High Stakes Seduction - Book 1 (3 page)

"Perhaps it would be best if we discussed this in person, Miss Tilson," Mancini said quietly.

"No, Mr. Mancini," I said, raising my voice. "You’ll talk to me right now."

"No, Miss Tilson," he said. His tone, cold and uncompromising, gave me pause. "You will come to my office at Emerson Plaza tomorrow morning at nine. We will discuss your financial situation at that time. Is that clear?"

I blinked, stunned.

"I will accept your silence as compliance, Miss Tilson. I will see you in my office at nine a.m.," he said, and then the line went dead.

"What?" asked Maria, frowning at the shock that must have registered on my face. "What did he say?"

"He didn't. He won't tell me anything on the phone."

"Well, that's outrageous! Call him back and insist."

"He wants me to meet him at his office tomorrow." I continued. "He said we'll discuss it then."

"Ange—I can't believe you're willing to let this guy order you around. That's not like you at all. You're nobody's fool, and certainly nobody's servant!"

She was right, of course. But I had to get to the bottom of this. We needed the money—if he was such a big shot businessman, then it wouldn't hurt him financially to let go of the insurance policy.

My job at the restaurant barely paid the bills. Maria's settlement for the accident had somehow evaporated into our father's gambling debts, and we were tapping into the Uncle Benito Fund far more than either one of us wanted to. So, anything I could do to get this Mancini character to talk about a potential solution sounded like a good idea. Or so I rationalized.

I've never been really good at blindly obeying demands, and I wasn't about to start when the stakes were so high.

I glanced at my watch. It was thirteen minutes after nine. Call it childish defiance, but it was all I had at this point.

Antonio Mancini stood in front of a large, floor-to-ceiling window with his back to me, speaking quietly into his cellphone. Even standing behind him, I felt the strength of presence this man had. His impeccable suit and highly polished shoes fit with the photos I'd seen. But there was something more. Maybe it was the sheer breadth of his shoulders, the easy grace of his stance. Or the slight tilt to his head as he spoke into the phone.

His secretary nodded towards a white leather couch in the corner of the huge office. I smiled and thanked her as she closed the door, leaving me inside with the formidable Antonio Mancini.

But, I didn’t go over to the couch she'd indicated. Instead, I stood at the door, trying to keep my calm in the presence of this man who was clearly used to being in charge. I distracted myself by looking around the office.

It was elegantly decorated in blacks, whites, and grays, with deliberate splashes of mauve, worked in to various pieces of furniture and artwork, including a single flower in a vase on his desk. The décor was subtly tasteful and I found myself wondering what his home must look like.

The ride up the elevator had been almost as nerve-wracking as standing in this office. I'd peeked through the store windows as I passed into the building lobby, and been suitably impressed. It's not a store I'd ever had the funds to visit.

Scanning the offices looking for the Mancini name, I'd been further impressed by the other occupants: architects, several accounting firms, even a private investigator. And there, on the top floors, Mancini Enterprises.

"Thank you for coming to my office, Miss Tilson." The smooth, husky voice broke me out of my musings.

I silently cursed myself for letting my mind wander and opened my mouth to speak, only to find my throat dry. Clearly, his pictures did not do him justice.

He was—I hated to use the cliché, but my mind was not thinking very clearly at the moment—tall, dark, and extraordinarily handsome, with the same cool, dark, piercing eyes I had seen in the photographs. I couldn’t quite read his expression and suddenly felt stupid for playing games.

"I—I’m sorry I’m late," I said, taking his proffered hand and noticing the subtle shift of energy that ran up my arm at his touch.

He shook my hand firmly, but his thumb lingered, caressing my hand as it slid away to rest at his side. Just his touch made my knees weak.

"Please sit down," he said, turning and extending a hand to indicate the chairs opposite his desk.

I stepped over to the chairs and sat down, grateful not to have made a scene. He paused for a moment, then seated himself behind his desk.

"Look, Mr. Mancini," I began, leaning forward, and then the words just came tumbling out. "My sister and I have been dealing with my father’s debts ever since… since the accident when my… my mother died. When he disappeared a year ago, we heard nothing from him, until last week when I got a call telling me he was dead. And then, when I pick up his meager belongings, I find your name on an insurance policy? What is going on, Mr. Mancini?"

He watched me for a long, quiet moment. For the first time since the news of my father’s death, I felt tears threatening, and cursed silently. I could not let this man see me cry. I blinked and looked away, letting my gaze fall to a fashion magazine near his elbow.

I heard him inhale slowly. "Antonio," he said, laying his hands on the desk.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"You can call me Antonio. May I call you Angela?"

"I—"

"As we've already discussed, Angela, your father had many problems, most of which resulted in the financial situation you have inherited. However, you’ll note that the creditors stopped calling your home shortly after your father’s disappearance."

Creditors
? I thought.
More like goons
. I narrowed my eyes. "How did you know that, Mr. Mancini?"

"I know, because I was the one who made arrangements to relieve those debts. And that,
Ms. Tilson,
is the reason my name is on the insurance policy you found. The money your father owed—and that, technically, you now owe—is owed to me."

I inhaled sharply. That was the last thing I had expected—or wanted—to hear.

"It wasn't the first time he had called on me for help. I doubt you realize how deeply your father was in debt, Angela." His right hand moved to a folder sitting on the desk, which he slid toward me.

I reached for it, my hands shaking as I opened the folder. Another sharp intake of breath. "The mortgage on our house?" I managed to whisper.

"Yes," he said simply as I scanned the document.

The words started to blur and I realized that this time I was unable to stop the tears.

The one thing keeping me and Maria going since Mom's death was knowing that even though I'd quit college and taken that crap job as a waitress, at least we had the house. I might not make much between the restaurant and my occasional photography gigs, but the house had provided some measure of security. Except now, even that had been ripped out from under us.

"I’m sorry you had to find out about the extent of your father’s troubles in this way." He handed me a soft cotton hankie—not a Kleenex, a hankie. I dabbed my eyes, unexpectedly breathing in the warm scent of his cologne.

"When he came to me needing help, I had no idea how bad it was. This was the first big arrangement we made. He had assured me he would buy back the mortgage, but that never happened. It is unfortunate that he chose not to tell you about it, but I suppose that was understandable, under the circumstances. I had sincerely hoped he would turn his life around and fix this, but clearly that did not work out."

"You—you sound like you knew my father better than we did," I stammered, still staring at the blurred lines of the mortgage papers. "How would my father have even met someone like—" I glanced around at the elegant office. "How would he know someone like you?"

Antonio leaned back in his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests and steepling his fingers. "Gamblers can make some … unusual acquaintances," he replied.

The dark sparkle in his eyes made me uncomfortable. It was a knowing gaze; one of power and control, which I had none of at the moment. I felt a cloak of hopelessness settle around my shoulders. I tried to shake it off and fumbled in my purse for a tissue, handing him back his hankie.

"I met your father on several occasions," he continued.

I blew my nose and dabbed at my eyes, praying that I wasn’t making a mess of the makeup I'd so carefully applied that morning.

"In fact, I encouraged him to seek help for his addictions since he was already way over his head," his voice softened slightly. "But it's difficult to get anyone to do something they don’t want to do. Then he disappeared from our usual circles for a few months before showing up here, at my office."

"He came here?"

"To request my help again," he said, pointing at the folder. "But by then he didn't have anything more to offer, so the life insurance policy was my price."

I placed the mortgage documents back in the folder and sat there, quiet for some time, trying to piece my thoughts together. "But…" I started, glancing up to find him watching me with those shadowy, intense eyes. I looked away, unable to hold his gaze. "Why would you help him out…
Again
?"

He sat watching me. "I have my reasons. They are my own."

"You don’t need any of this." I pointed to the folder. "My sister and I don’t have anything left. Couldn’t you at least give us back the house?"

He sighed. "I helped your father out of an immediate bind, but I am, by no means, a charity. I appreciate your situation and your point of view. But I am a businessman, and I expect his debts to be repaid."

"But I—"

"There are options," he said, cutting me off as he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing and locked onto mine, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I was pinned, I couldn't look away.

"You seem like a capable woman, Miss Tilson. Perhaps you would like to apprentice here at my store? Provided you are willing to meet my conditions, I would like to offer you a job."

I sat there. Dumbfounded. Staring at the man across the desk. He stared back, those unwavering eyes watching every twitch that must have played across my face.
We were in his debt, but he was offering me a job?
My brain was having a hard time putting all the pieces together.

True, he was drop-dead gorgeous, and the thought of working around someone this good looking couldn't be all bad.

But my mind raced back to the information Conner had dug up on Antonio Mancini. His fashion business was very successful, but there were those photos - those other connections—some that left me wondering if I should even be talking with this man at all. My father had already bound me to him through his debt. How could I actually
work
for him?

"What—what do you mean?" My heart was pounding in my chest, so hard I was afraid it would come through my voice.

He leaned back in his chair, and a small smile played on his lips. It made me feel like a child—as though he was toying with me. A cat playing with a mouse that had walked into his trap. "I own a very lucrative fashion design company, Miss Tilson," he said, spreading his arms wide. "It just so happens that I am in need of an associate. How are you with sales?"

"I’m not—" I was going to say I didn’t know much about sales. I doubted my experience as a waitress qualified as sales, and I was suddenly distinctly aware of my lack of a college degree. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. "I don’t think—"

He laughed softly, which made me even more conscious of my stammering.

"I realize you're probably new to this. And I wouldn't expect you to step into the position without training. However, you would be paid a generous salary, plus commission. Once your probation is over, you would receive a suitable raise, depending on your performance, and the typical annual raises thereafter. Your family's debt would be deducted from your wages, and I would require you to commit for four years. But I guarantee,
if you are satisfactory
, there will be adequate cash for you and your sister to live comfortably. I propose to start you here." He jotted a note on his pad and pushed it towards me.

I snapped my mouth shut when I realized I was gaping at him, speechless. He just watched me with his slightly amused gaze.

I held his gaze and lifted my chin as I asked him the question on the tip of my tongue. "But why? Why are you offering me this job?"

"I have my reasons. Now, does this sound like an acceptable arrangement, Miss Tilson? Or do you need time to consider the offer first?"

That night at the restaurant was even more mind-numbing than usual. It didn't help that I was preoccupied with my earlier conversations. I tried to be grateful for having a job at all, but some days were just worse than others. Too bad I didn't have enough of a photography clientele to be able to just walk away.

I moved around like a drone, completely lost in my thoughts. When I'd told Maria about the offer, she couldn’t believe I hadn’t said "Yes!" right then and there. Certainly, the money Mancini was offering would be more than enough to take care of us, and to work off Dad’s tremendous debt.