Entry-Level Mistress

by Sabrina Darby

  Inside, two old men sat at a table on the far right of the otherwise empty room. A waiter came out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. I half expected the man to come up and say, “Welcome, Mr. Hartmann!” as if this were a place that Hartmann frequented regularly, but there was no kiss on the cheeks, merely a polite welcome and a gesture to sit where we liked.

  Hartmann liked a table on the left side of the room by the window overlooking the water. He ordered a bottle of wine and then after the waiter left, looked sideways at me.

  “You are old enough to drink, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe you should have asked before you ordered the bottle,” I teased, enjoying the flicker of response at the corner of his mouth. “I’m twenty-one.”

  “A bit young for graduating college.”

  “I have a summer birthday. It’s par for the course.”

  The waiter brought out the wine, and without ritual poured us each a full glass. Hartmann didn’t protest and I wondered if he wasn’t a wine connoisseur at all. Weren’t billionaires supposed to be experts in all things luxury?

  “To … ” He let the space hang there and finally, just as I was about to speak, he said, “twenty-one.” He had a small, ironic twist to his lips and I thought I would melt right there from the absolute gorgeousness of that expression.

  Ridiculous. I was going to have to bring this strange lunch date to a head because I was out of my league at the moment and I had no idea what he wanted from me. He wasn’t flirting, but had I really mistaken that interest in his eyes?

  Perhaps a better question was, what did I want from him? Why was I here? Why had I taken a job working for him in the first place? Was it really for some vague scheme of revenge or was it because I just wanted to see the man up close? Because if it were the latter, then here we were. There would never be a better time.

  “Mr. Hartmann—”

  “Daniel,” he interrupted with a murmur. I stopped. Closed my lips. Looked back to my hands, and then looked to my wine glass. I took a much-needed drink and then I wondered if I’d have brown teeth from the red wine.

  “Daniel,” I said, emphasizing his name and meeting his eyes. I stopped again. Because saying his name while meeting his eyes was much too intimate. There was that something again, that intensity. Maybe this was flirting, the flirting of a thirty-something man of the world and I had no idea how to deal with such subtlety. College boys were as subtle as … well, who cared about them when what mattered really was that Daniel had these amber flecks in his otherwise green-as-glass eyes. Why didn’t that show up on the magazine covers?

  “As much as I appreciate you taking interest,” I began again, forcing the words out. Why was he taking an interest? If he knew who I was, why hadn’t he had me tossed out on the street the minute he found out I worked for him?

  “What did you major in, Emily?” he interrupted again. I let him. Postponed the inevitable confrontation. What else was I supposed to do?

  “Studio Arts, with an emphasis in sculpture.” Another sip of wine. All right, a gulp. Perhaps the Excel document would swim in front of my eyes when I returned to the office.

  “You sculpt, then?”

  “A little.” Understatement, of course, considering my fall fellowship, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “And why not advertising, or marketing, graphic design, or any useful skill?” I bristled at his words, and then realized from that small quirk of his lips that he was teasing me.

  “I have a position in your company without benefit of any useful skill,” I reminded him.

  “And why is that? Do you know what you want to be when you grow up?” There was that quirk at the corner of his lips again, but also his gaze was moving over me, as if he thought I was plenty grown up. Which, from the heated reaction of my body to his words, I knew I was. A thin, thrilling tendril of pleasure wrapped itself around me, tightening my awareness. I had never, ever known this before, this visceral attraction. But then, considering half the models he’d dated hadn’t been over twenty-three, he’d had practice seducing young women.

  “Anything you want to know about me, what I studied in college, my ‘objectives—’” And I had made up some serious bull about my future goals. “—is there on my résumé.”

  “Which I haven’t seen,” he replied.

  I stared at the plate of linguine in front of me. Why had I thought ordering a pasta dish filled with four kinds of seafood would be a good idea?

  “I feel like I’m being interviewed, but for some other position,” I whispered, wishing, just after I had done so, that I could take the words back. What was my problem? I couldn’t bring myself to discuss the real reason I was there, and yet I blurted out that I thought he was hitting on me?

  I felt more than saw him lean forward. His hand—long, well-shaped fingers with the lightest dusting of hair visible beneath the cuff of his shirt—entered my peripheral vision, reaching for my hand. He was touching me and there was nothing in my head except the warmth of his hand on mine and the sharply exquisite and surprising sensation of desire.

  “A position you might want?”

  Time stopped. Or slowed. Or something, because the clatter of dishes in the background was painfully loud and yet right there at our table, everything was thick silence. I was hot and cold and drowning in something way bigger than I could handle.

  “Isn’t this against the rules?” I said desperately, looking for some way to take control of the situation.

  “Am I harassing you?” His hand tensed as if he were about to pull away.

  “No,” I said softly. He relaxed, the tension in his wrist easing. Although maybe this touch, his hand on mine, maybe that wasn’t fair. But it wasn’t fair because this Daniel Hartmann wasn’t fair, not because he was my boss. “But interoffice dating?” I pressed. “Isn’t it verboten?” He let go of my hand. Cold air rushed in, as if I had lost something.

  “Dating,” he repeated, studying me over his wine glass.

  I flushed. That’s what I got for trying to be sophisticated, a set-down for making assumptions.

  “You move faster than me, Emily,” he said with that same deep, caressing murmur. “I’m impressed.”

  I wanted, needed, to get away from him. To collect my thoughts, to remind myself that Hartmann was dangerous, that I shouldn’t want him, shouldn’t be thinking about how the skin at his neck would taste.

  “Obviously I was mistaken,” I returned coldly and gave my meal all of my attention. Well, almost all. OK, nearly none, but I did focus intently on swirling spaghetti around my fork. I knew nothing about business. How had I ever thought I would bring this man down by taking a position in his marketing department? And was that really what I had thought I would do?

  I almost dropped my fork, stunned by the truth of my actions. Maybe at twenty-one, Hartmann had been driven enough to do just that to my father, but I was a sculptor for goodness’ sake. An artist! Not some Machiavellian schemer.

  What I needed to do was quit, accept that the games Hartmann and his ilk played were clearly beyond me. Do as my dad had and find some Buddhist Zen about it all.

  Hartmann laughed. I looked up, startled, found his expression open, charming and boyish, as if he were any other guy I’d ever known.

  “I want to get to know you, Emily,” he said, and warmth crept down my spine despite myself. So maybe there was a simple explanation to this lunch. He was as curious about me as I was about him. After all, our lives were intertwined in a strange way. “I’d better get you back to the office before we compromise your job.” I still had a job? I opened my mouth to speak, but he was still talking. “ … but tomorrow night. Tomorrow night, I’m going to kiss you.”

  I must have looked like some anime figure at that moment with comically wide eyes. Kiss me?

  All right, then. There really wasn’t a simple explanation for that.

  Chapter 3

  The afternoon at work was painful and Happy Hour at the Belmont was an exercise i
n modern torture. Even if there weren’t the uncomfortable “elephant in the room” of my lunch with the company CEO, I wouldn’t have enjoyed the scene. Crowded, a smoky haze obscuring the no-smoking signs, and loud. Eyes darting every which way, despite conversations supposedly so engaging that they elicited piercing laughter. It wasn’t just a “meet market”; it was a “meet market” with ambition.

  James stared at me, acted as though he were going to speak, but then kept shutting his mouth. Clearly he wasn’t finding a casual enough way to ask, “Hey, do you know Mr. Hartmann or did he ask you to lunch ’cause you’re hot?” Well, maybe James wouldn’t phrase it quite that way. “’Cause you’re hot,” sounded a lot more like what my last boyfriend, the video installation artist, would say.

  We met up with Frank and Suzie, who, as James had said, worked in Research and Development. They were new to the company, and had both been recruited from one of the graduate programs at MIT. Apparently MIT was one of the biggest feeding troughs for Hartmann Enterprises. That and Harvard, where Allison had received her MBA. I was the odd man out in this gathering.

  Any cozying up to Allison to find out the inner details of the company or the man was pointless. The other woman, whose trousers and tailored jacket were clearly not from a discount store, had no such compunction as James. At the first opportunity, when I stupidly asked, “So what’s Hartmann like?”

  Allison raised a thin, well-tended eyebrow and returned, “You might know better than me. Didn’t you have lunch with him today?”

  I brushed it off with a laugh and a deflecting comment. Studiously ordered a cold lemon drop martini and then welcomed the distraction of needing to hunt through my bag for the phone when it vibrated. I flipped open the phone and the room spun a little.

  He’d texted me. Which also meant he’d made the effort to get my cell phone number from personnel.

  I’ll pick you up at 8 tomorrow. Dinner. /Daniel

  That was it. No question. Just that same assumption I had avoided responding to earlier in the day. Right, the date on which he was going to kiss me.

  Outrageous. High-handed. Surprisingly sexy.

  And despite everything that was wrong with the situation, despite the sleepless hours spent analyzing and reanalyzing every moment of that lunch with him, twenty-four hours later I found myself getting ready for that date, with the clock stubbornly ticking down the hour.

  What did one wear for dinner with a billionaire? I stood in my boyshorts and camisole staring at my closet. It was packed with clothing, with costumes for any situation or eventuality. Except for this. I had the wardrobe of a rebellious, impoverished art student. And those sweater sets. The last time I’d worn anything elegant or designer was the dress for Hartmann’s mother’s funeral. Twelve years ago.

  I’d even worn pants to prom.

  But I needed to convince Hartmann that I was more fascinating than any of those models. Because the only excusable reason to go on a date him was to find some way to hurt him. We were both clearly attracted to each other. History is filled with examples of attraction being used to bring down foes.

  Of course, if he was only interested because he knew who I was, then he might be more of a danger to me than I was to him. Perhaps he wasn’t yet through ruining my life. I stilled.

  “Ooh, naked girl alert!” Leanna sashayed by, plucked a purple tank dress off of a hanger. Then she continued to rifle through the closely pressed clothes, despite the fact that Leanna’s own closet was filled to the brim with designer labels, both new and vintage.

  “You are in my room,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, I am, my dearest, darling friend. And why are you still in your underwear when you are about to go on a date with Cosmo’s Most Eligible Bachelor of the year?”

  “Because what does one wear on such a date?”

  “Oh.” Leanna paused, turned and surveyed me. “Better underwear?”

  “Hmmph.” I crossed my arms and waited for Leanna to give a real answer. After all, there had to be some sort of perk for living with someone who worked on the fashion pages of a life and culture magazine.

  “Okay, okay, maybe an LBD? Or what is it they are saying? Pink is the new black? So you’d better make that a little pink dress. Or purple. I guess you can wear this instead of me.” With a long-suffering sigh, Leanna held out her purloined tank dress. “This with my Wolford stockings and my black Miu Mius.”

  “Really?” I accepted the dress and then followed Leanna across the apartment to her bedroom. Leanna’s blonde hair swung down her back, beautifully glossy. In spite of four years of friendship, I had a rare moment of jealousy. Thanks to the nearly black dye in my own hair, glossy was pretty much a thing of the past.

  “Well, with accessories, of course. But a bit of vintage mixed with designer is always the way to go. You’ll look fab.”

  “Is this a bad idea?” I asked as I unrolled the stockings over my legs, tweaking the fabric gently so that the intricate flower design lay correctly.

  “Going to work for him and wasting your summer in an office building was a bad idea,” Leanna reminded me. I slid my arms through the holes of the purple dress and let it slide down my body. “Going on a date with the man? Too crazy an opportunity to pass up.”

  “Right.” Left foot slid into four-inch platform heels, then right foot. I did my best imitation model walk over to the full-length mirror. Examined myself critically. Leanna’s face appeared over my left shoulder as she studied my reflection as well.

  “I think you look more like an actress than a model. Even with the extra four inches.”

  I knew what that meant. Actresses were pretty but models were stunning, freakish even in their beauty. Daniel dated models. This would never work.

  “Do you think he asked me out because he’s suspicious?” I didn’t have to elaborate. Some drunken night in the first year of our friendship, I’d confided in Leanna about my entire complicated history. In typical Leanna fashion, she’d had a nonjudgmental perspective on the whole story.

  Just as she did now.

  “Suspicious of what?” Leanna returned, with her usual bluntness. “That you might ruin him via poorly done graphic design? I doubt it would even cross his mind that you could.”

  History was filled with triumphs of those who had been underestimated. Only in this case, I suspected Leanna had the right of it. “I’m out of my league, aren’t I?”

  “In business, yes.” But then Leanna turned serious. She lifted a few strands of my hair and slid a Swarovski crystal pin into place. “In art, he can’t touch you. Just imagine you’re Warhol deigning to have dinner with a suit. Hey, maybe he can be your muse or your benefactor or something.”

  I smiled. Trust Leanna to say exactly the right thing.

  • • •

  I didn’t see his Porsche when I peered out the window at a minute to eight. However a black Bentley idled on the street, complete with chauffeur opening the door to the back seat. I watched, captivated, as one be-suited leg appeared and then the next, along with that glossy head of chestnut brown hair.

  Hartmann straightened, looked up, and unerringly found me, peering out of a bay window three stories above. Heat flushed through me. How did he do that? I turned from the window, negligently, as if I had all the time in the world. Then I gathered my things—keys, mints, cell phone—and tossed them into my purse. I thought about condoms. Discarded the thought.

  When I stepped out into the cool night air, he was leaning against the wall of the building. Ready to move to my side, to place a warm hand on my back.

  “You look lovely,” he said, the deep tenor of his voice spreading the warmth from his touch throughout my body. It was silly, but I stood straighter at his words, felt lovely. “I’m so pleased you agreed to join me.”

  Verbally, I’d agreed to nothing, but I didn’t say that, didn’t pierce the sweet fabric of the night with unnecessary truths.

  I slid into the car. There was champagne chilling in a silver bucket of ice.
I held my breath until he slipped in from the other side, until all the doors were closed around him.

  He handed me a glass of champagne. It was like a movie: me, in borrowed stockings and shoes, sipping champagne in the back of a Bentley. With Daniel Hartmann.

  If my dad only knew.

  Even that dire thought wasn’t icy enough.

  I couldn’t think, barely registered where the car was driving. Daniel was making everything so convenient for me, yet beneath it all I still had this utter disbelief that this worldly man could possibly find me interesting. Especially the sweater-set version of myself.

  He had to know who I was. He had to be stringing me along, seducing me with all his famed charm, for some nefarious reason.

  I had nothing to say to him. Except—

  “Do you like art?” Which was an utterly and completely stupid thing for me to say.

  “I’m on the board at the Museum of Fine Arts.”

  Which I had known.

  “Do you collect privately?”

  I expected him to say yes. After all, I’d seen photographs of his architectural loft and dotting its walls were huge canvases by famous twenty-first-century artists.

  “My house is decorated with art, thanks to a buyer and ex-girlfriends,” —girlfriends, of course— “but no, I don’t actively collect. You look disappointed.”

  I laughed, covering, drawing on my actress alter-ego. “No, not entirely disappointed. Simply adjusting my plans. If you won’t be my benefactor, you’ll simply have to be my muse.” I slanted a look at him, indulged myself by admiring the line of his jaw, the sculpted length of his neck disappearing beneath the lavender of his shirt. He made the color look so masculine.

  “Emily.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’ve heard that before,” I said quickly, “but I’m not the jealous type.” A fine statement for a woman who was playing a game, who didn’t intend to get emotionally involved, but I knew, if I were really interested in Daniel Hartmann, I wouldn’t be willing to share.