Chapter Eight

Elliot

“Anything else?” Pete Monroe says. He’s my financial advisor at Omega Wealth Management. Tidily cropped black hair, intelligent gray-blue eyes. Calm as he waits for my response.

Young and hungry, he’s smart and has good instincts for when and where money should be invested. Most importantly, he knows when to get out. That might explain why I’ve never seen him harried or frazzled, even when the market cliffs. But his office is pretty average with an average view, presumably to ward off accusations of nepotism. His sister is married to the owner of the firm. Still that doesn’t mean the decoration is average as well. Whoever did his office has great taste—lots of soothing but energetic shades of green, blue and pale cream, plus the strategic placement of certificates and awards to inspire confidence and trust.

Pete has a photo of a pretty brunette on his wide oak desk. He’s missing a ring, but I’ve seen how his gaze softens every time he looks at the picture. If I’m not mistaken—and I rarely am about this kind of thing—he’s whipped.

“I think that’s all,” I say.

Pete’s intern gathers all the documents, creating two neat piles. He puts one in a thick envelope that feels expensive and hands it to me. “Here you are, sir.”

“Thanks.” Dennis Dunn is unremarkable. He has sandy hair, gray eyes so light they’re the color of spit, and ghostly white skin that’s probably never seen the sun. At least his broad body indicates he works out. And his cheap tan suit does fit him well, but I’ve noted the way he looks at Pete’s Armani getup. Hunger and ambition burn equally in those pale eyes.

I turn to Pete. “Mind if we chat privately for a moment?”

He nods, and the intern slinks off, closing the door behind him.

I make sure there are no shadows on the other side of the frosted glass, and say, “I don’t like that kid.”

“Dennis?”

“Yeah.”

Pete manages the impressive feat of quirking an eyebrow while frowning. “Has he done something to offend you?”

“No. Just don’t like people who are overambitious near my money.”

He laughs. “Maybe I should be offended here. You don’t find me ambitious?”

“Oh, no, you definitely are. But you’re smart enough not to overreach. I don’t know about him.”

“He’s here purely to learn, and he has no authority over, nor any access to, any of the accounts. The security and privacy of your portfolio are of course paramount to our firm.”

I snicker. “Did you have to memorize that as part of your orientation?”

He merely grins. “He’s only here for six months. I’ll keep an eye on him if it makes you feel better.”

“You do that.” I get up. “Thanks, Pete.”

“My pleasure.”

I leave. Dennis is nowhere to be seen, although if he knew I was leaving, he might’ve come out to see me off. I don’t know why he bothers me. Pete’s worked with other interns before, and I hardly ever noticed them…unless they were hot chicks.

I shake my head. Whatever. Like Pete said, he’s only here for six months. And even if he becomes a permanent hire, what am I going to do? I’m fortunate to be OWM’s client. The firm’s been cutting back recently, becoming even more exclusive, but since I was one of the early customers, I still get to keep my account with them.

OWM must have an oracle on staff, because I’ve never seen it lose a client’s money. A lot of people think that the algorithm Lucas and I sold on our twenty-first birthday is what made us billionaires. Actually the company and all intellectual property attached to it were sold for over a billion, but after expenses and split two ways, the amount I got was a lot less. It was OWM that pushed me into the ten-figure ranks.

For which I compensate them handsomely.

I walk past the receptionist’s desk. As I’m about to open the glass doors to the elevators, I see someone in my peripheral vision and stop. It’s…that girl.

Annabelle Key.

I can hardly believe my eyes, but there she is, pushing a cart with cleaning supplies and buckets. A gray janitorial staff uniform hangs loosely, hiding her body. Her bright red hair is pulled into a ponytail, there isn’t any makeup on her small face, and her pale lips are set in a line as flat as a hyphen.

My gaze swings to the door that just shut behind her, and I see a black-and-white sign with a triangular woman’s figure on it.

I don’t think. I just move.

Before I know it I’m next to her, my hand around her arm. She looks up at me, eyes wide. This close I can smell floral soap and a sweet womanly scent. But there’s also chlorine, twisting like a knife, and it infuriates the hell out of me that she’s here…doing this.

“Janitor work? Janitor work is your calling?” I almost snarl.

She tilts her chin in defiance. “Why do you care?”

I flex my hand, suppressing the urge to shake her until her teeth rattle. I don’t know why I give a damn. I really shouldn’t, but I keep thinking about her, and fuck me if I can figure out why I can’t just stick her in the “whatever” box.

All women in my life are neatly categorized: “family and friends,” “previously fucked,” “to be fucked,” and the catch-all “whatever.” The last one is for women who don’t fit into the first three, and once a chick goes in there, I don’t think about her anymore. It just isn’t worth the effort. Life is full of willing girls.

And maybe it’s because she won’t fit neatly into a box that I’m fascinated. I love a good challenge, and I’ve been bored for a long time.

“Do you think you can find a husband scrubbing toilets?” I ask.

“Beats being told to get on my knees by some random rich guy.”

“Three grand not enough?”

“I prefer something steadier than just one night.”

She yanks on her arm, but I don’t let go. I sense the receptionist watching us, but I don’t give a fuck. She’s going to be discreet about it because that’s what the firm pays her to be.

“So your objection is to the one-off nature of my offer?”

Instead of answering, she jerks her arm again. But I’m not letting go until I’m done.

“When are you finished with your shift?” I ask.

“None of your damn business.”

“I can make your life very difficult.” I lean close until I can see every fleck in her mesmerizing green eyes. “I could get you fired right now.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“Asshole.”

I merely smile. “Your shift?”

“Five,” she grinds out.

“Good. I’ll send a car. We’ll talk.”

“About what?”

“About you going on your knees on a more consistent basis.”

Her complexion turns as red as a boiled lobster. If we didn’t have an audience, I’m sure she’d slap me.

And for some strange reason, that amuses me a great deal. I let go and leave, whistling. But as soon as I’m inside an elevator, my merriment fizzles. I have things to do.