Are my principles worth more than my home and everything in it?
“You might feel insulted now.” He offers a delicious, brooding glare, and my knees almost give way again when he adds, “But if I’m reading you right, I doubt you’ll feel insulted while you’re with me.”
My eyebrows show my shock. “Wait a minute. You’ve done this sort of thing before, haven’t you? You’re smoother than a duck’s back.”
“Only once or twice.” His eyebrow shoots up again.
“At the same price? Even high-class hookers are cheaper. You could hire your own harem for less. I’m not being funny, but they’d know loads more about pleasing you than I do.”
“Price is relative. I offer what I think someone’s time with me is worth. Plus, I never use prostitutes; I prefer real women, like you.”
“Why? To make us prostitutes? It’s the same thing. You pay for sex. Only they won’t stand in the street arguing the principles of it, like I am.”
He drags his long-fingered hand back through his dark, wavy mane.
“I want you, not a woman of the night.”
I feel my will bending, curving in his direction. The sincerity in his pale, emotional glare touches me.
“When you say ‘be mine,’ what exactly will that entail?”
Why am I entertaining the idea of his offer? For all I know, he could be a serial killer looking for his next victim. I’ll probably end up of one of those real-life crime shows.
His brows pinch and he shrugs.
“Like I said, you’ll be mine. I’ll own you.” He crosses one arm over his chest and rubs his chin with the other hand. “So, what I want - you give, which may or may not include sex.”
Or may not?
“That leaves me open to all sorts of danger.” I laugh at the absurd nature of what is happening in my day.
“This all sounds one-sided. What happened to making me feel good? You said you wanted to make me smile.”
He offers a suave smile in return.
This has to be a no-go. How can I trust he won’t sell me into sex slavery?
“I can’t do this. Even I’m not stupid enough, sorry.”
He reaches across and touches my hand with his cool fingertips, his expression almost pleading me.
“There will be a contract to protect you and your...money. You have nothing to fear from me. And I will make you smile. I’m sure of it.”
My gaze meets his and my heart beats so fast, I think I’ll pass out right here in front of this crazy, creepy, insanely gorgeous creature.
“So will you let me make you smile, Amelia?”
My body begs me to say yes, but my good upbringing scream loudest.
“No.” I move to walk away, though doing so isn’t easy, I admit.
Before I take a step, he rests his large hand on my forearm and applies a delicate grip. “At least take my info in case you change your mind once you have a chance to think things over.”
He plants his business card into my hand, providing a sexy half smile.
“Thanks,” I say, shoving his card in my pocket. “Good luck finding...whatever it is you want.”
“Already did,” he mumbles. “And I don’t believe in luck, so I’ll give you time to reconsider. I’m certain you will.”
Damn, he’s sure of himself.
“I’m sure I won’t.” I bite back.
“Bye for now, Amelia,” Bryce says to my back as I walk away. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I smile to myself, adding a sway to my hips. “Have a nice day, Bryce.”
I feel his eyes on my back for the longest time, right up until I turn down a street and out of his sight.
When I do leave his gaze, I miss the buzz of his stare running through my spine, and realize my fingers are caressing the embossed business card in my pocket.
What the hell just happened?
Chapter 2
The journey home is long.
On the bus I stare out the window, toying with the elegant off-white, embossed business card. Running my fingertips over the surface, I breathe in the musky, spicy aftershave oozing from its smooth surface.
According to the card his name is indeed Bryce Morgan, as he said, and he’s a business executive and owner of Morgan & Morgan Law Firm. So at no more than his mid-thirties, I imagine $100,000 to mean a great night out to a man of his wealth.
To me, it would be life changing.
How can I even walk down the same street as someone who lives such a different life, let alone share his bed?
As I get off the bus and glare up at the rundown apartment building I moved into several years ago with Greg—the one-time guy of my dreams, turned scumbag—bitterness makes it hard for me to breathe. I loved him like a girl loves their first cuddly toy, and he left me with a pile of debt for a floozy stylist-cum-actress named Josephine.