Bartered Seduction: The Billionaire's Wife, Part 2 (A BDSM Erotic Romance) (2 page)

"Will that cost more than the free consultation?" I asked her. "Because I don't do anything but free so well."

Her eyes crinkled. "Oh, I'm sure I could go over it and even make some changes that you'd probably find useful, pro bono. Of course, I'd expect you to recommend me to your friends. And if anyone asks, drop my name as your prenup consultant."

"Wow," I said. "That's... uh..."

"No problem," she said airily. "It'll be great for my business." She fixed me with a sharp eye. "And if you marry Anton Waters, get used to that sort of proposition." She sat up and pushed the contract across the desk, flipping to the second page. "Now, here's the section about separate property..."

*

By the time I got home and had a shower, I was full of vim and vinegar and ready to take on the world, and Anton Waters in particular. I wasn't going to take any of this lying down. Wrapped in my threadbare bathrobe with a Hello Kitty towel smothering my wet hair, I called Empire Capital and demanded to speak to Anton Waters.

This didn't go over so well, until I remembered that I was apparently a VIP in the Empire empire and gave my name.

"Oh!" The poor receptionist sounded like she was going to have a very peppy heart attack, and I felt bad. But not very. She was part of the Evil Empire. She was the enemy. "Yes! Of course, Miss Dare!" The phone line clicked and my ears were flooded with baroque music. It lasted only a few moments before Arthur's voice came on the line.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Dare," he said smoothly, "but Mr. Waters is out of the office. Let me give you his private cell so you may reach him."

"I... oh." I was taken aback. I'd worked as a receptionist before, and let me tell you, in some places giving out someone's private cell number is tantamount to committing ritual hari kiri in the workplace. If you wanted to fast-track yourself to getting fired, give out a private cell number. The only explanation that I could come up with was that Waters had left specific instructions to give his number to me if I called.

Unnerved, I wrote down the number, thanked Arthur, and hung up.

Having to call a second number was less exciting than the first call. The courage I'd mustered from my meeting with my lawyer—and I had to give it to my father, being able to say
'my lawyer'
was pretty exhilarating—was fast dwindling. Hearing the lower-level monkeys at Empire Capital—
my
sort of people—chirp excitedly at me did not help.

With a gulp, I dialed Anton's number, turned on the speaker, and put the phone out of reach so I wouldn't accidentally hang up, take a taxi to the airport, and buy a one-way ticket to Belize. After only two rings, the phone clicked, and his rich, deep voice answered: “Waters.”

For a moment I was tongue-tied. All the things I'd meant to say got tangled up and I couldn't sort through them fast enough to decide which I should start with. The silence got longer and longer. I knew this tactic. He was waiting on the other end of the line, waiting for the person who called him to fill up the silence.
He
was Anton Waters. He didn't have to talk if he didn't want to, and he certainly wasn't going to waste precious words asking someone something twice.

“Why is everyone at your company so nice to me?” I finally blurted. Hey, it was better than nothing.

“Ah, Miss Dare,” he said. “I was wondering when you would call.”

Uuuuuugh.
He was
such
a twat. Such a movie-cliche twat. And I wanted to fuck him really badly, and I might actually maybe perhaps marry him. I should have gone to a shrink instead of a lawyer.

“That's nice,” I said. “Why is everyone so nice to me?”

“I told them we may be getting married,” he said.

I couldn't hold in my indignant shout.
“What?”
I hadn't even told my closest friends, and he'd probably sent out a company-wide memo about it.

“It wouldn't be good for their health if they found out after the fact,” he said. “Katy, my front desk receptionist, already called Arthur yesterday and apologized for being rude to you when you first walked in. I gather she was very contrite.”

It took me a moment to realize what he was referring to. “Oh. Well,” I said awkwardly, “I wasn't really dressed for visiting.” The only place my work clothes were fit for visiting was a street corner, and even then I'd need a nice cardboard sign to complete the ensemble.
Will make poor life decisions for food.

Nervously I fidgeted with the towel I had wrapped around my head. Hearing his voice, even this pale imitation over my cell phone speakers, was bringing back memories of yesterday, when he cornered me in his office and pressed me against the wall.

My cheeks heated.
Don't think about that!
I commanded myself.

“Have you given any further thought to my offer?” he asked, which made it hard not to think about. Almost absently the hand toying with the towel on my head drifted down to the hot space between my thighs and began toying with
that
instead.

No matter how I sliced it, that couldn't be a good sign. I didn't take my hand away, however. The richness of his voice had made me wet and slick.

“I went to see a lawyer today,” I told him.

The other end of the line was quiet for a fraction of a second longer than I expected. “Good,” he said. “I'm glad. You should have legal counsel when signing legal documents.”

Yeah.
And she told me to marry you if the sex was good.
My middle finger circled my clit as though pondering just how much it could get away with while I talked on the phone. “Uh-huh. Anyway, I have a few changes to make.”

This time the silence on the other end was
definitely
longer than I expected. A few other fingers joined the first. At last there was a rustling sound, and I heard him sigh. “We should meet.”

I hadn't expected
that,
although I probably should have. “Okay. At your office?”

“No,” he said. “It's almost lunch time. We should meet for lunch.”

My roving hand stilled and my nerves shot through the roof. “Uh. Okay. Where?”

This time when he spoke, I could hear the smile in his voice, and that made me even more nervous. “I'll send a car to pick you up.”

“How should I dress—” I started to say, but he hung up on me.

I stared at the phone in my hand. Quickly, I redialed his number, but it went immediately to voice mail.

My eyes flew to the contract where it sat on my coffee table. All that shit about being submissive... that's what he was doing, wasn't it? He was trying to show me just how much power he held.

“Ass!” I said out loud, though I would have been hard pressed to tell anyone listening if I were calling Waters an ass, or merely commenting on the general situation. Maybe both.

I jumped up from my seat, shedding my towel and bathrobe.

Two could play this game.

*

Anton Waters knew where I lived.

I mean, of
course
he did, it was right there on his stupid contract, but the fact that a fancy-ass car—black, naturally—pulled up to my shitty apartment in my little low rent neighborhood reminded me that he
knew
where I lived. Suddenly my tiny shoebox didn't seem so safe and snug. For reasons I couldn't define, the idea that he could probably find me whenever he chose gave me the shivers.

I took a drag of my cigarette and lifted my chin.

To his credit, the driver Waters had sent only did a double-take when he saw me, and it was only a small one, at that. But it was enough. I knew I had done a good job.

I'm not in the habit of dressing up, and I have to make my clothes last when I get them, so luckily I still had some truly awful clothes left over from college. The tiny red skirt I wore contrasted horribly with the orange blouse, worn because it revealed a truly indecent amount of cleavage. Knee-high leather boots and some torn fishnets leftover from that Halloween where I dressed up like Sally Bowles completed the outfit, and I'd layered the blue eyeshadow on like it had gone out of style in the eighties. I hadn't had time to do my hair so it still hung straight and wasn't a glorious frizzball like I'd wanted, but I thought I looked pretty good. For my purposes anyway.

The driver recovered and opened the door. "Ma'am," he said. "My name is Zachary. Let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you," I told him, and got in.

The car was even nicer on the inside than on the out, and the outside had been pretty damn sweet. Buttery leather seats caressed my thighs through my fishnets, and there was a tiny bar built into the seats in front of me.
Look at me,
it seemed to say.
I'm classy and made of real wood.

"Is the bar free, or do I have to pay a surcharge?" I asked the driver as we pulled away from my apartment.

"Mr. Waters said you were welcome to anything you wish, ma'am." Unlike Katy and Arthur, Zachary seemed more standoffish, but that was probably my outfit talking. He was the soul of politeness otherwise, but I could practically feel him replaying the plot of
Pretty Woman
in his head and trying to figure out which scene he was in.

Well, I might as well give myself a little liquid courage. I popped open the bar and grabbed a bottle at random. Scotch. Of course.

Yuck.

Trying to act cool, I replaced itand looked out the window. "So where are we going?" I asked.

"To lunch, ma'am," Zachary said.

My mouth twisted. "Did Mr. Waters give you instructions not to tell me where exactly we'll be going for lunch?"

"Oh, no, ma'am," he said. "I've never spoken with Mr. Waters directly. But..." In the rear view mirror he looked faintly embarrassed. "I am supposed to, er, drive around a bit before dropping you off.”

He looked worried.

“Don't fret,” I told him. “I won't tattle.”

I settled back and watched the city glide by me, hoping to calm my jangling nerves, but I must have been more tired than I'd realized. The cumulative effect of the car's momentum and last night's ill-considered bender combined to send me into a doze. I was startled awake by the door opening.

“Hrble?” I said intelligently. I glanced around, disoriented.

“Here we are, ma'am,” the driver said, and when I looked up at him, I saw the slightest bit of sympathy in his eyes. I felt pathetically grateful for it.

“Thank you,” I said. He helped me out of the car, and I pretended to fix my clothes—an impossible task as they were designed to be unfixable—and tried to figure out where I had ended up. Story of my life.

To my surprise, I discovered that I had been delivered to a small Mom and Pop place called The Villa. This didn't really tell me anything, because there are a thousand Mom and Pop Italian places called The Villa, but at least most of them were good. That I had not been deposited in front of a high-end sushi bar or a sexy French bistro surprised me, but only for a moment. I gathered my courage and went in.

Anton Waters was waiting for me just inside the door. Even though I was semi-prepared to see him, he still stopped me in my tracks.

Dammit. I'd forgotten just how arresting he was. He sported a light dusting of dark stubble today, accenting the squareness of his jaw. His stupid full lips quirked in that faint smile of his when he saw me, and I felt like those vivid green eyes, muted in the gloom of the intimate little restaurant, were staring right through me.

“Miss Dare,” he said.

I tried to toss my hair back arrogantly, but I wasn't used to wearing such high heels and the gesture made me stagger.

One large, warm hand caught me before I fell on my ass, and then Waters was pulling me close to him. His lean, hard body fairly hummed with energy, and he stared down at me.

“Watch your step,” he said. Then, gently, he let me go.

I swallowed hard. “Mr. Waters,” I said.

He held out a hand. “Please. Let's be seated.”

I gripped my purse, holding the strap in front of me like a talisman that could ward him off, and glared at him. He dropped his hand, somehow making the gesture elegant rather than awkward, and turned into the dining room. I followed him.

We wove through the other diners. A few stopped chewing and stared at him as he passed them by, but most of them ignored him. I, in my hooker-on-a-holiday getup, attracted far more attention. I didn't like that one bit. Mercifully, we were seated at the back of the dining room in an intimate little booth. I took one side and put my purse next to me to deter him from sharing my bench, but he didn't even try. Instead he slid in across from me, poured two generous glasses of red wine, and ordered the asparagus salad for both of us from the waitress who stood next to our table, practically vibrating at attention.

“Of course, Mr. Waters,” she gushed. She didn't even look at me. I wondered if I would have to get used to
that
sort of thing as well when we got married.

No. If.
If!

Dammit.

I smoothed the white table cloth under my hands as she ran off to the kitchen. “I'm not fond of asparagus,” I said.

“You will be with this asparagus,” he said. “It is delicious.” I watched as he shook out his napkin and laid it in his lap. I envied that napkin. I followed suit, though the table cloth was so long it seemed like it could do double duty as a napkin just fine. I shoved it out of my way and laid the cloth across my gaudy red skirt.

“Care to explain what you are wearing?”

I looked up.

Waters sat across from me, one arm propped on the back of the booth, his head tilted at an arrogant angle. He wore another linen shirt today, this one just as impeccably tailored as the one yesterday, and a tie was conspicuously absent. Every day was casual Friday in the Empire empire, apparently.

“Just something I had left over from college,” I said. Which was mostly true.

He arched one perfect brow. His green eyes glinted. “I see,” he said, his tone of voice conveying that he didn't see at all. I felt like a contrite schoolgirl dragged in front of the principal.