Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (3 page)

on clean boxers and an undershirt, and trudged back into the living

room. He scooped up his dirty jeans and was about to toss them in

the laundry basket when his wallet fell out of the back pocket. A

business card fell out along with it.

Oh, right. Mr. Bossy had given it to him. Bran hadn’t even

bothered looking at it before.
Jonathan S. Watkins.
Name and phone

number. Nothing else. What the hell kind of business card was that?

He flipped it over, but the back was blank.

Watkins . . . Jonathan Watkins . . .
Why did that sound so

familiar?

He fired up his ancient desktop, drumming his fingers on the

desk while he waited for Google to load.

17,400,00 results? What the fuck?
Who
was
this guy?

Ex-CEO of the world’s largest computer empire, apparently.

And current Chairman of the Watkins Foundation, charitable

organization extraordinaire. Yup, the photo matched. Jesus, the guy

didn’t even look thirty.

Holy shit. I blew a fucking billionaire.

Bran picked up the plain white business card again, flicked it with

his thumb. Did this guy really want to see him again? What for?
Last

night was a little fuzzy, but he didn’t actually recall Jonathan drinking

more than a sip. But he had given Bran his card—his
personal
card,

from the look of things.

Bran fingered his cell phone. Looked back at his computer

screen. Surely a guy like Jonathan wouldn’t answer his own phone. A

secretary maybe. Or a personal assistant. Whatever guys with more

money than God hired.

Eh, he probably didn’t really want Bran to call him, anyway.

Probably just felt bad leaving his bit of rough on his knees in an alley

with cum dripping down his chin.

And yet, he had invited him to dinner, hadn’t he? Or had Bran

been so drunk he’d imagined it?

Only one way to find out. Bran flicked on his phone and punched

in Jonathan’s number. It rang twice before the line clicked on.

“Hello, Brandon. How’s your headache?”

What. The. Fuck?
“How did you know it was me?” Who was this

guy, some kind of fucking stalker? Bran went to the window and

parted his drapes, feeling ridiculous even as he did so.

Jonathan chuckled. “Do you know who
I
am yet?”

Bran hesitated. “Uh, yeah.”

“Well, there you go. So, dinner tonight?”

“You sure you got time for me? Sounds like you’re pretty busy.”

“I managed to squeeze you in last night, didn’t I?”

“Fuck you,” Bran replied, but his words lacked the bite he’d

intended.

Another chuckle. “Eight o’clock, then? I’ll send my car to pick

you up.”

The line went dead before Bran could even tell him where he

lived.

Bran’s doorbell rang around four in the afternoon, jarring him

from his concentration. He eyed the door, eyed the numbers he

was crunching for his business plan, eyed the door again. He wasn’t

expecting anyone, and the mailman had already come. Unless it was .

. . No, Jonathan wouldn’t show up four hours early. Would he?

Fuck it, the plan was more important if he had even the slightest

hope of getting a loan. He went back to his numbers.

The doorbell rang again.

Bran sighed, scrubbed his hands across his face. The lingering

remnants of his hangover flared at the noise. “All right, all right, I’m

coming,” he called, pushing up from his desk. Whatever. He’d been

sitting in the damn folding chair too long anyway.

He swung the door open to find a uniformed courier holding a

black leather garment bag. “Delivery from Mr. Jonathan Watkins for

Mr. Brandon McKinney?”

Bran blinked. “What is it?”

“No idea, sir. We’re not allowed to inspect the packages.” The

courier handed him the garment bag and turned to go.

“Wait a minute.” Bran dug in his pocket, but all he came up with

was a crumpled dol ar bill and a handful of change. Still, better than

nothing.

The delivery man shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, sir. It’s

been taken care of.” He headed off before Bran could reply or give

the bag back.

The hell? This guy thinks I can’t dress myself?

He thought about leaving the bag in the hal way. But then, he

supposed wherever Jonathan was taking him, he probably
didn’t
own

a nice enough suit. Might as well see what he’d sent.

He took it inside, laid it across the bed and unzipped it, breath

catching at what was inside. At first he thought the three-piece suit

was black, but subtle navy tones shone in the light when he lifted it

up. Soft, soft wool from the feel of it, maybe even a wool/cashmere

blend. The pristine white dress shirt underneath was definitely

silk, with stiff French cuffs. Last time he’d worn anything even half

this nice was to his mother’s funeral. He didn’t even own cufflinks

anymore.

But of course the pretentious asshole had thought of that too:

silver, or maybe platinum, nestled in a little velvet box along with a

matching tie clip. Simple and elegant.
And probably a month’s rent,

too, the ostentatious little shit.

There were shoes and cashmere socks, leather belt and a tie, too.

The shoes so polished he could see his reflection, the belt supple as

suede, the tie the exact same shade of green as his eyes.

One last thing in the garment bag, too dark to discern until he

pulled it out and saw . . . underwear?

Are you fucking
kidding
me?

He wadded the black silk boxer-briefs with the intent of hurling

them across the room, and found a little handwritten note pinned to

the waistband:
Boxers ruin the line of the suit —J.

Oh, fuck this, and fuck him too. He knocked the whole ensemble

onto the floor with one furious swipe. What the hell did Jonathan

think this was—
Pretty Woman
? Just because he’d sucked the guy’s

dick didn’t make him a whore.

Still, the attention
was
strangely flattering. He bent down, picked

the clothes up off the floor. Shook out the suit, smoothed a hand

along one sleeve. God, it was so fucking soft.

Couldn’t hurt to try it on before he sent it back with a “Fuck

you.” Just to see what it felt like to stand—literally—in a billionaire’s

shoes.

He stripped off his T-shirt and jeans—and after a moment’s

hesitation, took off his boxers too. The black silk whispered over his

skin. He pulled on the pants next, then the shirt. He’d never worn

anything so nice in his life. Or so perfectly fitted. Like it was made

for him. Probably was, actually; he hadn’t seen a single label on

anything.

His fingers felt clumsy as he put on the cufflinks, the tie, the vest

and the jacket, then sat down on the edge of his unmade bed to slip

on the socks and the shiny black brogues.

Jesus, this was creepy. Had Jonathan had his credit card statements

hacked? How else would he know what size Bran was? Know
exactly,

too—enough to custom tailor, because this sure as shit hadn’t come

off some rack somewhere. No labels in anything. Even the shoes fit

perfectly.

He studied himself in the ful -length mirror on the back of his

bathroom door. Barely even recognized himself. He looked like a

fucking executive or something, despite his shaggy hair.
No, like a

business owner.
Stupid as it was, it kind of made him feel like maybe

it was possible to buy Sung Integrated Design. Rename it, maybe:

McKinney
Integrated Design.

Jesus, Bran, what are you, five? Playing dress-up? Really?

Apparently so, because long after he stepped away from the

mirror and returned to his P&Ls and his five-year plan, he still hadn’t

changed out of the damn suit. Hadn’t even loosened the tie. Maybe

he’d go out with that arrogant little fuck after al . Just once. Just to see

what the high life was really like.

CHAPTER
2

onathan sipped his green tea and glanced at his phone. Five

minutes till eight, and no sign of Brandon. No word from him,

either, and the suit had been delivered hours ago. Had he pushed too

hard? Overstepped his bounds?

Jonathan waved off the head waiter, who’d come over to refill

his cup, and toyed again with the notion of cal ing his driver. But

no . . . He was so rarely surprised—so rarely
denied
—it was actually

quite delicious to remain in suspense. He loved being uncertain what

Brandon would do. What an intriguing man Brandon was turning

out to be. So defiant on the outside, and yet so submissive deep

down. God, he’d come in his pants on his knees at Jonathan’s feet. All

Jonathan’d had to do was pull Brandon’s hair and shove himself down

the man’s throat.

Upon consideration, maybe that was the problem. Big tough

construction worker, on his own since he was fifteen. Not the kind of

man to admit he liked being dominated. In fact, despite the obvious

submissive bent, he seemed to have a rather toppy vibe himself. A

switch, maybe? Well, wasn’t that just half the pleasure of getting him

on his knees?

Jonathan smiled and shifted a little in his chair. Thank goodness

for dimly lit rooms and long tablecloths.

Forget the tea. He needed something stronger.

He picked up the wine menu, and the sommelier virtually

materialized at the table. Jonathan knew little of Chinese liquor, so

he let the man recommend a Wuliangye baijou nearly as old as he

was. The sommelier left, returned with the bottle a few minutes later.

Poured Jonathan a taste. It looked like white wine . . . and tasted like

soy sauce mixed with Everclear.

Ah well. He supposed it would settle his nerves.

And clear out my sinuses.

He sipped his baijou—very, very
slowly—and cast another glance

at his cell phone. 8:03. Perhaps he should call his driver.

Patience, Jonathan.

Brandon sauntered in at last—eight minutes late—completely

worth the wait for the sight of that long lean body in jacket and

vest, wavy ginger hair combed back and curling softly at the nape of

his neck. Jonathan’s fingers itched to card through that silky length

again. To grab a good handful and yank.

God
damn
he looked good in that suit. And judging by the smirk

on his face, he knew it.

Not
just
a smirk, though. The lines around the eyes and the

stiffness in his shoulders held anger, irritation. Maybe even a touch

of trepidation.

Interesting.

“I’m glad you came,” Jonathan said. He made to stand but thought

better of it; no need to give Brandon the upper hand by letting him

see how . . .
powerfully
he was affecting Jonathan. “But I have to say

I’m not quite sure why you did if you’re so upset with me.”

Brandon’s smile froze uncomfortably on his face, just for a

moment, before his swagger reasserted itself. “It’s not every day a

guy sends me a three-piece suit. Or takes me to the most expensive

restaurant in Chinatown. In a limo.”