Burning Offer (Trevor's Harem #1) (7 page)

“It’s funny,” he goes on when I don’t answer. “They say that money can’t buy happiness, but that isn’t true. Money can buy anything. Any object. Any emotion. Any person.”
 

“You’re not buying me.”
 

“I was speaking generally,” he says, but I catch the smirk on his lips from the corner of my eye. My bag must be giving him some sort of twisted satisfaction, building his case. I brought it because I thought it’d help me get my $1,000, but I didn’t get $1,000. So far, I’ve
earned
$8,500. The five grand Daniel gave me for getting into the limo isn’t crumpled like the $2,500. I took it without protest. Because it’s only a car ride, to anywhere I want to go.
 

He’s buying me one tiny piece at a time.
 

“I have another proposition for you.”

“I’m not interested.”
 

“It’s ten thousand dollars.”
 

My heart gives a little leap. Linda is way the fuck across the country, in Miami. I almost wish I hadn’t found her because there’s little I can do to help, given the distance between us and the fact that I can barely help myself. And it’s not like I can tell Brandon, though these days he
has
money to help. Borrowing from my brother hurts, and I’d need a damned good fake reason to borrow the kind of money I’d need to put a dent in this problem. Because it’s not just a matter of getting down there, or even getting her
out
of there. I don’t know where to start, but I do know that ten grand above and beyond what I already have to get of hock and meet my base needs would go a very long way.

“No thank you.”
 

The car turns a corner, slowing as we near the bank.
 

“How much money have I given you so far, Bridget?”
 

He knows. He can add. He just wants me to say it.

“I’m not interested in your ‘proposition.’”
 

“How much?” he repeats.

I meet his eyes. Shake my head.
 

“Just tell me.”
 

Fine
. “Eighty-five hundred dollars.”

“And what did you have to do to get it?”
 

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing anything else.”
 

But part of me isn’t as sure as I try to sound. Because so far, I’ve received three envelopes, each of them already numbered. That tells me this is scripted, and makes me wonder how many more envelopes he has on him, to buy me like chattel. Because everything and everyone is for sale — at a high enough price.

“What if it were easy?”
 

“No thanks.”
 

“What if you enjoyed it?”
 

The car has stopped, and now the chauffeur is circling to open my door. He lifts the handle. Outside air breathes into the limo, proving that despite my suspicions, I’ve always been free to go.

“We’ll wait for you,” Daniel says as I put my hand on the door.
 

“Don’t.”
 

“Your car is back at the hotel.”
 

“I’ll walk. Or get a cab.”
 

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll ride back with me.”

“No thank you.”
 

“I insist.”
 

I’m out, fully upright. The sun is growing warmer, and there’s a light breeze stirring my hair. I look down at Daniel, watching me like I’m property. Something valuable that he must guard, lest it get stolen.
 

“Have I done something to hurt you? Have I done anything against your will?”
 

I sigh. I don’t want to answer the way he wants me to, but of course we both know the answer.
 

“Take your time,” he says.
 

Then the door closes, and the limousine becomes as blank and anonymous as something from a James Bond movie. Most limos you see, with the name and number of a rental company plastered along the side or back. It’s rare to see one that actually belongs to someone.
 

I enter the bank. Without Daniel’s assessing gaze upon me, I ask the banker for the full battery of bank paranoia. I tell them that I’m sure the checks are fraudulent, probably drawn from some illegal offshore account. But the clerk’s two-minute phone call leaves her looking flustered like she’s had a brush with celebrity. “They’re perfectly valid,” she says after hanging up, and I think I see a flush on her cheeks. “Would you like me to deposit them in your account, or would you prefer cash?”
 

Damn — $8,500 in cash. I wonder what that looks like.
 

“There isn’t some sort of waiting period where you hold part of the funds?”
 

“No. No, ma’am.”
 

“I’ll be honest. I don’t trust the skeevy guy I’m … working with … on this one.”
 

“It’s no problem.” She waits for me to make up my mind as to how they’ll handle the funds, hands atop one another on the desk, practically frozen. She looks like she thinks she’s in trouble for something.
 

“Deposit them, please,” I say.
 

The banker snaps her fingers at some young-looking guy walking by without moving her eyes from mine. She hands him the checks and says, “Deposits.” Nobody filled out a deposit slip for my three checks, and I didn’t sign any of the backs.

The banker’s manner is freaking me out a little, so I cross my legs, look past her out the window, and wait. The limo’s pulled around and is visible from where I’m sitting, parked across five or six parking slots at the bank’s front. Daniel’s climbed out and is leaning against the polished black side. His perfect black hair shines in the sun. He’s looking down, adjusting the cuffs beneath his black suit jacket.
 

The banker hands me a slip, snapping me out of a trance. It’s a receipt.
 

“Anything else I can get for you?”

“Um … no, I don’t think so.”
 

“Something to drink? We have muffins in the back.”
 

In the back?
Is this a standard offer for all random bank customers — to pillage the employee perks?

“No, thanks.”
 

The banker nods. I think she’ll shake my hand and offer me a business card so I can contact her later about my ordinary, everyday transaction, but she simply keeps sitting as I rise. I leave without thanking her, and she doesn’t say anything, be it
thanks
or
good day.
 

“Is everything in order?” Daniel asks as I exit the building.
 

“Seems to be.”
 

Feigning disbelief, he says, “So I really
did
just pay you $8,500 for a car ride and five minutes of conversation?”
 

He opens the door and holds it with a gesture to enter.
 

I don’t think to decline the ride or answer the question. Instead, I sit on the fine leather and allow him to lock me in.
 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Open it.”

I look at the bag beside me on the seat. It’s a boutique bag with braided handles from C'est la Vie, a shop on Willow Street that’s far too fancy for me to even park my car in front of. Sometime between when I left the car and when I came back, the bag appeared from nowhere.
 

I part the handles and look inside to see a white gown with intricate beadwork. I can’t tell for sure in the small space, but I don’t think it’s full length, probably stopping just below the knees. Below the gown is a pair of matching white shoes. There’s something else below the shoes, too, but I don’t want to rummage through it with Daniel watching. It looks like some sort of alpha gift — a man I don’t want giving me presents his ego assumes I’ll be flattered to accept.
 

“What is this?”
 

“You can’t go dressed like you are. It’s not appropriate.”
 

“I’m not going anywhere.”
 

“I think we both know you’re going, Bridget. You’d save me so much time and irritation if you’d just fucking admit it rather than being such a posturing bitch.”
 

My jaw firms, but mostly I’m too shocked to respond.

“Take me back to the hotel.”
 

His hand goes to my knee. His touch is electric, and I hate both of us for it.
 

“Ask anyone about Bridget Miller, and they’ll tell you one thing,” he says. “That she’s honest. Brutally, painfully honest. You’ll tell your friends that they’re not getting promotions at work because they’re incompetent, not because the boss hates them. You’ll tell others that their art sucks, or that they’re not getting dates because they’re too ugly.”
 

He’s twisting my words. I told Carol she was incompetent so that she’d stop fucking around, get focused, and get the raise she needed. I told Manny about his art because the bastard wasn’t spending any time with his family. And Lana was pretty, positioned right. But she carried herself like a frump, and guys hate that. I tell people the truth to aid their improvement. So that, with my caustic advice, they can make their lives better.
 

But how does Daniel know any of my stories?

“You’ll reject a boy because he’s too fat,” Daniel continues. “And you’ll say it like that, not caring how much it hurts.”
 

A
boy
? What is he, ten?

“But you’re a hypocrite. Because I know you need money, and I know that although you don’t like me, you believe what I’m saying. I could see it on your face when I showed you those photos. You’re intrigued by the offer, and want to go. You’re just posturing like a fucking idiot, pretending you don’t.”
 

“If you think I’m stupid enough to— ”

“Don’t lie to me, Bridget. I know you better than you think.”
 

He’s looking right at me, his hand still on my knee. Before I can stop myself, I find myself staring right back. My eyes on his. His intense gaze melts something inside me, making me warm. Making me think of last night. Of the night he whispered in my ear on the sex line. Fuck him for thinking he knows me. But he’s right about this.

“Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars for you to take a vacation.”
 

Ten thousand dollars would get me to Florida. Ten thousand dollars would buy me two plane tickets: one round-trip for me and a one-way for her. But I can’t tell her what I know; she wouldn’t come if she knew I knew. Her pride and conditioning wouldn’t accept my help. And that means I need an excuse. I need to set her up with an apartment, here in Inferno. Pay two rents. Work on getting her a job while hiring people to blur the trail behind her. I can’t even fathom what the whole package would take. Surely, a hell of a lot more than I have.
 

But with my own concerns temporarily handled by the $8,500 I’ve already received, another ten grand would shove me an awful lot closer.
 

It might alleviate the worst of the pressure.
 

It might hire some people, if I could find them. Or maybe just one person. Someone who could be … persuasive.
 

Daniel is watching me. Probably knowing what I’m thinking.
I know about Linda,
he said. But how much does he know? And does he know how bad it truly is?
 

I think of the photos he showed me earlier on the small tablet. An enormous house matching the one embossed onto the invitation, terraced, glass-fronted, with winding external stairways. A room that’s four rooms square and two rooms tall, with six or eight modern glass chandeliers the size of my production desk, a view of mountains out one of the huge window walls. A bathroom as big as my apartment. A formal dining room with tables set for what might be a dozen kings of Old Europe.
 

He could be bluffing. It’s entirely possible that’s not where he wants me to go, but somehow I believe him.
 

“Why?”
 

A smug look crosses his features. “Why?” is a lot closer to yes than no.
 

“I can’t tell you that yet.”
 

“This involves Trevor Ross?”
 

“It’s his estate.”
 

“Where?”

“Colorado. On a large stretch of private land.”
 

“I’m just supposed to go there and hang out with him?”
 

His look is almost cruel. Condescending, as if I’m foolish to ask. “It’s not just you.”
 

“For how long?”
 

“That depends on you, Bridget.”
 

“How long I choose to stay?”
 

“How well you fare.”
 

“In what?”