by Ana Sparks
“Mr. Sharpe, of course. Your VIP suite has been prepared for you. You’ll find champagne as well as a selection of other choice beverages. As always, don’t hesitate to call if you need something,” she says in a rush, slipping the suite’s keycard into my hand. She hesitates as Aimee sticks her hand out, glancing to me for permission.
“This is my guest, Aimee Rhodes. She’s free to have the other keycard,” I say warmly, grimacing as Aimee snatches the card from the woman’s hand. It seems that being cordial is the last thing on my normally sweet girl’s mind, but I can’t say I blame her. I can only hope that getting a delicious lunch into her stomach will soothe her nerves so that we can discuss the issue like adults.
It’s several beats before I realize Aimee’s walked away to the elevator without me, and I sprint to catch up. I manage to jump inside just before the doors close.
“You only booked one room?” she inquires. There is a tinge of bitterness to her words.
“Well, there are multiple rooms in the suite, so I thought it unnecessary to get you a room on another floor. After all, we’ll be spending a lot of time together,” I explain.
She averts her eyes, muttering under her breath. A bit of irritation at her attitude begins to make itself known within the recesses of my brain, and I clear my throat.
“You’ll have to speak up, Aimee. I can’t hear you if you’re mumbling,” I say with as much tact as I can muster.
“I said that it was rather presumptuous of you. Not to mention unprofessional—” she pauses as the elevator dings pleasantly to indicate we’ve reached our floor. “But I suppose it’s fine,” she adds as an afterthought, walking out of the elevator without looking back and following the hallway to the VIP suite.
I stare after her with my mouth agape, snapping it shut when I realize I must look ridiculous.
It’s becoming increasingly evident that she knows more than she cares to discuss for the time being. In spite of how childishly she’s behaving, I also know that she’s entitled to her feelings. I trail behind her, the young man who’d brought our bags lagging behind us. I hadn’t even noticed his presence in the elevator, and I find myself growing more incensed because of it.
I manage to swallow my growing irritation, however. If anything, the patience I’m showing for this young woman only serves to make obvious how I feel about her. It would be a lie to say I’m not having second thoughts about those feelings, however. It would almost be better if she took some pleasure in making me miserable, but she simply continues to wear that ever-sour expression.
It’s as if she thinks there’s no way that things can be fixed. It’s almost as if…I’ve broken her heart.
“We’ll just step in for a moment, then we’ll have to rush if we want to make lunch. I know a nice café nearby, and we can have a discussion I’ve been putting off,” I say gently, reaching out to take her hand.
She yanks herself free of my grip, staring at me for a long moment before letting out a deep sigh.
“I’m not hungry. You go ahead; I’ll just explore the room a bit. I need time to settle in,” she mumbles, and I feel an inexplicable sense of betrayal.
She’s…turning me down?
I part my lips to try to continue the conversation, but she turns her back to me and walks deeper into the suite. While I know I could follow her, I realize there’s little reason to do so right now. Maybe when she cools down, we can discuss things openly.
Until then, I suppose I’m off to lunch on my own.
Chapter Twelve
Aimee
The VIP suite is about as wonderful as you would expect, if you’ve never been inside such a thing. A small town girl like myself finding her way to such an extravagant place would likely bring my mother to tears. Tears of joy, that is, until I told her what exactly I’d gone through to get to this point.
The thought almost brings a smile to my face, but I’m not sure when Carson will return to prepare for his meeting, and I don’t want him to catch me smiling. I know that seems petty, and that’s because it is petty, but I have every right to be. What goes around comes around, you know?
Perhaps it was cold of me to turn down Carson’s lunch invitation, especially considering the supposed discussion he wanted to have. I have my suspicions about the direction that conversation would turn, and I’m not entirely prepared to launch into a screaming match with my boss in a foreign country. Granted, as sour as I’ve been, he’s yet to really lose his cool. I suppose I vaguely respect that.
Then again, he’s likely had to deal with this situation several times over. I’m probably reacting by the book, and for some reason, that thought only serves to make me angrier. I launch myself out of my position on his fancy king-size bed, stomping towards the mini fridge in the corner of the room. If you could even call the monstrous thing miniature, in any way, shape or form.
Yanking open the refrigerator door, I take a moment to reflect on how entirely unprofessional it would be for me to show up to the scheduled meeting three sheets to the wind. A smirk works its way onto my face as I grab the bottle of fancy champagne that had been promised to Mr. Sharpe.
Struggling with the top for a moment, I take my teeth to the foil and grab hold of the cork. With a bit of skillful prying, bubbles begin to spew from the top of the bottle. A victorious laugh spills past my lips, and I take a long swallow from the bottle.
It might have been how restless my sleep had been on the flight here, but the champagne serves to make me feel rather warm and fuzzy all too soon. I hiccup, continuing to drink from the bottle even as I hear the door to the suite open.
Uh-oh. Busted.
Laughing at the thought, I turn to face the entryway to the bedroom as Carson steps inside. His eyes widen as he takes me in, and it’s all I can do to keep from laughing in his face. His jaw clenches, and a part of me hopes that he’ll throw me on the bed and show me what a bad girl I’ve been. I’m a horny drunk, so sue me.
Unfortunately, he simply steps forward and yanks the bottle out of my hand. He groans upon seeing how much is missing from the bottle and turns a stern look upon me. I feel myself smiling much like the cat that got the canary, and his cheeks redden faintly. In spite of how angry we’re making each other with every misstep, it seems like we’re drawn together like moths to a flame. I bite my lip, fixing him with a sultry stare as I step towards the bed.
Obviously, he has more restraint than I do. He tosses the bottle in the garbage, grabbing his suitcase off the bed and turning his back on me. He rolls the large bag into another section of the suite, beginning to unbutton his shirt. I trail after him, angry that he’s turned down my advances. After all he’s done to me?! Then again, I suppose it’s a noble thing, not taking advantage of an inebriated woman. I settle against the back of the couch, watching him with pursed lips as he changes clothes.
My eyes take in every minute detail of his skin as it’s exposed to the open air, and I curl my nails into the carefully upholstered leather of the sofa. I’m torn between anger and simply wanting to launch myself at him and rip him out of that fancy suit. He doesn’t want anything more than a plaything, and right now, I almost feel like I can allow that.
All at once, the nausea washes over me. I lurch towards the bathroom, clutching the porcelain and retching into the bowl. Christ, I should have eaten. I hear his footsteps as he approaches me, and he silently pulls my hair back. He wraps a hair elastic around the bulk of it, and I notice him placing a carefully folded dress on the tiled floor.
“We’re running out of time. The meeting is in thirty minutes. Get it together, Rhodes,” he says icily.
Fury rises up within me as Carson stands beside me, considering his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He runs a comb through his hair with infuriating poise, and I struggle to get to my feet. He glances at me with a disappointed expression, and I bare my teeth at him. Grabbing the spare toothbrush, he hands it to me before reaching out with a foot to flush the toilet.
“You actually
expect me to come with you?” I demand, brushing the sickness out of my mouth in spite of myself. He rolls his eyes, leaning against the doorframe.
“It’s your job, Aimee. If you’re going to treat me as if I’m nothing more than your asshole boss, I expect you to at least play your part,” he says coolly.
I narrow my eyes, staring at my ragged reflection in the mirror. He’d at least pulled my hair back in a way that looks nice, if a bit simple. My eyes are watering from throwing up—and as much as I hate to admit it, the sheer emotion flooding my body.
“You are an asshole,” I mumble, splashing water onto my face.
“No arguments there. Now, get dressed. We’re running late,” he replies with a sad smile, turning to give me a bit of personal space to get dressed.
As much as I want to be difficult, I know I’m pressing my luck as far as having a job when we return to Seattle. I can only hope he’ll be kind enough to assign me to my original position as a marketing intern, but I don’t exactly consider him a kind man right now.
At least, not entirely. It strikes me abruptly how nice he’s being, considering the mess I’ve made of myself. He could fire me on the spot, kick me out of his fancy VIP suite, and make me find my own way home.
Swallowing the vitriol that’s flowing in my veins, I quickly change into the formal dress he’s laid out for me. I stumble somewhat clumsily into the bedroom where my suitcase lies, then grab my makeup bag, trying to make myself as presentable as possible on such short notice. Then again, it wasn’t short notice at all. The whole idea behind this trip, really, was to make a deal and schmooze with the Russians.
Decidedly too unsteady for heels, I step into a pair of flats and turn to seek out the man who has haunted my thoughts for the past few weeks. Carson watches me with a faint smile, clapping his hands together. It should feel condescending, but an unbidden surge of pride washes through me. I won’t let him see the effect he’s having on me, however. He doesn’t deserve that much.
“So, what am I supposed to do?” I inquire, still slurring faintly. He chuckles, stepping forward to take me by the arm. He guides me to the door, speaking in hushed tones as we make our way down the hall.
“Just sit there and look pretty. You’re not in any shape to score brownie points right now,” he says gently, in spite of how offensive the words should be.
I know he’s right; I’m certainly not in any condition to be speaking to foreign businessmen, but to hear it just makes me feel all the more sour again. It’s not as if it’s my fault that he’s dragged me to this sexcapade-disguised-as-a-business-trip. It’s not my fault he tricked me into thinking he actually cared about me.
Before I realize what’s going on, we’re in the rental car, on the way to meet with the Russian CEOs. I glance nervously at Carson, and though he looks as confident as ever on the surface, I know him well enough to see a glimmer of doubt in his eyes.
“I’ll behave,” I say quietly, staring at the floor and feeling suitably chastised. He glances towards me, offering a genuine smile. There’s still sadness behind it, but he seems to appreciate my efforts, nonetheless. I can only wonder what he has to be sad about, unless he thinks I plan to go out of my way to ruin his little meeting. Like he said, I intend to simply sit and look pretty while the men discuss the finer details.
Letting out a sigh, I allow my forehead to rest against the window once more. The scenery passes in a blur, though what I can see of it is nothing short of beautiful. It’s a shame, really. Aside from the business aspects, it would have been a wonderfully romantic trip to share. I should at least enjoy the sights and sounds of the city while we’re here, regardless of my current feelings for Carson.
“You look very nice,” he says awkwardly, and I manage a bitter chuckle.
“Thanks. More of an exercise in ego, though, considering you pretty much dressed me,” I reply dryly.
That gets a bark of laughter from him, and I try to keep my lips from curling into a smile of my own. I’m angry with him, dammit. I don’t want to hear his warm laugh, see the tenderness dancing in his eyes that was enough to fool a girl into thinking he was in love.
It’s like being hit by a freight train. Not the fact that I’d thought he was in love—more so the fact that I want him to be in love with me. I’m troubled by the implications of my own feelings, especially considering just how wounded I’ve felt since finding out I’m nothing more than a fling.
The car coming to a stop jolts me from my thoughts, and Carson circles around to take me by the arm. He guides me to a table where several other sharply dressed men are already waiting. I flash a smile that certainly doesn’t resonate within me, but that’s no one’s fault but my own. For all Carson had done to me, I’m sure he hadn’t meant for me to fall in love with him. He wasn’t that cruel.
Passing in a flash, the meeting is over in a matter of moments, and I only vaguely understand what the men are saying. Carson shines like a star, however, obviously in his element. I’m zoning out when the men share a laugh, and Carson reaches out to shake each hand in turn. Realizing he’s sealed the deal, I sit more upright, trying to look altogether delighted by the news. The men speak in Russian for a moment, and Carson’s perfectly executed accent sends chills down my spine. Then, the other men rise from the table and leave.
Admittedly, I’m all too eager to get back to the hotel room and drown my sorrows in some more champagne. The lurch my stomach gives during the car ride back makes me rethink that, however. Once back in our room, Carson places a large white box on the couch I’m lying on.
“There’s going to be a party to celebrate the success of our meeting, and I’d really appreciate it if you would come,” he says quietly.
He smiles that timid smile that looks so out of place on his strong features, walking away before I have the chance to answer.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I sit up to open the box. Inside is the most beautiful cocktail dress I’ve ever seen in my life. The price tag hangs off the side, and I’m certain I haven’t ever seen so many zeroes in my life.
Ah, hell. I’ll go to the little shindig. Then, it’s homeward bound, and I can pretend that I never fell in love with my billionaire boss.
Chapter Thirteen
Aimee
We drive to the event in relative silence, though I can feel Carson’s appreciative gaze on me so often that I wonder if he’s actually watching the road at all. The dress fits like a glove, cut dangerously low in the bust and dangerously high in the thigh. It’s couture, though, so I have no complaints.
The haze of the champagne has faded from my brain somewhat, and my anger with Carson has dissipated, if only slightly. While it’s still clear he’s using me for sex, he does seem to care about me as an employee, at the very least. I can’t imagine he’d be giving a male employee as much slack as I’ve gotten. Not that I don’t appreciate it, especially if it means I’ll still have a job when we get back to Seattle.
Pulling into the parking lot of the party venue, I can feel the bass vibrating through the ground as soon as I step out of the rental car. The music is loud, the chatter and laughter among friends and colleagues even louder.
Uncertainty washes over me, but Carson steps up to my side and offers me his arm. I know I should deny him and meander through the venue on my own accord, but at least I’ll feel safer with someone I know. Stepping through the front entrance of the venue, we’re greeted by loud cheers and clapping.
Grinning at the attention, Carson waves at the executives he’s already made a deal with. He guides me deeper inside, and in spite of myself, I find the beat of the music rather catchy. The lyrics are in Russian, but judging from the bumping and grinding on the dance floor, I can wager a guess at what the song is about.
Loosening his grip on me, Carson saunters closer to the other businessmen. I make a beeline for the snack table, moving my hips along to the music without really realizing. I find another person frequenting the snack table, feeling embarrassed to see my o
nly company is a portly man with bright red sauce smeared on his upper lip. He speaks to me very excitedly, gesturing wildly with his hands. I offer him what I hope is a kind smile.
“I don’t speak…” I begin, cutting myself short as he circles around the table. I chuckle nervously, taking a step back. He gestures wildly towards a shrimp cocktail, popping one into his mouth and holding another out for me to try. For once I’m grateful that the language of food is universal. I accept the proffered shrimp, nibbling on it and nearly moaning in pleasure at the taste. While the trip with Carson has been a series of ups and downs, living in the lap of luxury for the briefest of times is likely something I won’t easily forget.
I turn to the chubby man, giving him a thumbs up and hoping he understands. He laughs jovially, returning the gesture before shuffling to the opposite side of the table. He glances at me occasionally, and I feel somewhat self-conscious in my dress until a gorgeous woman with fair skin and blond hair approaches the man and kisses him on the cheek. Once again, I shoot him a thumbs up.
Seeing the gesture, he reacts by reaching down to grab the woman’s rear. She giggles, slapping him on the shoulder. It’s obvious they’re close, perhaps married, judging by the matching bands on their fingers. For a moment, I feel almost bitter that this man is married and happy, while I’m fruitlessly pining after my gorgeous boss. I feel bad for the thought immediately, however, as the man waves and guides his wife out onto the dance floor.
“I see you have made a friend,” a gruff voice murmurs near my ear, the English sounding somewhat broken. I wheel around, faced with a tanned man with dark hair and dark eyes. In another lifetime, I might have been struck by his looks. In the moment, however, I can only wonder if he understands the concept of personal space.
“Yes. Everyone here seems so friendly,” I say amicably, taking a step away from him. I glance across the room, meeting Carson’s gaze where he stands at the table with the Russian businessmen. The man at my side is vaguely familiar, and I realize I saw him at the meeting earlier that day.
