Sugar Daddy (2 page)

“Mr. Boone.” I channeled my inner puma, closing with a wink.

My inner puma must’ve been having an off day, because I was led to a desk sequestered behind sharp fronds of palm and birds of paradise for a look-see at my credentials.

Giving me the all clear, the cute concierge placed me in an elevator, ran a passcard over a scanner, and punched the
P
.

Lord Almighty, P for Penthouse Pawpaw.

As the doors slid shut, I got a good look at the lobby. Wall-to-wall lacquered floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, windows interspersed with gallery art, and everything offset with potted palms and perfect lighting. King Tut’s pyramid resembled a plastic playground hut next to this stuff.

At the top of the Tides, I tripped on the fancy rug running the length of the hall, landing hands-first on the only door in sight. I blamed it on my heels, which had just earned themselves The Box of Shame in the back of my closet.

I was probably being
Punk’d
. Yeah, the host and camera crew would jump out, waving a mic in my face, blinding me with cameras and spotlights in a Shame Shay moment.

Had to be.

Fueled by sudden cowardice, I tiptoed back to the elevator. My retreat halted when the double doors opened to a warm pretty face. Mr. Voice-that-spoke-to-my-vulva had a maid too. A fifty-something, statuesque Helen Mirren look-alike. A Helen Mirren Maid, not a Merry Maid.

I knew it. So getting Punk’d
.

Stifling my anxiety, I mustered an ounce of class, like my momma raised me to, and crossed the threshold. An air of understated luxury oozed from stormy blue walls. It dripped from the furnishings to the bamboo floors, shadowed by huge leafy fans turning overhead with a lazy whip-wop.
Beguiled by the siren call of Bangkok the oriental feel of the place evoked–’course I’d never been to Bangkok, but we’d had
National Geographic
growing up–I’d surreptitiously inspected my fingers for the ever-embedded garden grime before daring to run my hand over the sofa’s pre-plumped cushions.

I bet Mr. Boone kept a fluffer on his books, for more than those hand-embroidered throw pillows.

The maid–or housekeeper, or house manager, or whatever the hell the politically correct term for a cleaner was these days–ignored my obvious staring, offering, “Please let me know if you need anything, Miss Greer. Mr. Boone will be right with you.”

“Okay, I’ll sit tight.” And drool and leave my greasy paw prints all over the polished tabletops.
Too jittery to sit tight, I’d meandered about, sneaking a peek at how the other half lived. By half, I meant the tiniest top tier of the rich.

Taking in the palatial pad, I walked toward the glass wall. Late afternoon sun dappled through eight-foot tall windows opening to a swaying marsh-scape of sweetgrass and wandering saltwater courses. Two cargo ships passed each other in the slow motion of such giants, sending big rolling waves to the shore. Pressing my face to the glass, I peered left and right at the balcony’s endless stretch in both directions.

Transfixed by the awesome vista before me, I took a step back and saw my face-print smudged front and center. Muttering obscenities at myself, I used the sleeve of my summer suit to clear the mark, only smearing it more.

I finally settled on one of the pristine sofas to wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

Bored and too bold for my own good, I treasure hunted between the couch cushions, to see how efficient Helen Mirren Maid was, of course. I turned half around, my rear in the air, burrowing harder for the damn...thing
...
that kept slipping through my fingers.

A polished pair of masculine shoes almost overlapping the adorable peep-toes of my pumps interrupted my search.

My concentration moved from plundering the pillows to admiring our exquisitely matched feet. I smiled at them until the clearing of a throat made me bolt upright.

Shit on a shingle.
The Voice-that-made-me-fantasize-about-a-good-sex-session had caught me mid-dig for spare change.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting, Miss Greer, but I see you found something to keep you occupied.”

This was bad. Scratch that. This was downright disastrous. An embarrassed flush creeping over my cheeks, I lifted my eyes.

Up.

And up.

And way the hell up.

Oh my, my.
I’d been so, so wrong about Mr. Boone.

Overhanging gut?

No.

Paunchy face riddled with broken veins?

Hell no.

Fat old geezer who probably couldn’t get laid unless he paid for it?

Big old nope.

Mr. Boone was tall. He was lean where he should be–hips and waist and stomach–muscled right where a woman wanted. His chest was wide, his shoulders filling out the soft fabric of his shirt. What was that about Bangkok before? Oh yeah, I hadn’t been banged by a cock in a damn long time. Mr. Boone looked up for the job.

A-men! C’mon sisters, say it with me.
My conscience glanced over long enough to give me the beady squirrel-eye.

The urge to shout some Hail Yes Marys overtook me when I saw his face. The Temptation? Yeah, I was livin’ it.

Slightly weathered. Slightly wary. A bit amused by my staring, no doubt, Mr. Boone possessed raspberry red lips wearing a wry smile, and a jawline begging to be licked. High cheeks topped by eyes a tropical shade of blue framed by crinkles and long lashes–the shit Maybelline was made of–spoke of laughter and days in the sun.

His hair? I wanted to grab the dark waves, sink my fingers into the wonderful wildness glinting with faint sprinkles of silver, and hold on for the ride of my life. Dark stubble shaded his dimpled chin and jaw in a wanna-touch way. The man didn’t have five o’clock shadow, he had early afternoon sex scruff.

Mindful of my situation as a married woman, albeit unhappily, trying to get a position–not one included in the A-Z of the
Kama Sutra
–I hoped I hadn’t visually assaulted Bossman Boone to within an inch of my integrity.

I rose with care in case the rush of blood to my sex made me faint. Mr. Boone stood his ground. My thighs brushed his, my breasts touched his body, my breath skimmed the faint swirls of jet hair peeping out to say
Hi’ya
from the first two buttons of his undone collar. Even though I wasn’t a small woman, standing at five foot seven with the charms to match, I felt petite against him.

After I’d salivated at the sight of him a few more moments, Mr. Boone withdrew, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Bang Cock.

“What were you doing down there, Miss Greer?”

Let me think. Molesting you in my mind?

“I noticed some lint in the cushions so I was tryin’ to dig it out, and then I found a penny.” Really, Shay? Like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, I’d opened my palm to show him the gleaming copper.

Plucking the penny from me, he leaned down, his eyes never leaving mine, my breath never leaving my chest. He spun it on the end table, the copper swirl a suggestion in my side-sight because I was imprisoned by his sweltering gaze.

While the penny whirred, a sensuous spell spanned between us. He didn’t move. My head spun, and a thousand tingly webs wandered from my nipples to the warmth inside my panties.

A deep breath filling his chest, Mr. Boone stood to his full height. “Shall we go to my study?”

I nodded, withdrawing from the invitation of his hand poised to take my elbow. Chewing the corner of his mouth–playing really,
really
unhelpful images of me lapping the same sweet spot–he motioned me ahead of him. Too close, his body gave off the heat of a kiss, the touch of a lover while he took me down one hallway, then another. Flirtatiousness I hadn’t felt in years taking over, I swished my hips and flicked my hair, looking back.

His eyes were trained on my rear.

Goddamn.

Something was clearly wrong with this scenario. The man looked like he wanted to serve me for dinner, naked and spread for a bare bodied, all-you-could-eat Shay buffet. Flickering flames hurried up my thighs, blazing a back draft down my belly. What pulsed through me was arousal, not the expected five-alarm anxiety over his proximity.

I’m married
, I reminded myself, taking my eyes off Mr. Boone, winding the wedding bands around my finger.

Palmer didn’t want me anymore. When was the last time he’d kissed me, told me he loved me? It didn’t matter. This was a job interview, not a Pay Per View porno featuring a desperate MILF, because I definitely wasn’t one of those.

His arm slid around me and he opened a door. “After you, please.” A slip of his breath tingled on my neck.

We’d entered a small room of earthy colors and simple furnishings. No blinds to shade the wrap-around view I’d imagined earlier, sunlight suffused a desk barren but for a slim notebook, a sleek cell phone, and one stack of papers. Two leather chairs cuddled closer to the desk and a leather settee kitty-cornered the rear wall.

The warmth of his at-home office came from the photographs jigsawed together in mismatching frames. Their only similarity was the subject of the black and white pictures. All of them told the stories of lowcountry people, at work on the docks, selling their sweetgrass baskets, gathering oysters, enjoying a down-home barbeque.

Closing the door behind me, he held out his hand. “Reardon Dade Boone, Miss Greer.”

Hmm
, the peacock wasn’t going to out walk this peahen, no siree.

Galvanized by his touch when our hands met and clasped, I returned, “Caroline Shay
Motte
Greer.”

Ha! Take that. I have more names than you, Rich Rat Bastard Reardon Boone, born with a mouthful of pretty, silver spoons.

“Would you care for a refreshment, Miss Greer?” He smirked with a singular lift of his eyebrow.

“No, thank you.”

“Have a seat.”

Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.
My traitorous cha-cha had the floor, not my lip-curling conscience.

Gesturing toward one of the chairs, he leaned against the front of his desk. I perched on the edge of my seat, producing a pen and legal pad from my borrowed briefcase, and pretended I didn’t notice the way his package was pretty damn close to eye level.

“I’d like to explain the position.” His linked hands in front of his hips drew my eyes to his groin.

Ooh yes, Mr. Boone, do tell me all about the position.

“I’ve done my research and know Radaman-Slaughter is a family-run venture capitalist operation.” More like vulture capitalist, from the looks of him.

He pulled the loosened tie from his collar, draping it over the desk. “Indeed, but that won’t concern you.”

“Because?”

Both hands braced on the arms of my chair, Mr. Boone blotted out the sun at his back. “The job I’m interviewing you for is a rather unorthodox one.”

The torrid promise of his whisper tugged me closer. For a second. Inserting some space–and my lethal heels–between us, I asked, “You always conduct interviews in your home?”

“Business of this nature, yes.”

“Just what is the nature of this business?” My stiletto poised over his instep, I gripped my fingers around the pad of paper in my lap because those bitches were about two seconds away from grabbing his biceps and pulling him closer.

That’s when he came on hard and strong, making no excuses about his intentions. “I want a mistress.”

The sucker-punch hit my stomach. His hot look spread erotic tendrils to my pussy. My knees parted by his suggestion alone, and I clamped them together, a warm wash of wanting setting me on edge.

My voice high, I questioned his intentions and his sanity. “You want what?”

He retreated to his chair. “A mistress.”

Playing along, I patted my hair, shooting him a saccharine smile. “I thought this was an employment opportunity.”

“It’s a salaried position, Miss Greer.” His forefinger ran under his lip, back and forth, back and forth, and I tracked the hypnotic gesture.