Ultimatum

1. THE DECISION

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, shut the door, Kayla.”

His tone issued a warning that echoed in my ears, and I almost jumped as the door clicked shut. As usual, his presence caused an unsettling tickle in my stomach. Gage Channing left no room for mistakes or excuses—every single one of his employees displayed their best behavior, or else. I shuddered to think of the woman he’d fired last week; she’d scurried from the building as mascara tracked down her cheeks.

“Sit down.” He gestured to the leather chair in front of his desk.

I sat, crossed my legs, and forced myself to meet his gaze. He had a way of piercing people with his eyes—they were startling, the kind of blue that dolphins played in. I got the feeling he saw right through me, as if he’d known what I’d been doing and had bided his time until the perfect moment presented itself to pounce. Was that moment now?

He slapped a folder on the desk. “Do you know what’s in here?”

“N-no, Mr. Channing.”

“I’m disappointed, Ms. Sutton.”

My heartbeat tumbled twice, then sped up. He rarely addressed me so formally, a fact which caused a fair amount of gossip in the office. Some speculated the boss had a thing for me, others went so far as to claim we were screwing like rabbits after hours. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” Liar! He’d found me out; I was sure of it.

“I’m referring to the ten grand you stole from Channing Enterprises.” He opened the folder and pushed the evidence in front of me. Account statements. Ledgers.

Oh, God . . .

“I trusted you, Kayla. I even promoted you to personal assistant, and this is how you repay me?”

“I was desperate.” I swallowed hard as the reality of my situation threatened to choke me. He’d have me thrown in jail, and Eve . . . Eve would die without me by her side. “My daughter is sick. I needed money . . . please, I’ll pay you back. Every penny. Just—” I lifted my head and faced his granite expression “—don’t turn me in.”

If he was affected by my plea, he didn’t show it. “I don’t plan to alert the authorities.” He snapped the incriminating file shut. “But you’re correct when you say you’ll pay me back.” He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. “There is something I want. I’ve had a contract drawn up outlining my terms, and if you want my silence—and the evidence destroyed—you’ll sign it.”

“What do you want from me?” My voice quivered, and when he flashed a devilish grin, I gripped the chair to keep from bolting.

Gage got up and rounded the desk. His body overshadowed mine as he knelt beside me. A line of stubble darkened his jaw, giving him an undeniable hint of danger. “I want you as my slave.”

“Your slave?” My jaw dropped. Did I even want to know what that meant?

“Hmm, yes. My slave.” He lowered his gaze to my mouth, then lingered on my breasts; his inspection burned a hole through my blouse. In response, my nipples tightened underneath the silk. “Surely you’ve heard of BDSM,” he added.

I screwed my mouth shut. I didn’t like where this conversation was going at all.

“Bondage, discipline,” he said, inching closer, “punishment.” The last word he savored, as if fine wine dampened his lips. “I’d say you’ve earned quite a bit. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I can pay you back,” I said. “It’ll take time, but I’ll get the money.”

“I don’t want your money.” Warm and minty breath breezed across my lips, inviting my mouth to mate with his. I edged away and clung to the side of the chair.

“I want your submission,” he continued, “absolute ownership of you and your body. That’s what I want.”

I worked my jaw, searched for the words to express my disbelief, but only ended up staring at him in stunned silence. The man could have any woman he wanted, and all it would take was a crook of his executive finger. “Why are you doing this?”

His face darkened. “I have my reasons.”

“You’re crazy if you think I’ll agree to this.”

“You’re too gorgeous to waste away in prison.” He placed a hand on my leg, right above my knee. I tensed, afraid to move, afraid he’d push his possession further if I resisted. “You know—” he gently slid his palm upwards “—the penalty for embezzlement in Oregon is up to five years.”

My breath hitched as he grazed the skin underneath the hem of my skirt. “Don’t.”