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The painting is nothing like me. It’s a calm night scene. You can practically feel the people strolling along the canal, smiling gently. I’d be a fistfight reflected in the water.
And even if thatwasthe reason I chose it, Emerson had no business giving it to me. Not when it’s all a fraud.
So, no.
I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t relax. All I could do was want Bristol Anderson. All I could do was count the minutes until she’d be near me again.
It’s not an appropriate feeling to have about anyone at the office, but certainly not the temp who stole fifty thousand dollars.
This blackmail game isn’t about what I want. It’s about making sure she pays for what she took. It’s about taking each red cent from her soft skin, her sweet hair, her full lips.
I rub both hands over my face and lean back in my desk chair.
Fine.
I want her.
But not because I think there’s anything beyond these two weeks. Nothing between us. There can’t be, because Bristol Anderson is a beautiful young woman who made a terrible mistake and I’m barely human.
I just want to fuck her. And hurt her. And destroy her.
There would be nothing left but a sobbing, quivering mess of a woman when I was done with her. She would be appalled if she knew even one percent of the things I want to do. Mark her and bite her and break her. I’m a monster, which is why I’m not letting myself do those things.
I won’t hurt her that much if I only fuck her in the confines of the office.
That whisper in the back of my mind calls me a liar. An unconvincing liar. I don’t agree with it. If I were to feel things for her, it would be proof that I need her. That I need her tostay.I don’t do that. I don’t need people. I especially don’t need Bristol Anderson.
An email notification appears on the screen. It’s an invitation. Dinner reservations with Greg Winthrop and Mitchell Hope of Hughes Financial Services tonight.
Reservations, because Hughes Financial Services accepts my demands.
Allmy demands.
Even the superyacht.
I laugh out loud but there’s no humor in it. It has to be a joke, right? Handing over a yacht because some asshole said he wanted it? What kind of world am I living in?
I’m not worth this much. No matter how hard I work or how much money I make, I’m not worth much at all.
But no, it’s right here in black and white pixels on my large, curved screen. Tonight we’ll have dinner and shake hands. The lawyers will draw up the papers.
I accept the invitation. It appears on my calendar a second later.
It hasn’t been a full minute when Christa rushes into my office at high speed. It’s exactly the velocity I’d expect from a person who’s all sharp angles and red lipstick and no-bullshit attitude. “They accepted?”
“Are you just now catching up on all the emails?”
Christa rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t up all night like you. I can’tbelievethey agreed to buy you a yacht.”
“No, let’s get this straight. They’re begging to buy me a yacht.”
“Now all you have to do isnotfuck it up.”
I’m a little offended. “How would I fuck it up?”
She shakes her head. “Of course you didn’t look at the guest list on the calendar invite.”
“What about it?”
