Dirty Rich(3)

"Catherine," she says by way of greeting. "Cancel my appointments."

As she says this she tosses the summer-weight coat she had been carrying  folded over her arm to me and thrusts her purse into my arms. I catch  all of it with practiced ease and slip the coffee cup into her hand.

Something about her expression seems...off. Sandra isn't one for big  smiles and keeps her emotions tightly under wrap, but I've spent the  last year studying her. Something's going on. My mind spins into  overdrive. It's not about the meetings, or else she would have emailed  me at some point this morning or during the night. Some personal issue,  maybe? Her husband doesn't like the long hours she puts in. That could  be it.

I swallow. She'll tell me the reason if she thinks I need to know.  Still, this isn't the first time my meeting-confirmation efforts have  been completely wasted. The frustration almost doesn't touch me. "Should  I clear your schedule for the entire day, or just for the morning?"

"Morning," she says, then glides into her office and takes a graceful seat behind her desk.

It takes me less than five minutes to hang her coat and bag in the  closet and step outside to shoo the crowd away from the double doors.  Bryce gives me an exaggerated pout-this means he'll have to hang around  the office for at least the next couple of hours in case she  reschedules-but I just give him a tiny shrug. I'm just the messenger.

"Catherine." Sandra's summons isn't a question. It comes as soon as the  glass doors swish closed behind me. I step over to her desk, picking up a  small notepad and pen from my desk on the way. It's extremely rare for  Sandra to give me only one instruction at a time.

"I've cancelled the morning appointments. Would you like me to start rescheduling them now?"

She doesn't acknowledge that I've spoken. Instead, she reaches into a  desk drawer and pulls out a pair of reading glasses, which she perches  on the edge of her nose. Reads something on her computer screen.

The silence reigns for several moments.

Then she shatters it with an announcement that makes my stomach twist with panic.





Chapter 3

Jax





The dumb blonde I brought home last night-it's not a joke, by the way,  she's got nothing but static between her ears-pouts at me with puppy-dog  eyes. I've got to get her out of here.

"Do I have to go?" She stretches her arms above her head, arching her  back over my pillow. Her whine disgusts me. Alisha? Alisa? Her name is  useless information to me. She won't be staying long. Her smoking body,  topped off with a gorgeous pair of tits, was her ticket in.  Unfortunately for her, that ticket expired this morning, right about the  time I woke up.

"Yes." I toss her dress from last night at her. She doesn't like that much.

She was still sleeping when I went to work out with my new trainer. The  guy knows what he's doing, I'll give him that, so it's no surprise that I  hated his goddamn guts by the end of it.

"You're a prick," she spits, throwing her long legs over the side of the bed.

"I never said I wasn't."

In the mirror I can see her shoving herself back into her skintight  dress. The sight of it does nothing for me now. Last night was all about  convenience, and she was very convenient. Too bad for her, she thought  this was the start of something much, much bigger.

That's what they all think.

But fuck if I'm going to get conned into some big, romantic love affair,  especially with someone like Alyssa here. Even if I had feelings for  her-no, I can't even say it without my mouth curling into a sneer.  Having "feelings" for women is a surefire way to lose control over your  life, over your reputation, everything.

Mine is too valuable for that. On the scale of ten billion in net worth, at my last count.         

     



 

I turn to face her as she stands up from the bed, my arms crossed over  my chest. My workout gear is soaked. All I want is a shower.

Yet I don't see her leaving. Instead, I see her putting on an expression  like she's searching for something. Damn. She really is that stupid.

"Where … " She's making a show of looking for her panties, a worthless  scrap of lace that I had down around her ankles within three minutes of  walking in the door. Don't act shocked. She wanted it as much as I did.  Well, maybe not exactly. Maybe she was in it for more than a hard fuck  and just a hint of bondage, my tie around her wrists. But I wasn't.

"By your left foot." They've been there the whole time. If she was  hoping to entice me back into bed, she's going to be disappointed. She  only needs to be a little bit smarter to realize that this display is  worthless.

She bends and scoops them up, her tits almost popping out of her dress,  then straightens up, stepping into the panties and sliding them back  over her sculpted ass.

I'm about to ask her if she needs help finding the door-we're in the  penthouse, after all, and it's probably too huge for her tiny brain-when  my cell rings in its spot on top of my dresser. I answer it before the  first ring is over.

"Hunter."

Alina rolls her eyes and pads out of the room. Good.

The voice on the other end of the phone launches into a business  proposition, and instantly Alana is forgotten, last night's conquest  filed away along with all my other irrelevant memories. Then I get a  whiff of a challenge. If there's one thing I can't resist, it's a  business opportunity on the brink.

"What happened exactly, John? It seems like the resource management here has been abysmal."

On the other end of the line, John, the representative for the board at  Williams-Martin, the publishing group, sighs. Williams-Martin, John has  explained, owns Basiqué-their heavy hitter-and puts out a bunch of other  magazines that lose money every second they exist. Not that I give a  shit about magazines. But this company is about to go over the edge, and  I could stop it … if I choose.

"I can't argue with that." He sounds defeated.

I take another long moment to consider my options. I don't need this  business. People can't stop giving me money hand over fist. Come up with  your own revolutionary development in condom technology and watch your  net worth shoot into the stratosphere. But I can't get enough of this  shit. I'll probably find out that none of these magazine properties are  worth anything, and I won't feel an ounce of sadness about shutting most  of them down. Maybe all of them. Who knows? I buy them out, I have all  the power. And another successful turnaround will only increase my  legitimacy.

A memory of my slimy, weakass father flashes across my mind. He wasn't  legit. I'll never forget the day they came to arrest him for a laundry  list of embarrassing white-collar crimes. It wasn't until the trial that  I saw him for what he was: a coward and a fraud. The last thing I need  is to get into a situation that looks like it's just more of his  "creative accounting."

This isn't creative accounting. From what John has said, this is a bailout.

And who has more power than the guy writing the checks?

I'll do it. Why the hell not? I can afford to lose a couple million if  it goes south, and either way I'll come out smelling like roses. If I  can't turn around some publishing company when they're up against the  goddamn Internet, I won't be the first.

"Tell you what, John. I'll bite. But I'll warn you-I don't plan on  leaving power structures intact. I'm going to be doing some  reorganizing."

"We expected as much." The relief in his voice is palpable.

"Be ready for a call from my business manager by the afternoon," I say  crisply, then let him thank me too many times before I disconnect the  call.

The thought of the destruction I'm about to wreak on Williams-Martin has  my blood humming in my veins. I could go another round right now.

But Alina is long gone. Sometimes you're too hasty, Hunter.         

     



 

My heart is still beating with leftover anticipation as I strip off my  clothes and step into the shower. It's just a pet project, something I  wouldn't normally pay much attention to, but I could use just this kind  of distraction from all the shit that's been going on.

All I need to do is get to the office.





Chapter 4

Cate





Sandra shuts herself in her office for most of the morning while I force  myself to sift through the daily deluge of emails, tracking shipments,  scheduling, confirming, confirming, confirming. It's hard to type with  jittery hands, a jittery mind. But the work never ends. There's always  another issue in the works, always another set of clothes, models,  designers to slot into Sandra's schedule. I have to get it done, or the  afternoon will be a nightmare.

That bitch.

The thought bubbles up from behind my barricade of professionalism and I  swat at it like it's in the air in front of me, like I'd swat away a  mosquito. Sandra isn't a bitch. She's demanding and hyper-focused on her  work, and the problem she's faced with-that we're both faced with-is  something I can't help her with, even if it takes everything I have not  to press my ear up against the doors to her office. A single word. A  single word is all I need to take the edge off after what she told me  this morning.