Am I the best belly dancer in St. Louis? For sure. But he could find a better dancer outside of the city and pay her just enough to relocate.
That leaves me with one conclusion.
He wants me, and his interest is personal.
“Danni!” he bellows from somewhere down the hall. “I’m waiting!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. If I take this job, I’ll have to train him. The Marlo Vogt’s of the world might jump at his grunting, barking, glowering bullshit, but I work for myself and cower to no one.
The question is, do I have a personal interest in him?
I turn my attention to the view outside the window, admire the glimmering reflection of the cityscape on the river, and come to terms with the situation. I’m drawn to him in a way I haven’t been drawn to anyone since Cole.
Trace could be both a job and a solution for my loneliness. Maybe we’ll fuck. Maybe we won’t. What’s the worst that could happen? If it gets complicated, I’ll quit the belly dancing gig and focus on teaching and other side jobs.
But before I seriously consider this, I need a better feel for his intentions.
A short walk takes me down the hall and into the only open doorway at the end. Inside a huge lavish office, he sits behind a glass desk with steel supports shaped like mini arches. His attention doesn’t leave the laptop in front of him, his fingers tapping over the keys.
“I’m on to you.” I stroll toward him and circle the desk to stand beside him.
He doesn’t acknowledge me as he sends what appears to be a revised contract to the printer across the room. Seated in a stiff leather chair, he’s almost eye-level with me, his sexy blond hair close enough for the woodsy aroma of his shampoo to reach my nose.
After a few more clicks on the keyboard, he shuts down the laptop and swivels the chair to position his knees on the outsides of mine. “You’re on to me?”
“Sure am.” I cock a hip and hook my thumbs in the back pockets of my jeans. “This thing you’re cooking up between us? With the house visit and the stage in your new restaurant and the obscene salary? It’s more than a business deal.”
He props an elbow on the armrest, rubs his jaw, and stares at me with disinterest. “How does that make you feel emotionally?”
“Emotionally?” I jerk my head back, grappling for what to say. “Do you say random shit just to keep things interesting?”
“Depends. Are you interested?”
He has contempt and sarcasm down to an art, but I think, maybe, this might be his attempt at humor?
“You’re a lot of fun, Trace,” I deadpan. “You’re also strange.” Strange in an elusive, intriguing, I-bet-he’s-kinky-as-hell way. “Did you actually read my counteroffer?”
“I did.” He rolls the chair back, rises to cross the room, and returns with the document from the printer. “I met all your demands except the schedule. I’m not paying you three-hundred grand a year to work two nights a week.”
I choke at the mention of the salary, even though I’m the one who wrote it into the offer. It was just a number I pulled out of my ass. What if I’d asked for more? What’s his breaking point on this deal?
He places the contract on the desk beside me, and there, stated in bold print is his requirement of five nights per week. Wednesday through Sunday. Three to midnight, with a one-hour break.
“I have a busy schedule.” I cross my arms. “I’ll give you two nights.”
“Five nights, and you’ll agree to a one-year contract with the option to renew.” He stands over me by sheer height and taps the signature line on the contract. “Sign here.”
No way in hell will I agree to a year. “Three nights, and you’ll get a two-weeks notice whenever I grow bored of your sparkling personality.”
He clasps his hands behind his back and stares at the document. “Five nights a week, and you can have your two-weeks notice.”
Fuck, how can I turn that down? I pace away from him, walking a circuit through the office as I think.
Who is this man, this modern-day overlord, who sits behind a desk, beckoning people to his presence and casting down hirings and firings? His simple yet luxurious corner office with its gray tones and architecturally-themed lamps and furniture validates his rich and powerful status. But there are no pictures or awards. No memorabilia or framed degrees. Not a trace of the man behind the suit.
“How old are you?” I glance over my shoulder and find him facing the wall of glass that frames the Gateway Arch in the distance.
“Thirty.” He doesn’t look at me, though he can probably see my reflection in the window. “You?”