by Alex Wolf
It was definitely clear that Matthew Spencer liked her. Everything about him changed as they walked from room to room. The way he carried himself, his tone of voice. Not to mention the fact that he was personally showing her around.
His hand fell on the small of her back as he guided her to the next room. She figured he was also a man who didn’t know what it was like to be rejected. This could either be fun or torture. She wasn’t sure. But there was no way she would reciprocate.
She had a personal rule of not sleeping with clients, and her work made dating impossible. She spent weeks at a time living in strange men's houses, flying around the world to fix their personal lives. She was fortunate Mr. Spencer lived in the same city as her. She was always busy. And she had to be a cold bitch to get the respect she deserved. Otherwise, these men would walk all over her.
Trying to ignore the way he placed his hand on her back, she took in her surroundings.
Everything was perfectly clean, but out of place. Lights were on in rooms with large, bright windows, and turned off in dark hallways. Shit was strewn over tables and chairs, as though someone had set it down and then forgotten it was there. As he walked, Mr. Spencer explained all his problems. Missed appointments, employees not coming in on the right days, contractors not being called in for repairs, or none of them were coordinated right.
He was just spending, spending, spending, like a boy with his father's credit card. Every time something went wrong, he threw money at it until it went away. A rough calculation told her he was spending about five times more money than he should.
She’d worked for men with the same issues, but Matty Spencer was taking it to the extreme. The place looked like it’d been decorated by a frat boy. At least the place wasn’t too cluttered, and he had servants to keep the place clean, but, the decorating was all nudes and edgy pop art, or expensive cars—classical sculptures, and original prints from famous artists. The aesthetic was what she would expect in a Harvard dorm room.
From the sound of it, the rest of his life went the same. He’d see something he wanted to do, and he would just go and do it. He’d just whip out the credit card at anything he wanted to buy. Anyone else would’ve been in trouble by now, but not Mr. Spencer. She figured he’d coasted through life on a combination of wealth and quick wit, and only now was he starting to feel the effect of it.
“You like the décor?” He smiled as he caught her staring at a large sculpture of a naked woman on a horse.
She nodded and faked a smile. “You have unique taste.” She definitely had an opinion, but she wasn’t there to improve his decorating skills.
Despite his atrocious sense of style, she couldn't help but be jealous. She made a decent living, but she’d never earn a fraction of what he spent in a year. She was desperately saving for a dream house back in Kentucky, for her father. She lived completely frugal. Only spent money on absolute needs and items she had to have for work. He could probably buy that modest home with his weekly paycheck. She couldn't imagine living somewhere like this.
It was one of the perks of the job, though, living vicariously through her clients. She could enjoy beautiful houses during the day, and at night when she traveled. Many of her clients had guest houses and didn’t want to foot the bill for her to stay in a hotel.
Even with her local clients, she could usually get away with working a few hours every morning and then kicking back for the day. She was that good. Then she could sit back and enjoy expensive wine and whatever entertainment the home offered.
It would be a few weeks before she could do that here, though. This guy needed a lot of work. And the work always came first.
Chapter 3
Fuck me!
Christina was one of the hottest—no, the hottest woman Matty had ever seen. In all his years of dating models, actresses, even porn stars, he’d never seen a woman so perfectly proportioned with her hourglass frame. She was sensual in every movement. She was—exactly his type. He never even thought he had a type before, other than “hot”, but looking at her, he knew Christina was it.
Every little thing about her was breathtaking. She had brunette hair and sharp brown eyes. The way her tailored dress hugged her figure, clinging to her firm hips and tight waist. The sharpness of the painted lines on her face, the boldness of her lips, the way her eyeliner drew you into a mesmerizing gaze. The way she masterfully strode in skyscraper heels. Stilettos so tall that no woman should be able to get away with wearing them, yet somehow clinical and stern like the rest of her. Heels that took her from a petite Hispanic woman to a powerful goddess who could look men of his stature in the eye without needing to peer up like a child.
Normally he would mock or chastise women like her. She was cold. She was collected—a professional. She embraced her femininity only in as much as to announce her sex, and rejected every hint of softness, fragility, or humility foisted upon her. She was a woman, but a clean-slate, aseptic, robotic woman. All the female and none of the feminine. All the woman and none of the human. But goddamn, she wore it well.
Her look inspired confidence in him. On the one hand, he knew it was carefully crafted for that exact purpose. But on the other hand, any woman who could put herself together so perfectly, so sharply for an interview, and then hold that look, that character together—she was a walking advertisement for her own composure and order. And composure and order were precisely what he wanted to buy from her. Her presence in his home would be a pleasant little perk, of course. But she had a job to do first and foremost.
“I need you to start work as soon as possible.” He guided her into his office. “I’m ashamed to admit, but everywhere I look I see nothing but disorder. This needs correcting. It’s humiliating for a man in my position, in my industry, to be living in such disarray. If someone were to notice, the whole premise of my company may be called into question.”
Christina made eye contact.
He could see the look in her eye, judging him, probably wondering why he was creating these products if he knew nothing about them.
“I can start today. If that’s what you want.”
He studied her for another moment. How could she talk without a hint of emotion on her face? Was she even a woman at all? Perhaps she really was a robot?
He wondered what shaped her and molded her into the way she was. Perhaps she grew up in an emotionless environment, or some trauma trained her to hide all her feelings. It didn’t matter, though. He would hire her. She would whip the place into shape, and he’d go on living the way in which he was accustomed.
“I would like you to start immediately. I have a backlog of four weeks of paper letters. I hate them. I prefer emails and video calls. So they're completely unread. You can go through and organize them so I can manage them in the future.”
“You know what I cost, right?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Haven’t a clue.”
She sighed. “It is nine hundred poun—”
“Don’t care.” He brushed her off with a flippant hand. “Just bill my secretary. No, my housekeeper. I can't have you connected to work.”
Her face canted to the side. “You don’t even need to think about the price?”
Matty stared at her, confusion written all over his face. “I don't care if it's nine hundred pounds a day, or an hour. Just send the bill.” Surely, she was not so dense as to think he needed to budget.
“Mr. Spencer, this is the sort of attitude that got you in this position. How you got by in life until now is beyond me.”
Matty smirked. “These amounts aren’t material enough to warrant close attention. Thank you for the concern, though.”
“Well, one day when the money runs out. You’ll be glad you hired me.”
She began collecting the piles of papers and letters from the various shelves, open filing cabinets, and low tables around the room. He watched, wondering how she got by so far in her job with her snarky attitude. Usually, it took a few weeks for someone to hate him. This was a
new record.
He fussed with his shirt cuff and watched her work. “Is the attitude part of the service or complimentary?”
“What do you mean? Am I supposed to call you 'sir'?”
“Well, you are my employee now.”
Christina shook her head. “You hired me, but I’m not your servant, or an employee. I’ll call you Mr. Spencer.”
“Does this bluntness earn you many repeat customers? I don’t recall asking for this attitude to be a part of the contract.” He sat down on the edge of the coffee table, completely amused.
“If you had to work with children every day, your question would answer itself. I work with a lot of men in your position. I know how I need to speak to you.”
Did she just compare me to a bloody child?
He knew for a fact he was at least five, maybe even ten years older than her. She couldn’t be but what? Twenty-five? This was new. He couldn’t figure out if he should laugh or become angry.
Matty scoffed. “You know, I’m not sure I’ve ever been spoken to like this, requested or not.”
“I said need, not want.” She moved the stack of letters and papers onto the desk. “Nobody wants to be told the truth. But it’s what my clients need. If I soften my words, trying not to offend anyone, then clients only hear what they want, and they ignore the actual message. Suggesting and implying things isn’t good enough.” She flashed him a clearly fake smile.
“It’s more ladylike,” Matty said. “Saying things so bluntly is not ladylike at all.”
“I’m not a lady. I’m here to get results.” She didn’t even look up from the papers she was shuffling around to get just right. “Ahh, better.” She sat down at the desk and began scrutinizing the letters.
He ought to be angry with her, fire her immediately. In all regards, he should probably hate her. She was everything he hated in a woman.
Yet somehow, every one of her actions drew him more to her, like some kind of addiction. Normally, he liked his women passive, submissive, sweet and girly. But not Christina. She was—different. Perhaps that’s why he currently enjoyed her company.
She lightly pressed the pen to her plump lips as she pored over a sheet, tapping her mouth gently in the manner of someone who used to chew pencils in school, but had since learned not to.
Drawing in a sharp breath, he realized that a heat stirred inside him. He needed a drink. Something stiff to ease his mind and prevent additional stiffness.
“Care for a brandy?” He moved toward the cabinet.
“I don’t drink on the job. I have to stay focused to give you the best work possible.”
Matty shrugged with a grin. “I’ve never found a little sip at work to do any harm.” He slowly selected one of the three aged brandies from his vast liquor cabinet. Christina stared at him as if he were an animal who should spend more time organizing the post than choosing a drink.
“Maybe that’s why you had to call me.”
He wanted to reply but could not think of anything. Damn, she had a sharp wit for a young woman. And an equally quick tongue. She was like the mind of a no-nonsense matron in the body of an American fairytale creature. Where was she from, anyway? His guess was South America. He didn’t know much about the culture there. Maybe this was normal. It was a delightful challenge. How had she wound up crunching numbers and sorting post for anyone? Sure, it was better to be doing such menial tasks for a man like him, but he knew so many talent scouts who would whisk her off her feet in a heartbeat. How had she remained so undetected?
“I’m amazed a beautiful woman like yourself, working in this part of the country, is not something like a model, or an actress.” He poured himself a drink.
“There are plenty of beautiful women who work in business.”
Matty shook his head. “I’ve never, in my entire life, seen a woman as pretty as you who does not make a living off her looks. Especially not an unmarried woman. Do you not want to be a model? To be famous?”
Christina shook her head. “Nope.”
“Too good for it? Too smart to make money off your looks?”
“Nope. Many models are smart. I know one or two myself.”
“Did a model break your heart? Is that why you chose your current line of work?” He was genuinely baffled and couldn’t help himself trying to break through her cold exterior. She was this attractive and knew models and had no desire of becoming one?
She paused her current task to stare up at him. “Beauty fades, sensuality expires. Being good at business doesn’t.” She stared up at him. “An intelligent model who knows how to play the system and become a recruiter might be able to make a living off it for her entire life. But I’m not good at that. Some of us would rather do what we’re good at, instead of doing something we find fun.”
That last bit was definitely another jab at him. Tommy Arvin hadn't been wrong. This woman was a total bitch. How she could treat her employer this way was beyond him. If she were anyone else he would have kicked her out, or started placing higher demands on her already. But he just smirked and sipped his brandy as she worked. He would not give in first.
Why did he like her so much? That was the issue that troubled him the most. She was precisely the sort of woman he avoided like the plague. The sort of woman he scoffed at, and who his friends would suggest suffered from lack of sexual activity. It was as though she had heard that men like feisty girls and decided, “Hey, that's cute, now let me show you how it’s done.” This was just pure cruelty.
But simultaneously, it was kind of nice. Her cruelty excited him, made him yearn for her even more. Despite being his social subordinate and an employee, she was somehow standing above him, on a pedestal. And he wanted to knock it out from under her, and show her who really was the boss.
Christina Smith was sort of an enigma. He should not like her. But he did. He wanted to break her down, to control her, to possess her mind, heart, and body. She was a challenge. And he was more than prepared to rise and meet her defiance.
“Perhaps I ought to make you a model. I cannot believe that any woman has at no point desired to be famous and admired for her beauty.”
“I didn’t say I never imagined being a model, or an actress, or a singer. But many people are afraid of blood and dream about being doctors, and a lot of people fear flying, and dream of being a pilot.”
He shook his head. “Are you saying you wouldn’t make a good model? You don't strike me as someone with such low confidence, but I suppose it’s a possibility. Or do you mean to say that you fear failure? That would be odd for a businesswoman—”
She paused and put the papers down.
Matty came alive on the inside. Had he finally cut to her core? Put a chink in her armor?
“What I mean is that a dream is not necessarily connected to the reality of the world. What little girls picture when they dream of modeling isn’t reality. Dreams aren’t real. They don’t come true. To put it bluntly, they’re a waste of time.”
That was one of the saddest things he’d ever heard anyone say. He actually pitied her in that instant. Everyone had dreams. Even he had things he aspired to do someday, that were beyond his reach. No matter how much money you had, there was always something you didn't have the time, the energy, or the connections to do. And he had an entire life plan mapped out to achieve his dreams.
“So, you gave up on all of your dreams? Just like that?”
She shook her head. “They’re not my dreams anymore. I know how the world works, and I don’t have what it takes to succeed in that environment.”
“I have the means to make sure that you could succeed. And you most certainly have the beauty.”
Why was he doing this? He was under no obligation to help her out. But he felt a dual impulse. On one hand he wanted to help her, and on the other to get her under his thumb—which motivated him to offer her everything he had at his disposal.
She glanced over at him. “Are you a model?”
He shook his head. “I kn
ow a few directors of agencies, and I’ve dated enough models in the past. I’m sure they’d be able to help you.”
“Maybe we should just stick to what we know best.” She held up the disheveled papers with a curt smile.
Chapter 4
Christina sighed and shook her head as she looked through the papers. There was something wrong with his head. How could he be so hung up on ideals, or dreams, or the fantasy world that everyone else left behind at fifteen? A modeling career? Just because she was attractive? He was insane.
The man was thirty-one for fuck’s sake, and he didn’t have an adult bone in his body. She’d done her homework. How had his company even survived his leadership? She knew he’d inherited it from his father, but he’d also owned it long enough that it should’ve fallen apart by now.
Amazingly, it was a success. Either a miracle had occurred, or there was something more to the guy than fast cars, models, and having more money than sense. What she’d seen didn’t match up with her research, though.
“What do you plan on doing with your life?”
She rolled her eyes. He was still at it. Why was he even still there? He was nothing but a distraction.
His question jolted her out of her thoughts. She had to stifle a laugh. It was so cheesy. This asshole, of all people, was asking her what she planned on doing with her life? Why was it that rich men always assumed their lives were perfect just because they had money? Like she was floating around aimlessly, just begging for a man to save her because she didn’t live in a mansion?
She made a show of holding her hands out at the now neatly-stacked pile of bills. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“But where do you see it going?”
Christina shrugged. “Where do you see your life going?” She loved doing this. Throwing these apparently philosophical questions back at these rich pricks and watching them struggle to find meaning in their existence.
