An Improper Deal (Elliot & Annabelle #1) (Billionaires' Brides of Convenience Book 3) (6 page)

Pete has a photo of a pretty brunette on his wide oak desk. He’s missing a ring, but I’ve seen how his gaze softens every time he looks at the picture. If I’m not mistaken—and I rarely am about this kind of thing—he’s whipped.

“I think that’s all,” I say.

Pete’s intern gathers all the documents, creating two neat piles. He puts one in a thick envelope that feels expensive and hands it to me. “Here you are, sir.”

“Thanks.” Dennis Dunn is unremarkable. He has sandy hair, gray eyes so light they’re the color of spit, and ghostly white skin that’s probably never seen the sun. At least his broad body indicates he works out. And his cheap tan suit does fit him well, but I’ve noted the way he looks at Pete’s Armani getup. Hunger and ambition burn equally in those pale eyes.

I turn to Pete. “Mind if we chat privately for a moment?”

He nods, and the intern slinks off, closing the door behind him.

I make sure there are no shadows on the other side of the frosted glass, and say, “I don’t like that kid.”

“Dennis?”

“Yeah.”

Pete manages the impressive feat of quirking an eyebrow while frowning. “Has he done something to offend you?”

“No. Just don’t like people who are overambitious near my money.”

He laughs. “Maybe I should be offended here. You don’t find me ambitious?”

“Oh, no, you definitely are. But you’re smart enough not to overreach. I don’t know about him.”

“He’s here purely to learn, and he has no authority over, nor any access to, any of the accounts. The security and privacy of your portfolio are of course paramount to our firm.”

I snicker. “Did you have to memorize that as part of your orientation?”

He merely grins. “He’s only here for six months. I’ll keep an eye on him if it makes you feel better.”

“You do that.” I get up. “Thanks, Pete.”

“My pleasure.”

I leave. Dennis is nowhere to be seen, although if he knew I was leaving, he might’ve come out to see me off. I don’t know why he bothers me. Pete’s worked with other interns before, and I hardly ever noticed them…unless they were hot chicks.

I shake my head. Whatever. Like Pete said, he’s only here for six months. And even if he becomes a permanent hire, what am I going to do? I’m fortunate to be OWM’s client. The firm’s been cutting back recently, becoming even more exclusive, but since I was one of the early customers, I still get to keep my account with them.

OWM must have an oracle on staff, because I’ve never seen it lose a client’s money. A lot of people think that the algorithm Lucas and I sold on our twenty-first birthday is what made us billionaires. Actually the company and all intellectual property attached to it were sold for over a billion, but after expenses and split two ways, the amount I got was a lot less. It was OWM that pushed me into the ten-figure ranks.

For which I compensate them handsomely.

I walk past the receptionist’s desk. As I’m about to open the glass doors to the elevators, I see someone in my peripheral vision and stop. It’s…
that girl
.

Annabelle Key.

I can hardly believe my eyes, but there she is, pushing a cart with cleaning supplies and buckets. A gray janitorial staff uniform hangs loosely, hiding her body. Her bright red hair is pulled into a ponytail, there isn’t any makeup on her small face, and her pale lips are set in a line as flat as a hyphen.

My gaze swings to the door that just shut behind her, and I see a black-and-white sign with a triangular woman’s figure on it.

I don’t think. I just move.

Before I know it I’m next to her, my hand around her arm. She looks up at me, eyes wide. This close I can smell floral soap and a sweet womanly scent. But there’s also chlorine, twisting like a knife, and it infuriates the hell out of me that she’s here…doing this.

“Janitor work?
Janitor work
is your calling?” I almost snarl.

She tilts her chin in defiance. “Why do you care?”

I flex my hand, suppressing the urge to shake her until her teeth rattle. I don’t know why I give a damn. I really shouldn’t, but I keep thinking about her, and fuck me if I can figure out why I can’t just stick her in the “whatever” box.

All women in my life are neatly categorized: “family and friends,” “previously fucked,” “to be fucked,” and the catch-all “whatever.” The last one is for women who don’t fit into the first three, and once a chick goes in there, I don’t think about her anymore. It just isn’t worth the effort. Life is full of willing girls.

And maybe it’s
because
she won’t fit neatly into a box that I’m fascinated. I love a good challenge, and I’ve been bored for a long time.

“Do you think you can find a husband scrubbing toilets?” I ask.

“Beats being told to get on my knees by some random rich guy.”

“Three grand not enough?”

“I prefer something steadier than just one night.”

She yanks on her arm, but I don’t let go. I sense the receptionist watching us, but I don’t give a fuck. She’s going to be discreet about it because that’s what the firm pays her to be.

“So your objection is to the one-off nature of my offer?”

Instead of answering, she jerks her arm again. But I’m not letting go until I’m done.

“When are you finished with your shift?” I ask.

“None of your damn business.”

“I can make your life very difficult.” I lean close until I can see every fleck in her mesmerizing green eyes. “I could get you fired right now.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“Asshole.”

I merely smile. “Your shift?”

“Five,” she grinds out.

“Good. I’ll send a car. We’ll talk.”

“About what?”

“About you going on your knees on a more consistent basis.”

Her complexion turns as red as a boiled lobster. If we didn’t have an audience, I’m sure she’d slap me.

And for some strange reason, that amuses me a great deal. I let go and leave, whistling. But as soon as I’m inside an elevator, my merriment fizzles. I have things to do.

Annabelle

I shake all day long. It’s impossible to be calm and collected when the sexiest man I’ve ever met behaves so horribly toward me.

I’d much rather drink a cocktail of bleach and ammonia than face him after my shift is over, but I just started this job. As a matter of fact, today is my first day. And I’m practical enough to know that if the choice is me or him, management is going to choose him. He’s rich and obviously important. I’m just a cleaning girl.

And those are a dime a dozen. It’s
infuriating
.

As soon as I can, I’m getting a college degree and making something of myself. Nobody, no matter how rich or powerful or important, will
ever
look at me and assume that I’m for sale or to be toyed with for their amusement.

Five o’clock comes sooner than I want. I change into my street clothes: a white T-shirt and denim skirt I bought from Walmart on sale. The skirt hangs a bit loose around my waist, but the price was too good to pass up. I grab my bag from the locker.

Although Elliot didn’t say where his car would be waiting, I presume it’s going to be at the main entrance. And sure enough, a black Rolls-Royce is idling with a driver standing on the curb. He’s slim, only moderately tall. But he has sharp dark eyes and even darker hair. I don’t even try to guess his nationality. I’m horrible at figuring that kind of stuff out about Asians.

“Miss Annabelle Key?” he says when he sees me.

“Yes.”

He opens the rear door, and I climb inside. The leather is so smooth it almost feels silky. He shuts the door and gets behind the wheel. “Are you comfortable?”

“Fine.”

He raises the partition between us and starts driving. I surreptitiously study the interior. Everything looks expensive. It even
smells
expensive.

I don’t know why Elliot sent me something like this. He can’t mean to impress me with his wealth. He already knows money won’t do it.

Our progress is painfully slow. I nibble on my lower lip and text Nonny.
Bad traffic
,
think I’m going to be late
.
But I left you some salad and enchiladas
.
Just microwave
.
Will be home ASAP
.
Love you
.

A few minutes later, she texts me back.
No prob
.
Love you to
.

Too
.

It’s autocorrect
.

I grin. Whenever she makes an error she blames her phone.

Traffic crawls and it takes almost ninety minutes to reach our destination. The luxury residential condo building isn’t that far from the OWM building. I probably could’ve walked here in less time.

A uniformed doorman opens the door, gesturing me toward the concierge desk. If the clerk is shocked by my shabby appearance, he doesn’t comment. He just makes a quick note in his computer and sends me up to the same penthouse where I jumped out of the cake. Last time I rode the service elevator. This time I get to ride the one the people who live here use.

Moving up in the world
,
Annabelle
.

I look at the numbers rising on the digital display and drag in a fortifying breath. If Elliot keeps being obnoxious, what do I do? Threaten to sue him for harassment? Most people would back away, but I’m not sure he would. His reactions to things so far haven’t been what I expected.

The elevator dings.
Top floor
. I step out; there’s only one door, and it’s ajar.

I walk inside his penthouse. The view of the city is breathtaking from this high up. I can even see the sun setting over the Pacific. Everything in the living room is pristine white with a glass-top coffee table for variation. I stop—and flush—as I realize I’m standing where the cake used to be. Elliot is sitting on one of the couches—the one he was sitting on before. I’m fairly certain that’s not a coincidence.

He’s changed into a gray V-neck shirt and shorts, leaving his well-developed calves exposed for me to admire. I’m sure his thighs are just as muscular and strong. He has the body of a man who takes care of himself in all ways. He doesn’t have to take off his shirt for me to know that he has flat, well-defined abs that deserve to be worshipped. Just because I’m not that into sex doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a good physique.

His feet are bare, and for some reason it makes him look a bit vulnerable, like a layer of shield is gone from him. But I’m not letting my guard down. He’s about as defenseless as a sleeping tiger.

He’s nursing something—maybe bourbon?—and gestures with the glass.

“Have a seat.”

I do, since my feet and legs are killing me. But I make sure to choose the armchair as far away from him as possible. If he notices, he doesn’t comment.

“Something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”
As if
.

After a healthy swallow, he studies me. The silence stretches between us until I’m tempted to squirm.

Which I bet is exactly what he wants me to do.

Forcing myself to stay still, I hold myself rigid, my spine straight and stiff. Since he’s the one who insisted on seeing me, he can start.

Finally, he says, “Since you claim that your next fuck has to be your husband, and I’m in need of a wife, why don’t we get married? Only for a year, mind you.”

It’s a good thing I didn’t take a drink from him because I would’ve ended up wearing it. My mouth hangs open. “Ex
cuse
me?”

He spreads his hands. “What? A year not ‘steady’ enough for you? It’s a helluva lot more secure than most jobs. I’ll even throw in some severance pay.”

Mr. Grayson mentioned Elliot is looking for a wife, but I couldn’t bring myself to really believe it. All he’d have to do is snap his fingers and women would line up to marry him. But this thing he’s proposing? It’s crazy.

“One million,” he says.

“Like dollars?” I ask almost stupidly.

His voice is dry. “Is there any other kind of million?”

“But…” I trail off. My gosh. I can’t think.

“The deal is very simple. We will get married as soon as possible, you will let me fuck you as often as I want, and a year later we’ll divorce, quietly and amicably.”

“No kids!” I blurt out.

His dark brows pinch together. “Of course not.” Distaste curls his lips. “That would be a disaster.”

“Right. A complete disaster.” Then I stop. Why am I even talking to him like he’s being rational? None of this is normal. “Why do you want to marry me anyway? You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t have to know you to marry you. History’s full of brides and grooms who didn’t even know what each other looked like until the ceremony. Hell, I bet it’s still happening somewhere in the world.”

“But not in America.”

“I’ve never been one to worry about precedent.” He smiles. “It’s only for a year. And in addition to the severance pay, there’ll be other perks.”

“I don’t think sleeping with you counts as a perk,” I rasp out through my dry throat.

He chuckles softly. The sound of amusement ripples like a gentle river, surprisingly calming. “More like a privilege.”

Oh my god
. “How does your neck support a head that big?”

“With a great deal of difficulty.” He places his empty glass on the small table next to him and gets up.

My spine straightens, and I watch him with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. I’m quite certain whatever he’s going to try will end up disappointing. Sex is by default sort of bland for me, the mind-bending orgasms you always hear about myths as far as I’m concerned. Not that I don’t climax. I do. But it’s more like “ah, that was nice” not “ohmygod I can’t even remember my own name.” I actually think a lot of women talk about the crazy orgasms they experience so their boyfriends’ feelings won’t be hurt. Telling a man, “That wasn’t too bad,” isn’t really proper post-coitus etiquette.

Still, there is a suspicious heat starting up between my legs. It isn’t something I’ve often experienced, at least not until a guy starts kissing and touching me. A small alarm in the back of my head beeps, “Danger, danger, danger.” But I can’t do anything except sit here and let the rest of this surreal insanity play itself out.