The Bet

by Lucinda Betts

  THE BET

  LUCINDA BETTS

  THE BET

  LUCINDA BETTS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  THE BET

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  Copyright Page

  1

  Gritting her teeth, Zoe trailed her colleagues—all men—into the bar for happy-hour drinks. Their laughter filled the place, and jealousy zinged through her. What they’d achieved so effortlessly, she’d never mastered. Oh, she had the Midas touch when it came to investments, but the easy camaraderie, the feeling like she played on their team . . . for her that was nearly impossible to obtain.

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender asked as she shrugged off her black wool coat.

  “Club soda with lime, please,” she answered, hoping only the bartender heard. She wanted to look like one of the guys, and the guys drank.

  Moments later, a martini appeared. A red explosion swirled in the olive’s place.

  “What’s this?” she asked the bartender.

  “An atomic fireball.”

  “Like the jawbreaker?”

  “That’s what’s at the bottom.”

  Her mouth watered. “But I didn’t order it.”

  “It’s from one of the guys,” he answered, nodding at the men from her firm.

  “Really? Which one?”

  “The leader of the pack over there.”

  “Oh,” she said, looking where the bartender pointed. Phillip Kingdom, dark hair shining, smiled at her. Zoe tried not to appreciate the strong line of his jaw, but ignoring his dimpled grin was harder. She raised the glass to him in a stoic thanks.

  “He said the drink’s a lot like you,” the bartender added, walking away.

  That sounded like something Phillip would say.

  Even from across the room Phillip admired the curve of her breast in that silk shirt. Hoping the fireball had loosened her up, he waited until she’d emptied the glass before he walked over to her. “Why aren’t you dancing, Lauterborn?” he asked, sliding a second martini in front of her.

  “I have a better question—why the drinks?”

  He laughed. “That’s a hell of a ‘thank you.’ You should have been a lawyer.”

  “What? And missed a career where I’m the only woman in the entire department?”

  “I should have guessed that was the attraction.”

  “Did you think it was the ethereal call of mutual funds?”

  “It was for me.” An image of his father and grandfather flashed through his mind. They’d both been wildly successful in banking and investing.

  “That explains the wingtips.”

  “You’re going to pick on my shoes?”

  “You can take it.”

  “If I can’t, there are a dozen or so other guys willing to try.”

  “I don’t want to make all of you cry.”

  “Just me? At least you’ve noticed me.”

  Zoe laughed, tilting her face toward the ceiling. Phillip imagined running his lips from her collarbone to her ear. Yum.

  “Come dance with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s see . . . You’re the most beautiful woman in the joint. Probably the smartest person, too . . .”

  She rolled her eyes at his blatant flattery, even while grinning.

  “Wondering why you should dance with me?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Because you’ve knocked back a martini and started on a second, sitting here alone. Drinking by yourself isn’t a good sign.”

  Zoe waved at the surrounding throng. “I’m hardly alone. Besides, you’re here.”

  “Do you use some hex to keep the wolves at bay, or is it your sheer force of will?”

  “Obviously neither. It hasn’t kept you away.” Phillip laughed again at her tenacity. In months of these conversations, he’d never actually won a sparring match. His earnings rarely beat hers either. Damn it.

  “I think you just called me a wolf.”

  “But I didn’t call you big or bad.” The way her voice slid over the words let him know exactly what she was thinking. The edgy excitement he always felt while talking with her flooded through him.

  “I could be very bad. If you don’t watch it, you’ll never know.”

  “Oh, really.”

  “I could take off those glasses, pull your hair out of that bun. You and me and that Cuban beat . . .”

  For a moment she didn’t react. His heart raced. Would she finally slap him?

  Worse. Her spine stiffened, and the sparkle evaporated. “Not a chance,” she said.

  Phillip stifled his irritation, but he’d had enough. He’d tried all the customary ways of asking her out, getting her attention. None had worked. She flirted sometimes, but she never went out with him. She never went out with any of the guys. He needed to try something untraditional, something . . . different, maybe dangerous. But what?

  “So,” he said after the pause, “I bet you want that promotion as badly as I do.”

  “Yeah, I want it.”

  Phillip ignored the opportunity for a suggestive remark and said, “One of us is going to get it.”

  Zoe laughed, but it wasn’t the warm sound of minutes ago. “When was the last time your earnings were higher than mine?”

  She was right, but winning was in his blood.

  “A while,” he was forced to agree.

  “And when was the last time the firm gave a promotion to anyone besides the highest earner?”

  Phillip knew she had him. She was like that. “You’ll look great in that black leather chair.” Not that she’d be sitting there any time soon.

  She grinned at his comment. “I’d love that corner office.”

  No one could say Zoe Lauterborn didn’t deserve the promotion, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try his damndest to get it. And Phillip knew a few facts about this firm that hardworking Miss Lauterborn couldn’t even imagine.

  This firm had never promoted a woman—not until they absolutely had to.

  “Last chance to dance,” he offered, standing and extending his hand toward her. She shook her head, as he knew she would, but the hot secretary from the twelfth floor saved him when she slid her hand suggestively over his shoulder and said, “I’ll dance, Phillip.”

  “Later, Lauterborn,” he said as he led the other woman to the dance floor. Was that irritation he saw in her gaze? Maybe he was making some headway. Half a plan was formulating in the back of his mind. He’d have her yet.

  Twenty minutes later Zoe Lauterborn realized her mistake—at least one of them. She should have stuck with club soda. The vodka made her lips numb, and watching him dance left her . . . restless. That had to be the booze. He matched his partner’s moves beat for beat. Zoe couldn’t look away. Her imagination covered his naked chest in war paint and put him around a bonfire. She’d paint him herself, with her fingertips.

  She tore her gaze away from him, annoyed with herself. Phillip Kingdom was a colleague, a competitor. Completely off limits.

  But Zoe’s resolution lasted only seconds. She wished he’d come back so she could tease him some more. She wished she could slide her hand over his shoulder and say, “I’ll dance with you, Phillip,” in a sultry voice.

  For a moment Zoe wondered if the cost of being the best investment banker on Wall Street was too high. She’d been running with the wolves too long. When was the last time she’d danced to tantalize her partner or slid into silk panties in anticipation of having them r
ipped off? A craving to flash her thigh or tattoo unicorns on her derriere overwhelmed her. Zoe wanted to do something uncharacteristic, something wild. And she wanted to do it now.

  She was losing her mind. Damn Phillip Kingdom for sending her those drinks, and damn her pathetic self for drinking them.

  As Zoe was sitting alone, her colleagues settled around her, and Zoe stifled a groan. She needed to get away from Phillip before she did something she regretted—like drink a third martini.

  Phillip didn’t make it easier. He pressed his leg against hers under the table, and she knew it wasn’t because of the crowd’s crush. Feeling reckless, bulletproof, Zoe didn’t move away. The drinks coursing through her magnified the texture of his gabardine wool pants against her thigh. She shifted, just a bit, closer.

  Zoe watched Phillip laugh with the guy next to him. His easy camaraderie was damn sexy. But if—no, when—she got the promotion, these guys would work for her. She needed their respect and support, which meant she could be their buddy but not their girlfriend. Why she allowed herself to flirt with Phillip every Friday night defied rational explanation.

  “So, who’s going to be the new head?” one of them asked her from across the table.

  I am. “Whoever sold the most in the last six months, probably,” she answered, relieved to hear her voice clear, if a little too loud.

  She drank again, savoring her private happiness. Her latest client, a stoic New Englander with old money, had canceled today’s appointment—some sort of family emergency—but at 11:30 next Monday, he was scheduled to sign on the dotted line. Her dotted line. Once he did, she’d break all company records. Zoe knew she was hot, unstoppable. She could practically taste her promotion.

  “That going to be you, Kingdom?” asked McMurtry.

  What? Zoe tried to school her shock. How could they even think it might be him? He consistently ran second to her.

  Haas took it upon himself to answer. “Of course it’ll be Kingdom. He has a direct line to the Fed Chairman. Like the Batphone, only better.”

  Zoe knew she should laugh—the joke was funny—but the comment pissed her off. All these Friday-night happy hours, and they still never took her seriously. God, what did she have to do for them to respect her talent?

  “If I have the Batphone, Lauterborn has a psychic hotline,” Phillip said. Even through the martinis Zoe started. Maybe she’d thank him by . . . no, no, no. Sleeping with a colleague would not earn their esteem. Sheet-burning sex with Phillip Kingdom was not in the plan. Any plan.

  Haas snorted sarcastically. “Right. Lauterborn.”

  “Better watch out, Haas. She could be your next boss,” said Phillip.

  “If she ever lightened up, maybe,” said McMurtry.

  Frustrated and angry, the words flew out. “I manage better than any of you and that’s a fact. You can look at the online rooster-roster any time you’re curious.”

  “I bet you don’t get the position, Lauterborn. You won’t sell more than Kingdom.” The certain glint in his eye hardened something inside of her.

  “Really? Want to stake your bonus?” she asked, riding the vodka wave of confidence.

  “Uh . . .” Clearly, no one wanted to risk that much money. Haas wasn’t drunk enough. Neither was McMurtry.

  “You’re all talk. You don’t have the balls.” She stood wobbly on her high heels and headed out the door with what she hoped was dignity.

  Even as Phillip admired the way her black skirt hugged her hips, the idea gelled. The plan was devious and probably unethical. If he paused to think about it even for a moment, he’d likely change his mind.

  So he didn’t stop—he ran with it. The set-up was perfect, irresistible. And most ironically, Zoe had laid the groundwork for it herself—she’d done so perfectly.

  “Hey Haas, toss that napkin this way, will you?” commanded Phillip as he reached for his pen.

  He’d get Zoe Lauterborn’s attention, at least once, come hell or high water.

  2

  The Manhattan breeze cooled her face if not her frustration. Wishing she hadn’t lost her temper, she took a deep breath as she waved for a cab. She’d be regretting this night for months.

  “Do you have the balls?”

  Him. Why was he throwing her words back in her face?

  Zoe looked into his eyes, surprised at how green they looked in the lamplight. Moss green. She said, “You want to wager that much? Yours’ll be about two hundred gran. Grand.” She teetered drunkenly.

  He grabbed her shoulders to steady her. Through the cool evening, the heat of his hands infused her shirt. “Thanks,” she said, stumbling into his chest. She stayed there.

  “You’re pretty good with numbers, Ice Queen. It took me half a beer to make that calculation.”

  “Did you call me Ice Queen?” Zoe tried to sound outraged, but Phillip had to be the only man alive who noticed more than her ass. If it took ice to survive Wall Street, then so be it.

  “Everyone calls you that—hell, you probably call you that.”

  “Your point is?”

  “You’ll melt.”

  “Last guy didn’t think so.” Why was she having a heart-to-heart with Phillip?

  “A neophyte.”

  Zoe heard inherent competence in his tone. Ah, that capability. Her drunken mind flashed an image of Phillip running his tongue along her inner thigh. Slowly.

  Zoe blinked to clear the picture. “Uhh—” Why was she standing out here, pressed against this spectacular man? Oh yeah, a cab. “I need a cab.” Then she looked up into his face from his chest and saw unresolved business. “I’m definitely bed—better than you.” She thought she needed to qualify that. “My funs—funds are better.”

  She watched him suppress a smile. Those martinis were dragging her mind right into the gutter, and her mouth was happily following.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “You haven’t heard the terms.”

  Zoe grabbed his arms to catch herself. She could feel how well muscled he was. She moved her hands up a little bit and found more muscles. She had to stop this. “I need—I need to—”

  Zoe’s vivid imagination flipped her a picture of exactly what she needed—Phillip’s hand in her hair, his lips on her neck, her eyes closed in appreciation.

  She cursed herself and the martinis. “I need to go home.” She stepped away from him.

  He stopped her, gently. “I don’t want your money when I win.”

  Zoe stumbled again on her dratted shoes and pressed against his thigh. “What do you want?”

  “You. I want you—as my sex slave.”

  “You didn’t just say sex slave, did you?”

  “Only if you don’t get the promotion.”

  The vodka easily let her imagine granting his every sexual wish. Her heart raced, and her cheeks burned. Even if the idea were slightly appealing—and it wasn’t—could Haas or anyone else ever work for her if they thought she slept around? “You’ve been reading Hustler too long.”

  “Who’s going to get the promotion?”

  “I am. And you know it.”

  “Take the bet.”

  “I’m not sleeping with you or anyone else from the office.”

  “So I’d have to quit the firm?”

  “Pretty much.” She staggered against him again and tried not to appreciate his masculine strength. “There’s never a cab when you need one.”

  “What if we take the ‘sex’ part out?”

  “Want a slave? Call a maid.”

  “No penetration.”

  “That’s right. Not now. Not ever.” The smell of him made her want to wrap herself in his sweater.

  “What I mean, is that if I lose the bet, I fork over my bonus—a sizable sum as you’ve noted. If I win, you’ll be my sex slave—with no penetration.”

  Zoe’s head swam. She imagined his hand running the length of her body, an image so hot her mind skittered away from it. She then thought of the impassive New Englander and her new account. She couldn�
��t lose.

  “I’ll do it,” she heard herself say.

  “Sign here.” He thrust a napkin from the bar and a pen at her. The napkin was covered in tiny handwriting, and the letters jumped and danced as she squinted. Focusing through the alcohol was difficult, but she finally read, “If Zoe Lauterborn is promoted, I, Phillip T. Kingdom, will sign over my entire bonus to her. If I am promoted, Zoe Lauterborn will be my sex slave from seven P.M. until the following noon, beginning Friday, May twelfth. She must obey my every command.” He had signed it on the bottom.

  “My God, when did you write this?”

  “When I knew you’d never let me take you on a regular date.”

  “You’re right,” Zoe laughed, knowing he’d just signed away two hundred grand.

  “I didn’t know your middle initial.”

  “Where’s that pen?” Using a parking meter as a desk, she scrawled something. Then, ignoring the slickness between her thighs, she signed her name.

  “I’ll keep that,” Phillip said, taking the napkin from her. He read it and grinned. “I like the additions. Are you going to tell me what ‘L’ stands for?”

  “Lynn.”

  He folded the napkin and put it in his shirt pocket. Phillip held out his hand to her. His palm sizzled against hers.

  Dear God, what have I done? Zoe wondered as a cab finally pulled up.

  Running through Central Park early Saturday morning, Phillip wondered if he should feel guilty. Maybe sending her those martinis had been a bad idea. He’d never seen her drink more than a beer or glass of wine before last night—she’d probably have a hell of a hangover this morning. Poor baby.

  “Poor baby, my ass,” he said to himself, speeding up the hill past the Natural History Museum. She’d be mean as a hellcat and pissed off to boot. His sympathy would be wasted. Passing a college-age girl jogging with a giant poodle, he decided to absolve himself of any guilt. He hadn’t poured the drinks down her throat. Not exactly.

  Then Phillip grinned, remembering the way she’d pressed her thigh against his in the booth. Getting her drunk might have been worth it. And she definitely would have slapped him if she’d been sober when he handed her that napkin.