Her expression didn’t give so much as a flicker. “Yes, that’s understood.”
He moved behind her, but she didn’t turn, her gaze directed instead to the stag’s head above his desk. “All you have to do is whatever I need, whenever I need it. That’s all. And in return, I’ll pay you six figures.” He paused, looking down at the top of her red-gold head. Not a curl, not a single wisp of hair escaped the bun at the nape of her neck. It was coiled neat and tight with small, practical brown hairpins. “Six figures every three months.”
Her head turned quickly to the side, and he couldn’t help baring his teeth in a feral smile. Money, it always came down to that. Offer people enough and they’d do anything for you. Anything at all.
Even things they wouldn’t normally do.
“That wasn’t in the advert.” A certain sharpness had entered her tone.
“No, because I’ve just decided to up the salary right now.”
“Why?” Again, her voice was sharp, and this time there was an edge of demand to it that should have made him angry and yet didn’t.
No, it excited him.
“You don’t get to ask the questions, Miss Taylor.” He reached out to take one of the hairpins, slowly sliding it out of the tightly coiled mass of hair. “Like I said, this position requires total obedience, and if I don’t get it, you don’t get paid.”
“If I take the job,” she amended.
Nero dropped the hairpin on the ground and reached for another one. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“Which one?”
“About why you want the position.” He dropped the second pin and reached for a third, tugging it slightly.
Clearly feeling the tug, she shook her head, as if trying to free her hair from a branch that had caught it.
“Keep still,” he growled, pulling the third pin free.
She let out a soft breath. “What are you doing?” The question was perfectly calm and yet . . . was there an undercurrent of something there? Some kind of reaction?
“I want to see what your hair looks like.” He reached for a fourth pin. “Answer the fucking question.”
She went very still, which pleased him. “I did. I told you I wanted the money.”
“Why do you want the money?”
“Why does anyone want money?”
“You’re supposed to do whatever I say, not answer questions with questions.” He eased out a fifth pin then went on to the sixth. Fuck, she had a lot of hair. “Last time. Why do you want the money?”
“I see. This is a test. Very well.” She was silent a moment. “I need the money because my fiancé is in hospital. He’s been in a coma for two years, and I’m coming to the end of my savings. The care in this particular hospital is very good, and I’d like him to stay there.”
Another man might have felt some sympathy for her, or even felt sorry for her. But Nero felt neither. He generally didn’t like to feel much at all beyond basic, physical pleasures, and certainly other people’s traumas were of no interest to him. Not when he had his own to deal with.
“If you want money, you’ll have to work for it.” He picked out the last few pins and discarded them with the rest on the floor, watching in fascination as the coil of hair began to loosen and fall down her back in thick, red curls. “I’m not a fucking charity.”
If his harsh words had any impact on her, she gave no sign. “Obviously,” she said, her tone cool. “If it was charity I wanted I would have used GoFundMe.”
“Or you could try stripping.” Reaching out, he pushed his fingers through her hair, watching as the coil began to break apart into a glorious fall of red-gold curls. The strands felt silky against his skin, soft, too.
“Apparently I still might if I take this job.”
That cool note was in her voice again, and for some reason it sounded like . . . amusement? Strange. Why the hell would she find something she didn’t want to do funny?
He looked down at her, sifting her hair through his fingers, that sweet, flowery scent rising around him. “You’d do it if I asked you to.” He didn’t make it a question.
“Or else you’d fire me, of course.” A pause. “I should warn you that I draw the line at getting rid of bodies.”
Nero frowned. Then he eased his fingers from her hair and prowled around her chair so he could see her face. She stared back at him, absolutely calm, as if he hadn’t suggested he might want her to strip for him. As if she hadn’t had a complete stranger take down her bun and run his fingers through her hair.
“And if I wanted you to?” he demanded.
She gave him a pleasant if impersonal smile, her lovely hair falling down around her shoulders, softening her sharp features. “Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now, is there anything else I should know?”
* * *
Phoebe’s heart was beating uncomfortably fast and her scalp was prickling all over from the feeling of his fingers in her hair, but she absolutely refused to let any sign of her discomfort show.
Six figures every three months was worth any kind of provocation. Even letting a complete stranger touch her. Even having his fingers in her hair, taking out her hair pins and scattering them on the floor.
She’d expected him to be difficult, but she hadn’t fully realized just how difficult until now. Until he’d touched her cheek without asking. Until he’d run his thumb across her cheekbone. Until he’d taken her hair down . . .
It had been a long time since anyone had touched her. Certainly, the last time anyone other than her stylist had touched her hair had been when Charles had pushed it behind her ear as he’d kissed her good-bye, just before he’d left on that business trip to Vermont. That had been two years ago.
She hadn’t wanted anyone’s touches since then and still didn’t. And that included Nero de Santis. But for six figures every three months? Hell, she’d even change her stance on the stripping thing.
Phoebe sat still and calmly met Nero’s black eyes. She badly wanted to fix her hair, but she ignored the urge to put it to rights. No point in letting him know he’d bothered her. He’d probably only repeat the same bad behavior if he did or maybe do something even worse.
In many ways, he reminded her a little of her father, who’d always been demanding and self-centered. He hated fuss, too, and Phoebe had found that the best way to handle him was not to argue, but simply give in without drama. That discovery had come in handy with many of the executives she’d worked for in New York, and she suspected it would come in handy now.
Nero said nothing, the pressure of his impenetrable inky gaze like a hand pressing down on her. He was standing close, giving no regard whatsoever to her personal space, that wild energy he gave off crackling against her skin like electricity.
It was unnerving.
“You understand you’ll have to live here?” he asked in that same harsh, abrupt way.
“Yes.”
Having to live here was another thing she hadn’t expected, but on thinking about it, she decided it wasn’t a problem. The apartment she’d once shared with Charles could get lonely at nights, the silence reminding her acutely of a man who shouldn’t be in a hospital bed but back at home with her. As the months had passed, she’d toyed with the idea of moving, going somewhere else, somewhere smaller. But then, what if he woke up? What if he wanted to come home? She had to make sure his home was still there for him if that happened.
“I should warn you that I don’t sleep much,” Nero said. “And if I want something in the middle of the night, you’ll have to wake up and get it for me.”
Again, that wouldn’t be a problem. Her own sleep had been disturbed for two years now, and getting up and having tasks to do was certainly better than lying awake thinking. “I can deal with that.”
Nero took a couple of steps back and put the heels of his hands on the desk, leaning back against it and curling long, powerful fingers over the edge. “I might want anything in the middle of the night.” That hard, uncompromising gaze held hers. “Sex for example.”
Perhaps this was another test to shock her. In which case, he was going to be disappointed.
Phoebe lifted a shoulder. “Then I’m sure I can arrange that for you.”
He didn’t move but his gaze drifted down her body in an openly appraising look. “And what if I want sex with you?”
Her heartbeat sounded weirdly loud in her head and she could feel her cheeks heating. Which was annoying. He didn’t want her, of course he didn’t, so why the comment should unsettle her, she had no idea. This was merely yet another test. He did seem to be a man who liked to push people.
“Again, we’d have to cross that bridge when we come to it,” she said, making sure her voice was completely calm.
His gaze narrowed, zeroing in on her like a sniper with a target. His features were completely unyielding, as if they’d been carved out of granite, and she had the odd impression that if she flung herself at him, his body would feel just as hard, too. She’d probably break herself or shatter or—
Good God, why was she thinking about flinging herself at him? She wouldn’t, not in a million years. Why would she? She was engaged, and it didn’t matter that the man she was going to marry was in a coma. She still loved him.