Taken

by Jennifer Dawson

  Of course, she’s correct. There are a million ways I can avoid contact with her. What she doesn’t understand is that while she’s beyond smart, and truthfully, so overqualified she’s blown every candidate I’ve met out of the water, every interaction I have with her solidifies my instinct not to hire her.

  Not because she wouldn’t be good for my company. Because I’m positive she would be. If this were about my company, Veronica Westwood is the best thing I could do for it. I’m confident under her command every part of my operations would improve.

  But this isn’t about my company. It’s not even about her being part of the world I’ve closed myself off from.

  This is about one thing, and one thing only. I want her. My desire for her is so strong I don’t want to take a final, definitive stand and end this interaction between us.

  And that means she’s not an option.

  I toy with bluntness. Of informing her of my rather crude and carnal thoughts about her, but then an image of her significant other, Winston Bishop, fills my head and I discard the idea.

  My eyes narrow on the computer screen in front of me. “I took your call to make myself clear. You’re not a good fit for my organization, but I do admire your tenacity.”

  She doesn’t even pause. “So you’re saying a highly intelligent, ambitious, and connected general manager won’t help your business?”

  “Do you even know what my business is?”

  There’s a fraction of a second where I’m almost positive she sucks in a breath before she soldiers on. “You own The Lair and the office building attached to the club.”

  That’s a small portion of what I own. I’m a dabbler. Not the best business plan, but I’m easily bored, and don’t need the money. Besides, I have a sixth sense about what to invest in and after ten years, my net earnings have exceeded my considerable trust fund. Of course, my company is private and only a privileged few know the extent of my reach.

  Part of me had wondered if Veronica’s hacker uncovered the extent of my dealings, and that was why she was so intent on the position, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. Her intel seems to be limited to my contact information.

  I shift forward in my chair, putting my elbows on my desk. “And you don’t think your Harvard MBA is wasted as a glorified bar manager and landlord?”

  “It’s not about the position.” Her voice takes on an impassioned tone.

  “Then what is it about? Because that’s the position available.”

  For the first time a question seems to throw her because there’s silence over the line. Finally, she clears her throat. “It’s about what it represents.”

  “And what does it represent, Veronica?” The dominance that is such a part of my nature seeps into my words.

  “Freedom to be my own person. To figure out who I am and what I want to be. To learn how to be like you.” Her tone is soft, almost reflective.

  It shifts the conversation from business to intimate. Just like that night on the balcony. I opt for a version of honesty. “I’m not sure working for me will teach you that.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Doing the books, hashing out tenant problems, taking inventory and talking to food and liquor vendors won’t fulfill you.”

  “It’s a start.” She breathes deep into the phone. “All I want is a chance. I don’t want to work in an office. I don’t want to spend my life making rich people richer. I want to do something that makes me feel alive, and as strange as it sounds, all my instincts point me to you.”

  I understand just what she means. There’s a pull between Veronica and me. Something intangible and indefinable. She feels it as strongly as I do, but unlike her, I don’t think working together is the answer. I contemplate my options. She’s not going to give up. She’s a woman on a mission. There’s something dangerous about her. Something that threatens my carefully constructed life, and while I don’t like it, I’m not ready to be done with her.

  I toy with a pen on my desk and ask a question that would give my HR person a heart attack. “Veronica, what does your fiancé have to say about this?”

  “Winston is not my fiancé, he’s not my anything. I broke up with him the same day I tore up my contract to work as a venture capitalist.”

  I don’t appreciate the relief that relaxes my abdomen. Neither is this any of my business, but it doesn’t stop me. “Why did you end your relationship?”

  “Why does that matter? It’s not relevant.”

  “Because I want to know.” That hard command fills my voice. Wrong and inappropriate, but I can’t seem to help myself.

  She’s silent for a moment before she asks, “Do you want the truth? Or the nice pat answer I gave everyone else?”

  “What do you think?”

  “The truth?”

  “Correct.”

  “One night I walked into his place to find him having sex with another woman.” She lets out a long sigh. “And I wasn’t upset. I was relieved. He’s the man I’m supposed to marry, to bind our families together, but I can’t. I don’t want to. I don’t love him. I’ve never loved him.”

  I sense there’s more and press. “Go on.”

  “I don’t want to live my life that way. I don’t want to be that person.”

  “And how do you want to live your life?” This conversation is long past appropriate, and in this time and space, with the telephone line connecting us, it’s just her and me.

  “I want to have real friends. I want to talk about more than shopping, diets, and Botox. I want to know what it’s like to love for real, deeply and irrevocably. I want to use my brain. Be challenged. I don’t want to be clocking time until I become a trophy wife. I want to know what it’s like to work. To struggle and strive and fight for something.” She laughs a little, high and nervous to cover her vulnerability. “Does that sound crazy?”

  It doesn’t. I understand exactly what she means. It’s similar to my own crisis that morning so long ago when I woke up from a fitful moment of unconsciousness, still coked up, and untangled myself from the bed of bodies I’d lain in. I understand her all too well. And I understand what draws her to me. Slowly, I say, “No, it doesn’t sound crazy.”

  “I can’t help feeling you can help me. That you understand what nobody else does.”

  At the yearning in her voice, at the plea, I make a snap decision. “Veronica.”

  “Yes, Brandon.” Hope lightens her tone, and I smile, because she knows she’s got me.

  “I’m not making any promises, but meet me at The Lair, Thursday at seven o’clock, I’m going to take you to dinner.” I’m committed now, and I have an impending sense that there’s no turning back.

  “I will be there.” Her giddiness is plain and undisguised.

  Needless to say, I don’t want her to think she has too much of an upper hand, so I say sternly, “See that you are.”

  “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

  I smile. “Goodbye, Veronica.”

  I hang up before she can get in the last word.

  4

  Veronica

  I’m in love.

  Excitement thrums through my blood, rushing in my ears and making my heart pound. This is it. I’m doing it. I’m changing my life. After a tense phone call, where my mom insisted they weren’t taking the Gold Coast condo back, I signed with a real estate agent to sell the ridiculous place, and for the first time in my twenty-seven years I’ve gone condo shopping. So far, we’ve toured five places, and this last one is it. I can feel it.

  It’s mine.

  I’m standing in the middle of a one-bedroom loft apartment with wide plank floors the color of driftwood, exposed brick and woodwork staring out the window at the lakefront. It’s exactly what I envisioned when I’d decided to take this bold move.

  The complete opposite of my current home that is so glossy it’s almost untouchable.

  In the heart of Lincoln Park, the place is small, barely eight hundred square feet, but I adore eve
rything about it. On the streets below, the sidewalks are littered with people going in and out of shops and restaurants. It’s a bright, sunny day, and walkers, runners and bikers fill the lakefront. The neighborhood is alive and vibrant. Exactly what I hoped for.

  I turn to the agent, Nora Becker, a young, pretty brunette I’d researched on the Internet and has zero connections to my family. She’s just starting out, eager and hungry, and I loved the uncontained joy on her face when I offered her the apartment. Everyone I know is too concerned with cool dismissal to show happiness.

  I smile at her. “I love it.”

  Her expression lights up. “You do?”

  “I do. It’s perfect. Exactly what I’m looking for.”

  She kind of does a contained little dance that’s adorable. “Yay! I had a feeling when I pulled the listing you would.”

  I can already envision how I’m going to decorate it. On a budget, of course, because I’m determined to try and live on a salary. Well, once I have a salary. Maybe it’s silly. Or crazy. Which is what everyone in my life thinks, but I don’t care. I understand there are people starving and living in poverty. I’m not dismissing my good fortune.

  I’ll use my trust fund for good, and break free on my own terms. This is the first step in many.

  Nora tucks a lock of smooth dark hair behind her ear, and clears her throat. “No pressure, we can look for as long as you’d like, but this place hasn’t hit the websites yet, and at this price, for this location, it will go fast. I wouldn’t be surprised if it has multiple offers by the end of the day.”

  “I’ll take it,” I say, without even the slightest hint of hesitation.

  Her brow furrows. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel rushed and this is your first day looking.”

  I shake my head. I’d known the second I stepped foot in the place this would be home. “I’m sure. Offer full asking price with zero contingency and immediate occupancy.”

  Her eyes widen and her lips quiver with excitement. “I’ll call the agent right away and tell them we are preparing an offer.”

  I glance back outside. I can’t wait to walk those streets. I’m not willing to risk it with my newfound frugality. “You have my permission to go five percent above any other offer made on the property.”

  She laughs. “All right then, we’ll get it done.”

  “Great. Tell them it’s a cash offer and I want to close as soon as possible.”

  “I will.” She touches my arm. “Thank you, Veronica. For choosing me to handle this for you. I know you had other options.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” And it is. I honestly don’t know if she’ll be able to sell the Gold Coast condo. At that price point you need certain connections and clients that I’m positive she doesn’t have. But I’m willing to give her the chance. I hadn’t selected her for that. I’d selected her for the place we’re standing in right now. Because no real estate agent I know would bring me here. They’d show me places my parents had pre-approved, and I couldn’t allow that.

  I hope I’m wrong though. I hope she’s able to sell the condo; I want her to have that commission. I can’t change everyone’s life, but I can provide opportunity where I can.

  By midnight I’m the proud owner of the first place I can truly call home.

  Next on the list to conquer, Brandon Townsend III.

  * * *

  The ringing of my phone jars me from sleep and I blink into the darkness before glancing at my clock on the nightstand. It’s two a.m. I squint at the caller ID lighting up my screen before flopping down on the pillow.

  It’s Winston. After one more ring, the screen goes dark and I sigh in relief.

  I haven’t seen him since that night of the benefit, but he’s been texting and calling me daily. First they were his meager attempts to be cute. Sending me pictures of the two of us together, or smiley faces (his form of seduction). When I hadn’t answered he’d graduated to a list of things he had of mine I’d left at his place. Since he had nothing of mine that I placed value on, I’d continued to ignore him. Next he informed me of the things he wanted back from me, including any jewelry he’d given me over the years. He probably believed this would spur me into some sort of panic at the threat of our relationship being over. But, he’s underestimated my desire to be rid of him.

  My only response was to pack everything in a box and hire a messenger service to hand deliver it to him.

  The phone rings again and I reach over and silence the call. He has to be drunk. It’s the only reason he’d be calling me this late.

  And Winston is not a happy drunk.

  As I’ve ignored him, he’s grown increasingly perturbed. Demanding I talk to him.

  The phone rings again and I decline.

  Immediately, it chimes.

  I bite my lower lip. I’m already up and it will be hard for me to go to sleep. Maybe if I answer once, reiterate that our relationship is not open to negotiation, he’ll stop this.

  When my phone lights up again, I sigh and pick up the phone. “What do you want, Winston?”

  “It’s about fucking time.” His voice is slurred, confirming my suspicions.

  I want to tell him that I owe him nothing, but that will just lead us down a path I’m not willing to go, so I restate my question. “What can I do for you?”

  “I want to talk to you.” He’s agitated, on edge, and sounds slightly strung out. Like he’s been up for days.

  “There’s nothing to discuss.” The best thing I can do is be calm and rational.

  “I dedicated the prime of my life to you, and this is how you repay me?” His words are full of belligerence.

  I want to snap that he’s screwed practically all of Chicago, but what’s the point? “Winston, our relationship is over. You’re twenty-eight, you have plenty of women standing in line for you, so go forth and be merry.”

  There’s dead silence over the phone before he says, “I don’t want them, I want you.”

  I tell him the truth. “The only reason you want me is because I’m the first person that’s ever said no to you. When you had me, you couldn’t have cared less.”

  “Veronica, baby.” His voice softens. “Please, meet me for a drink and we can talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. We are done. Our relationship is over. There’s no reason we can’t be civil about this.”

  “It’s not over. We just need to talk.”

  “No, stop calling me. Stop texting.”

  “Wait.” His voice takes on an urgent tone.

  “Goodbye, Winston.” I hang up and turn off my phone.

  Hopefully that’s the end of it.

  * * *

  Brandon

  My preference for redheads is well established, but as I sit across from Stephanie I find my mind filled with a certain cool blonde. When I’d called the lovely interior decorator and asked her to come over my intention had been to put her through a long, hard session in hopes it would clear Veronica from my thoughts.

  I hadn’t thought it wise to go into dinner on edge.

  Stephanie had been the logical choice. A beautiful, submissive girl with auburn hair I’d been sleeping with casually for the last nine months, she is always up for whatever wringer I dream up for her. In my head, she’d been just what I needed. As odd as it sounds, dominating a woman is good stress relief, and it had been a month since I’d had sex. Not long for some, but an eternity for me.

  We are in my parlor, and she’s restlessly crossing and uncrossing her legs with a petulant pout on her face she’s just praying I’ll wipe off. As we’ve sat there across from each other, sipping cognac, she’s getting anxious. I keep meaning to start, to tell her to stand, strip naked, and get on her knees in front of me, but every time I open my mouth I take another drink instead.

  She flutters her lashes, glancing around the room where I entertain my guests before taking them down into my basement and the real torture begins. She puffs her lower lip. “I can redecorate this room for y
ou.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” We’d met when I hired her to design the club, and I’d had her in my bed before the ink was dry on the contract.

  “It could use a makeover.” She crosses her legs, hiking up her black skirt dangerously high on her thighs. She’s wearing four-inch heels and her legs, kept golden by spray tan, gleam with whatever lotion she’s put on. Her legs are endless. Long and supple, and flexible. Very, very flexible.

  “It could, but I like the room the way it is.” It’s a room from another century, with antiqued brocade couches, winged-back chairs, and a wall filled with leather-bound books reaching so high a built-in ladder slides across the floor to reach the top shelves.

  Her pout deepens. “I promise not to go over budget this time.”

  She’s opening the bidding, playing her hand because she’s tired of waiting for me to exact my power over her. It’s a little game of ours. She overspends and I spank her for her infraction. It’s play dominance and submission. Not serious. Or meaningful.

  She’s expecting me to say something commanding here. Something like—See that you don’t, girl. She’ll shiver. I’ll beckon. She’ll come. And before we know it she’ll be tied to my bed in the basement, screaming for a mercy I won’t deliver.

  She needs it. It’s written in the tension of her jaw and set of shoulders. In the way she squirms in her seat and the press of her thighs. Her nipples are visible through her silk blouse; the swell of her breasts a heavy rise and fall while she waits.

  She needs it. And the truth is, I need it too. It’s been too long and my skin is tight. I need the meditative nature of dominating her to soothe my brain.

  Only, I don’t want it from Stephanie.

  No, I want it from a pale blonde whose skin glows in the moonlight. I want to see Veronica’s hair spread out, caressing the curve of her spine. I find myself preoccupied, wondering what her hair looks like down, how long it is, what it might feel like under my fingers. I want to see her naked before me, on the floor between my splayed knees. And I want to sit there, staring at her, watching the expressions play across her face as she comes to the realization about my intentions toward her.