“Janitor work? Janitor work is your calling?” I almost snarl.
She tilts her chin in defiance. “Why do you care?”
I flex my hand, suppressing the urge to shake her until her teeth rattle. I don’t know why I give a damn. I really shouldn’t, but I keep thinking about her, and fuck me if I can figure out why I can’t just stick her in the “whatever” box.
All women in my life are neatly categorized: “family and friends,” “previously fucked,” “to be fucked,” and the catch-all “whatever.” The last one is for women who don’t fit into the first three, and once a chick goes in there, I don’t think about her anymore. It just isn’t worth the effort. Life is full of willing girls.
And maybe it’s because she won’t fit neatly into a box that I’m fascinated. I love a good challenge, and I’ve been bored for a long time.
“Do you think you can find a husband scrubbing toilets?” I ask.
“Beats being told to get on my knees by some random rich guy.”
“Three grand not enough?”
“I prefer something steadier than just one night.”
She yanks on her arm, but I don’t let go. I sense the receptionist watching us, but I don’t give a fuck. She’s going to be discreet about it because that’s what the firm pays her to be.
“So your objection is to the one-off nature of my offer?”
Instead of answering, she jerks her arm again. But I’m not letting go until I’m done.
“When are you finished with your shift?” I ask.
“None of your damn business.”
“I can make your life very difficult.” I lean close until I can see every fleck in her mesmerizing green eyes. “I could get you fired right now.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
“Asshole.”
I merely smile. “Your shift?”
“Five,” she grinds out.
“Good. I’ll send a car. We’ll talk.”
“About what?”
“About you going on your knees on a more consistent basis.”
Her complexion turns as red as a boiled lobster. If we didn’t have an audience, I’m sure she’d slap me.
And for some strange reason, that amuses me a great deal. I let go and leave, whistling. But as soon as I’m inside an elevator, my merriment fizzles. I have things to do.
Chapter Nine
Annabelle
I shake all day long. It’s impossible to be calm and collected when the sexiest man I’ve ever met behaves so horribly toward me.
I’d much rather drink a cocktail of bleach and ammonia than face him after my shift is over, but I just started this job. As a matter of fact, today is my first day. And I’m practical enough to know that if the choice is me or him, management is going to choose him. He’s rich and obviously important. I’m just a cleaning girl.
And those are a dime a dozen. It’s infuriating.
As soon as I can, I’m getting a college degree and making something of myself. Nobody, no matter how rich or powerful or important, will ever look at me and assume that I’m for sale or to be toyed with for their amusement.
Five o’clock comes sooner than I want. I change into my street clothes: a white T-shirt and denim skirt I bought from Walmart on sale. The skirt hangs a bit loose around my waist, but the price was too good to pass up. I grab my bag from the locker.
Although Elliot didn’t say where his car would be waiting, I presume it’s going to be at the main entrance. And sure enough, a black Rolls-Royce is idling with a driver standing on the curb. He’s slim, only moderately tall. But he has sharp dark eyes and even darker hair. I don’t even try to guess his nationality. I’m horrible at figuring that kind of stuff out about Asians.
“Miss Annabelle Key?” he says when he sees me.
“Yes.”
He opens the rear door, and I climb inside. The leather is so smooth it almost feels silky. He shuts the door and gets behind the wheel. “Are you comfortable?”
“Fine.”
He raises the partition between us and starts driving. I surreptitiously study the interior. Everything looks expensive. It even smells expensive.
I don’t know why Elliot sent me something like this. He can’t mean to impress me with his wealth. He already knows money won’t do it.
Our progress is painfully slow. I nibble on my lower lip and text Nonny. Bad traffic, think I’m going to be late. But I left you some salad and enchiladas. Just microwave. Will be home ASAP. Love you.
A few minutes later, she texts me back. No prob. Love you to.
Too.
It’s autocorrect.
I grin. Whenever she makes an error she blames her phone.
Traffic crawls and it takes almost ninety minutes to reach our destination. The luxury residential condo building isn’t that far from the OWM building. I probably could’ve walked here in less time.
A uniformed doorman opens the door, gesturing me toward the concierge desk. If the clerk is shocked by my shabby appearance, he doesn’t comment. He just makes a quick note in his computer and sends me up to the same penthouse where I jumped out of the cake. Last time I rode the service elevator. This time I get to ride the one the people who live here use.
Moving up in the world, Annabelle.
I look at the numbers rising on the digital display and drag in a fortifying breath. If Elliot keeps being obnoxious, what do I do? Threaten to sue him for harassment? Most people would back away, but I’m not sure he would. His reactions to things so far haven’t been what I expected.
The elevator dings. Top floor. I step out; there’s only one door, and it’s ajar.
I walk inside his penthouse. The view of the city is breathtaking from this high up. I can even see the sun setting over the Pacific. Everything in the living room is pristine white with a glass-top coffee table for variation. I stop—and flush—as I realize I’m standing where the cake used to be. Elliot is sitting on one of the couches—the one he was sitting on before. I’m fairly certain that’s not a coincidence.
He’s changed into a gray V-neck shirt and shorts, leaving his well-developed calves exposed for me to admire. I’m sure his thighs are just as muscular and strong. He has the body of a man who takes care of himself in all ways. He doesn’t have to take off his shirt for me to know that he has flat, well-defined abs that deserve to be worshipped. Just because I’m not that into sex doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a good physique.
His feet are bare, and for some reason it makes him look a bit vulnerable, like a layer of shield is gone from him. But I’m not letting my guard down. He’s about as defenseless as a sleeping tiger.
He’s nursing something—maybe bourbon?—and gestures with the glass.
“Have a seat.”
I do, since my feet and legs are killing me. But I make sure to choose the armchair as far away from him as possible. If he notices, he doesn’t comment.
“Something to drink?”
“No, thank you.” As if.
After a healthy swallow, he studies me. The silence stretches between us until I’m tempted to squirm.
Which I bet is exactly what he wants me to do.