Breaking All the Rules (8 page)

Miss Yen is known for negotiating contracts. That’s how she landed her dragon lady nickname. She draws blood at the bargaining table.

“I made a mistake and signed a contract I shouldn’t have signed,” I swallow my pride and confess to my boss. “What do I do?”

She presses her lips together. “What is this contract for?”

“It’s for . . . ummm . . .” Hot sex. Multiple orgasms. Hand jobs in the shredding room. “Services.”

Miss Yen narrows her eyes. “If these
services
aren’t legal the contract isn’t worth the paper it is written on. Pursuing any breach of contract issues will likely result in charges being laid for all parties involved.”

I chew on my bottom lip. Nate is a smart guy. He knows that. “Then why would you draft a contract you couldn’t enforce?”

“This
is
something illegal.” Miss Yen rubs her hands over her face. “Of course it is. Why would I expect anything else?” She gazes upward for a couple of seconds, as though seeking divine guidance from the ceiling tiles. “Some parties draft contracts to set expectations. There are no surprises with a contract. Everything is in writing.”

This sounds plausible. Nate doesn’t like surprises and he’s always yammering about expectations. “But if they can’t enforce the contract what good is it?” I ask.

“They’re trusting the other party to uphold the contract.”

He’s trusting me to uphold the contract. All hope I have of wiggling out of this deal vanishes. I can’t break Nate’s trust, can’t betray him. “Thank you, Miss Yen. I’ll speak with Nate.” I stand and smooth down my torn skirt. “Eventually.”

“He prefers to be called Mr. Lawford,” my boss advises. “And get a new suit, Green.”

“Clothing is the least of my worries,” I mutter as I return to my desk. My phone is ringing. I glance at the screen. It’s Nate’s number. I turn the ringer off and clip my phone to my skirt. I’ll talk to him, but not now. I have to think about what I will say, about how we can save our relationship. We can’t continue to fight, not for the entire month.

The wall of shredding behind me has grown, the cardboard boxes blocking the windows. I grab one box and heft it to the shredding room. The shredding has to be done and it’s brain-dead work. I can think about my issues with Nate while I labor.

The machine growls as I feed it pieces of paper. I shred all of the files, flatten the box, add the cardboard to the stack, and retrieve another box.

My phone buzzes and Nate’s number displays on the small screen. I admire his persistence and ignore his call, not yet ready to talk to him, having no solution for our relationship mess.

I stuff a thick file into the shredder. There might not be a solution. Nate and I might be doomed. The machine jams, grinding to a stop. I yank on the papers, peel them apart, feed them separately, my mood somber.

My phone’s screen flashes red. Someone has accessed my apartment, breaking my electronic locks. I rush to my desk, type in my surveillance address, and examine the video feed on the larger monitor.

A huge rough-looking man is frantically pulling on the alarm wires. Three men stand behind him, waving their gloved hands, their mouths moving. I zoom in with the camera lens. Lawford Relocation Services is written across their navy-blue shirts in white block letters.

Lawford Relocation Services is one of the many companies owned by Nate’s dad, a prominent LA real-estate developer and tough-as-nails billionaire. Nate isn’t waiting for my keys or my security codes. I suck air through my front teeth. He’s moving me now.

I can’t truly be angry with him. He said he’d move me today, and he isn’t the type of man to wait for anyone’s permission. I remotely disarm the alarms and the men stop ripping at the wires.

Should I go home and supervise their efforts? I hover over the computer, undecided. My apartment isn’t large and the men are working quickly, placing everything in boxes, stuffing packing popcorn around my potted plants, disconnecting my computer equipment. The bus I take to and from work doesn’t run very often. The movers will be gone before I arrive.

Nate appears on the screen, looking out of place in his suit and tie. I know his schedule. He has meetings booked for the entire afternoon. What is he doing at my place? I sit down and watch him.

A mover holds up the battered pot in which I cook rice. Nate nods and the man carefully places the pot into a box. I move the view from camera to camera as Nate walks around my studio apartment. He touches my parents’ framed first summer solstice photo, the rainbow-colored crocheted bedspread my mom made for me, my collection of fine leather corsets.

“Have you added breaking and entering to your long list of crimes?” I text him.

Nate reaches inside his jacket, removes his phone, glances down at the screen, and then around him. He locates the camera and types into his phone. “I agreed to move the contents of your apartment.”

He’s keeping his promise, potential jail time be damned. I grin, impressed. “I didn’t think that meant you’d be personally involved. Don’t you have meetings you should be attending?”

“You didn’t answer your phone.” Nate sits on my tiny bed, the mattress dipping beneath him. “Someone has to supervise the movers. Do you wish to join me?”

Yes, I wish to join him . . . on my bed. I move the camera lens, scanning my one-room apartment. The movers have stripped it bare, taking everything, including the curtains. “Nah,” I type. “You appear to have everything under control. I trust you.”

Nate stares down at his phone. Minutes pass. He pockets the phone and stands, his expression solemn. He opens my nightstand, the nightstand that holds my collection of black panties.

I turn off my screen, unable to watch Nate snoop through my things. He’ll know all of my secrets before the move is completed. I grab a random stack of papers and take the elevator to the finance floor. If he can snoop I can also.

As I exit the elevator Gladys, Nate’s gatekeeper, frowns, worry lines feathering her round face. “I’ve been expecting you.” She dangles a set of keys from her index finger. “Return the keys to Mr. Lawford when you’re done with them.”

Nate is giving me permission to snoop, granting me access to his office, his filing cabinets, everything. I swallow my wonder and take the keys from Gladys, my fingers trembling. “I will. Thank you.”

“He’s a good man, Miss Trent, and he trusts you.” She pushes her glasses upward until they are snug against the bridge of her button nose. “Don’t betray his trust.”

“I’ll keep his secrets safe, Gladys,” I vow, touched by Nate’s faith in me. He won’t regret this, ever. I pass over the threshold and tramp along the hallway, entering the finance department.

Today I’ll open more of Nate’s locked doors. I twirl his keys around one of my fingers, the clinking of metal against metal musical. I’ll uncover his secrets, learn more about the man I care for.

I stride into his private space and glance around the office. Where should I start? Although the filing cabinets tempt me they’re situated far away from Nate’s desk. In my vast experience of snooping people keep their juicy secrets close to them.

I sit in Nate’s captain’s chair, the black leather smelling of his cologne, light and fresh and unmistakably masculine. My pussy moistens, my mons bare under my torn skirt. I hike up the garment and swivel my hips, grinding my scent into his seat. He’ll smell me for days.

Humming happily, I unlock Nate’s desk and slide open the top drawer. His fountain pen collection is impressive. All seventeen pens are black yet each one is unique and beautiful. I glide my fingertips over their smooth sleek barrels, the same barrels Nate holds in his big hands.

There’s an empty space in his custom-made drawer insert. I unclip the pen from my corset and place it where it belongs, its gold nib gleaming against the black velvet. The pens clearly mean something to Nate. I can’t take one away from him.

I open drawer after drawer, systematically searching his desk. All of his office supplies are the best, items not found in the main supplier’s catalogue. His sticky notes are crafted from fine linen paper. His stapler is a work of art, engraved with flowing swirls. The tins holding his mints are black enamel, trimmed with gold.

He buys the best and he has bought me, quirky strange Camille Trent. I flip through the printed checks waiting for his signature. It would be easy to take one of these checks, change the name, and cash it at one of those fast money places. I frown. Nate should store them more securely.

I walk my fingers across the file folders hanging in the bottom drawer. Boring. Boring. Boring. I don’t care about vendor agreements or board meeting minutes. I skip over our contract. I’m looking for something new, something juicy, something . . . like this.

I remove a massive file neatly labeled CHILD SUPPORT PAYMENTS in block type. My heart squeezes. Does Nate have a child? I glance at the painting of the mother and child. No. I never discovered a child in all of my research and Nate, Mr. I-Need-Sole-Custody, wouldn’t be an absentee dad.

I place the file on the leather desktop. The papers are yellow and brittle, the font faded. Nate’s full name is printed on the header of a spreadsheet, the columns titled with Date, Description, Original Estimate, and Final Cost.

The dates start nine months before Nate was born, and every conceivable child-related cost is listed: taxi rides to doctor appointments, late-night gourmet food cravings, a pack of gum to disguise the smell of his mom’s morning sickness. No item is too small, too insignificant, too overpriced.

The original estimates are outrageous and the final costs double or triple those estimates. I shake my head. Rich folks have some crazy ideas about what a child needs. Growing up on a commune, I never wore thousand-dollar baby booties. I stare at the prices, disbelieving my eyes. But somehow I survived.

I lean back in Nate’s chair and continue to read, the multipage spreadsheet telling the story of his life from his conception to his eighteenth birthday. Any event, any change that requires money is detailed, including five paternity tests.

I can understand asking for one paternity test. While I was growing up I often wished my dad would ask for one. I knew he’d love me whether I was biologically his or someone else’s, and having another dad would have explained why I’m so different. Maybe there’s a green-haired former hippie sitting in front of a computer somewhere.

Nate’s dad, being a billionaire, would have more reasons to ask for a paternity test. I watch the news. I see how baby mamas come out of the woodwork whenever a man becomes rich and famous.

Asking for five tests seems a bit excessive, though, veering from the realm of helpful and informative into hurtful and vindictive.

The other Nate-related expenses are more innocuous. They include a parade of around-the-clock-care nannies, candles for his birthday cakes, the braces he needed as a preteen, his private-school tuition, the brand-new Mercedes given to him when he turned sixteen, summers in Europe, and a Harvard education. Even the silver Rolex Nate wears is listed, a graduation present given to him by his mom, the expense reimbursed by his dad.

Why would anyone track this information? I toss the papers onto his desk. And why does Nate keep this summary? Does he think this is his worth, that all of these monetary expenses represent who he is or how much he is loved? Is this why he buys love, paying for sex?

I walk to the windows and stare at the darkening sky. Nate left his keys for me. He knows I’ll find this file.

He believes I can help him.

Chapter Six

W
HILE WAITING FOR
Nate to return, I complete my exploration of his office, finding nothing more of interest, no more clues about his family history. I then check his schedule for tomorrow.

His lunch hour
is
booked, the appointment mysterious. It has no internal attendees and is labeled with the month. This vagueness provokes my curiosity, not my jealousy. Nate is strictly a one-hooker man, preferring serial paid monogamy.

My snooping concluded, I temporarily push thoughts of Nate aside and work on my data-sharing program. The subcontractors I’ve hired are asking me for guidance. I’m great at fighting other people’s decisions. Making them isn’t my strength. I study the four website templates a guy in India designed for me.

The door opens and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. Nate’s scent intensifies.

“Good. You’re here.” I frown, suppressing the urge to run to him, to throw myself into his arms, to tell him he’s greater than the dollars in his bank account. “Tell me which one of these you like.” I turn the screen toward him.

“Consulting on your projects isn’t in our agreement.” Nate saunters closer, appearing cool, unapproachable, perfect. “And why are three of my best analysts processing the legal department’s expense reports?”

I ignore his question. “Kissing isn’t in our agreement either. Stop following your rules for one freakin’ moment and help me choose.”

Nate leans over and studies the designs, his body seductively close to mine. “If you actually read our agreement you’d know it covers kissing.”

If I don’t read the agreement I can break his rules and claim ignorance. “Sit,” I command. Nate slides into the seat and I shimmy onto his lap, using him as my personal chair. He stiffens, his muscles flexing beneath me, his cock hardening, and I brace, waiting for him to issue a protest, to push me away. He says nothing, his attention focused on the screen.

“What are you trying to accomplish?” he asks.

“I want rich folks to either donate their unused data capacity or donate buckets of money so we can buy data capacity.” I settle deeper into his physique, his form firm and deliciously warm, his pants-covered erection pressing against my ass cheeks. “I figure you’ll know what appeals to rich folks. You’re loaded.”

“I know being referred to as
loaded
doesn’t appeal to them,” Nate states dryly. He splays the fingers of his left hand over my stomach, stopping my wiggling. “Mrs. Blaine told me you’re starting a business together.”