Dirty Scoundrel(10)

Nat gasps. "I can't believe this! You are such a dick. I can't believe this is what you've come to talk to me about."

"What, surely you don't think I would marry you?" I sneer, throwing the hated words back in her face.

She flinches, going quiet.

And not for the first time today, I feel like the bad guy. Like I've  done something wrong. "Nothing to say?" I bluster, because I don't like  feeling like this.

"I've got something to say, all right." Nat recovers quickly and her  chin lifts. "I could take you to court and sue the hell out of you for  what you've just said to me."

For some reason, I love that she's responding so fiercely to my  admittedly shitty proposal. I can't stop the grin that's spreading  across my face, and it only widens the angrier she gets. "And I could  hire the best lawyers possible, settle the case outside of court for a  pittance, and then you'd be back to square one. You'd still be broke and  need bailing out."         

     



 

"So your suggestion is that I just spread my legs for you and close my eyes!"

"I would prefer that your eyes be open when you spread your legs for  me," I murmur, liking the mental image. "And I'd much rather you be into  it. I seem to recall a time when we couldn't keep our hands off each  other."

"Th-that was seven years ago," she stammers, clearly flustered by my  change in tone. Her cheeks are turning pinker and she won't meet my  eyes. "Long before you and I split and then you came to me with this  horrible deal."

"Is it such a horrible deal?" I ask. "We both get what we want."

"You're asking me to sell myself to you," she whispers. "How can you possibly think that's a good deal for me?"

"Once upon a time, you loved it when I touched you," I tell her,  stepping a bit closer. I want to reach out and touch her-her arm, her  cheek, her chin, anywhere-but I force myself to shove my hands in the  pockets of my jeans, not trusting myself to not grab her and just kiss  the hell out of her. "I wanted to offer you this. Help me help you."

I expect her to retort that my deal isn't helping her much at all, and  that it helps me more than her. But she only gives her head a little  shake. "Doesn't matter what I think. It could be the world's best deal  or the world's worst deal. I still can't take it."

"Because of me?" I don't know if I'm disappointed or angry. Or both.

She crosses her arms under her breasts, and it's less angry and more  like she's hugging herself. "No. I have to take care of my father. He's  eighty-seven now and . . . not well." Her expression grows distant.

I remember her ancient father and her too-young stepmother. That was a  creepy dynamic, and I'd always wondered how she handled it. I knew that  back in high school she resented her father for his string of wives and  the lack of attention he showed his daughter. Guess she got over it.

But if that's all it is . . .

"He needs a caretaker? That's easy enough to acquire."

She gives me a skeptical look. "It's expensive."

I can't believe she's gonna poor-mouth me. If it weren't so ridiculous,  it'd be downright amusing. "You do realize I'm rich, right? You just  tell me what your price is and I'll pay it."

Natalie says nothing, but there's a bleak look on her face, and her eyes  are suspiciously shiny. Shit. This isn't how I want things to go. I  pull out a business card and offer it to her. "That's my phone number  and my email. Send me your list of demands. The job's exactly what you  think it is. You're my assistant for as long as I need assisting."

"You've watched too much Fifty Shades of Grey," she mutters, but plucks the card from my fingers.

I turn and leave, heading back out to the limo. Feels like eternity has  passed, even though it might have been only five minutes. I'm not sure  if that went well. She might hate my guts. She might turn me down flat.

One thing's for certain, though-after seeing her again today?

Doesn't matter her price. I'll pay it.

There's nothing I want more than Natalie Weston in my bed. Nothing.

When I'm back in the limo, my phone buzzes with an incoming text. My  heart hammers in my chest as I click on the screen, and I'm disappointed  to see it's only Knox, not Nat.

KNOX: How'd it go?

How did it go? Good question. I can't stop thinking about Nat's breasts .  . . and those shiny, sad eyes. I'm going to get what I want, I think.  Natalie doesn't have much room to bargain.

Can't help feeling like a dick, though.

CLAY: I feel like an asshole.

KNOX: Ur not an asshole. Ur a scoundrel. A rogue.

KNOX: Own it, Scoundrel.

CLAY: Just a fancy word for asshole.

KNOX: You gave her the offer. Up to her if she takes it.

CLAY: And if she does take it, it's because she has no choice. She's broke enough to sell herself. Still makes me an asshole.

KNOX: But then you'll be a well-laid asshole. If ur gonna be an asshole either way, might as well get ur dick wet.



Natalie

I stare at the mountain of overdue bills on the corner of my desk as it  pours rain outside. All of the notices are brightly colored and scream  things like "Past Due" or "Final Notice." Business taxes, medical bills,  repairs on the museum, property taxes, credit cards, invoices for  souvenirs-all of them have been slowly piling up on my desk. I tackle  them the best I can, but no matter what I do, the number owed seems to  grow and grow.         

     



 

It feels like there's no climbing out of this hole.

I make minimum payments, only to have the interest eat me alive. One  bill gets paid off and something new appears. If we pay off the air  conditioner we had to have replaced last year, the car breaks down, or a  wheelchair ramp needs to be updated. Dad fell six months ago, and I'm  still paying the hospital bills for that one, because the insurance  company says it wasn't truly an emergency. It's just one frustrating  thing after another. I can lift my chin, keep my head above water, and  keep going . . .

Or I can sell myself to my high school boyfriend.

The thought is both loathsome and wildly appealing at the same time.  God, how many times have I imagined having sex with Clay? How many times  did I regret that I never gave up my virginity to him? How many times  have I pictured tackling him and hopping into his bed with all the  gleeful passion I'd felt for him?

For Clay to demand it for money . . . it changes things. He's not the  sweet, laughing boy I fell in love with. The person that showed up wears  his face, but he's hard and cold and a little cruel.

I don't know what to think.

This is worse than Clay never coming back into my life, ever.

I tilt my head back, closing my eyes. I need a sign that what I'm doing  is the right thing. That staying the course and keeping my pride means I  can get us out of this hole. That I shouldn't sell myself into my  ex-boyfriend's bed. That it's just money and it can't buy me happiness.  That I'd be trading my self-esteem and self-worth away and it's not  worth it. It's wrong and-

Something drips on my forehead.

I squeeze one eye open and peer up at the ceiling. There's water damage,  a yellowish stain on the ceiling. As I examine it, another fat droplet  of water falls and splashes on my forehead. I sit up, wiping away the  wetness.

That wasn't the sign I wanted.

"Natalie?" My father's quavering voice floats down the stairs.

I jump to my feet. "Coming!" The bills and all my worries will have to  wait a bit longer. I grab a pot from the kitchen, put it on my desk  chair, then head up the stairs, ignoring how much they creak.

My father's seated upright in his bed, his blankets tucked at his waist,  and for a moment, he looks so cheery and so normal that my heart  squeezes. I can't help but smile at him. We've never been close, but  when he smiles . . . I dearly wish we were. I wish he were the dad I  always wanted instead of the one I got.

"Hi, Dad," I say as I shut the door behind me. "What's up?"

He gestures at the chair next to his bed. "I need a favor, my dear."

"Of course." My father knows I'd do anything for him. I'm encouraged by  his mood-and the fact that he called me Natalie. Maybe he's going to  have a good, coherent spell for a few days.

Dad nods. "I need you to run through my lines with me."

"Your lines?" I echo, my heart sinking.

"Yes. That reading is tomorrow and you know what a stickler Jimmy is. He  doesn't like it when the actors show up and don't know the characters."  He gives his head a little shake and then waves a hand at me. "Your  mother is busy so I need you to help me with it."

"Oh," I say softly. "Why don't you start?"

My father presses a hand to his chest and begins a meaningful, heartfelt  speech about the perils of war. I'm sure it's from a movie that wrapped  decades ago, just like I'm sure my father's living in that moment  again. He thinks my mom's alive. He thinks he's still acting.

He's not getting any better.

Hot tears pour down my cheeks as my father waves a hand at me,  encouraging me to reply, but when I don't, he just continues on, happy  as could be, lost in his own little world.