Burning Offer (Trevor's Harem #1) (5 page)

I’m slightly early, so she invites me to sit. I keep my eyes peeled for the other people who are coming to this whatever-it-is. There must be an army of time-share suckers on their way. Maybe if we compare notes, I can suss out what’s going on.
 

I see a man with small glasses. I try catching his eye, but he walks off without seeing me. So he’s not here for the same thing.
 

A teen girl.
 

Three Japanese men in suits.
 

An old couple. I’m sure they’ll stop; scams and lies love old people. I’m vindicated when, after catching the woman’s eye, the pair comes over to say hello. They even sit down. But when I ask them why we’re all here, they seem confused. Then they tell me it’s their anniversary. It takes me a while to figure out that it’s an answer. Why are they here? For their anniversary. And when I don’t respond in kind, they say their goodbyes and leave.
 

A young man, maybe in his twenties, walks down the hall toward me. He’s immaculately dressed, his hair too fine and thin for someone so young. The poor bastard will be bald by thirty-five, I’m sure. But for now, he’s all youth and charm. Enough to thaw what’s left of the chip on my shoulder. It’s hard to stay angry for as long as I’ve been sitting.
 

I look at the wall clock: exactly one minute before two.

“Mr. Rice will see you now,” the man says.
 

“I know several Rices,” I lie as if this is all very usual for me. “Which one is here today?”
 

“Daniel, Miss.”

Ah. A chink in the armor. I should slip off to the bathroom, use my phone to look him up in the minute before we meet. But there are no bathrooms along the corridor. When we arrive at the conference room, it’s empty. Glass walls, just like I thought.

“He’ll be along shortly, Miss Miller,” the man tells me, gesturing into the room, toward one of two chairs. White things with soft interiors, almost like big postmodern eggs. They don’t look comfortable, but they’re literally the only furniture in the otherwise bare room.

We stop at the door. His arm is out, a smile on his face.
 

“Where is everyone else?”
 

“It’s just you today, Miss.”
 

I want my fucking money. But being here, in this place, is sapping my nerve.
 

“I don’t want to wait.”
 

“Very well, Miss. I will tell him you’ve declined.”
 

I look at my guide. At the egg chair.
 

I’ve come this far. Dammit.
 

I sigh and enter but refuse to sit. The first thing I do, when my guide is gone, is to slip my phone from the backpack that is serving as today’s purse. My day bag holds almost nothing more than what my purse usually does because I’ll be damned if I’m here for more than thirty seconds once this mysterious Daniel Rice arrives.
 

Using both thumbs, I type
DANIEL RICE
into the search bar of my phone’s browser. I see a few articles and news mentions that, on first glance, mean nothing to me. He’s nobody of much note, probably not more visible on Google than I am.
 

I click over to the images tab.
 

I gasp.
 

And a deep voice behind me at the door says, “It’s nice to see you again, Bridget.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Alexander
.
 

My lips form the word
You
, but I won’t say it. I can’t give him the satisfaction.
 

“Do you know who I am?”
 

I won’t answer that, either.
 

“Oh, come on. Take a guess.”
 

He pauses right in front of me. I don’t like that my body’s reaction is a traitor’s response. I don’t like that I notice how much more handsome his face is in decent light, before considering retrieving my fistful of keys to punch it.
 

His smile lingers a second too long. He’s laughing at me. He’s picturing me naked. Remembering the feel of my tits in his hands. Remembering the show he gave himself last night, as he spattered my back before sneaking off like a pervert. My heart’s in my throat. I can barely breathe. The only way to relieve the pressure is to reach for his face and scratch the eyes from his sockets.
 

“Have a seat,” he says.
 

I set my lips. I won’t blow my top. That’s exactly what he wants me to do. The fact that the dots have so flawlessly connected between my creepy mysterious invitation and my creepy stalker don’t change my mission. I hate this man so much more than I’d have thought now that I see the way he’s toying with me, enjoying every twisted second. What happened last night was pure lust, and I’ll admit my feelings were mixed. But now it’s all anger. Now I feel used, abused, made a mockery of.
 

And yet when he bites his lip and shrugs, sitting down himself even if I won’t, I still feel a flutter. He’s in a different ensemble than last night, but the motif is the same: open-throated shirt revealing the smallest black tips of a tribal tattoo on his chest, probably down at least one arm as well. The sensations are too confused, and my mind and body are both having trouble drawing sensible lines. Looking back now, last night makes me more furious than I think I’ve ever been. But I’ve probably never felt so aroused, either, or as preoccupied in the hours that followed.
 

“I want my money.”
 

I’m sure he’ll protest, but it’s okay; my sensibility is returning. I have a dozen threats lined up, and normal angry women have nothing on Bridget Miller scorned.
 

He makes a polite little noise of assent then reaches into an inner pocket and hands me an unsealed envelope with a large number
1
on the front. Inside, there’s a check for one thousand dollars.
 

“Just like that?”
 

He nods.

I almost resent that he doesn’t want to fight. I turn then round again to face him, sure I can’t let this drop. I thought I’d come here to get something for nothing, but now I feel like a prostitute. He stalked me; he fucked me. Now he’s paying the bill.
 

But I keep my cool. I turn again. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m twenty-six years old now. I don’t need a knife to fight for crumbs. I have a future to build, goals to achieve, and one very large problem to solve. I’ve got responsibilities, and getting the last word isn’t worth the risk of losing what’s already in my hand.
 

“Aren’t you curious?” Daniel/Alexander says from behind me.
 

I put my hand on the door handle. Yes, of course I’m curious. But I’ll leave with that curiosity, and leave this all behind me.
 

“I have another offer.”
 

Okay. Fuck you.
 

I turn my head, still holding the handle.
 

“You’re an asshole. If I didn’t think it’d void this check, I’d tell the police about you on my way out.”
 

“What would you tell them, Bridget?”
 

“That you’re … ” But there’s no end to that sentence. He’d done nothing illegal.
 

I open the door.
 

“My offer is twenty-five hundred dollars,” Daniel says.
 

“I’m not a whore.”

“I just want to ask a few questions.”
 

I won’t look back at him. I can feel my face working, and I’m glad nobody is walking by because it probably looks comical. I don’t know how to respond. I should go. I should listen. I should reply. I should ask him what kinds of questions he means. But none of those options are precisely correct, so I stay where I am, frozen.
 

“Here.”
 

Something skates across the floor. It wedges under the rubber sole of my right shoe. It’s an envelope, same as the first except on the front of this one is a number
2
.
 

I shouldn’t pick it up.
 

I pick it up.
 

And inside is a check for $2,500, made out to me. Like the first check, it looks official, drawn from an account at Brigham Assets, where the esteemed and imperturbable Paul Germain holds office.
 

“Just a few questions, and it’s yours, Bridget.”

I turn.
 

“At least you’ve learned my name since last night.”
 

“We know a lot about you. It’s why you were selected.”
 

“We?”
 

“Have a seat,” he repeats.
 

I take my hand off the door handle, but stay where I am.
 

Damn: $2,500.
Shit, that pays the rent on my little shithole for three months. I can use the $1,000 to handle my immediate debts, then this new check to prepay my rent. Then I work my ass off and send as much as I can to Linda. Well, not
to
her, obviously. But
for
her.
 

I’m already here. In this public place. The walls are glass, and he won’t take me anywhere else.

“What kind of questions?”
 

“Intensely personal and extremely uncomfortable.”

He’s smirking as he says it. Asshole. I’m so repulsed that I fell for his tricks. I want to scrub where he touched me, to remove all his filth.
 

But those eyes. Those big, strong hands.
 

“Who the fuck are you?”
 

“Daniel Rice.”
 

“You told me your name was Alexander.”
 

“You told me
your
name was Elle.”
 

“Is that what this is? You called a phone sex line then figured you’d buy your way into the operator’s panties?”
 

He laughs and crosses his legs. “Not at all. I was able to get into your panties without paying a cent.”
 

“I’m not for sale.”

“I just want to interview you.”
 

“So now it’s an interview?”
 

“Yes. Like an interview for a job.”
 

“I have a job,” I tell him.
 

He smiles. Finally, realizing how ridiculous I’m making myself look — because hell, we both know I’m not giving him back that second check — I sit in the opposite chair. It’s more comfortable than I’d expected.
 

“To answer your question before I ask mine,” Daniel says, “we knew who you were before I called your chat line.”
 

A shiver runs up my spine. I don’t like the idea that I’ve been watched.

“Who is
we
?"

“Do you know the name Trevor Ross?”
 

“Of course.”
 

“What do you know about him?”
 

“He’s rich.”
 

“Anything else?”

“I don’t know or care. I can’t tell them all apart.”
 

“‘Them all’?” Daniel prompts.
 

“Trevor Ross. Caspian White. Parker Altman. Like some sort of bullshit cabal.”
 

“They’re associates,” Daniel allows.
 

“How?”
 

“I’m afraid that’s confidential. But if you stay, you will likely meet more than one of their … group.”
 

I look behind me, suddenly sure I’ve been surrounded while my attention’s been elsewhere.
Stay?
In this room? What, is there a line of media darling billionaires waiting outside to greet me, like a wedding reception line?

“White cultivates his image; his reputation for denying press has specific aims, for one very specific person’s benefit. Everyone knows White for it, and soon everyone will know Altman despite the fact that he’d rather nobody did. Mr. Ross is a horse of a different color. As you may find out.”
 

“I don’t know him. I don’t want to know him, assuming you’re his errand boy.”
 

“Yes. You’re making that clear. But just tell me. What do you know of him?”
 

“Is this the interview?”
 

“It’s preamble. Believe me, you’ll know when the interview comes.”
 

I don’t like that, but I like backing down even less.
 

“Trevor Ross is something between the Bigfoot and a titan of industry, I suppose.”

“Bigfoot?”
 

“Because he’s so Howard Hughes about his affairs.” I realize I’ve just laid one metaphor atop another, but whatever. I want this over with.