Positively Pricked: A Billionaire Loathing-to-Love Romance

by Sabrina Stark

  Damn it. I did want to learn more. But who wouldn’t?

  With as much dignity as I could muster, I marched to the chair and sat.

  He looked at me for a long, penetrating moment before saying, "You don't like me."

  This, of course, was a massive understatement, so I didn't bother denying it. "You're right. I don't."

  I waited for him to ask why. But he didn't. Instead, he gave a slow nod and said, "Good."

  I felt my brow wrinkle. "Good? Why is that good?"

  Ignoring my question, he said, "I need to know something."

  Yeah, welcome to the club, buddy.

  But I didn't say it, mostly because I was dying to hear what he'd say next.

  He leaned forward and asked, "How good are you at pretending?"

  I blinked. "What?"

  "Pretending," he repeated. "Are you any good at it?"

  Nope. Definitely not.

  And yet, I was almost tempted to lie. But I couldn't, because in all honestly, I wasn't terribly good at that either. Stalling for time, I said, "Pretending what?"

  "You ever hear the expression, 'good cop, bad cop.'?"

  "Of course," I said. "I mean, I know the basic premise."

  After all, I'd seen my share of police shows. In them, one officer would pretend to be nice and reasonable, while his partner would be a total hard-ass. Together, they'd wear the suspect down until he confessed, whether because he feared the bad cop, or because he trusted the good cop.

  Zane said, "You wanna guess which cop I am?"

  I almost snorted. "I don't need to guess."

  "Right."

  I gave him a perplexed look. "Wait a minute. You're hiring someone to be what? Your own personal 'good cop'?"

  "In a sense."

  "But why?"

  "It's complicated."

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "I bet."

  The longer we talked, the more this felt like a joke. Over the last month, Zane Bennington had brought me nothing but misery. And the way it looked, he still wasn't quite done.

  Once again, he leaned back in his chair. "Over the next few months, I'm gonna be ruffling a few feathers."

  I wanted to laugh. A guy like Zane Bennington? He wouldn’t be content with merely ruffling a few feathers. No. Not him. He'd ruffle the whole bird. Hell, a flock of birds. And then, he'd eat the birds for dinner. Raw. With a side of gravel.

  Because he was just that awful.

  I said, "So, let me get this straight. You're hiring some sort of good-cop, feather smoother? Is that what you're saying?" I gave a nervous laugh. "Because that's one heck of a job title."

  But Zane wasn't laughing. "That's not the title," he said, "although, if you wanna throw it on a card, be my guest."

  "What card?"

  "A business card."

  "Oh." Damn it. I should've known that. "So, what is the title?"

  As an answer, he reached into his top desk drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper. He slid it across the desk in my direction.

  I reached out and picked it up. On the sheet was a single typewritten paragraph under an official-looking job title. I read the title out loud. "Personal public relations manager." I looked up. "Seriously?"

  My degree was in public relations. It was true that I hadn't done a whole lot with it, but it seemed an odd coincidence – unless it wasn't a coincidence at all.

  I said, "Is this for real?"

  As usual, he ignored my question. He pointed to the sheet and said, "Read the first word again. Out loud."

  I glanced at the sheet. "Personal?"

  "Right. Which means you're employed by me, not the company."

  Technically, I wasn't employed by anyone, not yet. And I couldn’t help but notice that he seemed awful certain that I'd accept any offer.

  For some stupid reason, maybe old-fashioned pride, I didn't like it. And yet, I could see why he'd be so sure of my acceptance. I was, after all, an unemployed catering assistant with an old car and no other prospects.

  I bit my lip. In truth, this would've been my dream job if only it involved working for someone else.

  Even in college, I'd worked my share of menial jobs – fast food, retail, whatever, anything for tuition. One thing I'd learned the hard way – no matter how great a job might seem, it totally sucked if your boss was an asshole.

  I studied the guy across from me. He returned my gaze with no discernable emotion. In truth, it was a little unsettling.

  I looked down and quickly scanned the rest of the job description. It was pretty standard for this type of work. It involved setting up interviews, answering media inquiries, and dealing with the public as needed.

  I saw nothing about pay and benefits.

  As I stared down at the sheet of paper, I couldn’t help but recall that Zane was the guy who'd gotten me fired from my last job. And now, he was offering me a new one?

  It didn't make any sense.

  If he'd been anyone else, I might've chalked it up to pity or regret. But this was Zane Bennington. He had no pity, and he wouldn’t know regret if it bit him on the ass. No. He was the kind of guy who'd evict an entire family – of relatives, no less – from their family home just because he could.

  That wasn't the only thing that bothered me. Other than a brief summer internship, I had nearly no experience. But this wasn't an entry-level job. It was the kind of job that someone worked their way up to.

  I was inexperienced, but not naïve. Zane could hire anyone. So why me?

  I recalled that old saying. If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. I pulled my gaze from the description and looked to Zane.

  I just had to ask, "What's the catch?"

  He sat, watching me, from his side of the desk. Behind him, the sky was blue with fluffy white clouds. But when it came to Zane, there was nothing fluffy about him. He looked hard and impervious, even as he studied my face with his usual cool detachment.

  He never did answer my question. Instead, he casually informed me, "You start on Monday."

  I made a scoffing sound. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  "What?"

  "I haven't accepted."

  "No. But you will."

  "Oh yeah? Why?"

  "You want the blunt answer? Or the polite answer?"

  I couldn’t help but smirk. "The polite answer."

  "All right. You'll accept because it's a good opportunity, and you damn well know it."

  "And that's the polite answer?"

  "Now, you want the blunt one?"

  I wasn't so sure. And yet, I felt myself nod.

  He said, "Your car's a heap. Your rent's chronically late. Your student loans are kicking your ass, and that extension you applied for last week? Let's just say, it's not gonna pan out."

  My jaw dropped. Last Tuesday, in a fit of desperation, I'd applied for a hardship extension on my biggest student loan. As far as I knew, the application was still pending.

  And now, he was telling me that it was going to be declined?

  I felt my gaze narrow. "How do you know?"

  "Guess."

  I wanted to strangle him. "You didn't seriously sabotage me?"

  "You think I wouldn’t?"

  "Actually, I think you would, but I can't imagine why you'd go to that much trouble." I looked away and muttered, "Unless you're trying to ruin my life." I was still looking away when the rest of his statement caught up with me.

  I looked back to him and said, "Wait a minute, how did you know all that?"

  "You think I'm gonna hire someone without checking them out?"

  I was glaring at him now. "You had no right."

  "Wrong," he said. "You gave me the right."

  "I did not."

  Again, he reached into his desk drawer. He pulled out another sheet and held it out in my direction.

  I snatched it from his hand and looked down. It was a printout of an on-line application – one of many that I'd submitted over the last few weeks. But the applic
ation wasn't with Bennington Hotels. It was with one of the most exclusive hiring agencies in the whole city.

  He said, "You see that box by your digital signature?"

  I did see it. I'd agreed to a background check as part of the application process. Still, it felt like a dirty trick.

  I gave Zane a hard look. "A background check doesn't give you permission to pry, at least not like that."

  "Wrong again," he said. "Now, you want some advice?"

  "From you?" I crossed my arms. "No."

  "Yeah? Well, you're getting it anyway." His tone grew harder. "Read the fine print. Always."

  The longer this little interview – or whatever this was – went on, the worse I was feeling. It wasn't just his attitude. It was the way he'd spelled out my financial shortcomings like I was some sort of loser.

  I felt my jaw tighten. Damn it. I wasn't a loser, and I refused to feel like one.

  Suddenly, I didn't care whether this was a good opportunity or not. And I didn't care that I had no other offers. With one swift motion, I tore the application in two and tossed it onto his desk.

  Take that, you prick.

  He didn't even look down. "That's a copy, you know."

  "What?"

  "It's a copy," he repeated. "Lesson two. Always keep the original."

  Once more, I felt like strangling him. Of course, I knew the application wasn't the original, because I'd submitted the whole thing by computer.

  Technically, there was no original, as he obviously realized. So what was this, anyway? Just another way to make me feel stupid?"

  I told him, "I don't need any lessons."

  "If you say so."

  "I do say so." My mouth tightened. "And you know what? I'm leaving."

  "All right." His gaze shifted to the door. "No one's stopping you."

  "Good." And with that, I stood and turned away. I marched toward the door with my head held high and a silent promise to not look back.

  I'd made it only halfway when my foot snagged something in my path. Before I even realized what was happening, I'd done a full face-plant onto his fancy carpet, yelping, "Son-of-a-bitch!"

  I scrambled to my feet and turned to glare – first at him, and then at that stupid "fuck-me" shoe, lying near my feet. On impulse, I picked it up and hurled it straight at him – or at least, it was supposed to go straight at him. But my aim sucked, and the shoe went careening into his desktop lamp.

  The lamp toppled and crashed to the floor. To my infinite frustration, it didn't even break.

  How unsatisfying.

  And through all of this, Zane hadn't even moved, not even a twitch. Instead, he sat, watching me with his usual cool detachment.

  Asshole.

  My face was flaming, and my breath was coming in short, angry bursts. In a fit of pique, I yelled, "That was your fault!"

  His eyebrows lifted. "The shoe or the lamp?"

  "Both!"

  "Lesson three —"

  "I don't need another freaking lesson!"

  Once again, he leaned back in his chair. "You're awful mouthy for a new hire."

  His calmness grated on me, and I had a nearly uncontrollable urge to yank off my own shoes and hurl them straight at his head, one by one.

  But I didn't – mostly because I couldn't afford to replace them.

  So, with what little dignity I could muster, I took a deep, calming breath. And then, I coolly informed him, "I'm not your employee. And I'm not going to be."

  Prick.

  He said, "You think."

  "No," I told him. "I know. There's a difference."

  "Right."

  "And," I said, "in case you're too stubborn to realize it, I'm declining your offer."

  He looked utterly unfazed. "You can't 'til you see it."

  "I have seen it," I said. "You just showed it to me."

  "You saw the description. You didn't see the offer."

  I gave a snort of derision. "So what? I don't care what you're offering. The answer's still no."

  But as it turned out, that was a total lie.

  Chapter 23

  Charlotte was still staring at the sheet of paper. "Is this for real?"

  I took another swig of my wine. "Apparently."

  "What do you mean, apparently? On the phone, you said you accepted."

  I'd called her an hour ago, after I'd first gotten home. Based on the timing, Charlotte had obviously left my parent's house the moment I'd told her the news.

  I knew why. She thought I was losing my mind.

  She was right, of course.

  I blew out a long, shaky breath. "Yup."

  "Shouldn't you be, like, happy or something?" Again, she looked to the paper. "I mean, holy crap."

  I blew out another breath. "Yup."

  "That's a lot of money."

  I took another drink. "Yup."

  She eyed my half-empty glass, and then, the half-empty bottle. "I thought you hated merlot."

  "Yup."

  "So why'd you buy it?"

  "I didn't. It's Paisley's."

  Charlotte gave a snort of laughter. "You're kidding."

  "Nope."

  I wasn't a big drinker, but I liked to keep a bottle of wine on-hand, just in case. Sometimes, it was just in case company showed up. Other times, it was just in case you accepted a job offer from the biggest prick on the planet and wanted to drown your anxiety in a bottle of cabernet.

  Unfortunately, Paisley had swiped my emergency bottle weeks ago, and I'd been too broke to buy a replacement. So here I was, drowning my worries in cheap merlot.

  Or heck, it might be expensive merlot. It's not like I could taste the difference.

  Charlotte picked up the bottle and took a closer look. "But where'd you find it? I mean, the way you talk, she never stocks the pantry."

  "Got that right," I muttered.

  "So where was it?"

  I glanced toward the back hallway. "In her bedroom."

  Charlotte was grinning now. "No way! You went through her bedroom?" She leaned forward. "So, did you ransack it or what?"

  I hadn't been looking for the wine. In truth, I didn't even realize she had wine. No. What I'd been looking for was the cordless telephone.

  Eventually, I'd found the phone under her pillow, but only after I'd found the bottle of merlot, hidden under her bed, where I'd also found three cans of soup, a box of saltines, and an unopened bag of corn chips.

  I looked to the bag, which was now sitting, half-empty, on the kitchen table. I pushed the bag in Charlotte's direction. "Corn chip?"

  She burst out laughing. "Don't tell me. Are those Paisley's too?"

  I reached out and grabbed a handful of chips. I popped them into my mouth and mumbled, "They're mine now."

  Charlotte studied my face. "Should I be worried? Because you look like you might be losing it."

  "Oh, please." I gave a weak laugh. "I'm not losing it. It's gone."

  In fact, I was pretty sure that I'd lost my sanity the moment I'd signed that job offer. But the salary – not to mention the perks – had been impossible to resist. Obviously, none of this was an accident. The way it looked, the paperwork had been drawn up long before I arrived in Zane's office.

  I couldn't help but wonder, why me?

  Obviously, there was something Zane wasn't telling me. But what?

  Charlotte leaned closer and squinted at my face. "I hate to ask, but did something happen to your nose?"

  Again, I reached for my glass. "Oh yeah." I took a good, long drink and returned the now-empty glass to the table.

  "Well?" Charlotte said. "What happened?"

  I sighed. "Rug burn."

  "Seriously?"

  I reached up to touch the tip of my nose. Oh sure, the carpet in Zane's office had looked all soft and plush, but it was a different story when you smashed your face into it.

  I muttered, "Stupid carpet."

  The only upside was that the rug-burn had been barely visible at first. In fact, my nose hadn't gotten tru
ly red until that hot bath and, yes, too much merlot.

  By Monday, my nose would be as good as new.

  Or at least, I sure hoped so. It would, after all, be my first day on the job – a job I'd only taken because the offer had been impossible to resist.

  And here, I thought I had integrity.

  Turns out, not so much.

  But then again, integrity wouldn’t pay the bills. And it wasn't like I'd taken a job beating orphans. The truth was, this would've been my dream job, if only someone else had offered it to me.

  Still, it reminded me of that Italian lunch with Tiffany. Apparently, I could be bought with pasta and bread sticks – or in the case of Zane, a six-figure salary and a whole bunch of perks.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes. "I’m a job slut."

  "What?" Charlotte said. "So, he expects you to—"

  My eyes snapped back open, "God no. I didn't mean it that way."

  And yet, an image popped into my brain. The image was of me and Zane, sprawled across that giant desk of his. Damn it. It was an image I didn't need, and not only because, inexplicably, I was wearing those stupid red heels and not much else.

  Charlotte said, "Then what did you mean?"

  As for Zane, in my unwanted fantasy, he'd been wearing that same expensive suit, minus the shirt. Funny though, the tie was still there. And it looked way too good against his bare, muscular chest.

  I mumbled, "Huh?"

  Charlotte made a sound of frustration. "When you called yourself a job slut, what were you talking about?"

  "Oh." I snapped back to reality. "That? I just mean that I hate the guy, and yet, when I saw that offer…" I let my words trail off into something like a sigh.

  "Tell me something," Charlotte said. "Do you regret it?"

  "Yes." My shoulders slumped. "And no."

  "So it can't be all bad," she said. "And by the way, whose car is that?"

  "The one in the driveway? It's mine. Sort of."

  "Seriously?"

  I reached up to rub the back of my neck. "Well, it's not like my name's on the title or anything. It's more like a company car."

  "Wow, it looks brand new."

  "Uh, yeah. I think it is." It wasn't just brand new. It was sleek and luxurious, with leather seats and an engine that purred like a kitten.

  "I knew it!" Charlotte said. "I swear, when I walked by, I could smell how new it was."