“If the job you do is satisfactory, you’ll get a bonus.” And then he names a sum that makes Malcolm start coughing and me dizzy. A half-million dollar bonus? I could buy an apartment when I was done working for him.
“What do I have to do?” I ask, but I don’t know if I care right now. So long as I don’t have to kill or torture or spread my legs, I’m pretty sure I’m on board and maybe I’d even do those things.
“Sign the NDA.” He slides the paper over to me.
“Do I have to sleep with anyone?”
“No.”
“Not even you?” I peer at him between my eyelashes, ignoring Malcolm in the background. Amusement flits across Ian’s face. He leans toward me so only I can hear.
“Only if you want to.” He waits just a beat and then adds, “And you do.”
Sniffing like it smells bad to disguise the heat that suffuses my entire body at his provocative words, I eye the papers with disdain. “What holds me to this?”
“If you disclose, I take back all the money. Malcolm fires you and I ruin your life by ensuring you never get another job again.” He says this calmly like he’s reciting a grocery list. This time the zip down my spine is one of fear. “But I don’t think you will disclose.”
“How do you know that?” He’s right, though. I wouldn’t tell, even if the deal went south. I’m not a narc.
“Because you’re loyal. Very loyal. You didn’t want me to talk badly about your brother here and you’re engaged in business with unsavory characters in order to provide a better life for someone else in your family.”
I wonder what Malcolm has told him. “But you aren’t family.”
He leans closer, so close I can smell his aftershave and beneath that his warm male smell. Happiness is not a warm puppy. It’s the deeply masculine smell of someone who has got his big arms wrapped around you so you are wallowing in his scent. And right now, I’m tempted to climb over the table and into his lap—he smells just that good.
“For the money, you can pretend, can’t you?” he asks.
When he draws back, the gleam in his eyes is one of satisfaction and pure masculine desire. How will I work for him for three months and not beg for a spot in his bed?
“I don’t even know what that means. Am I going to do anything illegal?” I ask.
He taps the paper with his well-manicured finger. “Not until you sign.”
I can turn away from him. I can beg Malcolm for help, but the vision of my mother turning away from me, of Dr. Chen asking me when, of all those medical bills piled up in the corner . . . I could deliver packages for Malcolm for years and never get out from under that debt.
There’s really no need for me to think even one more second about this. I scrawl my illegible signature across the straight black line next to Ian’s finger. “Nice pen to go with your nice car,” I say, handing the heavy rollerball back to him.
“Everything I have is nice,” he says, and the innuendo makes my tongue feel two sizes too big for my mouth.
“How’s your mother, Malcolm?” Ian asks, never once taking his eyes off mine.
“She’s fine.” Malcolm responds tightly. It’s apparent to all of us that she really isn’t fine.
“Still down in Atlantic City?”
He nods brusquely and I feel bad because Malcolm’s mom has a gambling problem, which is partly the reason why he’s into half this shit.
“You should get her out of there. Atlantic City kills people.” Ian’s nonchalant attitude is suddenly grim. Apparently he does have more than one expression. This one looks scary. I prefer his smirk. Folding the contract in thirds, he stands. Business is over.
“I look forward to working with you…” he pauses and a fiendish gleam appears in his eyes. “Bunny.”
“You really are the devil,” I gasp as I catch his reference to our earlier encounter when he told me I was small prey.
“Ah, stroke my ego a little more. It’s my second favorite nickname.” This time he winks at me.
“What’s your first?” I ask like a halfwit.
“God,” he whispers in my ear and walks out.
“What’d he say?”
“Bruce Wayne,” I lie. The box is still lying there, and I guess there isn’t anything to do but take it home.
Mom’s asleep but snoring softly, her rhythm sounding perfectly healthy. I set the box on the table, make up my bed, and go into the bathroom to run through my nightly ritual of facial scrub and moisturizer. As I brush my teeth, I wander back into the living room and stare at the crumpled box.
Finally I climb onto the mattress and situate the box between my legs. Opening it means something. If I return it to him again, I think he’ll back off. After flicking the light off, I set it on the floor and crawl under the covers. And lie there. And wonder. And wonder some more.