At any other time, in any other mood, this might have been a dangerous conversation. But I just grumble into my drink, and Adrian finally loses his internal battle not to mention anything.
"You seem even pricklier than usual," he says, finally. "Who do I need to kill?"
Taking a deep breath, I interlace my fingers. "What, no joke about how I must be having a fight with my coven?"
"You're clearly not in a laughing mood," he says, taking another sip. "And I don't like that. Come on - I'm sure there's a few kneecaps I could break to make this better."
Now I'm chuckling, a little. "What exactly makes you think violence could solve this?"
"I don't, really," he says. "But at least it got you to smile."
My cheeks are turning slightly pink. "I didn't know you cared."
"Of course I care," he says. "Remember when I broke my arm, and you tied my ties for six weeks straight? A man doesn't forget a thing like that."
I do remember that, and I remember thinking it was the closest I'd ever gotten to him. There's something about standing so close to a man like that, close to his scent, the heat of his body. It felt like an oddly intimate task, something his wife should be doing, if he had one. Which of course he doesn't.
I suppose I'm the next best thing.
He's poking fun at me a little, I think, but maybe not. His smile is hard to read.
"It's my mom," I tell him, finally. "She just called a little while before you got here."
Adrian's face changes slightly. "Ah," he says. "I can see the complication. If my father were still alive, I'd suggest we put them into the Thunderdome together."
I smirk. "Whoever wins, we lose?"
"Exactly." He's chuckling. "I keep telling you to stop taking her calls."
"And I keep telling you, not everyone in the world just wants to cut and run from every inconvenient person in their lives." I give him a pointed look. "And it's a good thing, too."
He shoots me a wicked grin as he leans forward to pick up his drink. "At least I pay you to put up with me."
"I don't feel like I understand Natalie McBride any better than I did before," I tell him, letting out a long breath. "But I do feel better."
"And I didn't even have to hurt anyone." He tilts his glass towards me. "Cheers. Why don't you tell me what you think of Natalie, and I can tell you if you're wrong?"
"Oh, good, your favorite pastime." I take a deep breath. "Well, I think she's a kinky broad who likes to get spanked. Her husband's learned to enjoy it, but secretly she wishes he was the aggressor, more like Dirk. He won't do any of the bondage stuff and he lacks the patience to be a proper Dom. But she's happy. She loves her readers, they give her validation that he can't, because he doesn't really understand what she writes."
Adrian pours himself another glass. "Spanking, huh?"
I shrug. "You wrote it."
"All women love spankings," he says, matter-of-factly.
"That cannot possibly be true." I'm laughing at him, but I'm blushing too, because of course I've read those parts over and over again. Of course I've imagined what it would be like to have a man in my life who'd just drag me over his lap and smack my ass.
"Disprove it," he says, aiming his index finger at me. "You can't, can you?"
"No one can prove a negative," I tell him.
He's chuckling now. "But it's not a negative, is it? 'There is a woman somewhere in the world who doesn't like spanking.' That's all you need to prove. Just one woman. Find me one. There's a woman in this room right now, in fact. It would be so easy, and yet … "
Damn it. "I've never been spanked."
"Oh." His face softens. "I'm sorry."
"Shut up," I mutter, picking up my drink. "I don't need your sympathy."
His laugh is warm, and deep, and it speaks of something I'd like to know much much better. But I can't. He's my boss, and he's made it very clear he thinks it's a bad idea for us to continue what we started in the pool.
We talk for a while that night, before he leaves, taking his bourbon with him - and hesitating on the threshold like he wants to do something, or say something, but he doesn't quite know what.
I can't possibly sleep. The alcohol's warmed my blood, and I crank up the music instead, mouthing along with the words as I sway around the room by myself.
I've been a bad, bad girl …
Chapter Seven
I've never taken a luxury town car to La Guardia before. It doesn't actually make the traffic move faster, but the back seat is big enough to lie down and take a nap. Or it would be, if that didn't mean putting my head in Adrian's lap.
This is weird. I've gone across town with him for meetings before, but never on a long trip. Never anything like this. He's never asked me to go away with him on business, presumably because someone still needs to manage his incoming mail and phone calls while he's gone. I don't know if that's abnormal or not, but I'm always grateful for the respite.
Now, I'm about to spend a week with the guy, pretending to be someone I'm not. But at least I also get to pretend that we're equals. That'll be a laugh.
The driver bypasses the roads that lead into the pickup/drop-off area completely instead heading up to a gated road and slowing down to swipe a card that swings the massive barricades open. Just a few hundred yards away, I can see a few small, sleek planes sitting on the tarmac. And we're driving right up to them.
I'm staring, and I'm too damn tired to pretend I'm not.
I am not impressed. I am not impressed. I am not impressed.
If Adrian's head gets any bigger, it'll explode. I can't afford to leave him with the idea that anything about him, or his lifestyle, impresses me.
But holy fuck, I'm about to get on a private jet.
Two men in sharp suits come jogging over to grab our luggage out of the trunk, before I've even unbuckled my seat belt. Adrian comes over to my door and gives me his hand, and I guess it would be excessively rude to ignore it. So I let him hold me steady as I climb out of the car. His grasp is warm, and firm, and confident. For a moment, I just look at him.
I have no idea why this didn't occur to me. Of course a man like him doesn't take commercial flights. Why would he, when you can charter a private jet for a mere …
Yeah, I have no idea what private jets cost. And I'm not about to ask him.
"Mr. Risinger, Ms. Burns." The captain tips his hat as we board. It's roomier inside than it looks, with huge, cream-colored leather chairs and a wine-red carpet that seems like it would feel heavenly under my toes. But if I take my nice heels off before the flight, I'll never get them back on.
Our luggage is stowed in the corner, and I belatedly realize we didn't even have to go through a perfunctory security screening.
I did not know the meaning of "privilege" until this moment.
"You could've told me," I say to Adrian, as he sits down across from me, unbuttoning his jacket. "I actually spent time trying to fit my toiletries into a quart-sized baggie."
"Oh, right." Adrian chuckles. "Sorry. I forgot that's still a thing."
I could kill him.
"Laugh it up," I grumble. "You know, the TSA is talking about starting security screenings for private jet passengers."
I only know this because the article popped up in search on my phone for "how much does a private jet cost." Because I have to know.
He gives me some flippant answer, but I don't really hear it, because I just saw the number.
Eight thousand dollars an hour.
Eight. Thousand. Dollars.
An hour.
I'm not prone to airsickness, but I feel like I might end up puking all over him.
"Question," I say, as a woman dressed like a goddamn '70s Pan Am stewardess brings us some champagne. "Does money actually have any meaning to you at all, or is it basically just like this weird confetti that you throw around more or less at random, and never seems to run out for some reason?"
He gives the woman a smile that I distinctly dislike, and I catch the way his eyes follow her rear end as she sways back to the galley. This should not be bothersome to me, except that I find myself wondering if she's included in the fare.
Okay, that's pretty low of me. I'm sure she's a very nice person, and she's just hoping for a generous tip. But Adrian really needs to pop his eyes back into his head, before I do it for him.
"Money," he says, slowly. "That's the thing you exchange for goods and services, right?"
"I'm going to throw my champagne on you." I make a face. "It sucks, anyway."
"It doesn't suck," he says. "You suck."
"That's real mature." I kick him under the little table that separates us. It's an impulsive move, but I'm drinking champagne at eight o'clock in the morning on a private jet with my asshole boss. If not now, when?