Ann

 

 

 

Only one thought assaults my senses when I walk through the door and spot the man sitting at one of the tables in the back of the restaurant.

You've got to be kidding me.

For a moment, I don't trust my eyes. I don't want to trust my eyes. I try to convince myself that it’s just a weird coincidence, perhaps the universe playing a joke on me. This cannot be real… but it is.

The man is not a stranger.

It's him.

The man who approached me at the agency, the man whose husky voice sent shivers racing down my spine when he spoke those words against my ear. What was his name again? I'm too dumbfounded by his appearance to remember, but I distinctly remember him introducing himself that day.

Instead of walking toward the table to greet him, I don’t move from my position right inside the door, staring at him in disbelief. It’s like I’ve turned into a statue.

He notices me, too. Our eyes connect across the room. Unlike me, though, he doesn't seem to be the least bit surprised or shocked. But then, why would he be? He had the upper hand knowing that he was meeting me tonight. The e-mail Miss Barry sent me didn't include any identifying information about the man I was scheduled to meet.

The man who was interested in buying me.

All I was told were the details of his inquiry at the agency. He's looking for something very specific, something that will cost him a lot of money and appears to be hard to find. He's looking for a woman who is willing to pretend to be his girlfriend, a partner who will be attached to his arm in public, but who is also willing to serve his needs in bed. Miss Barry told me that most clients seek one or the other. Either option can be purchased for longer than a single night, and some arrangements even last for months or years, but the contracts focused on hiring a girlfriend often don’t include sex or are limited to naturally occurring intimacy.

But this guy, he wants it all, and he wants at least a year-long commitment. The inquiry said that he's not only looking for a fake girlfriend, but a submissive in bed, a girl who will satisfy his sexual needs, submit to his commanding nature, and bend to his will.

I don't know how comfortable I am with that last part, but I was definitely intrigued by the rest, and especially what he’s willing to pay to get it.

One million dollars.

And he wants me. He saw me, both in person and on file, and he wants me. The e-mail laid out a time and place to meet him, and all I was told was to show up if I was willing to negotiate an offer with him.

Based on the inquiry, I was definitely willing and curious, but that was before I knew who the man was.

I don't know whether to feel flattered or scared, but I do know one thing: I'm angry.

The confident expression on his face doesn't change one bit when the anger surging through my veins ignites the courage I need to march across the room toward him in long, furious steps.

"Is this a fucking joke?" I snap at him once I reach the table. "Did you set me up?"

His gaze darkens and he lets out an indignant huff before getting up from his seat. I watch as he stalks around the table, coming to a halt right in front of me. He’s standing so close that I can smell the intoxicating scent of his cologne. His proximity is unsettling, and it’s as if his mere presence starts churning my insides up like a blender.

I fight my instinct to back away from him, instead lifting my gaze up to meet his, defiantly jutting my chin forward and narrowing my eyes. He reciprocates my spite with a sinister look, his dark brown eyes simmering. He's wearing an expensive-looking black suit custom-fitted to his buff frame, and I notice that his hair is gelled to one side, styled in a more sleek fashion than it was the last time I saw him.

Despite the mixed kettle of emotions brewing and stirring inside me, I can't deny that he's the most handsome man I've ever seen in my life. The effect his refined allure has on me is troubling to say the least.

I hold my breath when he leans down, moving his face so close to mine that our noses almost touch. I can feel the warmth of his breath sizzling on my skin when he speaks.

"Sit," he hisses at me. "Now."

He underpins his sharp words by gesturing toward the chair opposite the one where he had been sitting.

My response is a hateful glare.

We engage in a silent staring contest for a few moments before he raises his voice again.

"Sit," he repeats. "You have five seconds."

I huff. "Or else?"

"Or else I'm going to make you sit."

I ponder his threat for a moment, assessing the situation at hand. He's big, tall, and strong and could overpower me easily. Would he actually risk causing a scene in a public place just to make me sit at his command? And what would stop me from jumping right back up?

"Five," he begins counting, his eyes seething with anger.

"You can't be serious."

"Four."

"Now, listen to me, I'm not going to-"

"Three."

"This is ridiculous."

"Two."

He moves closer to me still, and I instinctively tense up, preparing for an aggressive move. He's standing so close to me now that our bodies are brushing against one another in various places, but he hasn’t lifted a hand, nor has he grabbed me.

Yet.

"One."

As soon as the word is spoken, I duck, again evading the threat of an assault that doesn't happen. He doesn't move an inch, but watches as I obediently lower myself onto the chair.

"Good girl."

I can't believe I just did that.

Strangely, his words of praise send another shiver down my spine, a pleasant one this time. What the hell is wrong with me?

My eyes follow him as he moves around the table in slow, confident moves, sitting down in his chair like a king on his throne. As soon as he sits, a waiter appears out of nowhere and places two flutes of champagne in front of us. I cast the waiter a confused look as he scurries away noiselessly without even so much as a glance at me.

"Are you hungry?"

His voice draws my attention back to the table.

I shake my head. "Not really."

He raises an eyebrow. "You'll eat. They have excellent appetizers here."

I don't know how to respond, so I just continue regarding him with the same angry expression that’s been on my face since I first stepped inside the building. I've never been to this restaurant, and had actually never even heard of it before receiving the email. When I looked it up, I quickly realized why. This place is so far out of my price range that it was never even worth considering.

He casts me a belittling smile and then states the obvious. "You seem angry at me.  Why is that?"

"You know very well, why," I snarl at him. "This can hardly be a coincidence."

He chuckles. "Of course it isn't. As soon as I saw your file, I knew the two of us would be compatible."

My eyes widen in surprise. "You thought-"

"If anything, I should be angry at you, young lady," he goes on. "After all, you lied to me."

I shake my head. "I did not lie to you! I'm not an escort."

"And yet, here you are." He takes a languid sip of champagne.

I let out an angry growl. "Didn't they tell you anything about me?"

"I think I know what I need to know."

"No, you don't," I insist. "I'm not a real escort. I'm a reporter, just like I told you. I'm only doing this for a story. This is research."

The momentary dark flame in his eyes tells me that he doesn't like that piece of information. I remember witnessing a similar reaction when I first told him this at the agency. Something about it really seems to make him uncomfortable, whether it's my job itself or my insistence that I’m not an escort.

"If you're only here because you think I would help you with your story, you should leave right now and not waste any more of my time," he says coldly, fixating on me with his sinister stare. "I was told your file is legit, as meager as it may be, and that you may actually be interested in the deal I have to offer. If that's true, we may have something of mutual interest to discuss and you should stay."

He reaches for the flute in front of him, but doesn't drink from it. Instead, he swirls the liquid ever so slightly, watching as the golden pearls dance in the warm glow cast by the flickering candle in the center of our table.

"So, what will it be?" he challenges, without looking at me. "Leaving or staying?"

I straighten up in my chair and grab hold of the other flute with a little too much fervor, causing me to almost spill champagne on the linen tablecloth. I raise the glass to my lips and meet his testing gaze with heated determination.

"I'm staying."