by Amelia Wilde
“Have that mockup on my desk as soon as it comes in,” Hadley says abruptly, putting a swift end to our moment of camaraderie. Then she’s gone, breezing back to her office.
The rest of the afternoon she doubles her efforts at being a pain in the ass. It’s extremely helpful that now, in addition to worrying about what Charlie might do if I can’t pull off this undercover spy routine and hoping to hell that Adam has gotten himself out of Manhattan, I’m also wondering if I might be out of a job before October rolls around.
In three weeks.
It’s impossible to hide the tension that’s forming knots in my shoulders from Jett when we’re both back at his penthouse for the evening. I do my utmost best to hide it from him—I’m sure the last thing he wants to deal with is some needy, anxiety-ridden content producer living in his apartment—but he notices anyway.
“Do I need to buy out that company and fire your boss for you?”
I laugh like he’s telling a joke, and judging by the half grin on his face, he is...but the tone of his voice tells me there’s a nugget of truth behind his absurd statement. He could buy out Sisterspark, probably tonight if he wanted to.
The fact that he’d even think about offering it—even as a joke—is what makes my heart speed up. I’m supposed to be focused entirely on double-crossing him, helping Charlie and his thugs steal information—and I’m assuming money—from him, but with every kind gesture, Jett works his way deeper into my heart.
“Nah,” I tell him with a broad smile. “Although she would probably like it if you bought out the website right about now.”
Jett cocks his head and unbuttons his jacket, then shrugs it off. “What is her company again?”
“Sisterspark.”
To his credit, he doesn’t laugh. “And it’s in dire straits?”
“I don’t know all the details. She dropped a hint that the ad revenue was down earlier today, but it’s a website, so....”
He shakes his head, and it occurs to me that Jett Brandon probably never has to think about things like ad revenue. He probably lives off the interest from his billions.
“So it could go under if the revenue keeps dropping. And then I would be out of a job.”
“And you’re not worried about it?”
“Oh, I’m plenty worried about it,” I say, kicking off my shoes and sinking back into the sofa. Jett joins me a second later, leaning against the arm of the sofa and looking across at me like he’s discovering an alien society for the first time. “...what?” My grin is only slightly self-conscious.
“What makes you so...resilient?”
I swallow in the hushed silence. This is by far the deepest thing Jett has ever asked me, and it sends a thrill of pleasure down my spine that he’s interested in me on this level. It also makes my stomach turn over, because....
I keep my tone light. “It’s going to make me sound like a total gold-digger.”
“I doubt it.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“I grew up in a small town in Michigan. My mom worked in a factory there.”
Jett’s eyes widen for a split second at the mention of a factory. I’m sure that for him, a job like that would be unthinkable. “When I was nine, the factory went out of business. She didn’t have a degree, so—”
“Your mother didn’t go to high school?”
“College,” I say quickly, my cheeks heating up. “She only had a high school diploma and factory jobs used to be a lifetime gig. You went to work right after high school and stayed until it was time to retire. Anyway, she was by herself. My dad walked out on her not long after Adam was born, and then when she lost her job, things got hard.”
“Jesus,” he says softly.
“There wasn’t a lot of work to go around when it wasn’t tourist season, so she cobbled together multiple jobs to make ends meet. Adam and I had to fend for ourselves.” This is bordering on a sob story. Gotta wrap it up. “So, yeah, I’m worried that Sisterspark will go under. But I’ll be able to handle it. I always keep my resume updated.”
Jett is looking at me like I’m a different person. Someone impressive. Someone worthwhile.
Thank Christ.
I wait another moment for him to change his mind—to tell me that he’s not interested in having some piece of trailer trash living in his penthouse, or to look at me like I’m a money-grubbing bitch—but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in and kisses my cheek tenderly.
“Angelica Chandler, you’re something else.”
20
Jett
The more I learn about Angelica, the more I wonder why I’ve ever wasted my time with trust fund bitches like Emerald.
Not that I’m against trust funds, per se. I certainly have one. I didn’t decide to squander it and then seduce wealthy women to try and finance my business ventures.
I can’t get Angelica out of my head at work on Friday, which is the exact thing I was trying to avoid by having her stay at the penthouse. I thought that if I could take her enough during the off-hours, she’d be out of my system during the workday.
That couldn’t be farther from the truth.
I keep replaying our conversation from the night before. Her face was a little guarded, like she wasn’t sure what I would think of her, that I would judge her.
It’s hard to imagine what that life would be like, but it explains why she’s so cool under pressure.
She balances out my quick temper.
Emily interrupts my train of thought. “Mr. Brandon?”
“Yes?”
“Your ten o’clock canceled—Mr. Pierce from Pierce Industries.”
For the first time, I notice how carefully Emily is controlling her expression.
She’s waiting for me to get angry, to snap at her. It’s true. I hate it when people cancel meetings at the last minute, but this isn’t Emily’s fault. I’ve met Pierce more than once at the Swan. We had a very similar strategy when it came to women—use them, lose them, rinse, repeat—right up until he met his now-wife, Quinn. She’s hot enough to be a mainstay on the gossip websites, but she doesn’t hold a candle to Angelica.
Angelica, who might frown at this news, then move on with a smile.
“Did he want to reschedule?”
Emily’s shoulders relax. “His secretary wanted to check on your schedule.”
“Any time next week.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brandon.” She doesn’t say “for not acting like a total asshole.” Her thought is written on her face.
I didn’t want Angelica to have any influence over me. That may have been misguided.
Now that I have more of an idea how precarious her life must seem to her, I’m overcome by the urge to do something special for her. When she’s with me, she shouldn’t have any worries.
What about afterward?
I dismiss the thought entirely. Having her gone used to be the light at the end of the tunnel—the reward for not succumbing to the influence of another cheating whore—and now it looks more like an oncoming freight train with every day that passes.
I spend fifteen minutes during what was supposed to be my ten o’clock meeting planning a special night out. I call in a favor and get seats at Eleven Madison Park, front row tickets to a Broadway show that’s been sold out for months, and have a selection of couture gowns sent to the penthouse. I’d fly us both out of Manhattan tonight, maybe to Aspen or Saint Tropez, but I want to be here to oversee Brandon, Inc., and it’s a good guess that Angelica wants to keep her job. Instead we’ll do something touristy, but with the added novelty that it will be something that only a large amount of money can buy.
Plans tonight? I text Angelica.
No. Unless I have some with you :)
You do now. Be at the penthouse by 5:30
With all the plans for the evening in motion, my mind is freed up to conduct the day’s business. I review the paperwork for three additional mergers I have planned for the coming year. I make several video calls to some of Brandon, Inc.�
��s international partners. I meet with the department heads for status updates.
That’s when things start to go off the rails.
The meetings run over. I’m about to switch off my computer and get the hell away from here and back to Angelica when Connor appears, his jaw set.
“What is it?”
“Something has come up at the last minute with the merger.”
I force myself to take a deep breath before I answer.
“How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad.”
“Then screw it. Have the lawyers walk back the agreement. This is not worth it.”
Connor shakes his head. “They had a whistleblower come forward.”
“About what?”
“Financial fraud. The news is going to break any minute.”
My jaw clenches. “What?”
“I don’t have all the details yet, but they’re not small fish. I think the investigation might extend to our dealings with them, as well.”
Jesus Christ. This is the last thing I need.
“Excellent,” I say bitterly, then turn back to my desk.
“Sorry, Jett.”
“Don’t be. We’re withdrawing. I’ll have legal on it as soon as they can put their asses in seats.”
Connor must sense the conversation is over, because the next time I look up at the doorway, he’s gone.
“Emily?”
She’s at the threshold instantly, her face hopeful.
“I need the legal team here in fifteen minutes. Tell them to cancel their plans for the evening.”
She nods tightly. If she’s disappointed about having to work late, she doesn’t show it on her face. “Would you like me to order in?”
“Yes. It could be a long evening.”
I reach for my phone to send Angelica a text, but think better of it. It’s 5:00 now, so she should be on her way out of the office.
She picks up on the first ring.
“Hey.” She sounds excited and breathless, like she’s taking the stairs down to the first floor. The sound of her shoes clattering against the metal stairwell breaks through the noise cancelling effect on her phone. That’s exactly what she’s doing. “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing tonight, or is it a surprise?”
“That’s what I’m calling about.”
“Change of plans?”
“Something came up with an acquisition I’ve been working on for weeks. I have to be here.” This is a half-truth. Connor could meet with the lawyers without me, but I can’t stand it if one more thing goes wrong on my watch while I’m gone with a woman—even if it’s Angelica.
I wait for her to be upset.
“Ugh, what a bummer,” Angelica says, and there’s no whining disappointment, only empathy in her voice. “Another night, then.”
“Another night.”
“I’ll wait up!” she says, and laughs at her own joke.
As pissed as I am, it puts a smile on my face.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
21
Angelica
Monday is my day to work from home.
Hadley the Profit Queen gives each of her employees one day each month to work at home so that she can put “flexible schedules” on the perk sheet for new hires, and Monday is my day. She’s been so on edge lately that I’d assumed that kind of perk was withdrawn.
Howie, Jett’s personal assistant, has brought breakfast to the bedroom when the email comes in. We are sitting at a table for two in a sunny breakfast nook across from the living area. The windows on three sides of the nook offer a fantastic view of the city.
“Wow,” I say, around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.
“What?”
“Hadley’s actually going through with it.”
“With...?”
Jett snaps a piece of crispy bacon in two and sticks it into his mouth. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“We each get a day to work from home each month. I thought she’d cancel mine.”
“Are you a subpar employee?”
I stick my tongue out at him, then take a sip of my cranberry juice. “She didn’t cancel it, if that tells you anything.” I open another app on my phone. “There’s a Starbucks three blocks from here. I can set up shop there.”
“Don’t be silly. My office is yours.”
My stomach twists at the offer. Over the last week, it’s like I’ve divided myself in my mind—the criminal Angelica who steals information for a crime boss and the Angelica who’s a little bit head over heels for Jett Brandon. The worst, though, is when the two collide.
Because, of course, offering me his office sets me up perfectly to get the information I need, and working from home will make it easy to meet Charlie for the drop-off.
“You’re too kind.”
“It’s an office. I have several.”
“Are you bragging about the number of offices you have?” I give him a cheeky grin.
“A fact of life,” Jett says. “I can’t offer you any company, though.”
“Company?”
“For work. I’ve got meetings this morning that I don’t want to reschedule. I could rearrange my afternoon and be here instead. If you wanted.”
I bite my lip. “I don’t want to take you away from anything important. I’ll be here, doing Hadley’s bidding.”
Jett throws his napkin to the tablecloth, stands up, and crosses over so he’s standing behind me. When his lips brush against my neck, goose bumps rise on the back of my arms. “What about my bidding?”
“Are you...are you into that kind of thing?” He’s brushing his lips down the curve of my shoulder, setting every nerve ending on fire.
“Dominating women?”
“Yeah.” My voice is breathy, and not on purpose.
“If you’re imagining that ridiculous movie, then no. I don’t have a dungeon with whips and chains. But I do love to be in control.”
“Over me?”
“If you like.”
My breath catches in my throat. I’ve never understood the appeal of the whole dominant/submissive scene, but the sensation of Jett pinning my arms above my head comes roaring back. I wouldn’t mind more of that.
He presses his lips against my cheek one more time. “I’ll be back at noon.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m left with wet heat pooling between my legs and guilt churning in my gut.
I’m in Jett’s penthouse office, his computer pressed to the corner of the desk, flash drive doing its dirty work, my work laptop positioned neatly in the center of the mahogany surface, when a woman bustles in. Like a guilty asshole, I jump nearly a foot in the air and reach for the flash drive, stopping myself in time.
“Oh,” she gasps, putting her hand to her chest. “I’m sorry, Miss Chandler. Mr. Brandon didn’t tell me that anyone would be here this morning.”
My pulse rushes in my ears. This is his cleaning lady, his maid, whatever. I’m usually gone by the time she comes in the mornings. For the life of me, I can’t remember her name. It’s only slightly less awkward that she knows mine.
I give her a shaky smile. “You must be Mrs.—”
“Mrs. Henderson,” she says, beaming at me. “I can come back later for this room, Miss Chandler.”
“No, no, it’s not a problem.” I stand up from behind the desk. “Is there...anything I can help with?”
Her laugh is grandmotherly and sweet. “No, Miss Chandler, not at all. I dust and vacuum—that’s all.”
I move toward the door and let her in. She bustles around the room, expertly flicking a duster in the nooks and crannies of the bookshelves and over the surface of the desk. I can’t leave the flash drive, but it seems ultra-rude to disappear down the hallway.
“How long have you worked for Mr. Brandon?”
She smiles again. “Oh, I’ve been with the Brandon’s since he was a little boy—twenty years now, I’d say. He asked me to keep his houses when he moved back to Manhattan.” Mrs. Henderson gla
nces over at me. “He usually doesn’t have guests stay so long.”
I blush. “He’s very generous.”
She grins at me and guides the duster over a collection of glass trophies. Business achievements, I assume. “You must be good for him.”
I smile back at her. “What makes you say that?”
Mrs. Henderson purses her lips, thoughtful. “He’s always prided himself on being successful without much help from his father. I think in some ways it made him a little...cold. And that woman didn’t help.” She frowns at the thought of “that woman,” then brightens again when her eyes meet mine. “The way he is about you—always wanting the best things brought for you, making little plans to please you—it reminds me of the way he was when he was younger. He’s got a much bigger heart than he lets on.”
And here I am, stealing from him.
Mrs. Henderson runs a vacuum over the carpet in the office, ending the conversation, then bows out. She’s got the rest of the penthouse to attend to.
“It was lovely to meet you, Miss Chandler.”
“You, too, Mrs. Henderson.”
As soon as she’s gone, I swallow the thick lump in my throat and snatch the drive out of Jett’s computer, dropping it into my purse. Charlie will need to meet me early.
That’s it.
This is the last time I’m giving Charlie anything. Adam is safely out of Manhattan—he texted me last night when he got in—so if there are any repercussions, he won’t be involved. I’ll deliver the flash drive this last time, and then...
I’m going to tell Jett the truth.
22
Jett
After a Monday afternoon spent tempting Angelica into bed and watching her gorgeous naked body cross and recross the room, checking email and making phone calls, the Tuesday landscape of the office seems like a prison, colorless and stifling.