Christina sighed and shook her head as she looked through the papers. There was something wrong with his head. How could he be so hung up on ideals, or dreams, or the fantasy world that everyone else left behind at fifteen? A modeling career? Just because she was attractive? He was insane.

The man was thirty-one for fuck’s sake, and he didn’t have an adult bone in his body. She’d done her homework. How had his company even survived his leadership? She knew he’d inherited it from his father, but he’d also owned it long enough that it should’ve fallen apart by now.

Amazingly, it was a success. Either a miracle had occurred, or there was something more to the guy than fast cars, models, and having more money than sense. What she’d seen didn’t match up with her research, though.

“What do you plan on doing with your life?”

She rolled her eyes. He was still at it. Why was he even still there? He was nothing but a distraction.

His question jolted her out of her thoughts. She had to stifle a laugh. It was so cheesy. This asshole, of all people, was asking her what she planned on doing with her life? Why was it that rich men always assumed their lives were perfect just because they had money? Like she was floating around aimlessly, just begging for a man to save her because she didn’t live in a mansion?

She made a show of holding her hands out at the now neatly-stacked pile of bills. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“But where do you see it going?”

Christina shrugged. “Where do you see your life going?” She loved doing this. Throwing these apparently philosophical questions back at these rich pricks and watching them struggle to find meaning in their existence.

“I don't know. I’d like to someday be able to paint, I suppose, but there isn't much time for that right now.”

Her eyes widened at his answer. She hadn’t seen that coming. “Did you just, umm, admit that you don’t know?” This was not how the conversation usually went. Normally they stuck to their guns and made a case that they were the most valuable person alive.

He nodded. “That’s why I asked you. You seem pretty confident you have it all figured out.”

She laughed. “Well, I don't. But I have a house I’m saving up for.”

“That seemed like a genuine laugh. Be careful. You might injure yourself.” Matty smirked.

Her face heated. Not only at his sarcasm, but at the fact she was smiling. She forced her lips back down into a neutral position. He made her nervous, and he shouldn’t. He was just a man. But fuck, he was a gorgeous one. She couldn’t find a way around that fact.

His smile grew wider as if he could read her thoughts. “Is happiness against the rules?”

“I’ve learned that if I smile at a male client, they make it out to be more than it is.”

He shrugged. “But that was a genuine smile, not a polite one. So it was more than it is. So why not let it happen?”

Was this whole conversation some kind of competition for him? What was it with men? It was a smile, Jesus.

Fine. He could play his little immature game. It wasn't like it mattered. She showed him an obviously fake smile. “Okay. I’ll smile at work. I just have one condition.”

“Which is?”

“That you leave the room. So I can get my work done in peace.”

His lips mashed into a fine line, and his face paled. “Tommy is right. You are a bloody bitch.”

She nodded, and her smile widened farther. “You got that right.”

At first, fear came over her for some reason. She might lose him as a client for that. He might call security, or toss his expensive brandy at her. It wouldn’t be the first time it’d happened. Wealthy, powerful men didn’t always take kindly to rejection. They usually didn’t appreciate the snark either. But if that was what she had to do to be treated professionally, then that’s how it would be. Her dreams and personal life weren’t his concern. She was hired to do a job, and he should let her do it.

Relief washed over her when he walked out of the room and left. He shouldn’t insist on looming over her shoulder anyway. Nobody could work that way.

Back when she worked for a variety of clients, she hadn’t experienced the same problems. Men with less money didn’t seem to think they were entitled to her body or her personal life. They just appreciated the work she was doing for them, most of the time. The more money the man had, the less care he took with it, and the more likely he was to assume her job was pointless.

Egomaniacs. That’s what they were.

Of course, they were the ones who suffered when they didn’t listen to her, or when they fired her before she could do her job. But she personally made sure they didn’t get away with that kind of behavior. She didn’t let them, and she wouldn’t, ever. Were other women allowing themselves to be treated like doormats? Or were these guys just so wealthy that the odd sexual harassment settlement didn’t scare it out of them?

Normally, the clear signs of this type of thing had her avoiding the client whenever possible. A little bad behavior, a little entitlement, and she despised him immediately. Matty Spencer should be the same.

But for some reason, she still wanted to talk to him. To impress him. It was the strangest feeling. Even after all the banter, she felt compelled to do a good job for him. She wanted to show him what she was worth. There was something about him that set him apart, made him interesting to her.

She couldn’t put a finger on it. Maybe it was the painting dream of his. Or his interest in her dreams. Maybe it was the fact he had actually admitted he didn’t know what he was doing, and that the situation could be embarrassing for him. Maybe it was just pure magnetism. His blatant advances excited her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time, if ever. His cockiness was sexy. His mystery was thrilling. She wanted to slap herself.

No.

She couldn’t let herself think about a client this way. She needed to work. Get her shit together. Not sit around fantasizing about her employer like a horny schoolgirl.

Perhaps it was because he was younger than her typical client. Hotter. So self-assured, despite his undeniable incompetence. She spent so much time working for pompous, dirty, old men, that someone like Matthew Spencer was a bit refreshing. At least he was nice to look at, slightly more in touch with reality, and managed to avoid really slimy behavior. It wasn’t like he’d touched her, ogled her, or made glaring advances. He was an asshole and not all that bright, but he stood head and shoulders above her usual clientele.

But, no matter how much she reassured herself of all this, she found herself unable to concentrate on the work in front of her. She wondered why she could still feel his hand burning hot against her lower back where he’d guided her from room to room.

She had to pull herself together. Forget Matty Spencer and his gorgeous, broody eyes. That was all there was to it. She had a crush on her employer. It wasn’t a big deal. He was handsome and rich and powerful. Of course she had a crush.

A silly infatuation wasn’t valid grounds to ruin her career. She pored over the papers and began swiftly sorting through them without him in the room. Much better. Besides, how could she possibly think of sleeping with a man who couldn’t even pay his bills on time? There was wealthy, and then there was just unbelievably irresponsible. If someone had a pile of money they didn’t respect, it would soon be gone. It would drive her crazy being romantically involved with someone that careless.

Speaking of not lasting long, Matty walked back in and stared at her as she carried on working.

She rolled her eyes where he couldn’t see.

The man refused to give up. All she wanted to do was get her job done. It seemed he was going to be one of those clients. But, she couldn't bring herself to tell him to leave again. She couldn’t move to another room. Her feet were like concrete bricks.

She enjoyed him being there. It was almost soothing.

She decided she would just sit and work, not talk to him, and hope that he would take the hint and walk out. No such luck.

“How’s it going?” Did he micromanage his employees at his business this way? Was he constantly walking into their offices to check up on them?

She refused to look up. “I’m a miracle worker, but not even I’m that fast. It’s been five minutes.” She let out a sigh that was much heavier than she’d expected, like she’d been holding in a breath.

“You’re very quiet.” Matty walked to the liquor cabinet again. “You sure it’s going okay?”

She couldn't help but watch as he moved over and poured himself another brandy. Was he an alcoholic? It was still the middle of the day.

She couldn’t help but notice his impressive figure as he walked through the room in his suit. Whether he was an idiot or not, he definitely had that going for him. Was he doing it on purpose? Coming in the room just to torture her? She thought he’d made it pretty clear that he liked her, but maybe he was just an asshole.

Shaking her head, she carried on opening letters.

“You seem a little upset.” He sipped his brandy and stared at her.

“It’s called working. One of us has to do it. You don’t have anything to do?” Her words came through gritted teeth.

“Not today, love. Perks of being in charge. Everyone else does the work for you. With proper guidance, of course. Remarkably, it gives you plenty of free time.” He leaned back in his seat with a smug grin.

“Good for you. I do believe I understood your elaborate and much-appreciated guidance. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with things.”

His face hardened as if his someone had just killed his dog. Had nobody ever told him to stop hovering before? No wonder his house staff looked so damn ragged all the time. Did he never think that maybe his employees would like to just do their work?

“I suppose I’ll let you get on it then.” He showed her a devilish grin. “Get on with it, I mean.” He snatched the bottle of brandy out of the room and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

She stared at the door for a short while. His obvious innuendo at the end, what did that mean? He was hitting on her. She was sure of it, but at the same time she wasn’t sure. He had to just be fucking with her for fun. It’d been too easy to get him to leave. But it was easy the first time, and he’d returned to bother her all but five minutes later. She wasn't going to get too optimistic.

As the day rolled on, though, she didn’t see him again. Usually, she would be pleased her client was gone. But somehow, she wasn’t. It annoyed her.

Anytime footsteps passed in the hallway, her head would snap up, and butterflies would swarm into her stomach. She’d curse them, get pissed at her body for betraying her.

He’d practically stalked from the room the last time, like a teenager who’d been told to stop doing stupid shit. And, much like that sort of teenager, she suspected he was going to try and find a loophole to do as he pleased, regardless of any of her suggestions. Maybe he was mad at her. Good, if it allowed her to do her job more effectively.

As the sun slowly set and she carefully put the papers to one side, ready to continue organizing them the next day, there was a soft, polite knock at the office door. It creaked open and the butler peered through the crack.

“Mr. Spencer wishes to see you before you leave, Miss.”

Christina nodded. “Now is good. I’m done.”

“No, he asked me to bring you to him.”

“Okay.” She nodded once more and looked over the table. It should be fine. She was at a good stopping point and would be able to carry on where she left off. Walking up to the door, she smiled at the butler. He stared, turned around, and walked down the hallway.

Christina followed through the house. It felt like being walked through a modern art gallery. The ceiling was tall, the marble floors gleamed, the clicking of her heels echoed across the huge empty spaces.

“In here, Miss.” He made a sweeping gesture. It felt like being transported back to Victorian times. Surrounded by polite, tired, sour-faced servants who did anything their master asked of them. Who even had a butler these days? And how did someone manage to replicate the structure of a Victorian house without keeping any of the order and efficiency? The world Matty Spencer lived in was a strange combination of modern and old.

The room she walked into, on the other hand, was very modern. Maybe a little bit too perfect for her tastes. It was like a bedroom taken directly from a designer's magazine. The four-poster bed was made of twisted steel and covered in delicate floral patterns. The red velvet bedding matched the immaculate curtains, already drawn over the windows. It was barely lit by a faint orange glow from an array of industrial-style lamps.

She turned her head and tried to tamp down her anger. Her entire body heated at once.

Matty Spencer lay right in the middle of it. He was on top of the covers rather than under them. He was completely undressed and lounging there in nothing but boxer briefs.

Christina wasn’t sure what to do. Her usual response would be to tell him to fuck off and walk right out of the room, however, she thought maybe that was the reaction he was after, judging by the grin plastered across his face. For some reason, Mr. Spencer’s primary occupation seemed to be one of making her uncomfortable.

“I just need a report so that I can rest easy. Know I’m in good hands.” Matty grinned.

Christina stared off at the wall and tapped a foot on the ground. “I’ve organized about a third of what needs to be done in the office. It will take a week before I can create a schedule for your household.” Her words came out fast and on each short breath of hers.

Don’t fucking look at him.

“Just don't get distracted.” His grin widened farther. “By all the paperwork, that is. Nor forget that I have other things which need addressing.”

Christina bit the inside of her cheek and did her best not to throw something at him, or glance over at the sleek contours of his finely-toned body. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m not easily distracted.” Her words came through her gritted teeth.

“Come here.” He patted the bed.

Christina thought her heart might leap through her chest. Her breathing became labored, palms slickened, and it took everything in her power to compose herself.

She hated that he affected her this way. Why couldn’t he cease being ridiculous for all of five minutes, and let her do her job and leave?

He picked up his cell phone. “So I can show you my schedule.”

She should just tell him to email it to her. That was what she always did. Why was she walking over to his bed to look at his damn phone? Her body was betraying her brain.

She needed to show some self-control, some professionalism. Her face needed a slap, or a bucket of ice water thrown on it. She made her way over and sat down on the edge of the bed, taking the phone from his hand and glancing at it. She couldn't help but notice that the butler had left and shut the door behind him.

Matty's hand rested against her stockinged thigh as she scrolled through his weekly schedule. Excitement built in the pit of her stomach. The tips of his fingers were like fire on her leg. Electricity coursed through her, and her mind went to complete shit. It took everything she had to will herself to focus on the screen.

She should stand up, give his phone back, and walk out.

Without thinking, she uncrossed her legs and felt his hand glide up her inner thigh. Her breath hitched.

It only took a moment, but his hands slid to her waist and pulled her back against his hard chest. His skin was warm and smelled of body wash.

As his hands slipped around her, she knew she should’ve slapped him—told him off like she always did when clients got handsy. How could he be so forward? Confident? Act like she was nothing more than his property, to do with as he pleased?

But she didn't stop him. She couldn’t.

The tension between them all afternoon had been palpable. He locked eyes with her as she was nearly seated in his lap.

His hand slid up her thigh again, finally resting on the top of her stocking. He grazed her exposed flesh at the line where the elastic ended with his fingertips.

His hand dug firmly into her thigh. “What do you say then?”