The Trade: A Billionaire Office Fling

by Tharp, Emma

  Donovan glances down at his watch and stands abruptly. "But if she did, wouldn't it be convenient? It could help you both ease some tension. Just give it some thought. I have to go; I'm going to be late for a meeting." He strides out my door leaving me with way too much to think about.

  Instead of being focused on the mound of paperwork in front of me, all I can think about is my assistant. It’s ludicrous to even entertain Donovan’s idea. She’s my employee. It’s unethical to fraternize with someone who works for you.

  And yet, I find myself staring at Camille. She's troubled today. She keeps sighing and her head is down. Periodically, she rubs circles over her temples and squints her eyes closed. I need to know what's up. Not only am I concerned, I'm also intrigued.

  "Camille," I call out. "Come here."

  She simply stands, makes her way around her desk, and comes to mine.

  "Have a seat."

  She nods and sits down on the edge of the seat as if she's ready to bolt and make a run for it at any moment. I’m half tempted to tell her that I don’t bite, but think better of it.

  "What's wrong?" I ask with as much concern as my weary mind can muster.

  She shakes her head and looks down at her lap.

  "Your attitude impacts my business. Talk to me."

  She licks her lips and a line creases her smooth forehead.

  "It also affects your job." This time I add some ice to my tone.

  She looks up at me, her eyes wide as saucers, and I take in how gorgeous her emerald greens are. "I need surgery. The doctor won't do it until I pay her in full. I don’t have the money to do that. And after that, I'll be paying off the hospital portion for the rest of my life." She blows out a long breath, tension cording her neck and shoulder muscles. "Aren't you glad you asked?" She moves to stand up.

  "Wait. How much money are we talking?"

  Four

  Camille

  All I can do is stare at my boss. Heat rises up my neck as his dark eyes examine me. He has the kind of eyes that you could get lost in if you look long enough, that’s why I force myself to stare at the floor.

  It seems like a simple question, but I was raised to never talk about my finances. Money is a private matter. Then, I came to work for Garrett Monroe. He’s wealthy, and though he doesn't exactly flaunt it, there's an air about him that lets everyone know he's successful in everything he does.

  No matter the sticker price, he never blinks. “Could you pull up the specs for me on the new Lamborghini Veneno and the Bugatti Veyron Mansory Vivere? I’d like to do a side by side comparison.” He's always acted like every expense is pocket change. “Book my flights, Camille. First class. Or call to have the private jet ready.” And now he wants to know what paltry sum has me in such distress.

  Closing my eyes, I bite my bottom lip. "One thousand, three hundred and ninety-four dollars.” I glance up at Garrett's earnest face. "I'm sure you make that before breakfast. I make that in two weeks. Oh, and I still have to pay for an apartment that's smaller than my office. Yes, I come here and think about how roomy this space is. I come here to stretch out and breathe. Crazy, huh?" I do my best to keep the bitterness out of my tone, but it's hard when he's forcing me to talk about sensitive subjects.

  He rubs his finger across his lips as he listens to me. I'm trying not to be distracted by that, but there's no denying how sexy he is, which is why I almost turned down the job.

  "I can't work for a guy who looks like a damn runway model,” I argued with my best friend.

  "Why not? The job should come with perks," she said.

  And because I was desperate, I took the job. Until today, I've never regretted a minute of the last two years.

  "What's the surgery for?" he asks as he continues to stare at me.

  I almost don't want to tell him. After all, talking about female problems is the second biggest no-no in my world, coming right after money. This is what happens to a girl who was raised by a man who lost his wife to ovarian cancer.

  A cool sweat breaks out along the back of my neck. How lovely that we can get both of these topics out of the way in a single conversation. "I think I liked it better when you didn't notice me," I mumble, half-hoping he didn't hear me.

  He leans forward and his features soften. "You didn't answer the question. How am I supposed to help if I don't know what's going on?"

  He's making a valid point; I wasn't expecting his help. I learned a long time ago to take care of myself and stand on my own. "They need to remove a cyst and check it for cancer." Then, anticipating his next question, I answer before he can ask. "My mother died of cancer, so I'm higher risk." I shrug one shoulder like it's no big deal.

  "What kind of cancer?" he asks, his voice warm and quiet like I've never heard it before. His brow furrows and it all gives me a sense that he cares, which actually makes this more difficult to discuss.

  “Ovarian,” I whisper. I avert my eyes, not wanting to see the pity I am sure that is in his. This is more painful than the exam I had or the news I received. This is more real because I see him every day and he’s close. And I haven't had a real relationship in more years than I care to count—someone should buy me a T-shirt that says Unlucky In Love. I haven’t opened up to anyone at all in a long time, aside from my best friend, Lucy.

  Finally, he asks one final question. "Show me?"

  But, why? I don't want to. This is far too personal, but if I want his help, and I rather need it considering my financial challenges seem to be coming at me like a hail of bullets, I better do it and not question his motives.

  Looking down, I ease out of the chair, my legs feeling like they’re made out of lead. Lifting up my shirt, I pull down the side of my pants, and expose the bulge. My cheeks feel like there’s a blowtorch blowing directly on them. I’ve been so self-conscious about it that I've been doing everything possible to cover it up for the last six months. My heart beats in my chest like a hummingbird’s wings when I look up at him. "Satisfied?"

  There's something in his eyes that I can't quite make out, but I’m relieved that it isn’t pity. He licks his lips and rests his hands on his desk. "Not yet."

  Five

  Garrett

  This isn’t what I expected. I’m not sure what I expected when she came in my office. Initially I thought maybe she was going through a break-up or a disagreement with a co-worker. Not something relating to her health.

  Maybe I’m a bold asshole, but I had to see the cyst. I knew she wasn’t lying to me, but I wanted to see exactly what’s causing her distress. She’s worked for me for two years now and I’m concerned about her and the extent of her issue.

  Her stomach is perfectly flat, her skin flawless, other than a lump protruding from one side of her lower abdomen. “Does it hurt?” I ask. Though I loathe my ex-wife, it hasn’t altered my otherwise favorable opinion of women in general. And given how hard Camille has always worked for me, it pains me to think of her as even mildly distressed.

  She quickly drops her shirt and a frown paints her pretty face. She looks like a fragile bird ready to take flight at any moment. “It’s uncomfortable, yes. It’s taking up space and moving things and, well, it’s disfiguring, too.”

  I’m reminded of what my brother said about her clothes getting baggier. “You’ve been dealing with this for some time, huh?”

  She releases a hollow laugh. “Yes. And the last six months, I couldn’t hide it any longer.”

  “Sit,” I urge her as I point to the chair she just vacated. “Let’s talk.” I steeple my fingers in front of my face as I study her. “Take off your glasses.”

  I know what I’m asking is outside her job requirements and I’m crossing all the lines, but hasn’t crossing lines and doing what I want gotten me where I am today?

  Her posture suddenly goes rigid. “Why?”

  “Please. I’d like to see you.” I knew she’d be surprised with my request, but I’d like her to comply.

  She gives me the side-eye before pulling off her
frames. She’s immediately transformed. While she’s attractive with them, without them…she’s gone from pretty to beautiful. I nod.

  “Your hair?” I swoosh my hand around in a way meant to demonstrate that I want her to let it down.

  She sighs and looks around the room, like she’s trying to decide how many of my demands she’s going to fulfill. A moment later and her hair has fallen in soft waves around her shoulders. I suck in a sharp breath. “It’s a good thing this is the first time I’ve seen this, Camille,” I say. “Otherwise, I’d have ruined my marriage.”

  “Luckily, your wife managed to ruin it all by herself.” Camille rolls her eyes and shifts around in her chair. “May I go now?” There’s a sulk in her tone and I’m clearly making her uncomfortable. Why wouldn’t she be? I asked her to reveal her secrets and expose herself to me, but I’ve done nothing to solve her problem.

  “You were right earlier,” I say.

  “Which part?” Camille wrinkles her nose.

  “I’m right a lot.”

  This grants me a heart-stopping smile. I’m lost for a moment, completely distracted by her soft features and full lips. How is it that one moment I thought I’d have no interest in women and the next, I’m suddenly and completely intrigued by the one woman who’s been under my nose the whole time?

  “You were right about me making that much money before breakfast. I make more than that before I wake up. So how much do you need? To cover the hospital bill and whatever else needs covering in your life?”

  Her smile dissolves into a frown. “How’d you find out about my car?”

  “What’s wrong with your car?”

  This woman is under a pile of stress and somehow she came to work, probably mostly under the assumption that the money she earned while slaving away for me would eventually catch up to her bills. I sigh and shake my head.

  “Are we negotiating a pay raise?” Her posture perks up and her lips part. “I could really use a raise. Or maybe an advance. An advance would be good. I’d be beholden to you for the rest of my natural life, but since we’d find out whether or not I was dying, it’s uncertain how long that might be.” She lets out a nervous sounding laugh.

  “Not a raise, although you’re probably due.” I unbutton my sleeves and roll them up to my elbows.

  “It’s been over a year,” she admits, looking down.

  “I’ll fix that.” I blow out a breath. “And not an advance.”

  Her face falls and shoulders slump. “Then what are we negotiating?” she asks while struggling to keep her emotions in check.

  “What would you do for one hundred thousand dollars?”

  Her emerald eyes look as though they might pop out of her head. “What wouldn’t I do would be more like it,” she mumbles.

  My thoughts scramble around in my head. There’s tension between what’s right and what’s wrong completely jumbled up inside me. Donovan’s words are ringing loud in my ears. I can’t believe I’m even entertaining his idea, but I can’t help myself. The half of me that’s bold, headstrong, and selfish wins the internal battle. Before I consider the ramifications or the multitude of reasons I shouldn’t ask, I do it anyway. “I guess the big question is…would you spend a weekend alone with me?”

  Six

  Camille

  My mouth goes slack and I cover it with my hand. Did he just say what I think he did? There’s no way.

  My brain twists around in my head. A weekend alone translates to sex, right? Of course, it does. I’m pretty sure he just asked me if I’d have sex with him for money. Holy shit. Closing my eyes, I see images of Garrett’s strong capable body over me, his hands touching every part of me, his mouth on mine. I’ve had these fantasies before, but never did I ever dream they could become reality. Men like him don’t look at women like me. A pulse builds between my legs. Shaking my head, I open my eyes to find Garrett’s rapt attention on me. His lips are parted and I wonder if he can see my thoughts. Heat spreads up my face and suddenly I’m breathing too hard. “Before or after the surgery?” I ask, unsure of what else to say.

  His irises are dark as night. “After. I’m not sure how I feel about you having such a mercenary view of me.”

  How else could I think of him? For the two years I’ve worked for him, he’s been nothing but acquisitive and covetous. And he’s proving my point by propositioning me. I arch my brows.

  Garrett groans and clears his throat. “Never mind. I can see why you’d think that. I’m just trying to be practical.”

  Now, that’s not a word that comes to mind thinking about exchanging sex for money. “How’s that?” I cross my legs and wait, noting that he’s ogling my thigh under my voluminous skirt. For the first time since I’ve known him, I actually feel powerful. And I never want this feeling to end. That’s why I give his proposition some serious thought.

  My initial reaction was to laugh in his face and storm out. Not the best idea when I need to keep this job. And if I say yes, does it make me some kind of prostitute? Or a slut? Considering I’ve never done this before and have only had sex with three men in my life, I hardly think either label applies. I need to be practical though and think, not simply react.

  “Apparently I need to get back in the saddle, so to speak.” He loosens his tie and unbuttons the top button of his shirt. “I’m not calling you a horse. Not by any stretch. But if you were, you’d be a show horse. You’re meant to be admired. I want to admire you…” His voice is raspy, and his ears are turning pink.

  “You should stop talking now.” I can’t help but smirk. He’s off balance and I am making him that way. It’s empowering. Even earlier when he asked me to take off my glasses and let down my hair, I didn’t want to, but then he said “please.” It was the tone of his voice, soft and husky, and how his fingertip skimmed his jawline when he asked. It was as if he needed to see me like that like he needed his next breath. I couldn’t say no. I don’t know what that says about me, but I went with my instincts.

  He blows out a breath, tugging his tie, loosening it further. “Probably wise.”

  I can’t believe I’m entertaining this. My knee-jerk reaction is to say “yes.” I need the money, but what’s more persuasive is how much I want the experience. “Do I have time to think about it or is this a limited-time offer?”

  Garrett sits back, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Take all the time you need.”

  A coil of nerves works its way around my belly in little knots. My mind warns me that saying yes could result in my needing to find another job. It most likely will mean that. Could I work with him after we sleep together? No, probably not. It could be a massive disaster. But I’ve made do on so much less, and that amount could cover my expenses for almost two years. Plenty of time to find another job, or even go back to college.

  I have me to rely on, and it’s been that way since Dad passed away four years ago. He always told me to go with my gut and go after what I want. Too bad fear wins out most of the time now with me. When Dad got sick five years ago, I dropped out of college to go home and take care for him. He never asked me to, but there was no other choice. And after he passed, and both of my parents were dead, I started to clam up and turn in on myself, losing my way. I know neither of them would like to see me like this, afraid to move on and follow my dreams.

  The opportunities this deal with Garrett could afford me are endless. I’d be crazy to pass it up. And I know if I say no, I’ll regret it. Reaching down into the part of me that used to take risks and chances, I sit up straighter and breathe deeply. “Screw it. Yes.” A nervous giggle bubbles up and spills out as I stand, ready to go back to my desk. The last thing I want to do is sit in front of him and see his reaction.

  Garrett inhales sharply. “You mean it?” There’s something in his voice, the way it nearly cracked, revealing a vulnerability I haven’t seen before. Whipping around, I study his face. “Yes. I mean it.”

  “Good answer,” he says.

  I take a few steps forward, hear
t pounding. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  He stares at me, silent and unmoving for a moment. “I assure you, you won’t have any regrets,” he says, his tone sheet-grabbingly sexy. It’s a promise. One I know he’ll make good on.

  His gaze is almost predatory and for the first time since I’ve met the man, a thick sexual current prickles between us.

  Swallowing hard, twice, I say, “Okay.”

  “Good. We can discuss more details tomorrow.” He leans back in his chair. And suddenly, the power seems to swing back to Garrett.

  “Sure,” is the last thing I say before going back to my desk. Sinking down in my chair, a shiver runs up my spine. Is it excitement or a warning? I don’t have the answer to that, but either way, things are going to change. And maybe that’s just what my life needs. A change.

  Seven

  Garrett

  I'm going to wear a hole in the carpet of my office. Getting here early this morning, I'm finding it difficult to sit still. I barely slept last night, tossing and turning thanks to fitful dreams of this arrangement blowing up in my face, alternating with erotic dreams of all the things I want to do to Camille as soon as she's healed and the doctor gives us the okay.

  It's still hard for me to believe that I actually propositioned a woman for a weekend away with me in exchange for money. And she didn’t slap me across the face, quit, and sue me for harassment. The events of yesterday don’t even seem real. Seeing Adriana with her round, pregnant belly—that I didn’t give her—started the downhill slide. And signing the divorce papers, making it all so final didn’t help. Donovan coming in here and claiming that I need to move on and sleep with a woman—and then bringing the possibility of Camille into focus was the catalyst for it all. And yet, even with my shrewd business acumen, I don’t know why I thought I could act the way I did with her yesterday—asking her to take off her glasses and let her hair down. And I wonder if on any other day I would’ve asked the unthinkable. Sex for one hundred thousand dollars.