That still doesn’t make me forgive him. “I don’t care if you share a toothbrush. You had no right to tell them.”
He steps a little closer, and I’m aware of his yummy scent, that spicy aftershave. I stare up at him, and as we look into each other’s eyes, I realize that if he kisses me right now, it wouldn’t be completely unexpected.
He moves his face closer to mine, and my breath catches. “I know one way to fix that,” he says, his voice low.
I frown. “How?” I murmur.
“We can recreate the scene.”
I have never hit another person in my life except in self-defense, but my hands are curling into fists. We’re standing so close together that I can see the pulse of his heartbeat in his neck. His blue eyes are flecked with gold. Knowing what I know now, it’s probably 24 karat. I should have realized he was filthy rich by the way he acted. Entitled. Confident. He carries himself like a man who has never been beaten down by the world.
He moves closer, and now our lips are millimeters apart. Even though they’re not touching mine, I know his lips are soft. I know he’s a good kisser. I hear myself whimper, and I’m aware that the sound feels helpless, and that breaks the spell.
Someone shoves a glass of champagne into my hand. Startled, I step away from Hawthorne, who also takes a step back. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, and for the first time, I can imagine what he’s like when he’s wearing jeans and being normal. That makes me realize that for a moment, I was almost normal, too, and a weird ache unfurls inside me.
“We’re celebrating,” Romeo says. He holds his champagne flute out at me. “Toast with me,” he says. And just like that, my anger and anxiety diffuse. His warm brown eyes… there’s something about him that makes me trust him.
“Toasting what?”
“Hawthorne’s freedom,” he says.
“Divorce?” I look at Hawthorne. I can’t imagine what kind of woman would marry such an egomaniac.
“What you’re thinking is written all over your face, Lindsay,” Hawthorne says. His expression has gotten tight again, like when he was examining my expenses. He sloshes champagne into his empty glass and then clinks it against mine. “To freedom.”
Freedom is the one thing I will always drink to, because I never know when mine is going to come to an end.
“You’re wrong,” Hawthorne says after a minute. It startles me because for a moment I think he somehow read my mind, but then he says, “Not a divorce. Today is my twenty-eighth birthday, and twelve hours ago I gained full control of my trust fund as well as the company I’ve been improving the last six years.”
“Shit,” I say. “I mean, happy birthday.” There is nothing shocking about a man named Hawthorne Tarraget having a trust fund, but, damn. All that hassle he gave me about salon visits, an amount that would just be pocket change to him?
I wonder what he would say if he knew that I broke off my nails fighting for my life and they’ve never been right since.
Suddenly I don’t want any more champagne. I just want to go home.
“Hey,” Hawthorne says. I look up into those piercing eyes of his. “Are you ok?”
“Sure. I’ll see you later.”
It’s Romeo who stops me. He hands me a business card. “In case you find yourself in need of a new job. I’ve got offices all over the world, and I can tell you’ve got a good head on your shoulders.” The way he says it makes me wonder if he somehow knows about me.
But he can’t. No one knows who I am.
I tap the business card against my leg. “Thanks.”
It’s not until I’m halfway across the parking lot that I realize that I blew an easy chance to have a good time. Not Hawthorne, of course. I’m not interested in him. But the other two… either one would have been a good time, maybe even a warm body to fall asleep next to, an escape from the fear that haunts my nights.
With a resigned sigh, I slide behind the steering wheel of my car and I’m about to close the door when I freeze. It’s not too late. I can go back up.
I swing my legs outside, and I’m about to stand when I hear a faint meowing.
Slowly, I get out and take several steps away. There’s another meow, this one louder, and I realize it’s coming from under the car, so I slowly, carefully, and yes, awkwardly, squat. I can’t quite see under the vehicle, so I gingerly place one of my palms on the dirty concrete and bend over.
It’s Bandit. I named him that because of the dark mask over his eyes. He’s skinny but larger than the last time I saw him, two weeks earlier. It’s silly, but I was reading a book about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs when I first started at Sunrise Imports, and I explained to Bandit, while feeding him scraps of my lunch, that I couldn’t take him home with me because I was still on the second step: physical safety. Having a pet would fit on the third step: love and belonging. He’d stared at me with pleading yellow eyes while I told him that life with me wouldn’t be any better than living near the dumpsters, and anyway, he should value his freedom.
Then the owners of the apartment complex got sued or something, and overnight, all the cats disappeared. I’d planned to ask what happened to them, but I hadn’t really wanted to know.
I am inordinately happy to see Bandit.
“Hey, kitty,” I say.
He opens his mouth to make the most pathetic meow I’ve ever heard.
“Now there’s a familiar pose,” a deep voice says as polished shoes and pressed pants move into my peripheral vision.
Ignoring Hawthorne, I hold out my hand to Bandit and make a soft kissing sound. I expect him to be shy and stay put, so when he creeps forward, crouching low, his belly nearly dragging along the ground, excitement shoots through me.
“Here, kitty,” I say, and Bandit seems to make up his mind. He comes right up to me. The poor thing is in worse shape than I realized. He’s skin and bones, his long fur is matted, and when I run my hand over his small head, I feel that he’s trembling.
Without thinking about it, I gather him into my arms and stand. His eyes close into slits, and his whole body seems to vibrate with a purr.
Hawthorne says, “I thought the feral cats were removed.”
My arms tighten protectively around Bandit. “Shouldn’t you be throwing hundred-dollar bills off the bridge or something?”
He seems to stifle a smile, but I can’t be certain. “You know it can’t stay here.”
“Yeah,” I say as I stroke the top of Bandit’s head. “I’d take him if my apartment building allowed pets.” It’s a lie, but I do wish I could keep him. But I can’t afford a pet or friends. I have to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
“Give me the cat,” he says.
“So you can stick him in a burlap sack and drown him?”
“My sister is a vet. I’ll see he gets his shots and make sure he’s healthy.” He takes Bandit from me, and to my irritation, Bandit doesn’t fight him and instead snuggles into his arms. The cat has no common sense.
“He’ll be fine,” he says.
“But—”
“I said he’ll be fine.”
Chapter 4
The best thing about my apartment is that it’s safe. The building itself is central enough, but the short commute pales in comparison to its top-of-the-line security, all of it automated and high-tech. It’s the one thing I can’t skimp on no matter where I live. I learned that lesson already.
I park in my assigned space in the underground lot, get the groceries from the trunk, and take the elevator to the lobby. Even though there is never mail for me—it’s always bulk rate and addressed to “Current Occupant”—I check my box anyway. While I’m waiting for the elevator, I glance in my bag and see my phone flashing red with a missed call.
No one ever calls me except for spammers. Though I see it’s a local number, so it could be a customer. I call back; if there’s a chance of getting another sale, I’ll take it.
A rumbling male voice says, “I’d like to see you.”
“You just did,”
I point out. I think about telling Hawthorne to get lost, but then I remember how gentle he was with Bandit. “Is the cat—”
“He’s fine. My sister thinks it’ll be easy to adopt him out in a few weeks, once he’s gained some weight.”
“Oh.” Lucky Bandit. I’ll miss seeing him, but it’d be selfish to be anything but happy for him. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“That’s not why I called. Romeo is coming to get you,” Hawthorne says. “He’ll be at your apartment in ten minutes.”
I can tell he’s about to hang up. “Wait. What should I wear?”
But he’s already gone.
A few minutes later, I’m standing in front of my closet and staring at my clothes. I don’t have many casual outfits.
Why am I even considering responding to Hawthorne’s summons? Well, I know the reason, but I’d prefer to come up with a better one, because being lonely on a Friday night shouldn’t be compelling enough.
It’s not just loneliness. I’m horny, too. No one has touched me since Hawthorne’s spanking, and before that… too long.
Finally I settle on a black skirt that’s better suited for the office than a date. To liven it up, I choose a gold, shimmering sleeveless blouse with a zipper up the back and a loose cowl neck, and a pair of black heels that are not office appropriate. I lay the clothes on the bed, then take a few moments to slather my skin in fragrant ylang-ylang lotion. Then I dress, brush my hair, touch up my makeup, and swap my work bag for a black shag clutch that, to me, is ready for the red carpet.
The mirror tells me I look hot. But on the inside? I feel a little weird. I’m not sure what Hawthorne wants, and I hate being unprepared.
My doorbell buzzes as I’m about to walk out. I backtrack, turn on the video feed to the lobby. It’s Romeo. He’s so tall, his shoulders so broad, that he takes up most of the screen. He tilts his head and nods once, sagely, at the camera, and I get the weird feeling again that he might suspect I’m running from something.
I hope that’s wrong. The last thing I need is someone nosing around, trying to figure out where I came from.
A uniformed chauffeur opens the door to a black sedan as Romeo and I leave the lobby. I slide into the back, and the driver closes the door behind me. In the moments that I’m alone, I try not to get excited.
It’s been a very long time since I went out. I haven’t had the money for it.
Romeo slides into the other side of the car, and I smell the faint scent of expensive aftershave mixed with rich, powerful male.
“What’s the plan for tonight?” I ask.
“Back to the office,” he says.
I wasn’t expecting that. “Is… this about work?”
He laughs. “No, it’s not,” he says. He starts to add something else, but then his brow creases as he pulls out his phone. “Excuse me,” he says. He shifts so he’s facing away from me, and his next words are delivered in a low, confident voice. It’s something about selling a relative’s hotel, and not very interesting, so I stare out the window.
It’s been some time since I was inside a chauffeured vehicle, and something about this one takes me back in time. A sharp ache twists in my gut as a feeling of nausea sweeps over me. It’s ridiculous to feel like this; I’ve gotten away from my family. I rarely even have nightmares anymore.
My shoulders are rounding, hunching forward. I want to curl into a ball. This is most definitely a socially submissive position, but it’s dark inside the car, and Romeo is engrossed in his conversation.
Most people don’t spend much time thinking about comfort. At least I never did when I was growing up. Now I think about it a lot. It’s such a simple thing, but it can turn elusive as a handful of rainbow.
Thank goodness Romeo stays on the phone all the way to the office. When the chauffeur brings the car to a stop, I uncurl myself and look at Romeo, but he’s still talking. He’s clearly unhappy, and I wonder who in their right mind would piss off someone of Romeo’s size. I place a tentative hand on his shoulder.
He glances over at me, then puts his conversation partner on hold. “Go on up,” he says. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
Reluctantly, I get out of the car and straighten the bottom of my skirt. Walking up alone seems kind of unfair. I have no idea what they have in store for the evening, but at least if Romeo were with me… But he’s not.
I assume Hawthorne and Slade are still in Tarraget’s office. I’m feeling unsettled, so I stop in the ladies’ bathroom. I do the dominant pose and I smile, hoping to release positive endorphins (so that I don’t get sarcastic and defensive and sabotage my chances at hooking up with Romeo or Slade). I stretch, trying to work out the tension and the memory of being in the fetal position. I stare myself in the eyes and give myself a whispered pep talk. “You are strong. You have the blood of queens in your veins.” It’s not true, the queens thing, but it helps. Then I throw my arms wide and stretch and stretch until I feel the fear release its chokehold.
By the time I get to Tarraget’s office, Romeo is there. I walk right up to him. “You single?”
“Always,” he says. Behind me, Hawthorne laughs. Without seeing his face, it’s difficult to know what he’s trying to convey, but I’m pretty sure he’s mocking me.
My hands land on my hips without me planning to do that, and I force myself to relax. I need to focus on Romeo. He’s my target. “Busy tonight?”
His smile is like the sun after a storm. “There are two things you should know.”
“Three things,” Hawthorne growls.
Romeo’s smile broadens. “Two things.”
That makes me turn to look at Hawthorne. Despite how intrusive his comments are, he’s sitting casually, sipping a cup of water, and looking rather uninterested. “Three things,” he says to me in a tone of voice that sounds a lot like “Fuck you.”
Weird.
“First,” Romeo says, “I like kink.”
“What kind?”
“I like to be in charge.”
That makes me smile. “I can work with that.” I’m not very into BDSM, but anything is fun for a night. “You can’t leave marks, though.”
“Welts, friction rashes, rope burns are all possible, but nothing that can’t be hidden with clothing,” Slade says, and I resist the urge to look at him. Why Romeo’s friends keep insinuating themselves into this conversation, I have no idea, but maybe if I ignore them, they’ll cut it out.
“I get a safe word,” I say. “And you’ll have to honor it immediately.”
“Of course,” Romeo says.
“Great. What’s the second thing?”
Hawthorne walks over and stands next to his friend. “It’s not very sexy to discuss all this. Talk it to death.”
I skewer him with my dirtiest look. “That is an excellent point.” I smile up at Romeo, and I can’t believe that my dry spell is about to come to a very satisfying end. “Shall we go somewhere else and work out the rest of the details?”
“You might want to hear the second part first,” he says.
“Second and third,” Hawthorne says.
“You are really irritating,” I tell him. Instead of looking offended, he shrugs calmly. I half expect him to say, Your irritation is a disallowed expense.
“Oh, I’ll tell her,” Slade says. His voice is closer, coming up behind me, but I still jump when his hands touch my shoulders. “We are dominant. We share.”
“Share?”
“We’re a package deal.”
While I’m still processing that, Hawthorne clears his throat. “There’s still the third thing.”
“Which is?”
His eyes are like ice as he says, “You’re not right for us, and I’m not sure I like you.”
Romeo shoots his friend a warning look, but I put my hand on his arm.
“That’s not a problem,” I say to Hawthorne, my face burning with anger and embarrassment. “Because I don’t like you, either.”
He leans in. “You don’t get it, Lin
dsay. You don’t get fucked by Romeo and Slade but not me. That’s how we work. But here’s the thing I was telling them right before you decided to stop playing games—”
“What games?”
“We’ve been waiting ten minutes, as you know perfectly well. You’re manipulative and sneaky, and you know what? I don’t. Want. To put. My dick. In you.”
What he wants is the imprint of my hand on his face. The funny thing about what he’s saying is that it’s not true. His dick absolutely wants to be in me; I can see the straining bulge in his pants from the corner of my eye.
I step back, and I’m about to gather the remnants of my pride and run home, but staring into Hawthorne’s eyes reminds me of when he stood there, judging me, disallowing all my expenses. “Well, I can’t stand you, either,” I say, getting into his face.
Romeo puts a hand on each of our shoulders. “Let’s take a minute here. He doesn’t mean it, Lindsay. Hawthorne, it wasn’t that long.”
“He means it,” I say. “Too bad. I’m a really good fucking lay, and I give head like a champ.” Because I’m standing almost on top of Hawthorne, I’m perfectly positioned to feel his erection.
He surely knows I can feel it, but we just glare at each other. The only difference is that now I’m smiling. Not because I think he’ll change his mind, but because even though I’m being turned away, it’s not a complete defeat.
Then I feel a warmth behind me, a solid male body. It has to be Romeo because Slade is standing to my right. Romeo pushes up against me ever so slightly, and there’s nowhere for me to go except closer to Hawthorne.
His cock is huge. Thick. I want to press harder on him. I want him between my legs.
I grab the bottom of my skirt and slowly pull it up until it’s over my hips.
“Damn,” Slade says. I hear a soft clink as he sets down his glass. “You’re seriously up for this, Lindsay?” he asks.
My eyes don’t leave Hawthorne’s as I say, “Yup. And my safe word is—”
“Red,” Hawthorne says.
Romeo moves forward again, and I feel the sleek fabric of his dress pants on the backs of my thighs. Something stiff presses into the small of my back, just above my buttocks.
Executive Toy Page 3
