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So he was expecting me. That was... unexpected. Frankly, in my experience, powerful rich men made their own schedules and everyone else had to keep up with them. That I wasn't going to be kept waiting was... nice. “Er... thanks,” I said. I glanced around for a place to sit down while she hurriedly punched numbers into the sleek numberpad sitting next to her computer.
“Yes, Felicia Dare is here to see Mr. Waters,” she said. Someone burbled at the other end of the line. “Yes, thank you,” she replied, and hung up. She flashed me a huge smile. “He'll be waiting for you. Top floor, of course.”
“Thanks,” I said again, feeling lame. I skirted the desk and the now-beaming receptionist and made my way to the corridor of imposing elevator doors. They looked like something out of some old sci-fi silent film. One of the creepy dystopian ones. I pressed the button for the doors that led straight to the top, and they opened immediately. I stepped inside. They shut behind me, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach as it shot up.
Now that I was inside the elevator and clearly on my way to actually see Anton Waters, my nerves began to fail me. What was I thinking? What was I doing? I should have ripped up that contract and thrown it back in my father's face and not even bothered to come here. I could take out a line of credit to pay for Mom's treatments. Couldn't I? Like everyone else and their dog applied for credit cards and ran up crazy massive debt. I could do that too! And then I could declare bankruptcy! Everyone wins!
Yes. That was what I would do. I'd yell at the billionaire for a bit, and then turn around, go back to my apartment, and drive myself into financial ruin. Hey, it worked for my father.
No sooner had I reached this conclusion than the elevator came to a heart-stuttering stop, and the doors opened wide.
The top of Anton Waters's personal financial behemoth resembled the bottom only in that they were both huge spaces. Where the bottom floor had been all brushed steel and dark gray slate, the top floor of the building was laid in white marble and gold. Everything, from the white marble floor to the delicious dark brown leather furniture to the rich mahogany desk to the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling—a chandelier! in a corporate office!—spoke of tastes too sumptuous for mere moral minds to ken.
Behind the desk, a man whom I could only assume was Mr. Waters's personal assistant stood and bowed to me. Like, actually bowed. Full tilt and everything. Perhaps the firm did a lot of business with the Japanese or visiting Arab royalty and it was just a reflex? This place was too much. My vague, dim memories of my father's offices were of stately grandeur, not spartan modernity or spa-weekend getaway gaudiness.
“Ms. Dare,” the man said. “You may call me Arthur. Mr. Waters is waiting for you inside.” And he gestured to the right, at a pair of double doors, the twins of the doors on the left.
Butterflies raged in my stomach but I lifted my chin. I was not going to be cowed. “That's tits,” I said. I had the satisfaction of his startled face as I swept by him and through the doors.
Another small foyer waited behind the doors. This space was decorated much more sparingly, with a large aquarium full of brightly colored fish and a few zen fountains dotting the corners and walls. Two grand doors of frosted glass stood in the center of the wall across from me. A small, understated name plaque simply said, 'Waters.'
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Anton Waters stood behind his desk staring out at the New York skyline from one of the windows. He turned when I entered and watched as I marched to the center of his office.
I didn't even look around. I'd seen his face everywhere in the past few years, and he was, depressingly, just as stunning in person as he was on magazine covers. His dark hair was a perfectly coiffed mess, and his vivid green eyes were visible even from across the room. The light fell on them beautifully, as though the whole world were set up to highlight his incredible looks. High cut cheekbones framed a straight, powerful nose, but his lips were full and sensuous. He had a chin you could cut diamonds with. And, judging from his comfortable and yet oh-so-GQ attire, he had the body to go with it.
I hated him on sight. For guys like Anton Waters, earth was a photography studio, not a planet, and everyone was a sycophant telling him to make love to the camera. In fact, my first thought was, Man, I'm going to hate this guy.
Unfortunately for me, my second thought was, Holy shit, he's hot.
Even more unfortunately, my third thought was, Those are some lips you could really ride until morning.
Goddamn hormones. I hadn't gotten laid in six months since I broke up with Steele—no, that hadn't been his real name and yes, he had been just as much of a douche as you would expect from a guy who willingly called himself Steele—and it was showing.
I crossed my arms. “So what's this about us getting married?” I demanded.
He stared at me and didn't react.
My words seemed to fall to the floor between us, clattering like spilled silverware. The longer he stared, the more I realized that he was no ordinary handsome man. Even from across the room I could feel the magnetic charge he gave out. It was terrifying, intense, turbulent. The force of his personality far outweighed his beautiful face, even when he wasn't even moving.
This was a man who could rule the world, if he wanted to.
You know. Like the antichrist.
Finally he smiled faintly. “Hello, Miss Dare,” he said.
Vaguely, I wished I'd been sitting down. His voice was like... something really sinful. Deep. If he'd been singing, he might have reached the great depths of a basso profundo. It was the kind of voice you could turn up really loud and then sit on your speakers to. Not, of course, that I'd ever done that...
Oh, fine. When it's three in the morning and you've had too many PBRs everything is a great idea, okay? And if I'd had his voice stowed away in a little file on my computer, I'd have played that damn thing on repeat for an hour.
I shook myself, trying to focus. “Yeah,” I said. “Hello.” I forced myself to look away from him and tried to concentrate on studying his office.
Except there was nothing in it. There was only his desk with his chair and his computer at one end of the room, and just to my left, two sofas arranged across from each other with a spartan coffee table between them. The only nod to individuality he seemed to have given was another small fountain sitting on the coffee table, the water running over carefully pl
aced river stones.
A small, hysterical part of myself wanted to laugh. Waters! it said, and I had the sudden, wild idea that Anton Waters was just like poor, dumb old Steele, except with actual charisma. He'd chosen a name for himself—a far better name—and gone out to conquer the world. The fountains were a hint to anyone keen enough to decipher them.
