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He’d merely lifted a finger, signaling the valet to wait as he lifted the front trunk of the car, pulled out a pair of Louboutins, and handed them to me.
Nude colored, six-inch pumps with the signature red beneath. I’d fall in these if I hadn’t gotten experience in high heels as a stripper.
“Wear these.”
Another order from him.
I shot him a wary look before slipping them onto my feet. He gripped my elbow to steady me.
This felt like some fucked-up fairytale. Except, instead of Prince Charming sliding a glass slipper onto her feet, Cinderella got an unapologetic dictator who ordered her to slip on Louboutins as he watched the skirt of her dress rise.
At least they were a perfect fit.
When I righted myself, several inches taller now, Bastian’s hand found the small of my back. He led me into the lobby of the building as I tried to convince myself this wasn’t weird.
A blonde with a model’s figure greeted us with a smile. Her hand reached out, but Bastian ignored it as he stepped past her.
I sent her an apologetic stare as she scrambled to catch up with us.
She ignored me.
Rude.
The elevator pinged and opened as soon as Bastian pressed the up button. The elevator ride to the top floor—sandwiched between the starstruck blonde and the leery Bastian—felt like torture.
With his hand still on my back, Bastian led the three of us into an office at the end of the hall. People stared with wide eyes as we passed their cubicles, the blonde trotting behind us to keep up.
He didn’t knock as he opened the door. A man sat at his desk. When we entered, he looked unfazed, ending his call without a goodbye.
“A pleasure as always, Mr. Romano.”
The man leaned back in his seat, looking powerful with his strong build and salt-and-pepper gentleman’s cut.
His eyes raked my body as we approached, blazing a path down my legs and settling on my feet with an intrigued gleam in his eyes.
So, Dictator Charming had a reason for the heels. He had wanted this man distracted, and he got it. I was Bastian’s pawn, and I expected nothing less from him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bennett,” the blonde behind me started.
“Leave, Felicia.” Mr. Bennett waved his hand toward the door. “I don’t have time for your stuttered apologies.”
She left, and I felt a little bad for her, even though she’d ignored me. Mr. Bennett stood, and instead of offering us a seat, he rounded the table and leaned against it.
My instincts told me it was to get closer to me.
I’d been led into the lion’s den by a wolf.
“You’ll understand if I cut straight to the point.” Bastian’s hand lowered on my back, so it rested just above my ass. “My patience is spread thin these days.”
Mr. Bennett’s eyes studied Bastian’s hand placement on my back.
He couldn’t see how low it was from his angle, but I was sure he knew as he spoke, “You want my company to lower the price per barrel of beer for nothing in return. The answer is no.”
“A ten-million-dollar a year account would piss off your share holders.” Bastian’s hands lowered even more, sprawling across my ass. “Remember them?”
I hated how much I reacted to his touch. My thighs squeezed together. I knew Bastian felt the movement because his eyes flicked to me as Mr. Bennett’s narrowed between my legs.
I should have turned around and walked away instead of standing here like a pawn in Bastian’s twisted games.
