks in ahead of me and clicks her fingers. “Give me your coat: let me hang it up for you.”
“Oh, there’s no need. But if you must.” I do as I’m told as I’m on her turf.
After a few seconds more of scrutinizing my dress, she says, “Do you need me to press an outfit for dinner? I can get Frank to leave your things in the kitchen and I’ll see to it right away.”
Dress for dinner?
I am dressed for dinner.
Rude. “Thought I’d wear this.”
She shakes her head. “No. Right, wait here. The bathroom is through that door if you need it. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
With a shuffle through the door, she leaves me wondering where she’s going and what I should be doing. By the time it takes me to go to the bathroom and wash my hands, she returns with a few dress bags. “Here, try these on. Don’t worry, they’re all brand-new.”
“You brought me someone’s new clothes to wear for dinner? I don’t understand. Are we going to a restaurant?” Panic fluttered in my chest at having to dine among aristocrats and the nouveau riche while wearing someone else’s dress. “I sort of thought--hoped--we’d be staying in.”
“You are dining in. But here, people dress for dinner, which means you dress up. Besides, Mr. Richmond often enjoys impromptu visitors. You don’t want to be wearing this if someone important stops by, do you?”
Heaven forbid, because you’ve already decided I’m not important. I peer down at my dress. “No, guess not.”
She points at the dress bags on the bed. “Choose something.”
“Oh. Okay.” With reluctance, I unzip the first bag to find a cream dress with gold buttons down the front. The label tells me Chanel designed it, and a fine sweat cools my brow. “I can’t wear this, it’s too much. And whose is it anyway?”
“It’s yours if you choose it. Mr. Richmond asked me to call a boutique in town and get them to drop off a selection in size eight.” She scrutinized my curves. “You are a size eight, right?”
“Yes,” I say, pulling in my tummy and straightening my spine.
I can’t believe he did this.
What a waste.
The dress is beautiful of course, and I do wonder what it’s like to wear Chanel, but still.
He could give me the money he paid for it and end my humiliation. “What the hell.” I take it into the bathroom, undress, and climb into the luxurious garment, careful not to rip it.
It fits perfectly and the fabric feels incredible against my skin.
“Would you like any help in there or can I leave you to it, miss?” the maid asks from the other side of the door.
“I’m fine, really. You can go. Oh, should I wait here till he calls me or...?”
“Yes. Continue to get ready... you might want to brush you hair. I’ll come for you in ten minutes. He wants drinks in the library before dinner.”
Brush my hair?
Cheeky.
Wait…
“In the what? His own library?” I open the door. “Isn’t that a little over the top?”
“Why?” Her pale gray eyes shrink beneath her frown. “He likes to read.”
I get the impression King Zane is her golden boy. “I should hope he does. Anyway”--I spin around--“will I do?”
When her scrutiny reaches my shoes, she marches off again, without a word.
Okay, so they’re a little scuffed, but they cost me nearly one hundred dollars and aren’t even two years old.
They’re my best shoes.
The maid returns with a shoebox. “Here, wear these. Size nine, yes?”
“Yes. How are you aware of my dress and shoes size?”
“Mr. Richmond told me.” She flashes a grin. “He has a keen eye for detail.”
“You’re not kidding. Especially for women’s vital statistics, I bet.” I take the box and open it to find a pair of killer cream-and-gold Jimmy Choos inside. “A little high for my tastes.” I slip my feet into them one by one and get elevated a couple of inches from the ground. “Hope I don’t cripple myself.”
“No time for complaints. Walk deliberately and slowly. Now, do I need to help you with anything else?”
“Like what?”
“Do you own a brush? And the pink lipstick you’re wearing is too garish for dinner, don’t you think?”
This bitch is brutal. “P
ink is my color. Come back in ten minutes.”
She frowns, shakes her head, and leaves me alone.
Slumping back on the queen-sized bed, I let out a restrained breath and regret the decision to come here. “
Right, I’m here now. Let’s get this done. I can play the game, resist his charms, get his money, and get on with my plans.” I grab my purse. “Lipstick, hairbrush, check. Let’s do this.”
Chapter 6
In Chanel and Jimmy Choos, I teeter through Zane’s mansion, following the maid to his huge library.
Excitement, nerves, and apprehension all form a soup overflowing the acid in my stomach, and my esophagus begins to burn.
In spite of this, when he greets me with a delicious grin, I’m immediately aroused.
Really aroused…
Reining it in, I remind myself why I’m here: to him, I’m a possession he must own, a doll he wants to dress up and most likely play with.
Regardless of my attempts at reason, my body continues to betray me.
So be it, but I will not betray my conscience.
No matter how beautiful his face is, how sexy his body, or how much I need his money, he will not possess my body.
“Hi,” I say with a cracked voice, misplaced in my surroundings and uncomfortable in his clothes.
“Ah. You’re perfect, Abbey. Just as I imagined.”
“Um, funny that.” What am I? A child to dress up or a businesswoman here to build trust? “Considering I’m wearing your choice of clothes.”
He frowns.
“You bought the outfit, like one might for a child,” I add.
“A child?” He scoffs. “No, my shopper chose all your outfits based on my description of you and of my plans for us.”
All my outfits? Plans for us?
“It would be rude of me to leave you unprepared for events I planned for us, in your absence. Wouldn’t it?”
I imagine with horror myself standing on a ski slope, wearing my business dress and best black shoes.
“Besides, I enjoy buying things for my friends.”
“Friends?” We’re not friends and I’m no idiot. “And what are these...events?” Now I’m imaging I’m naked in a dungeon, surrounded by women with whips. Others are bound and gagged at their doms’ feet, all wearing shiny black cat-suits with indiscreet though convenient holes. I’ve read books like that. “What...err, what kind of outfits did your stylist woman need to provide, exactly?”
