Not Just the Boss's Plaything(50)

He was looking at her as if he had long since destroyed her with the    force of that incinerating gaze alone, and was looking at some ash    remnant where she'd once stood. She gazed back at him, and told herself    the goose bumps were only from the cold.

"Surely we left dignity far behind today, you and I," he said in a very    low voice that seemed to shiver through her, or maybe she simply    shivered in response, she couldn't tell.

"Your choice remains the same," she managed to say as if she hadn't    noticed. As if it didn't matter. As if this was easy for her and she    didn't feel something far too much like a sob, like despair, clogging    the back of her throat. "Dignity or no."

For a moment, there was no sound but the ocean breeze, and the waves against the hull of the yacht.

"Go clean yourself up, Miss Bennett," Cayo said then, so softly, dark    and menacing and his accent too intense to be anything but furious, and    it all should have scared her. It really should have, had there been   any  part of her left unbattered. Unbroken. "And we'll talk."

* * *

But when Dru walked into the luxurious, dark-wood-paneled and    chandeliered study that was part of his expansive master suite some time    later, she was not, she knew very well, "cleaned up" in the way that    he'd expected. He was standing at his desk with his mobile phone  clamped   to his ear, talking in the brusque tone that indicated he was  tending   to some or other facet of his business. She could probably  have figured   out which facet, had she wanted to, had she listened  attentively as  she  would have done automatically before-but she didn't  want to do any  of  the things she'd done before, did she? They'd all  led her here. So   instead, she simply waited.

And she wasn't surprised when he turned to look at her and paused. Then scowled.

"I must go," he said into the phone and ended the call with a jerk of his hand, all without taking his eyes from her.

A stark, strained moment passed, then another.

"What the hell are you wearing?" he asked.

"I was unaware there was a dress code I was expected to follow," she    replied as if she didn't understand him. "The last woman I saw on this    boat, only an hour or so ago, appeared to be wearing dental floss as a    fashion statement."

"She is no longer with us," he said, his eyes narrow and hostile, "but    that does not explain why you are dressed as if you are..." His voice    actually trailed away.

"A normal person?" she asked. She'd known he would not like what she    wore, hadn't she? She'd chosen these clothes deliberately. She could    admit that much. "Come now, Mr. Vila. This is the twenty-first century.    This can't be the first time you've seen a woman in jeans."
                       
       
           



       
"It is the first time I have seen you in jeans." His voice was hard    then, as hard as the way he was looking at her. As hard as the way her    pulse seemed to jump beneath her skin. It made goose bumps rise on her    arms. "But I had no idea your hair was so..." Whatever flared in his    gaze then made Dru's skin seem to stretch tight and then shrink into    her. "Long."

Dru shrugged as if she was completely unfazed by him and moved farther    into the room, settling herself on one of the plush armchairs that was    angled for the best sea view through the broad windows. He had been    right-she knew where all the extra clothes were stored. All the items    that Cayo kept stocked for any unexpected female guests as well as the    skeleton wardrobe he kept for both her and him should his business  bring   them here by surprise.

And by "Cayo kept stocked" she meant, of course, that she did.

After she'd washed away the sea and her own self-destructive reaction to    him throughout this long day, particularly that mind-numbing kiss,  she   had toweled off and then opened up the little emergency suitcase  that   she'd had installed in the offices and residences he visited most   often,  scattered here and there across the globe.

Inside the case, a conservative gray suit was pressed in plastic, with    two blouses to choose from, one in a pale pink and one in an  understated   taupe, and a change of underthings in non-racy,  uninteresting beige.   She'd packed pins for her hair and the proper  tools to tame the wavy   mess of it into professional sleekness. There  was a small bag of her   preferred toiletries and another of her basic  cosmetics. There were   sensible shoes that would go with anything and a  black cashmere cardigan   in case she'd felt called to appear "casual."  She'd even packed away  an  assortment of accessories, all  conservatively stylish, so she could   look as pulled together as she  always did even if she'd found herself  on  board thanks to one of  Cayo's last-minute whims. She'd packed   everything, in other words,  that she could possibly need to climb right   back into her role as his  handy robot without so much as an unsightly   wrinkle.

And she hadn't been able to bring herself to do it.

Instead, she'd let her hair dry naturally as she'd taken her time    dressing, and now it hung in dark waves down her back. She'd found a    pair of white denim jeans in one closet, much more snug than she liked,    which was only to be expected given the gazelle-like proportions of   most  of his usual female guests, and a lovely palazzo top in a vibrant    blue-and-white pattern in another, which was loose and flowy and    balanced out the jeans. She'd tossed on a slate-gray wrap to guard    against the sea air now that evening was upon them and the temperature    had dropped, and had left her feet and her face entirely bare.

She looked like...herself. At last. Yet Cayo stared at her as if she were a ghost.

"Is this another version of throwing yourself overboard, Miss Bennett?"    he asked, his voice a lash across the quiet room. It made her heart   leap  into a wild gallop in her chest. "Another desperate bid for my    attention?"

"You are the one who wanted to talk, not me," she replied, summoning a    cold smile from somewhere though she didn't feel cold at all. Not when    she was near him. No matter what he did. "I would have been perfectly    happy to remove myself from the glare of your attention. For good."

That muscle in his lean jaw moved, but nothing else did. He was like a stone carving of simmering rage.

"What if I triple your salary?" His voice was cold and yet grim, his    dark eyes flat and considering. "Did you say you lived in a leased    bedsit? I'll buy you a flat. A penthouse, if you like. Pick the London    neighborhood you prefer."

So much of her longed to do it. Who wouldn't? He was offering her an    entirely different life. A very, very good life, at the price of a job    she'd always liked well enough, until today.

But...then what? she asked herself. Wasn't what he suggested really no    more than a sterile form of prostitution, when all was said and done?    Give herself over to him, and he would pay for it. And she would do it,    she knew with a hollow, painful sort of certainty, not because it  made   financial sense, not because she stood to gain so much-but  because she   longed for him. Because he would be using her skills and  she would be   dreaming about one more night like the one in Cadiz. One  more kiss like   the one today. What would become of her after five more  years of this?   Ten? She'd put Miss Havisham to shame in her  bought-and-paid-for London   flat, tarting herself up every day in her  corporate costume to better   please him, his favorite little  automaton....                       
       
           



       

She could see it all too clearly and it made her feel sick. It would be    easier if she could simply do it for the money, the way she had when    this had started. But she was too far gone. At least, she thought now,    she knew it. Surely that was something. A first step.