"It's not mine." Franco said.
"You just said—"
"I'm saying now that it's not mine."
"How could you know that?"
"Because I haven't slept with her in four months. She's two months along." He was calm as ever. Like he was discussing the weather and not, perhaps, the immanent demise of his entire shipping conglomeration.
How did men like Frano and Brooks do that? Stay calm and relaxed while the entire world talked bad about them? While things fell apart?
When things had been bad for her…
But no, she wasn’t going to think about that.
"You haven't slept with her?" Natalie asked.
"I broke up with her five months ago. She was in a big show a couple weeks later and didn't want the bad press, so I told her we could fake it for a while. From there, it sort of—"
"Became the biggest disaster of your life."
"Not really. I've been dating other people and—"
She growled in frustration. "Are you kidding me? Someone has to have pictures of you out with other women. Now you've got a pregnant girlfriend and you're a cheater—"
"I'm neither of those things. Listen, Nattie, calm down. Everything is going to be fine."
"We need to get you a distraction. Some kind of decoy in order to—"
"I'm fine. But we do need to talk. I talked to—"
No. Not that. She couldn’t talk about that.
"Later. I've got to figure out what we're going to do first."
"Natalie—"
She turned the phone off and shoved it in her purse before shuffling into the wide elevator of her office building. They were a matchmaking company. There had to be something they could do for someone like Franco—give him a fake girlfriend who nursed baby chickens or something. Made him look like the good guy he was.
It was possible.
Or, at least, there might have been before the baby debacle.
Now, getting anywhere near Franco would put the entire company at risk. They’d look bad to clients, and if word got out, Brooks would blame her. No, he’d never agree to something like that. And as much as Garret liked her, he was too practical to sign on to it either.
But then, wasn’t there a way for her to help Franco without the Adams brothers finding out? Some secret coding system?
She laid her head on her desk. The brothers looked at every profile personally. There was no way she’d be able to enter someone into the system without being called to the carpet for it.
She glanced at Brooks' door, then bit her bottom lip. How much was she willing to sacrifice in order to help Franco?
She took a deep breath. She knew what he'd bargain—what he had bargained—to keep her safe and out of trouble. She owed him, whether either of them admitted it or not, and if this was her time to cash in...
She glanced at the wooden door again.
How many girls had marched through those doors?
How many times had he insulted her?
It didn't matter.
This wasn't about him. Hell, it wasn't about her, either.
This was for Franco, and if this could help him, she had to try.
No matter what the cost.
So, without another thought, she marched through the door to Brooks' office and slammed it behind her.
"You said you wanted a bargain," she said. He'd been on the phone, but she didn't care. She had to get this out before she lost her nerve.
He mumbled something about having to go, then clicked the phone off and stared up at her with those icy, blue-grey eyes of his. "I did."
She glanced at the corner of his desk and a picture of Franco stared up at her from a tabloid cover. If that wasn't a sign, she didn't know what was. "So, what do I get out of this bargain?"
"Me." He smiled, but she shook her head.
"No."
"No?" He sat back in his chair, his mocking smile still firmly in place. Why did she get the impression this was what Satan looked like when he haggled for immortal souls?
Or that she'd have to sign this treaty with her own blood?
"No." She repeated.
"What is it that you want in return?"
She walked to his desk, the pushed the tabloid into his view. "I want us to take on Franco Del Rossi as a high-profile priority client."
"Franco Del—Have you even been watching the news? Have you seen this?" He flicked the cover in front of him, then stared up at her.
If anything, she supposed it was a small victory that grin of his was gone.
"You want us to set up a guy who got a supermodel pregnant and is walking out on her? You want me to tank my company in order to—"
"Nobody has to know he's our client. We're the number one company in discreet match making. You say it all the time in meetings."
The hard line of Brooks' mouth softened, then he said. "And what do I get out of this?"
"Me." An indecent proposal, clear and easy.
"I'm not going to take advantage of a woman who doesn't want to be with me. If I'm going to do this, it's because we're on even footing."
"I thought you just wanted a deal."
"Oh no, the deal is a means to an end."
"Which is?" She swallowed, and part of her already knew the answer.
He wanted her to want him. Wanted her to fall into step with all the other women who fell and swooned at his feet.
Well, if that was what he needed from her, he'd be waiting a long, long time.
Rather than answering, he smiled and said, "You had time to think. Now it's my turn. Close the door on the way out, won't you, Ms. Gains?"
As she did what he asked, she could still feel his gaze on her.
Seering into her skin.
Making her feel naked and raw and...
Exposed.
Chapter Four
Deadbeat Billionaire Strikes Again
In spite of media outlets everywhere rushing for details in the celebrity baby scandal of the century, billionaire shipping mogul Franco Del Rossi has made little to no effort to clear up his side of the story. While reporter after reporter has reached out to the family, begging for everything from baby names to paternity tests, the tight-knit family has remained silent as ever.
In fact, the closest anyone has come to the Del Rossi camp was to contact a local flight attendant who claimed to have been on a date with Del Rossi only a few nights ago. Of the evening, the flight attendant (who chose to remain nameless), said, "He was cold. I wouldn't be surprised if that baby was his. And after dinner with him, I think the baby might be better off if he’s not around."
Harsh words from a passerby. Goodness only knows what the real truth is behind the Del Franco wall of silence.
Since the moment she'd made the deal, she'd regretted it.
Which, of course, would have been totally fine if new stories about Franco hadn't been cropping up ever fifteen minutes. She'd get up the nerve to march to Brooks' office and call the whole thing off and then bam, someone somewhere would have something to say and she'd remember why she'd agreed to all of this in the first place.
And if she could have called Franco and convinced him to settle everything up, that would have been one thing, but there were only so many times she could call and skirt around the one subject she had no need to discuss.
She glanced at the new plume of flowers on her desk and plucked one of the blooms from the stem, dropping the petals into her trash can one at a time.
Her only solace was that, as far as she could tell, nothing had been done to set her bargain into action. Franco hadn't been entered into the system and Brooks hadn't invited her to go ravish her somewhere or whatever his plan was. That was, if he decided to go with his plan after all.
And what was the deal with that?
For a man who'd hit on her every day for a year, he'd barely said anything to her in days. Or, at least he hadn't said anything unusual. Occasionally, he'd notice the flowers on her desk or ask if they were from husband
number three, but he didn't breathe a word about their deal.
Which, as it happened, only made her want to storm into his office and ask him what his malfunction was.
Ugh, men would be the death of her.
She culled another bloom from its stem then crushed it in her palm until her palm was red.
On the positive side, she'd be seeing less of Brooks any day now, bargain or no. Eliza was starting to catch on to office life and while she was still far from the best secretary who'd ever graced the earth, she could at least man the coffee pot without any fires breaking out.
Thank heaven for small miracles, Natalie supposed.
Still, whenever she was training Eliza, the girl would try to pepper her with questions about Brooks. How did Natalie know how he liked his coffee? Why had Natalie given up on dating him? Had she thought anymore about the suggestion he'd made?
On Thursday, they were in the break room, Eliza hovering over the sink while Natalie attempted to show her how to snake the drain. "If you just—" She jerked, and water from the counter splashed onto her blouse.
"Seriously, though, Natalie. Don't you think it'd be good to just try it? For curiosity's sake?"
If Eliza asked her that one more time, she was going to hang herself with the plumber's chain. "I'm not curious."
"Not at all?"
"What's there to be curious about?" She gave up working and rolled her sleeves back down. In a minute, the hour hand would land on that magical "five" and she'd be out of here. Then there would only be one more day. Just one more grueling twenty-four hours before Brooks had entire weekend to forget about her and chance some other woman with a much tighter, tinier skirt.
She told Eliza as much, but then a cough sounded from behind her and she rolled her eyes, already knowing who would be standing there.
"I think it'd be a tough job to find a woman in a tinier skirt than yours today. Scouting for husband number twelve?"
"I don't know, are you cruising for a bruising?" She wanted to swallow her tongue the second the words were out of her mouth.
Cruising for a bruising? What was next? At the end of their talk, would she say "after a while, crocodile?"
He chuckled, and then moved past her to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
She always forgot how tall he was until he was near like this, and it made her fume that she had to crane her neck to look up at him.
"The skirt's not a bad thing. You're looking good today. Even with the run in the back of your stockings." She watched his Adam's apple bobbed as he sipped from the bottle.
"I'm looking good everyday." She shot back.
Just as lamely as her previous retort.
"Meet me at the Gold Room at eight."
"But—"
"See you then." He turned on his heel and then he was gone, past the rows of quickly emptying cubicles. She stared after him, thinking again about how he always did that. Why he always did that. And why, this time, it made her heart skip a beat.
"You're right. You've got no curiosity. You are stone cold." Eliza bumped her with her hip, and Natalie shook her head.
There must have been something that just clicked in her when she'd remembered how long it had been since she'd been intimate with a man. That was all. It wasn't Brooks or anyone else. It was just...
Heat rushed to her cheeks.
"So, are you going to go?"
"Go where?"
Eliza huffed. "To the gold room. For your swanky night of danger and sexual escapades. I have a trench coat if you want to borrow."
She blinked, not knowing how to answer.
This was Natalie's last chance. If she didn't go to the Gold Room tonight, she could back out of the whole thing like the deal had never happened. She could just do...something else for Franco. She could call him and try to force him to make a plan for himself. And talk to him about...
No. She couldn't do that.
Which, she supposed, only left her with one choice.
If only it had been somewhere other than the Gold Room. She could have met him anywhere--including the back alley of an Applebee's or something—if only she could avoid that high society smoke den. But then, tonight was on his terms.
It figured he'd choose the one place she couldn't stand to revisit.
"No trench coat." She was only vaguely aware of answering Eliza's question and the rest of the evening—the packing up and the heading home—passed in a similar daze. Her mind simply didn't have enough room to focus on the here and now. Instead, it was running ahead of her, imagining tonight.
Trying to decide whether to be excited or completely and utterly terrified.
When she got to the Gold Room, it was like her entire past flashed before her eyes. This was the kind of place her second husband had always dragged her to, carrying her on his arm like, well, like a trophy while his friends all smiled and ignored her.
The dark emerald cocktail dress she'd worn was even one she'd used to wear when he took her to places like this. He said it was the type of thing the other wives would be envious of.
She'd said it was the type of thing that made her itch.
She shook her head, moving past her memories as she walked toward the bar and ordered a melon ball. Her husband would have hated that. A melon ball. Green and obnoxious, he'd called them. Back then, she'd had to drink martinis with olives, the way sophisticated wives did.
Or very drunk women did, at least.
When the bartender sat the drink in front of her, she sipped from the sugar-rimmed glass and stared around the room. Thankfully, there was nobody here tonight who'd still know her from the old days. At least, not without her professionally coiffed blonde hair and her old plastic smile.
Just to be safe, though, she sat in the darkest corner and waited. Knowing Brooks, he'd spot her no matter where she decided to hide.
It had been a safe bet.
By the time her drink was half-way gone, he slid into the booth opposite her, notably underdressed in a partially unbuttoned white dress shirt and slacks. Compared to the men in full double-breasted suits around him, Brooks looked like he was on his way to the grocery store in the middle of the night.
"This is why you're always on page six. You never dress the way you're supposed to when you go to places like this."
“Hello to you, too.”
She sipped her drink, then eyed his.
"What is that?" she asked.
"Vodka cranberry."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"No, you drink gin or whiskey or a martini. Maybe an old fashioned."
"No, I drink a Vodka cranberry." He sipped it, and then winked. "I have the bartender leave out the cherries, though. They're a little girly for my taste."
She raised her eyebrows. She couldn't be hearing him right. "How long have you been going to places like this that you don't know what to order?"
"I don't see why it matters where I am. I'm not going to drink something that tastes like poison." He shrugged. "Besides, since when were you the first name in protocol for places like this? Have you ever even been here before?"
She tilted her lips to the side, trying to decide how much to say. In the end, she resolved that nothing was always a safe answer. "This place is swanky. Very elite."
"Very good drinks, though."
"I can't see why that matters to a Vodka cranberry man." She grinned at him and to her surprise he smiled back.
Her heart beat into her throat and she swallowed hard. What was it about that smile that reminded her of the real reason why she was here? Or was it just the way he looked in general? All unkempt and powerful and...
She breathed deep. Maybe if she just focused on the silence, she wouldn't have to think about anything else. Like those damn dark eyes of his.
"This is one hell of a date," she said.
He rose his eyebrows "Please don't mistake this for a date."
She swallowed hard. Okay, so talking through the silence was also not an optio
n here. Awesome.
"Right." She nodded, then sipped at the dregs of her drink until they made a horrible sucking sound.
"Tell me why you're so interested in Franco Del Rossi."
“Tell me why you’re not.” She shot back.
“You know the answer to that question already, but I don’t know—“
"Ah, but you don't need to know that,” she tipped her glass toward him. “And it's none of your business."
He clicked his glass to hers. “You can take the girl out of the office, but you can’t take the secrets out of the girl.”
“What can I say? I’m a woman of mystery.” She grinned, then bit it back as quickly as she could. What was she doing? Flirting? With this man?
And why had she even come here? Staring into his eyes, she knew he must be wondering the same thing.
For Franco.
She reminded herself, but then Brooks closed his lips around his straw and sucked and a part o her wondered what those lips might feel like in other places.
Stupid. Snap out of this. You’re better than this. He can’t control you.
She took a long pull on her melon ball, then stirred the straw in her now-empty glass.
"You need another one?" He pointed to the cup.
She shook her head. In places like this, a lady never ordered a second drink in the same hour as her first. "No, um, I think I'm good."
"You're nervous, though," he said.
She expected his concern to be a mocking one, but if the look in his eyes was anything to go on, he was being genuine for once.
Interesting.
He didn't want her to be nervous. And was that out of concern for her or was it just another sales tactic? A way to finally land his deal?
"Why do you do that?" she asked, "why do you just say things so matter-of-factly? You don't know how I'm feeling. You don't know—"
"I know you keep scrunching up your mouth. And you’re tapping your foot a mile a minute."
"Maybe I have a nervous condition."
"Wouldn't that still mean you were nervous?" He tilted his head to the side.
"I—You—" She groaned. "I'm not nervous."
"Suit yourself, but for what it's worth, I believe in you."
Bargaining with the Boss Page 4
