The Billionaire's Command (The Silver Cross Club) (12 page)

It wasn’t enough. I didn’t know how much
enough
would be. A million dollars? Two million? Ten? But it was a lot. More money than I ever thought I would see in my entire life. And it was maybe—
maybe
—the kind of money that meant I could start to think that Cece might have been right.

Not that I would ever tell her that.

It wasn’t enough, not quite, but almost. Just a little bit more, and I would be able to call my mom and tell her I was coming home.

Good thing I knew
exactly
where to get that little bit more.

I would tell Turner yes. One month with him, and at the end of it, my two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Enough money to walk away from stripping and never look back.

If Turner didn’t bat an eye at that much money, well, neither would I. We could take advantage of each other: he could use me for my body, and I could use him for his checking account. We’d both end up happy.

And after the month was over, I would be free.

He was my ticket out.

I closed my laptop with shaking hands. I’d always known, dimly, that someday I would quit, but the future was usually something I avoided thinking about too much. I couldn’t predict it, or change it, and so I did my best not to worry about it. But now the future had suddenly arrived. I was
in
it.

Everything was going to change.

I was afraid. I was glad, and excited, but it was still terrifying.

I decided that I wouldn’t think about it, or about Turner. Not at all. Not unless I saw him at the club that night. Really,
until
I saw him. I didn’t have any illusions that he would stay away. He wanted me, and he was determined to have me. He would show up every single night until I gave him what he wanted.

Well, he wouldn’t have very long to wait.

I was already breaking my promise to myself. No thinking. I had shit to get done, and I didn’t have the time or mental energy to spend all day letting Turner take up residence in my head.

No thinking.

I wasn’t a genius or even very self-aware, but I was
stubborn
, and that had gotten me through plenty of tough spots in life. If I decided I wasn’t going to think about Turner, I damn well wasn’t, and I didn’t: not all day. I did a load of laundry, and went to buy groceries, and gave Teddy a bath in the kitchen sink, and I didn’t think about Turner. Not even on my walk to work. Not even when I stepped through the front door.

When I found him waiting for me in Germaine’s office, well. That was a different story.

“Sassy,” Germaine said, beckoning me inside. “I’m glad you found us.”

“Beth told me you were looking for me,” I said. I glanced at Turner without meaning to. He stood behind Germaine’s chair, hands clasped loosely behind his back, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. My dumb heart leaped in my chest, and I forced my eyes back to Germaine. “You didn’t really leave it up to chance.”

“Be that as it may,” Germaine said, calm as a mill-pond. I had never seen her irritated, and sometimes that irritated
me
. It wasn’t natural to be so unflappable. Scarlet and I had spent one slow evening trying to figure out what we could to do make Germaine mad, but we weren’t able to come up with anything. “Mr. Turner has a proposal for you.”

I looked at him again, surprised. Was Turner his real name? I couldn’t imagine that he had given Germaine a fake name—unless he’d asked her to use his alias, to hide his real identity from me. Thinking about it made my head hurt. He met my gaze, and his eyes crinkled slightly, like he was smiling without moving his mouth. Like he could tell exactly what I was thinking, and it amused him.

I realized that Germaine was waiting for me to say something. I swallowed and said, “Yeah, I know. He talked to me about it last night.”

“Sassy, I need you to understand that you are free to refuse,” Germaine said. “Your job is in no danger. Mr. Turner has no interest in holding the threat of unemployment over your head.”

“That’s what he keeps saying,” I said. “I’m not sure I totally believe him, though.”

“You should believe me,” he said, with that low voice that sent shivers up my spine.

I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on Germaine, and said, “I guess it doesn’t really matter, because I accept.”

Germaine’s eyebrows flickered upward. I wondered why she was surprised: that I had agreed, or that I had done it without much prodding? But being Germaine, she recovered quickly. “Well. That simplifies matters,” she said, and handed me a sheaf of papers. “Mr. Turner requested that I draft a contract. Please take a look to see if the terms are agreeable.”

I glanced down at the top page.
Contractor agrees to indemnify, defend, and save harmless
, I read, and blinked a few times, trying to make the words turn into plain English. It didn’t work, and I looked up at Germaine and said, “You realize there’s no way I’m going to understand this, right?”

“It’s not all that complicated,” Turner drawled. “You do what I say, and we both walk away happy.”

Germaine sat up just a tiny bit straighter. She disapproved of Turner, I saw. Or didn’t like him? Didn’t trust him? I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly, but she had some kind of negative emotion toward him. She’d been weird about him the first time she spoke to me about him, the first time he requested me, but I’d interpreted that as her being uncomfortable about knowing that he was the owner; but maybe there was more to it than that. I wondered, then, what exactly I was getting myself into.

Too late now.

“The terms are as follows,” Germaine said. “I’ll simplify, for expediency’s sake, but I won’t omit anything important, or attempt to lead you astray.”

“I know,” I said. “I trust you.”

She nodded and said, “The duration of the contract is one month, starting today. You will not work at the club for that time, or entertain any clients. Each week, you will be available to Mr. Turner on four nights of his choosing. You will give him your phone number, and he’ll notify you at least two hours in advance. You will not discuss the terms of the agreement with any third parties, or even mention that you know him. And he specified that your, ah—ground rules are void for the duration.”

Poor Germaine, having to tell me that Turner expected to fuck me. That went without saying, didn’t I? Why else would he pay me the big bucks? He obviously wanted everything set in stone, though, so I couldn’t wiggle out later. I remembered what he had said about there being loopholes in my rules; maybe he was afraid that I would find some loopholes of my own. “Okay,” I said. “What about my money?”

“Yes,” Germaine said, and cleared her throat. “That. Half up front, and half on successful completion of the contract.”

I felt like I should try to negotiate, or something, but I didn’t really see the point. “Sure, okay,” I said. “That all sounds good to me.” I looked down at the contract again, and flipped through the pages until I saw the numbers I was looking for: $250,000, printed in black ink. I realized that the contract wasn’t just to make sure that I didn’t fink out: it was also meant to protect
me
. If Turner didn’t pay, I would have this piece of paper with both of our signatures on it.

“Do you have a pen?” I asked Germaine.

She gave me one, silently.

I leaned over her desk and hesitated, pen hovering above the paper. “Do I have to sign my real name?” I asked.

She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

I felt weird about Turner maybe seeing my name, but there was no helping it. I scrawled my signature and passed the contract to him.

If he read my name, he did it silently, and didn’t gloat or try to hold it over me. He signed the contract and gave it to Germaine, who tucked it away in her filing cabinet.

“Well,” she said. “That’s done. Sassy, best of luck. I expect to see you back at work in August.”

“Thanks,” I said vaguely. I had stopped caring about the contract, or anything else that would happen in Germaine’s office that night. I was watching Turner, trying to figure out what he would do next.

He looked at me, eyebrows raised, and said, “Go get anything that you need from your locker. You won’t be back here for a while. We’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

His mouth curled into a rich smile. It didn’t look happy or friendly. It looked like he planned to eat me alive. It shouldn’t have turned me on as much as it did. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Turner strode out of the club and hailed a taxi. I scurried to keep up with him, my bag slung over one shoulder. I’d stuffed it with some of my makeup and a few pieces of slinky lingerie—not the elaborate costumes I wore on stage, but the slips and robes I wore when I entertained clients. I needed every weapon in my arsenal. I’d never had a client that I so badly needed to impress.

Turner didn’t look at me as he stood on the curb, hand thrust in the air. I was sure we made a strange pair: he was wearing a suit, and I hadn’t changed out of my street clothes. A passing taxi pulled over, and Turner opened the door and stood there, waiting.

I didn’t move at first. I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t getting in, and then I realized that he was waiting for
me
to get in first. Blushing, I scrambled in. I had to remember that I wasn’t hanging out with one of my brothers. Turner had
manners
and
class.
He’d probably been holding car doors for women since before he could walk.

He gave the cabbie an address, and then leaned back against the seat and turned to look at me.

“I’m surprised you don’t have your own car,” I said.

“Parking in Manhattan? My time is more valuable than that,” he said.

“Yeah, but can’t you hire a driver?” I said. “I thought you were rich. What’s the point of being rich if you can’t hire someone to drive you around?”

“That’s what taxis are for,” he said. “I see no need to add unnecessary complications to my life.” That settled, he took his phone from his pocket and tapped it a few times, frowning. I pitied whoever had sent him a message that made him frown like that.

He obviously wasn’t interested in talking to me, so I looked out the window as the car navigated through rush hour traffic. The streets around Union Square were almost at a standstill, and our cabbie honked and edged into the bike lane and generally drove exactly like a New York cabbie should. Turner was getting his money’s worth, at least.

“We should have taken the subway,” Turner said, sounding disgusted, and I glanced over at him, surprised.

“I thought rich people didn’t take the subway,” I said.

“You have some very odd ideas about rich people,” he said. “I can’t imagine that your clients spend much time discussing their transportation choices with you.”

“Well, I watch television,” I said.

He laughed. “Is that it? I suppose I can’t say you’re entirely wrong. I certainly know people who think the subway is full of vermin and disease. But I find that it’s often faster than driving. Efficiency is key, in business. Time is money, and I detest wasting time.”

“Business,” I said. “You’re a businessman? I thought you just owned the club.”

“The club is a business,” he said slowly, like I was an idiot. Compared to him, I probably was.

Whatever. I shrugged, refusing to apologize for my ignorance. If he wanted someone sophisticated, he shouldn’t have gone sniffing around a strip club.

He made a slight scoffing noise in the back of his throat, but said, “Yes, Sassy. I’m a businessman. Not all rich people fritter away their time with art philanthropy and charity fundraisers.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” I said. “How can you be a philanthropist for art?”

“That’s an excellent question,” he said, but instead of answering it, he went back to tapping at his phone.

I sighed, and went back to staring out the window.

Finally, after about a million years, traffic cleared out, and we turned north. I tried to figure out where we were going. Even after three years in the city, I still didn’t have a terrific grasp of the geography, but I was pretty sure the address he’d given the cabbie was on the Upper East Side. It made sense. That was where rich people lived, and I couldn’t imagine Turner settling for anything less than the absolute best.

He’d picked me, after all.

Lord. You could peel paint with that sarcasm.

“So where’s my up-front money?” I asked, breaking the silence in the cab.

He glanced up from his phone. “I’ll wire it to you,” he said.

“You don’t have my bank account,” I said.

“Of course I do,” he said. “It’s in your file. Germaine gave it to me.”

My face flushed hot. I couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or anger. Maybe both. “You looked at my file?”

He frowned at me. “Of course I did. I look at all of the employees’ files.”

That made sense. He
was
the owner. But it still felt like a violation, like he had seen some private part of me without my knowledge. “So you know my real name.”