A Bona Fide Gold Digger (11 page)

S
he quickly flipped through about twenty pages of whereas this and whereas that. Her heart lurched when she finally came upon Section Three—Property. Excitedly, she poured over the numerous pages. So, Noah had a home in the Pocono Mountains; beachfront property in Wildwood, New Jersey; and rental property scattered throughout the tri-state area of Philadelphia, New Jersey, and Delaware.

Section Four—Financial Disclosure revealed income of what appeared to be well over twenty-nine million. Perusing quickly, she skipped to Schedules A, B, C, and D. Excited, Milan skimmed the pages. She felt a hot rush and grabbed a handful of pages to fan herself and try to cool down. The column in Schedule F was headed with her name. It contained line after line of nothing but big fat zeros. She had zero assets. So what! She had intelligence, youth, and beauty. Those personal assets entitled her to boldly enter this union absolutely penniless.

Her eyes moved to Section Five—Children, a portion of the document that should have contained nothing more than a sentence or two. Too confused to focus on reading, Milan thumbed through ten or more pages.
Why so many pages? What the hell is this about?
Neither she nor Noah had any children, and thankfully, they never would, so why all the legal mumbo jumbo over kids? Reluctantly, she stopped skimming and forced herself to give the section a thorough going over. Milan sighed deeply, leaned forward, and began reading.

At first she thought her eyes were deceiving her, so she read the section four times. Summing it up, Milan concluded that Section Five stipulated that she had to give birth to Noah Brockington’s male heir. If the first pregnancy did not result in the birth of a male child, she had to conceive twice more in an attempt to bear a Brockington male heir.

Reading quickly, her eyes zoomed across the page and unfortunately what she read was worse than anything she could have ever imagined. Attempts at reproduction, the document stated, would be conducted by a fertility specialist selected by Noah Brockington. Said fertility specialist would designate a cryogenic center to collect semen specimens and provide long-term sperm storage for future use in reproduction.

Milan stared at the page on top of the stack she held, her mouth hung open in disbelief and repulsion.
Oh my God, he’s crazy. He’s out of his freakin’ mind! How can I bear children for a dead man?
It was a contemptible request. What rational woman would agree to such an obscene demand? For a man who was knocking at death’s door, Noah Brockington was remarkably arrogant and self-assured.

Why, she wondered, would such a sickly and disgusting man even want to produce offspring? Could a man as unhealthy as he possess even
one
healthy gene? She doubted it, but even on the remote possibility that he did have a healthy sperm or two, Milan knew for a fact, she would not allow herself to be railroaded into having any contact whatsoever with Noah Brockington’s vile and mutant gene pool.

Feeling flushed and queasy, she was unable to maintain a grasp of the pages. Listlessly, she watched them slip from her fingers, float down to the floor, and scatter around her feet.

Noah had delivered the marriage contract with an odd twist to his lips; she now realized his mouth had been set in a sneer. The crafty bastard knew she’d never marry him under such outrageous conditions. In her mind, she could still see his smirking image. Resenting even a mental picture of him, she shook her head, forcing his pompous expression from her mind.

But she couldn’t shut out the thoughts or the imagery of their disgusting, perverted sex play. It had been all for naught, she sadly resolved. Then, in a burst of anger, she snatched up the papers, and stacked them firmly together, fully intending to storm angrily to Noah’s room and throw the pile of absurd legalese smack in his haggard face.

But she couldn’t move. She was so weary, bone tired, from years of striving so hard, yearning for and exhaustively chasing after a lifestyle that continually eluded her. It was so damn unfair. It was bad enough that she had to marry Noah for money he clearly no longer needed. Why’d he have to be so spiteful? And so power hungry? Why’d he have to involve
her
in his ludicrous scheme of spawning an entire brood of mutant children after his demise? Tears of frustration slid down Milan’s cheeks. She dropped her head, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed.

After wiping away the final teardrop, she came to the firm decision that she’d put in too much time with Noah to give up a lifetime of luxury so easily. She spent an hour brainstorming ideas of how to break the prenuptial agreement. And finally, after reviewing the preposterous stipulation one more time, Milan broke into a sudden fit of laughter.

Why had she allowed herself to become so easily riled? There wasn’t a court in the United States that would honor something so ridiculous. After Noah’s death, with his fortune in her hands, she’d be able to hire a top-notch legal team who would argue that she signed the agreement under duress. Her brilliant attorneys would convince the court that the agreement was unconscionable and should be rendered unenforceable.

Feeling marginally better, Milan put pen to paper and signed her name on the designated line. She was still a bit irritated, however, since he hadn’t said a word about increasing her daily allowance
before
the wedding, and being that he was terminally ill, what did he expect her to do money wise if he kicked the bucket earlier than expected?

The topic required immediate attention. It was time to pay her rich soon-to-be husband a visit. If she was going to match wits with Noah Brockington she was going to have to toughen up. No more ruffles, bows, or pony-tails—not until he agreed to her terms. Intending to invoke authority and confidence, she peeled off the jeans and replaced the casual attire with a business suit.

Clad in navy blue Italian wool jacket and pants, she collected the papers, stuffed them in her briefcase, and closed the bedroom door behind her. Milan strode swiftly toward the master bedroom suite, prepared to sit down and play hardball with the man who stood between her and the lifestyle of the wealthy elite. She was certain the curve ball she planned to throw at Noah Brockington would solidify her position.

“M
y dear,” Noah addressed Milan from his bed. He looked thinner, as if he’d lost a few pounds since their encounter earlier that day.
Good!
She hoped his projected lifespan had been shortened by two months. She was certain she could pull together a fabulous wedding in just a month or two—with the help of a planner, of course. Yes, she definitely would need some professional help to get this wedding off and running with such limited time.

Milan pulled up a chair beside the bed. She pulled the document from her briefcase and placed it on the low table beside the bed. “Noah, I’ve read the prenuptial agreement.” Looking at him intently, she placed her hand softly upon his withered veiny one. “It saddens me that our time together will be so short, but I want you to know that I’m honored that you want me to bear your child—your children if that’s what you desire. I’ve signed the document; we can have it couriered over to your attorney today if you’d like.”

“Your consideration astounds me. I must say, I didn’t expect you to make such a hasty decision.”

It’s not like there’s a hell of a lot of time to dawdle
. “It was an easy decision,” she said, smiling. She knew she’d missed her calling. She should have been an actress. Playing roles came so easily for her. “To have a part of you…” Milan touched her heart dramatically, closed her eyes dreamily and inhaled. “Your idea is brilliant; it would have never occurred to me that I could have a part of you with me long after you’re gone.”

Noah, despite his frailty, puffed up with pride. “Look at you! Dressed like a businesswoman.” He motioned with his hand. “You look so beautiful…so severe. You’re the exact replica of a chiding schoolmarm who’d dispense harsh punishment for the slightest infraction of a rule.” As the words poured out of Noah’s mouth, his eyes lit up with deviant desire.

No, no, no! No more stupid games.
She wanted to scowl, stamp her feet, and slap him senseless, but she remained completely composed. “Noah, we must discuss my living expenses,” she told him, calmly. “I’ll need money to plan the wedding.”

“How much do you need?” he asked eagerly. His dry lips were suddenly moistened—by drool, Milan suspected.

“At least one thousand a day,” she said firmly.

Noah didn’t blink. “Very well,” he said hastily.

Milan was relieved that Noah agreed so readily. She wouldn’t spend the cash, nor would she put it in the freakin’ bank. Banks had the authority to put a freeze on one’s funds and then spend the money as they saw fit. She’d put the money in a personal safe—let it stack up. A secret stash. The ordeal she’d suffered at the hands of her former employer taught her a valuable lesson: Expect the worst even in the best of times and always have access to emergency cash.

Breaking into her musings, Noah cleared his throat. “Mistress, I didn’t complete my homework,” he said, his voice taking on a boyishly high register.

Milan heaved a sigh, abruptly stood up, and marched to the corner where Noah’s rolling walker was leaning folded against the wall. She yanked it open and pushed it roughly toward the bed. “Get up,” she said through tightly closed teeth, “and get the money this instant.”

Looking frightened, he scooted over and awkwardly transferred from the bed. He gripped the walker and trudged slowly to his dressing room with Milan impatiently at his side, urging him along.

Closet space took up one entire side of the room. Hunched over the walker, standing near a pillar that separated the dressing room from the bedroom, he pointed to one of the numerous closet doors. Milan flung the door open and to her surprise there was an old-fashioned footlocker cleverly concealed by racks of shoes. “As my wife-to-be, I grant you access to your daily allowance. You’ll find the key in the fourth drawer inside the armoire.”

Milan practically clicked her heels as she hurried into the closets, leaving Noah standing there in his pajamas, gripping the rolling walker. Anxiously, she opened the fourth drawer. The key was in plain view sitting atop a stack of crisp, neatly folded white monogrammed handkerchiefs. It was a wonderful sight, but she was sidetracked by the sight of the mound of handkerchiefs and couldn’t fully enjoy the moment.

She snatched the key and rolled her eyes at the outdated square pieces of cloth, which Noah seemed to have an endless supply of to stifle coughs and to blow his perpetually runny nose.

How disgusting
. Her thoughts shifted to the day of their nuptials. Suppose he had a bout of coughing or had to blow his nose while standing at the altar? Milan grimaced. It didn’t matter, she’d have a box of tissues on hand because there was no way she was going to allow him to stick one of his damned monogrammed hankies in the breast pocket of his wedding tuxedo. She’d have to painstakingly oversee every aspect of his wedding apparel.

When she returned to the dressing room, Noah stood near the wall of closets, steadying himself with the walker. Milan suddenly had a notion that it would be cost efficient and a rather clever idea to bury her doomed soon-to-be spouse in his wedding-day attire. Oh, and she’d throw all those pesky hankies into the coffin with him. He might find the handkerchiefs useful in the afterlife. She let out a spiteful giggle.

Enjoying her wicked sense of humor as well as the feeling of the elusive key pressed against her palm, Milan tossed Noah a broad smile. By the time she inserted the key and turned the lock, Milan was giddy with excitement.

Inside the trunk was an obscene amount of money—stacks upon stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills. Gleeful and amazed, Milan pursed her lips and blew out a musical sound. Whistling was uncharacteristic and definitely beneath her—it was totally undignified—but the sight of all that money rendered her temporarily insane. And horny, she realized when her pussy began to twitch.

“How much is in there?” she asked, kneeling before the trunk as if it were a sacred altar. In awe, she stared at the money. Stabbed by the familiar pang of a lifetime of yearning, Milan felt close to tears. She wanted it. All of it! She wanted it so badly, the desire was palpable.

“Over a million, my dear,” Noah responded. “Now, take what you need and lock the trunk.” He looked around cautiously and then spoke in a hushed tone. “You can’t trust the help these days, I’m sure you’re aware.”

Milan nodded absently and then greedily grabbed a tidy pile of the bills, which was secured with a purple paper band. She peeled off ten bills and slowly, reluctantly placed the rest of the stack back inside the trunk.

Hanging over his walker, Noah reached out and slammed down the top of the trunk. “Secure the lock,” he ordered, wearing an impatient frown, “and return the key to its proper place,” he added in a high-handed manner. His voice was steel.

Her heart sank. She was so disappointed, desolate. She’d wanted to bask in the glow of the money just a little longer. No, that wasn’t entirely true. She desired more than just a visual. Actually, she wanted to sniff, caress, and fondle every single dollar. But Noah, ornery creep that he was, had put a lid on the money, instantly shutting off her feeling of euphoria. It was very mean of him to begrudge her such a small pleasure.

Determinedly, Milan kept a scowl from forming on her face and somehow managed to keep a calm demeanor. “Follow me,” she said, as she stalked off from the dressing area.

The walker rattled and the wheels creaked in protest as Noah tried to keep up with Milan’s pace. “My dear,” he whined as he shuffled along. “You must slow down, I can’t keep—”

“Follow me,” she interrupted, using an implacable tone. “And stop your sniveling,” she warned, giving him a stern look over her shoulder. He’d asked for a strict disciplinarian and she now fully intended to inflict severe punishment to such an impudent, ill-mannered pupil.

When Noah toddled into the bedroom, Milan slammed the door that led to the adjacent dressing room. She briskly headed to the bedside table and pulled open the drawer that stored the leather paddle.

Waving the paddle menacingly, her face contorted in an unforgiving scowl, Milan spoke through clenched teeth. “Get over here and drop your pants.”

Noah smiled sheepishly.

“Do it,” she yelled. “Now!”

Her voice, loud and shrill, took Noah by surprise. He gave a startled jump. Then, after collecting himself, he obediently shuffled toward Milan as quickly as the cumbersome rolling walker allowed. When he reached Milan, he gripped the side of the walker with one hand. With the other, he lowered his pajama bottom, awkwardly turned, and surrendered himself.

Paddling Noah had turned her on more than when he’d given her a light spanking. She probably could have had an orgasm if she’d spanked him as hard as she’d wanted to. But if she’d given in to her desire to give Noah the severe beatdown he deserved, she would have left some vicious bruises or broken a few bones. The type of bodily harm he had coming could have accidentally killed him. And then she’d be in a hell of a jam. On the lam, again. This time for murder. Being accused of murder and having to flee the country to escape a lethal injection was truly a gruesome thought.

Swiftly changing her thoughts back to a juicier subject, Milan came to the decision that she wanted sex. Badly. But most definitely not with Noah. He was sexually satisfied. The sound of his contented snoring seemed to echo through the halls, around the bend, seeping through the space beneath Milan’s bedroom door.

Under normal circumstances, his snoring would have angered her to no end, but not today. She felt horny just thinking about the bright crimson shade his buttocks had turned after she’d paddled him. Judging by the way his body had tensed and the loud manner in which he moaned, he must have felt pretty heated, too. He was so hot and bothered, he cried out in passion, and then gushed out a tremendous load.

His bibliophilic nurse, pulled from the downstairs library where her head was undoubtedly buried in a book, was told by Milan to get upstairs and clean up the mess. It was high time for the woman to start earning her pay.

With her finances stable at least for the moment, Milan decided it was time to catch up on her membership dues and take care of her raging libido. No love toys, no self-administered finger tricks, and no pussy-sucking lips. The only thing that would pacify her sexual craving was a real-life, hard-pumping, thick-ass dick.