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His desk is large — as you’d expect. He also has papers all over it, along with a computer, his telephone and a coffee cup. He also looks like he’s having an argument with someone; I can tell by the look on his face and the way he taps his pen against the desk rapidly.
Then he speaks. “That just isn’t good enough. If they think they can undercut this firm to try and snatch the client for themselves, then they’ve been smoking crack for way too long.”
My eyebrows shoot up as I keep listening.
“… No, not tomorrow. Today, arsehole. You knew the stakes were high on this job and yet I have to find out second-hand information from some snitch over at Prime Media. Jeremy Fucking Fuller will be gloating about this for days. Just remember, it’s your arse on the line when we lose this client.” He slams the phone down and lets out a string of cuss words as I sit there in silence. Turning his head, he scans my body.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m Charlize, your new sugar baby. Is there anything I can get for you? Tea? Coffee? Bourbon? Blowjob?”
He gives me a disapproving look and runs both hands through his hair. Okay, bad timing for a joke. “You look pretty.”
Just those words. His tone is light and more playful than I’ve heard before.
I feel my cheeks flushing. I dry shampooed the shit out of my hair because I didn’t get time to wash it, and I applied a decent amount of makeup.
“Thank you for the clothes.”
“Did you like them?”
I shrug. “They were nice.”
“Don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
“I just mean, they were all… pretty formal.”
He piques an eyebrow. “Whenever you come to my office, you have to look like a lady, Charlize. And when we’re out together. When we’re at home, you can wear what you like.”
When we’re at home?
I feel a flutter in my stomach. It feels a lot like butterflies.
“Do I look like a lady now?”
His eyes scan my face. His lips turn up, almost a smile but not quite. “Yes.”
“I love the blouse, but six hundred pounds? You’re insane.”
His lips twitch. “It’s just money. Speaking of which…” He leans down and pulls something out of his top drawer. Sliding it across the desk I see it’s a credit card.
“This is for you.”
I stare at it. “My own credit card?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the spending limit?”
He rests his elbows on the table and I try not to stare at his bulging biceps. “There isn’t one.”
Holy shit.
“So, just to clarify. You don’t care what I spend?”
“No. I don’t. In fact, if you don’t spend any money, I’ll be sorely disappointed. And you don’t want to see me disappointed, do you Charlize?”
I lean over and take the card. “No, Mr. Devereaux.”
He shakes his head at my insolent tone.
