The Dirty Series 2(37)

Chapter Five





Angelica



My instructions from Charlie were clear: go to the penthouse at the address he provided, blend in with the crew moving things in, and install a program on Brandon’s computer. The program is already loaded onto a flash drive.

It was all going so well until Mr. Sex-on-two-legs stuck his hand between the elevator doors and practically turned me into a puddle.

“Brandon” was the only thing Charlie had told me about the person he wanted to target. I assumed it would be an old man, someone unobservant, someone frail. Not a muscled god dressed in an impeccable suit with a jawline so chiseled you could cut diamonds with it.

The moment he steps onto the elevator, the air thins out, and it strikes me how stupid it is—how unbelievably stupid—that I’ve only pressed the button for the penthouse.

But what am I going to do? Start jamming buttons for different floors like a crazy person? No. I’m going to respond the way anyone else would to this incredible human specimen. This might not even be Brandon.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, his green eyes glinting in the elevator’s low light.

“Oh, it’s—it’s no problem.” Smile, Angelica. Flirt.

Mystery Man likes the look of that, but as the doors start to close, he glances over at the elevator panel.

“Were you going up to the penthouse?” His voice is playful, not the least bit suspicious, but there’s something in the way he speaks that oozes command. This is a man who gets what he wants.

I look at the panel as if I’m seeing it for the first time. “I must have hit the wrong button. No, I’m going to the eighth floor.” When I reach out to press the round button with an 8 next to it, he intercepts my hand, pressing it first, his eyes on me the entire time. All over me. And I like it.

But I have to keep the conversation going. “Thank you,” I say, looking back at him like I have nothing to hide. “Which floor are you going to?”

He gives the panel a pointed look, then grins at me.

“You live in the penthouse?”

“I do.” He holds out his hand for me to shake it. “Jett Brandon.”

Well, fuck.

My mind spins into overdrive. Change of plans. Big change of plans.

“Wow,” I answer, playing up my breathlessness...but I don’t want to overdo it. “I’m almost a little disappointed that I didn’t get to go all the way up.” Then I release my death grip on my purse and take his hand, shaking it firmly, just the way I learned how to do it in my interview prep class in college. The instant our hands make contact, I’m overwhelmed by the desire to pull him toward me, pull his face toward mine and kiss him. He’s impeccably clean-shaven, and those green eyes with flecks of gold lock on my gaze. I never want to look away. But I get hold of myself. “Angelica Chandler.”

“Thursday night,” he says without missing a beat, and the heat in my belly expands, shooting south.

He’s not asking me a question, or permission. There it is: the kind of arrogance that apparently comes with the territory for sexy-as-fuck billionaires.

A new plan comes together in my mind even while my body revolts, sending heat to my cheeks. Sneaking up to the penthouse right now is a no-go...but if he’s at all interested in me, even if it’s just for sex, there’s a chance I can salvage this. Charlie is going to be livid when he hears that I didn’t carry out his orders, but Jett Brandon is handing me the solution on a silver platter.

I’m hoping he’s asking me—no, telling me—that we’re going out on a date on Thursday night, but what kind of man asks a stranger in an elevator out on a date?

The answer comes immediately. The kind of man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to go after it.

Well, I know what I want, too, but I have to play it cool

Keep it flirty, Angelica.

“Thursday night?” I ask coyly.

He leans in, like he’s telling me a secret. “I’m telling you we have a date for Thursday night. When I see something I want, I take it.” Then he takes a step back and shrugs, like he doesn’t care what I say next. Like I’m just a nice piece of ass he happened to come across. In the elevator. Which is exactly what I am. And yet—his voice is deep and delicious, and I want to listen to him talk for the rest of the day...and the night. “You might have a different opinion.”

I inject just a little more hard-to-get into my tone, flirtatiously looking up into his eyes like I can’t believe my luck, but I want to be good. I’m acting. Almost. “Won’t your wife be upset?””

He laughs, deep and rich. “Sweetheart, I’m in control of my life. Not another woman. So we can get to know each other on Thursday night.”