by Cynthia Sax
I tilt back my head, gazing up at him, my green hair cascading down my back, loose and free. He is smiling, his eyes sparkling, his face devastatingly handsome and unguarded, not a trace of his renowned coolness in his countenance.
“I can live with that too,” I murmur, my voice husky, my body aroused. I want him. I always want him.
The doors open at the ground floor. Nate stiffens and I move to his side.
Jerome, the security guard, my nemesis, enters, his gray uniform pulled tight over his protruding stomach. He presses the button for the fourth floor.
“Mr. Lawford.” He nods to Nate. “Miss Trent.” Jerome scans my body, his gaze lingering on my breasts and legs.
Nate places a possessive hand on my hip.
“All interns must enter and exit through the front doors.” Jerome doesn’t heed Nate’s unspoken warning, the security guard’s full attention fixed on my breasts. “I’ll be reporting this violation to Mr. Henley.”
“Miss Trent is with me.” Nate’s voice chills to unadulterated arctic frost, his words dripping with a glacier arrogance. A shiver of excitement rolls up my spine. He’s powerful and mine. “I enter wherever I like.” My Iceman is back and he’s very pissed off.
Jerome gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his eyes widening. “M—M—Miss Trent now reports to you, sir?”
“I consider Miss Trent to be an extension of me.” Nate pulls me closer to him. “Treat her as you would any top executive.”
“Yes, sir.” Sweat trickles down Jerome’s face, his lips quivering. The big bully looks as though he’s one sharp word away from peeing his pants.
I can’t suppress my smirk. Take that, rent-a-cop. Nate squeezes my hip, his chin tilted upward, his profile strong and proud. We stand side by side in silence, watching the red digital numbers ascend.
The doors open at the fourth floor and Jerome rushes out, moving faster than I’ve ever seen him move. A sweat stain marks the back of his uniform.
“Did he search you?” Nate asks as the doors close once more, his words scarily soft.
I blink at him. “What?”
“Did he search you?” my angry executive repeats. “Because if he has touched you I’ll make him wish he had never heard of Blaine Technologies.”
Whoa. I stare at Nate, incredibly turned on by this surprising display of jealousy. “No, he never touched me.” I lean against my protective man. “He searched my bag and stuck his finger in my lunch, but he never searched my person.”
“Good.” Nate’s chest heaves, his eyes blazing, his rage not completely spent. The doors open. “This is your floor.”
“And you have an eight o’clock meeting.” I balance on my tiptoes, brush my lips against his. “Try not to kill anyone today.” I laugh as I exit the elevator.
Nate loves me, though he likely doesn’t know that yet. We have a month together. That’s enough time for him to accept his feelings, to say the words, to make a longer commitment, to take a chance on forever.
The low-talking brunette approaches me, smiling shyly, her gaze darting to my face and then away. I wish her a boisterous good-morning and she beams, her face lighting up, her lips moving, her words too quiet for me to hear.
Nate loves me. My chest bubbles with happiness. My project will gain the mentors it needs. The sun has risen and it is a glorious day.
Everyone receives a greeting from me this morning, even the pinch-faced lady. She mutters about noisy people and printer fumes as she sprays the air with a product I can only describe as poison in a can.
“Green,” Miss Yen hollers.
“Good morning, boss.” I flounce into her office, a big smile plastered on my face. Miss Yen is seated behind her desk, which is unusual for my hyperactive boss. She’s wearing yet another beautiful black suit, her hair twisted into a tight chignon.
“You’re my favorite boss, did you know that?” I chirp, ecstatic with the world.
Miss Yen winces. “Sit down, Green.” She doesn’t meet my gaze.
My fantastic mood fades as I obey her. Someone is in deep trouble, and I suspect that someone is me.
Chapter Twelve
* * *
MISS YEN FIDGETS in her seat, appearing as uncomfortable as I feel. I must be getting fired. I’ve bent the rules one too many times and she has to let me go.
I set my backpack on the carpet. This isn’t a first firing for me. I know what happens next. “Should I pack the rest of my things?”
Miss Yen jerks back her head and meets my gaze. “What? No.” There’s another long stretch of silence and she sighs. “A project came back from the dead and the Change the World grant no longer has an opening. You won’t be pitching at the end of the month.”
I won’t be pitching. I hired the subcontractors, worked late last night, hoped for nothing. The disappointment threatens to crush me, a huge weight sitting on my chest, pressing down, down, down.
I breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, forcing air through my lungs, struggling to contain my feelings. This fiasco isn’t Miss Yen’s fault and she shouldn’t have to deal with the emotional aftermath. She believed in me.
“Our agreement about you using the shredding room still stands,” my boss says, her voice soft. “There will be an opportunity to pitch next year, but you’re resourceful, Green. You won’t wait for that opportunity. You’ll find another way to fund it.”
“I will find another way to fund my project,” I assure her. Funding is the simple part. I need the mentoring, the collective brain of Blaine Technologies’ impressive management team. They’re too busy to help a lowly intern.
Miss Yen watches me closely, as though she worries I’ll go ballistic. It’s a legitimate concern. The data-sharing project means everything to me and I don’t have the knowledge to manage it alone.
I’m not completely alone. I curl my fingers into fists, digging my fingernails into my palms, using the pain to offset my disappointment. Nate promised to mentor me and he always keeps his word.
“Thank you, Miss Yen.” I grab my backpack and drag my rejected ass to the shredding room, shutting the door behind me. My makeshift office isn’t where I want to be.
I want to take the elevator to the seventh floor, rush past Gladys’ desk, down the hallway, into Nate’s office. He’ll strap his big strong arms around my body, pull me onto his lap, and hold me tight as I cry.
That isn’t an option. Nate has a meeting until nine o’clock. And I won’t cry here, alone, with the cameras pointed at me, capturing every tear, every weakness.
Slumping into my seat, I stare into space and twirl the green fountain pen in my fingers, clinging to this flimsy connection to Nate. I have to do something, anything, or I won’t be able to hold it together.
Working on my beleaguered project doesn’t appeal to me. The thought of talking to subcontractors, acting as though everything is okay, as though the project isn’t on life support, is painful, taking more than I have to give. Shredding files doesn’t require brains or feigning happiness. I stomp out of my temporary office into the hallway, the force of my exit smacking the door against the doorstop. The thud is obscenely loud and the pinch-faced lady complains. I turn my head toward her, not hiding any of my grief, and she shuts her mouth.
I grab a box of files and heft them back to the room. The sanctioned destruction calms me. I feed the papers into the shredder and the machine chews them into thin strips. The result is predictable, controllable, giving me a sense of accomplishment, of confidence. Rational thought returns.
I have Nate. He promised to help me. The two of us will figure out a solution to this mess. We’ll save the project and make a difference in the world.
At nine o’clock I wipe the white dust off my hands, smooth down my skirt, and exit the room semiserenely, like a normal human being would.
I take the elevator to the finance floor. The trip is quick and the car is thankfully empty. As I exit Gladys, the gatekeeper, looks up from a stack of papers. “Mr. Lawford is in h
is office, Miss Trent.” She sounds relieved to see me.
I frown. “I don’t have an appointment.” Why is she expecting me?
“He needs you.” Gladys’ phone rings. She glances at the number but doesn’t answer it. “He’s not himself.” Her voice drops to a whisper.
“Okay,” I reply. He’s not himself. I don’t know what that means, only that it’s bad.
I hustle along the hallway. Employees stand in their cubicles, their faces turned in the same direction, their heads tilted as though they’re listening to something of great importance.
Having blown out my eardrums at too many clubs, my hearing isn’t the best. I only hear the employees’ hushed tones, the wave of whispers cresting as I pass. My heels thump against the carpet and my heart pounds. What’s happening?
I turn the corner and Nate’s voice reaches me. “You called her what?” he bellows. The employees around me collectively gasp. I doubt they’ve ever heard their Iceman boss bellow, ever seen this passionate side of him. I am familiar with this side of Nate and even I’m stunned, the depth of his emotion both thrilling and frightening me.
“You think you know, but you don’t,” Nate grumbles. “You don’t know about her. You don’t know about us. You don’t know me.” His office door is wide open, his one-sided conversation traveling throughout the quiet office. He’d be mortified if he knew this. I increase my pace, determined to protect his icy reputation, to protect him.
“I don’t care what she said. That’s not who she is. If you call her that again or interfere in our relationship in any way, I will sever all ties with you.”
I cross the threshold and close the door behind me. Nate stands before the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to me. He holds the phone in his right hand, his knuckles whitening around the device. His left hand clenches and unclenches a ball of black lace.
He’s clasping my panties, I realize.
“No, I don’t want your money,” Nate says, his voice edged with disgust. “Opening your wallet won’t fix this situation. It isn’t that easy.”
I wrap my arms around his waist and press my chest against his rigid spine, brushing my cheek over his soft suit. He leans back, pushing into my touch.
“You can’t put a price on trust, Father.” Nate shakes his head. “Money debases its value,” he says, echoing my words.
He drops the phone to the carpet, and I hold him to me, stroking his suit-clad chest with my fingertips, attempting to ease his turmoil, to calm my angry man.
“Your dad loves you,” I murmur. “Everything he did, he did out of love.”
Nate slides my panties into the pocket of his pants and he turns. “My father called you a whore, Camille.” He gazes down at me, lightning flashing in his storm-filled eyes. “No one calls you a whore.”
“You’re paying me for sex.” I place my palms on his chest, savoring his solid body, his strength. “I am your whore.”
Nate pulls me closer to him, folding my curves into his muscle. “You didn’t deny his accusation.”
“I couldn’t deny it.” I tilt back my head and study my handsome executive. “It’s the truth.” This confrontation won’t be the last one. Anyone who knows Nate’s history with women will assume I’m an escort. I won’t ever be able to refute it.
“It’s not the entire truth.” He brushes my hair away from my forehead and presses his lips against my forehead. “You accepted the money for me.”
“I signed the agreement for you,” I admit. “I’d do anything for you. I love you.”
Nate cradles my face between his rough hands and covers his lips with mine. I grasp his shoulders, meeting him kiss for kiss, molding my tongue to his. He tastes of mint and man, of sweet propriety and heady decadence, and our connection rights the imbalance within me, restoring my strength and refilling my emotional reserves.
Nate draws back, breaking our embrace. He studies my face. “I’d do anything for you also.” He stalks to his desk, pulls out a familiar stack of papers, and returns to my side. “I want you to shred this.” He hands me our contract, his expression serious.
“This is our agreement.” A hard lump forms in my throat. “We need this.”
Nate’s lips twist. “You haven’t even read it.”
“You need this,” I revise.
His gaze drops to the papers in my hands and returns to my face. “This contract isn’t what I need.”
Nate doesn’t need the contract because he doesn’t need me. He’s dumping my rebellious ass. “No.” I step backward, pain piercing my heart, my soul. “I won’t allow you to renege on our deal.” My voice breaks. “Not today, not on the same day I find out I won’t be pitching my project to the executive team, find out I did all of that work for nothing, hoped and dreamed for nothing.”
Nate flinches. He didn’t know the pitch session was canceled. I read that truth in his eyes. “Camille—”
“We have an agreement.” I wave the papers in the air, not allowing him to speak, fearing his words. “And I’m not releasing you from it. So suck it up, buttercup. You’re stuck with me. I—”
“It’s over, Camille,” Nate declares, his subzero tone decimating my protests. “I’m fixing this.” His gaze holds mine, his gray eyes pale and cold. “I’m fixing everything.”
My heart splits into two. “Shredding our contract won’t fix anything.”
“Yes, it will.” He clasps my icy hands, his skin surprisingly warm. “What we have now isn’t a normal relationship. You know this has to end.”
I do know this, but I can’t accept it. “We’re not normal. We’ll never have normal relationships. And we have a month left in our contract.” I lift my chin, blinking back my tears. He can fall in love with me in a month. “This doesn’t have to end today.”
“It ends today,” my unrelenting man replies, his voice firm.
“I can change,” I plead, past pride, past everything.
Nate squeezes my fingers. “I don’t want you to change.”
He doesn’t want me. Period. I pull my hands away from his, unable to bear the contact. “We have an agreement.” I try again. A tear trickles down my cheek and I brush it away. He’s made me cry, the bastard. “You can’t simply terminate an agreement whenever you want.”
“If you’d read the contract you’d know I can simply terminate our agreement.” Nate smiles and I want to scream. My heart is breaking and he’s happy. “There’s a cost. I must pay you for the entire month.”
I stare at him. “You must pay me?” I hear the hysteria in my voice. He thinks I care about the money. Has he learned nothing about me?
Nate nods. “I’ll transfer the funds into your bank account this afternoon.”
“You’re transferring funds.” My entire world has imploded and he’s calmly settling his account, putting the final line in his Camille Joplin Trent relationship spreadsheet. “After all of the time we’ve spent together, the things we’ve talked about, the love I’ve showed you, you’re offering me money?” I shake with fury, my rage matching my agony.
His lips part.
“Fuck you, Nate.” I tuck the cursed contract under my right arm and flip him the double bird, extending both of my middle fingers. “You can keep your precious cash.” I fling the door open. “That isn’t what I want from you. That was never what I wanted from you.”
I stomp along the hallway. Employees duck their heads, hiding in their cubicles. The floor is eerily quiet, the heaviness of my tread accentuated. I feel Nate’s gaze on my back. I don’t turn around.
I pass through the reception area and Gladys’ mouth drops open. She doesn’t say anything as I jab the button sixteen times, taking my rage out on the little illuminated circle.
The elevator doors open. A dark-suited man smiles at me. I glare back at him and he gulps, hastily exiting the car. The button for the second level of the parking garage has been pressed.
Not fit for human company, I punch the button for the ground floor. Nate spurns his father’s moneta
ry offer and then he says he’ll pay me? I replay every sentence of our conversation in my mind. He makes no damn sense.
The elevator doors open and I rush through the lobby. My heels bend against the marble floor. A cautious woman would tread more lightly. I slam my feet down with all of my strength, the noise waking the sleeping security guard. He jerks in his chair, grabs his holster, sees it’s me, and closes his eyes once more.
He doesn’t think I’m a threat. He doesn’t realize how dangerous my mood is. I blast through the revolving doors, step outside, and glower at the sky.
The weather should be dark and stormy, reflecting my pain. It isn’t. The sky is blue, the clouds white and fluffy, the sun shining. I curse LA’s perfect climate as I head toward the tiny park, my shoes battling the hard sidewalk.
I turn onto the gravel pathway and gravity claims its victory. The heel of my right shoe snaps, rendering it completely useless. I color the air with another long stream of profanities, yank both of my shoes off my feet, and toss them into the garbage can. Good riddance to bad shoes.
Tiny stones bite into my bare soles. I hobble onto the grass and locate the nearest bench. A connection with the earth usually grounds me. Today I need more. I need Nate.
Cursed man. I slap the contract and my ass down on the wooden slates. Leaning back, I stretch my arms along the back of the bench. The sun’s rays caress my face and the wind rustles the leaves. Nothing feels right.
Nate thinks shredding the contract will end what we have. It won’t. My body, heart, and soul are bound to him today, tomorrow, forever. Destroying a stack of papers won’t change that.
I thumb through the pages, skimming the words. Nate will pay me a small fortune every day I’m with him. He’ll replace my entire wardrobe, every item detailed including the number and brand of socks he’ll buy. He’ll provide three meals a day, three snacks, and more beverages than a healthy woman should ever drink. I’ll have a bedroom with a walk-in closet and an attached bathroom. I’ll receive a minimum of two kisses and one orgasm a day. Everything he will give me is absolute, specific, and almost lovingly outlined.