Trickiest Job (7 page)

By the time I look up again, the limo driver is about to open the door.

My grandfather is staring hard at the car.

I pull my legs and arms in close. It’s an instinct—my grandfather can’t possibly see me. If anything, he’s trying to gauge the net worth of the men who unexpectedly showed up at his house.

The men get into the limo, and it smoothly pulls away. Even though I’d like to turn, to watch my childhood home until it’s out of sight, I don’t want to remember it with my grandfather standing there, blocking the entrance.

“So,” I say, and it comes out weak. “That was close.”

“I’m sorry,” Hawthorne says. His mouth is an angry slash. “Apparently he came back early because of the bad weather. I’m truly, deeply sorry, Lindsay.”

Hawthorne is apologizing? It almost shocks me out of my grief. “It’s not your fault,” I say. “Anyway, you guys… I appreciate…”

Slade suddenly pulls me into his arms, and I’m surprised, but I’m grateful.

“We’re going to take him down,” Slade says.

Shaking my head, I say, “No. My sister…”

“Your sister will be fine,” Hawthorne says. “She’s an adult, you know.”
 

I turn my head so I can scrutinize him. “Did you see her?”
 

He nods. “Briefly.”

“And? How is she?”

“She seems happy. Full of life.”

My heart aches. I wonder if she grew into the stunning woman everyone thought she would. She was always the pretty one, naturally lovely.

Slade’s arms tighten around me. “We’re going to help fix this.”

I don’t bother telling him that he can’t fix it.

“Talk to us, Lindsay,” Romeo says as Slade releases me.

I cross my legs and comb my fingers through my hair. “Even if tomorrow I wake up and find out that my grandfather keeled over during the night, it won’t get me back the time I lost.”
 

A swirling dark whirlpool of negativity is pulling me down. Seeing the house, my parents’ room, all that… It reminds me of the bright future I left behind. Hearing my sister’s voice, knowing that she’s an adult… I’ll never get those years back, no matter what happens next.

Luckily, the men sense my foul humor and don’t continue prying.

Fifteen minutes later, Romeo taps a knuckle on the tinted window. “This looks good,” he says.

“Agreed.” Slade instructs the limo driver to pull over.

We’re near a little park. It’s got an artificial pond with a fountain, a few picnic tables, a few barbecue pits. At regular intervals, lamps throw warm, reassuring light across the sidewalks. I don’t think I’ve been here before.

“Good for what?” I ask.

“To talk,” Hawthorne says. The four of us get out.
 

It’s not easy to walk across the grass in my heels. I wonder how we must look, the four of us dressed for a high-powered client dinner, not a picnic.

“Talk about what?” I ask. My attention is laser-focused on the ground as I assiduously scour the path for dog crap.

We reach one of the picnic benches, and no one has answered my question. Of course I know I’m going to discover the answer soon, but I know what they’re up to. By controlling the pace of the questions, they’re establishing that they’re in charge.
 

It’s one of the oldest negotiating tactics in the book, and I wouldn’t be worth my salt as a saleswoman if I let them get away with it.

“Talk about what?” I repeat, louder.

Hawthorne slides me a long glance. “About your future with our company,” he says, and I laugh because this is the last place to be talking business.

“In case you forgot, I quit.”

“We didn’t forget,” Romeo says. “If you’d read your contract, you’d know that you owe us two weeks’ notice before leaving the position. We talked, and we decided to count this week away as a vacation. If you wish to give notice, you’ll find the procedures in the handbook.”

Handbook
. I can’t help but sneak a glance at Hawthorne to see if he’s remembering the day he spanked me with the employee handbook, but he’s not smirking.

In fact, he’s deadly serious, like this is the most important thing in the world.

“We hope you won’t give notice,” Hawthorne says. “We’d like you to stay.”

“But my grandfather—”

“Your grandfather will be dealt with,” Slade says. He motions to the wooden table. “Please have a seat.”

Rather than sit on the benches, I perch on top of the table itself; I’m showing that I’m being reasonable, but there’s no point in letting the men loom over me more than necessary.
 

So long as this encounter doesn’t go beyond Sales 101, I’ll be fine.

“Things aren’t the same,” I say. “My grandfather could have me picked up on the way in or out of work. He’ll track me to my apartment. It will only be a matter of time until he gets me. I appreciate your taking the effort to—”

“We’re going to make sure it’s safe for you,” Romeo says.
 

The wind blows, and I shiver. I can’t help folding my arms around myself, and I pretend I’m just cold, not uncomfortable.

But that doesn’t explain why I’m leaning forward, why I want to pull my knees toward my chest.

Slade takes off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. His woodsy scent drifts over me, and I let the warmth of the garment heat my skin.

“You told us a lot about you,” Romeo says in that irresistible, rumbling voice of his. “We appreciate that. We think there are some things you need to know about us.”

I look up at him and wonder if he’s going to tell me the reason his sister needed to come stay with him, or why Hawthorne once said that Romeo had a rough year.

“We’re dominant, as you know,” he says. His brown eyes are dark and mysterious, and I find myself trapped in his gaze.
 

“I noticed,” I say, and it’s supposed to be funny but comes out very serious.

“And you’re submissive,” he says.

“I’m not.” I sit a little straighter.

“In the bedroom, you are,” Hawthorne says. “Being submissive doesn’t mean being a doormat. It doesn’t mean you’re lazy in bed or that you have low self-esteem.”

“Who said it did?” I ask, irked.
 

Slade holds up a hand. “Let’s stay on topic,” he says. “It doesn’t matter if you’re submissive or not. We’re dominant. That’s a fact. We have good chemistry with you—also a fact.”

He pauses, giving me time to admit or deny it. My cheeks burn. I could tell them I’m not submissive, but then they’d want to know why I’ve been acting like it.

It’s a good question, but I don’t have the answer.

“As dominants, we see an opportunity here,” Romeo says. “You have significant trust issues, and I think—we think—that we have a way to help you with them.”

“Maybe I don’t want help,” I say, though there isn’t as much bite to my words as I’d like.

“Perhaps you don’t,” Hawthorne says. “But you need it. Let us give you the help you need.”

That makes me go quiet. What he said reminds me of his text about the money.
You won’t accept the help you need, so there’s the help you want.
I have it memorized; it was the last contact I had from the men after I left.

“What’s your proposal?” I ask.

“You never had to earn trust,” Romeo says. “You don’t believe in it. To you, it’s magical, mythical. You think trust is for suckers, for the weak. You need to learn how to depend on someone other than yourself.”

I don’t say anything, but they’re not expecting me to. They’ve reached their conclusions, and they’re just laying it out for me.

That was my mistake, thinking this was a negotiation. It’s not.
 

“We want you to start from the beginning,” Romeo says. “To trust us in everything. We won’t trust you.”
 

The breath I suck in is audible, and shame makes my face burn hot.

“Deep down, you don’t
want
us to trust you,” he says gently. “We want you to earn our trust, and in turn, we’ll earn yours.”

“Honestly, I’m only understanding a third of what you’re saying. In practical, concrete terms, what are you talking about?”

“Two weeks’ notice,” Slade says. “Give us that, and let us give you the same.”

“Ok…” I still have no idea what they’re suggesting.

“You’ve got your safe word, and you won’t be punished for using it.” Slade’s hazel eyes watch me closely.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “What does that have to do with my job?”

“Not just your job. Your life. Your everything.”

One thing I hate is not knowing what’s going on, and a tornado of irritation begins to whirl inside me. “You want me to trust you, but then you ask me to agree to something and you’re being opaque about what it is.”

“Not by design,” Hawthorne says. “We’re happy to show you. Your training will start tonight.”

I can’t believe my ears. “My
training
?”

Hawthorne smiles. “We said you had to start from the beginning, and that includes training.”

“And if I don’t?”

Romeo’s face is closed off. “We hope you will,” he says.

“But if I don’t?” I persist.

“Well, you’d be in breach of contract,” Romeo says, and pain crosses his features. “We’re prepared to take extraordinary measures to keep that from happening. If you run off, we’ll find you. If we have to publish your likeness, name and aliases in the paper, we will. This could seriously impact your ability to find new employment.”
 

My jaw drops. “Blackmail?”
 

“Only if you force us to,” he says.
 

I’m shaking my head as I move away from the table. Shucking off Slade’s jacket, I stare daggers into Romeo’s eyes. He’s so fucking big that I feel like I’m taking my life into my own hands. “Fuck you,” I say, my eyes blurring with tears. “I fucking hate you.”

Because I’m standing so close, I can see the impact as my words hit him.

“Maybe you’ll hate us,” he says gently. “But at least you’ll be alive, and you’ll be safe.”

I practically hurl Slade’s jacket at him as I push through the men, and as I stalk back to the limo, I call my three traitorous bosses every insult I can think of.

The limo door is locked. I knock, but the driver doesn’t open.

Behind me, the men are approaching. I refuse to turn, to look at them.

“You’re starting from the bottom,” Hawthorne murmurs into my ear. “You don’t have our trust, so why should we let you unaccompanied into the limo?” He knocks lightly on the glass, and the locks click open.

And I officially despise him with every single molecule of my being.

Chapter 10

The rest of the evening passes in a blur: packing up my hotel room, checking out, the plane and helicopter rides—the latter of which makes my stomach pitch and my heart pound. If I didn’t hate my bosses so much, I would grab onto them, but instead I dig my fingers into the padded seats.

Hawthorne explains that they’ll see to my car, and that Bandit will be brought to me as soon as the vet releases him.

I feel walled-off from the rest of the world.
 

It’s not until we’re near Romeo’s house that I start to snap out of it, to function. “What about my apartment?” I ask.
 

“As you pointed out, it’s not nearly secure enough,” Romeo says. “Here, you’ll be safe.”

The way he says “safe” does something to me. I’m not sure why, but suddenly I don’t want to argue. I don’t care about winning, about looking strong, about being right.

Romeo has always felt safe. Maybe it’s his size, or that he takes everything so seriously, but I believe him even though it goes against the lessons I’ve accumulated over the last seven years.

It’s enough to leave me quiet while the four of us enter Romeo’s house.

Romeo carries my bag upstairs, and I assume he’s putting me in the same guest room as before.

“This way,” Hawthorne says.
 

Not sure what to expect, I follow him through the house. I was down this way once before.
 

We pass Romeo’s office—the door is open, and I sneak a look in. I’m still unable to see who’s in the framed photo on the massive desk.

To my surprise, the house just… keeps going. From the front, I never would have guessed it continued out so far in the back.
 

“Kneel,” Slade says.

I swivel to look at him. Instead of humor in his alluring hazel eyes, there is only firm determination… an expectation of being obeyed.

My body heats, and I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat as I lower myself to my knees. Cocking an eyebrow, I look up at him, and I lick my lips very, very slowly.

Slade has excellent control over himself, but I still see his chest move slightly as he inhales.

Romeo’s solid footsteps come up behind me, and I sneak a look back at him.
 

He’s got something in his hand. Cloth. Not clothing—not big enough for that.
 

He passes it to Hawthorne, then presses his hands on my shoulders. “All you have to trust is that we’ll stop if you need us to,” he says. He looks at Hawthorne and nods.

Hawthorne steps close, then crouches in front of me. I can’t help but notice the flexing of his muscular thighs. His piercing blue gaze, flecked with gold, seems to look into the depths of my soul, and I realize… This man knows almost all my secrets.
 

He raises his hand and I see he’s got a blindfold. Kinky. I can definitely get on board with that.
 

I raise my chin, and he moves the silky fabric into place and tightens it around my head with experienced, deft movements.

The room is instantly plunged into darkness, and it makes my heart rate shoot high. I’ve been blindfolded a time or three, but in the past, they were tied loosely enough that I could see my cheeks, part of the floor.
 

Nothing is getting through this one. It’s not just a piece of fabric; there are molded parts with extra padding that hide everything from me.

With a little gasp, I start to adjust the blindfold.
 

“No,” Slade says, and he moves my hand away. Well, I assume it’s him.