by Amelia Wilde
There is no knock on my door.
I pull out a portfolio and flip it open to some contracts I need to sign.
It’s worthless. Inside of a minute, my eyes are sliding off the words on the page and back to the door.
Where the hell is she?
By 5:15, I’m done. Done.
Closing my portfolio with a snap that echoes in the space where Cate is supposed to be, I stand up from behind my desk and pace over to the windows, looking out at the city below. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Control.
Remaining in control is how I built my fortune from the ground up, no thanks to my worthless father. And I don’t mean the fact that I will never get an inheritance from him—I couldn’t care less about his money. He was a piss-poor example of what it meant to be a man who fulfilled his responsibilities the way he should have.
If Cate wanted to back out—and she gave me no sign of wanting to do that yesterday, after I made her come all over my hand, bent over the desk like a high-fashion sex slave—it’s not like she doesn’t know where to find me. She has two phone numbers she can reach me at.
I keep an office in this building to be near her, for God’s sake.
And she has hers.
That’s the first place I need to look.
At first it means nothing to me that there’s no one in the hallway. It is 5:00, and business hours are, by most conventions, over.
Everything makes sense when I reach the double glass doors.
The doors are locked up tight, and all the lights inside Sarzó’s office suite are off.
They’re both gone, and I’m guessing it’s not because Sarzó took the evening off and sent Cate home.
If she’s not here, I have no reason to be. The meeting is one thing. I also have no intention of hunting down the remaining staff members in the office and grilling them on how their work went today. What a colossal waste of my time, which is infinitely more valuable than any of them can possibly imagine.
On the way back to my office I dial down to Peter to have him pull the car around, and by the time I’ve disconnected the call, I’ve also abandoned the idea of going back for the portfolio. That shit can wait until later.
I’m waiting for the elevator doors to close when someone shoves an arm carrying an overstuffed briefcase between the doors, forcing them open.
“I’m sorry,” says the guy, stepping in as soon as there’s enough space between the doors. He tucks the briefcase under his arm and moves to the opposite corner as the doors slide shut.
As we begin to descend, I look at him from the corner of my eye. He can’t stand still, tapping his foot against the ground, and he has a look in his eyes that reminds me of Cate, to a lesser degree.
He’s under pressure from Sarzó. It’s not quite as intense.
This guy is no one to me. He’s not a business partner. He’s not even a potential business partner, and I don’t tend to spend my energy on getting to know people when it won’t benefit me. It might make me a complete prick but when you’re as wealthy as I am, you don’t reach out. People take advantage of you.
I don’t know what the hell comes over me. But I turn to him and extend my hand for him to shake it. “Jax Hunter.”
It’s a ridiculous breach of elevator etiquette. Elevators are like urinals. You don’t see anyone in them, and they don’t see you. You stand in your opposite corners and politely ignore one another.
He cuts his eyes toward me and his eyes widen in confusion, but then he takes my hand and gives it a solid shake. “Kirk Hawthorne. Editorial.” His forehead remains wrinkled. Clearly, he has no idea who I am. Sarzó has either kept my acquisition of the company under lock and key or Kirk’s job doesn’t change much no matter who’s underwriting Williams-Martin.
“Jax Hunter,” I repeat, wondering if he’ll realize who the hell he’s talking to. “I bought out Williams-Martin.”
Now his head whips around toward me. “You’re the one who bailed out the parent company?”
“That’s me.”
The elevator stops on the ground floor and the doors slide open. Kirk is still searching for something to say to me, and for a single instant I wonder if my life might be easier if I was a little more approachable.
No way. Don’t make me laugh.
“Well, I’m—” He fumbles for the right words, his gaze sliding toward the lobby doors. I can imagine how anxious he is to get out of here. “I’m glad you did. A lot of jobs depend on it. Nice to meet you, Mr. Hunter.” With a nod, he turns toward the exit and takes several steps away.
“You too, Kirk.” He’s reaching for the door handle when I call him back. “Hey, Kirk?”
“Yes?” he says, turning to face me. I admire him for this one thing: he doesn’t seem very fazed about meeting me.
“I went to meet with Ms. Sarzó a few minutes ago, and she was already out of the office. It doesn’t seem typical. Do you have any idea where she and her team went?” Her team. Cate. Cate is all I really care about, even if I would never admit it to Kirk.
His answer is immediate. “Los Angeles.”
What? California?
He starts to step out the door, then turns back one more time. “Cate said Sandra—Ms. Sarzó scheduled a last minute meeting with the Mulleavys.”
“When will they be back?”
“Thursday,” he says, then disappears through the doors, not looking back.
California.
All the way back to my penthouse, I try to sort out why the hell Cate didn’t call me. Send me a text. Email me the second she knew she was leaving town.
I could have stopped it somehow, could have kept her closer.
No.
I couldn’t have.
Because that would mean admitting to someone else that my need for her doesn’t stop outside the meetings.
And I refuse.
I refuse.
But my heart won’t stop pounding. I can’t wait until Thursday. Something about Cate makes it completely impossible.
I order an elaborate meal from my chef and watch shitty movies until 11:00, when I think I’ll have a better shot at getting her on the phone.
Like always, she answers on the first ring. This time, her voice is a whisper.
“Catherine Schaffer.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving, Ms. Schaffer?”
She draws in a sharp breath. “I didn’t have a chance. Sandra told me we were leaving as soon as she got to the office.”
My tone is icy. “I think you know better than that, Ms. Schaffer. There’s no reason you couldn’t have informed me that you wouldn’t be making it to our meeting.”
There’s the slightest pause, and then she speaks again, her voice a little louder. She must be somewhere she can talk at a regular volume. “About those meetings…”
“You didn’t enjoy yourself?”
“I did. I did,” she says, her voice choked. “It’s too much of a risk. I wasn’t thinking carefully when I agreed.”
This is unbelievable.
No woman has ever—ever—done this to me before.
And if any ever came close, I didn’t care.
Bow out now, says the logical part of me.
Never, screams every other part.
“Think again. We have an arrangement, Ms. Schaffer. I will see you on Thursday.”
20
Cate
He can’t make me attend these meetings with him.
Can he?
No. It’s completely inappropriate. Completely outside the bounds of a professional working relationship.
And that’s why it turns me on so much.
Even though it’s such a risk—such an incredible risk—hearing his voice over the phone, telling me in no uncertain terms that I will be meeting with him on Thursday, turns my core to molten heat. I want his hands between my legs again, his hand on my back, pressing me down into the desk. I want thirty minutes where I’m not in control.
Because, Jesus, it
feels so good to let go of everything for that half hour. It’s something I’ve never been able to get from exercise or drinking with girlfriends or shitty movies or anything else.
I need this from him.
I need this month.
At the end of it, he’ll go back to his regular billionaire life, with exclusive parties and personal drivers and clothes tailored perfectly to his rock-hard body. I’ll still be here.
Unless he closes Basiqué.
I don’t think that’s going to happen. Sandra is one of the best editors in the business, and Basiqué is one of the top magazines in the country. It’s Williams-Martin’s best property. There’s no way he would shut it down.
The fact is, he needs me, too.
He gave himself away a little on this phone call. A man who didn’t care—a man who was only in it for the sex, to be able to fuck me over his desk, to be able to get me off for the hell of it—would have let it go when I told him it was too risky to continue.
He didn’t.
The flight home from Los Angeles crawls by. I’m sitting in coach, which is a small blessing, because Sandra sits in first class and leaves me to my own devices.
My head throbs from lack of sleep. Sandra scheduled two days of back-to-back meetings with Rodarte for a new feature, then booked an early flight back to New York City. Once we land, it’ll be a full day in the office before my next meeting with Jax.
With a racing heart, I throw myself into the tasks of the day. While we were on the way to the airport for the flight out, Sandra had me reshuffle her schedule for the week to accommodate the last-minute trip. It’s a decision I still don’t understand, to be totally honest. She could have sent any number of people to meet with the people at Rodarte in her place—including me—but I know better than to question her. If she wants to take meetings in person, that’s up to her. Regardless, it makes Thursday afternoon a logistical nightmare. The meeting rooms are crowded with people waiting for approvals on everything from layouts to new pieces for photo shoots. I guide them into the office one by one so Sandra can oversee her empire.
When 5:00 comes, there’s a miraculous break in the steady stream of meetings.
After I’ve ushered a pair of designers back out into the hallway, Sandra slips off her reading glasses and places them in her desk.
“Coat and purse, Catherine.”
I gather her lightweight summer coat—it’s too hot to wear it, but she folds it over her arm nonetheless—from the closet and bring it to her.
“I’ll be at a dinner with Theodore for the next couple of hours. When I return, have the mockups waiting for me.”
“Of course, Sandra. Have a lovely time.”
“Yes.”
She’s already heading for the door, not giving me a second glance.
I shouldn’t go down to meet with Jax.
It’s the wrong choice, and I know it.
I go anyway.
There are still a couple of people lingering in the meeting room. One woman, with a tape measure hanging around her neck, looks up hopefully when she sees me, then goes back to tapping her foot on the floor. She’s probably hoping to get an approval from Sandra. She’ll be waiting a while.
Three steps down the hallway, and Bryce appears, rounding the corner almost too fast for me to avoid him.
“Cate!” he cries, grasping my shoulders and pulling me in to kiss both my cheeks. “You look terrible!”
I laugh out loud. He’s probably right. I grabbed enough from the Closet to make it through the two days in LA, and I’m sure the bags under my eyes are too big to be covered by makeup. “It’s been a long week.”
“But you’re good to go. I saw Sandra leaving. I’ll be out of here too, as soon as I can get the final fitting on this outfit over with.” That explains the impatient seamstress.
“Don’t let me stop you!” I say, as quickly as I can without seeming rude. I do want to catch up with Bryce, but Jax is waiting.
“You owe me a coffee date,” he calls after me as I hurry down the hallway.
Pulling open the outer doors, I prepare to rush in and knock…but one of Jax’s inner doors is propped open already. He’s standing in the middle of his office, waiting, his mouth a thin line.
My heart pounds against my rib cage.
I step carefully into the room, and he moves behind me to close the door. The lock clicks into place.
We’re alone.
But instead of wrapping me in his arms like he did the last time, he steps around in front of me, his eyes hard and cold.
“Jax—I—”
“Mr. Hunter.” His tone is full of reprimand.
“Mr. Hunter…I wanted to talk about—”
He silences me by stepping forward, taking my face in his hands, and devouring my mouth with a kiss so hot I think I’ll melt right into the floor.
His lips crush into mine, his tongue explores my mouth, his hands are everywhere, on my waist, my breasts, the back of my neck. It lights every part of me on fire. The taste of him is pure sex, pure confidence, pure extravagance, and I want to taste him forever.
I moan into his mouth as he takes me in his arms, guiding me roughly until my back is pressed against the wall. One of his strong hands pins my wrists above my head, the other yanks my skirt up and rips my panties aside.
His mouth is still on me, nipping, licking the side of my neck, ravishing my lips.
When his fingers make contact with my folds I’m already soaked. He shoves two fingers inside, lowers his head to my ear. “Spread. Wider.”
I obey him without hesitation. What he’s doing to me is rough and hot and I can’t get enough.
He brings me right to the edge and then without a second to catch my breath sends me tumbling over, coming so hard on his fingers my vision blacks out.
Then, abruptly, he pulls his hand away and steps back, licking my juices from his fingers without breaking eye contact.
“We can stop meeting right now.” His voice doesn’t have a hint of a question.
And even in this moment, my muscles quaking from my explosive orgasm, my heart bursting with how much I want him, I can’t let go of the risk.
My voice is a choked whisper. “I don’t know.”
He steps closer, the manly scent of him filling my lungs. “If you’re not here tomorrow, I’ll consider our agreement void.”
Then he’s gone.
21
Jax
I force myself to walk away from Cate without looking back, but my stomach is in knots, my thoughts roiling in my brain.
She’s so unbelievably sweet…and so dirty, so hot for me that even though she’s terrified of getting fired she still can’t help herself. She still comes to the meetings and lets me pin her up against the wall and finger-fuck her until she explodes against my fingers.
You’re falling for her.
I shove the thought out of my head. Even if it’s true.
Especially because it’s true.
What I feel for Cate cannot be allowed to cloud my judgment.
At the same time, I can’t stop seeing her. Something in me demands it.
That’s exactly why we have the arrangement we do.
Thirty minutes.
Four weeks.
Four walls.
An end date with no exceptions.
The second you start making exceptions and ceding power, you’re setting yourself up for a fall.
I won’t even entertain the thought of makeup meetings for the two she missed while she was in LA. I won’t show her that kind of weakness. Not now, not ever.
Now that I’ve given her a perfectly clear idea of what she’ll be missing if she ends this now, before the month is up, there’s something else I need to do.
Prove to myself that when this is over, I’ll be able to go back to the person I was before. Wining and dining and fucking without a care in the world.
As Peter steers the car through the New York City streets, I ignore the activity on the sidewalks
around me and pull out my phone.
Christian lets it ring three times before he answers.
“What the hell, Jax? You never call. This kind of girlish behavior isn’t like you.”
“We’re going out,” I shout into the phone, pumping my voice full of enthusiasm that I don’t feel. “I need to forget a girl.”
“You’ve never had trouble with that before.” He laughs into the phone.
On an impulse, I throw him a bone. “I’m in over my head with a woman from the magazine I acquired, if you must know, you asshole.”
“Say no more.”
“Meet me at the club at 9:00. Bring women.”
The Purple Swan is, without question, New York City’s most exclusive dining club. A membership here costs more than most people who consider themselves to be upper class make in six months. It doesn’t make a dent in my net worth.
And the food is amazing. This isn’t one of those places that charges a fortune for admission and then lets the details slip.
Christian brings a Victoria’s Secret model for himself. For me, he brings an heiress with auburn hair who could be a model. Both are vivacious and when they arrive at the table, each with a hand on one of Christian’s elbows, I think this might be the ticket. This could be the woman who helps me get my heart back where it belongs—out of the office, away from Cate.
Christian gives me a wink as he introduces the two women. “This is Charlotte,” he says, indicating his flawless date. “You probably saw her walk in this year’s VS Fashion Show. She’s an angel in real life, too.”
Charlotte swats him on the arm and sizes me up. Her blonde hair is either naturally that color or the dye job is the best I’ve ever seen. She’s practically glowing in a skintight black gown that gives new meaning to the black tie dress code.
I stand up and pull out a chair for my date, giving her a smile I know is a winner with virtually every woman. She does not disappoint.
“Vivian,” she says in a low, husky, lounge-singer voice that has my cock at attention.