Working Stiff:Casimir (Runaway Billionaires #1)(7)

All right, he told himself. Yes, she was staying at his house for a  night or two. It would be just like when they traveled together.

Friendly.

Platonic.

Uneventful.

There was no reason that he should think otherwise.

It made no difference that this was not a hotel but his home.

He hadn't been shocked to discover that, when threatened with losing her  home, she had chosen her pets over her apartment even though he hadn't  known she had pets. Rox was a kind woman, he knew. She was loyal. She  cared for those she committed to.

And she was married. She had been married before he had met her.

Cash had never had a chance.

When Rox had begun working at the firm, he had liked her  professionalism, even though he had eyed what had to be voluptuous  curves under her business suits. Each day, he had found more to admire  about her, more to talk with her about, and more that kept him agile in  the office or in negotiations.

When she took vacation days, he emailed or texted her constantly, just to see her words coming back to him.

In the intervening years since she had been hired, every other woman  Casimir had dated had been found to be lacking in some essential quality  that Rox had in abundance: in humor, in presence, in intelligence, in  maturity, or in gravitas.

Or in loyalty.

Rox was loyal to everyone, even to himself as a friend, and surely she was faithful to her husband.

Casimir bounced the back of his head softly against the door in time with his thoughts.

She. Was. Married.

It did not matter if Rox would be under his roof for a day or two. It  did not matter that sometimes a ghost of other circumstances had flitted  through the house and through Casimir's mind, a ghost that looked  suspiciously like her sumptuous dark hair spread on his pillows or her  plush body sprawled on his sheets.

She. Was. Married.

Perhaps his attraction for her was merely for forbidden fruit, he  consoled himself. If he'd had a chance with her, perhaps he wouldn't  feel so strongly. It was probably an illusion.

Perhaps she wouldn't walk through his dreams, handing him contracts and  then looking up through dark eyelashes with her hazel eyes that reminded  him of pale caramels from home before she melted into his arms.

She would only be at his home for a day or two.

Casimir would survive a day or two of her walking around his house,  drinking coffee with him in the morning or maybe a cocktail after work,  perhaps watching a little late-night television on the deep couches in  the media room before they retired, or perhaps, finally, she might steal  into his bedroom near midnight-

She. Was. Married.

He rubbed the back of his skull. That last bonk had smarted a bit.

And if Rox did steal into his bedroom late at night, it would probably  be because she was taunting him, because that's what women always did.

All his teenage years, the girls had told him that they liked him, that  he had a good personality, and he had believed them so many times. Hell,  one had told him that she was just after his family's money, and that  was perfectly fine with him because he could believe that.

But they were all just screwing around with him.

Now, however, he watched the women he dated, and sooner or later, every  one of them proved that they only wanted something from him, whether it  was notoriety or money or travel.

There was never any genuine emotion.

If Rox did steal into his room after midnight, she would eventually turn  out to be like all the others, not the paragon of virtue and sweetness  that he found whenever they worked or traveled or spoke together.

The suspicion that Rox might be different, might actually have feelings for him, faded away.

No one could fool Casimir anymore.





IMPRISONMENT





Rox was crouching behind her desk, shaking the bag of shrimp treats. The  fishy smell wafted out of the bag because she had probably pulverized  the treats inside with her insistent shaking. "Come on, you cats! I have  treats?" she begged.                       
       
           



       

Midnight had wedged himself behind the filing cabinet and latched all  his claws deeply in the carpet, locking himself to the floor. Speedbump  had crawled into her desk and kept slithering between the drawers no  matter how she tried to catch him. Pirate just bolted away whenever she  got near and hissed his worst insults at her.

Her office door rattled.

She popped up, looking over the desk.

In the tall, narrow window beside the door, Cash's face was visible above the potted plant. One of his eyebrows was lowered.

She stood and unlocked the door for him, cracking it open a scant inch to talk.

He said, "I've got my car waiting downstairs."

"I can't get them into the carriers," Rox admitted.

"Why not?"

"They hate the carriers. The only time that they get shoved in the  carriers is to go to the vet or to go live in the car, a decision that  was highly unpopular among the masses."

"Just shove them in."

"I can't catch them."

"Let me in. Animals love me."

She glanced behind her, but all three cats were hiding in her office  somewhere. When Cash had come in earlier, they had been sleepy and  sluggish, but now they were riled up and might try for an escape. "Okay,  come on."

With the door just barely open, Cash turned his broad shoulders and  slipped in. He stepped close to Rox, so close that she could have  stepped forward into his arms again.

Pirate slammed into Rox's leg and dodged between their legs, trying to sneak out.

She grabbed the scruff of his neck and yanked, dragging him backward.

Pirate yowled.

Outside the office in the cubicles, Mel and Daffodil poked their blond  heads up over the blue-padded walls, prairie-dogging, as Rox slammed the  door. "Dang."

"Such language." Cash stooped, looking under the chairs.

Rox still clutched a handful of cottony ginger fur and pinned Pirate to the floor. "I've got one. Grab that carrier."

Cash picked up one of the plastic carriers and swung the door open.

"On the floor," she told him, crouching beside the cat and holding the fur on his back, too.

Pirate hissed so hard that he spat.

"Hold the door open."

Cash swung the steel bars aside.

Rox shoved the cat at the carrier.

Pirate grabbed the sides of the opening with three paws and held on with  his claws, wedging himself outside as he howled his rage, an ascending  screech that raked her ears. As Rox pushed, trying to shove him in, the  whole carrier scooted across the carpeting.

Pirate twisted, almost getting loose.

"Hold it!" Rox said.

Cash stuck a knee behind the carrier and reached around, peeling Pirate's paws off of the carrier.

As he picked away the second one, Pirate lost his grip, and Rox crammed  him in the carrier and slammed the door just as the cat whirled and came  at her, claws flying. A whiff of cat fart drifted out of the box.  That's how mad he was.

"Okay," she said. "One down. Two to go."

Cash's startled eyes over the top of the carrier made Rox laugh.

He asked, "Are they all like this?"

"Oh, no," she said. "Pirate's a little pussycat. Midnight has a heck of a temper."





THE LAST NORMAL AFTERNOON





Rox had always heard that Cash Amsberg was loaded.

It was obvious from the way that his suits and shirts were precisely  tailored far too well to be off the rack and from the car that he drove.  The Mercedes Maybach wasn't an ostentatious, low streak of red  lightning like a Lamborghini.

No, it was more deceptive than that.

The paint on the outside was a refined charcoal gray, but the interior  upholstery and finishes shimmered in a lighter shade, like sitting  inside the palest of Tahitian black pearls.

It looked just like a very nice Mercedes sedan until you realized that  it said Maybach on the back, that the leather under your butt was softer  than the most buttery leather jacket you had ever felt, and that all  those wood and silver finishes meant the price tag had to be around two  hundred grand.

Like Cash, it was merely pretty until you saw more of it, and then there  was something else, something that Rox had never quite sussed out of  him, a luxurious vibe.

When Rox belted the cat carriers into the back seat, the sharp odors of  fresh plastic, wood oil, and tanned leather permeated the car.

"Your car smells new," she said to him. "Did you have it detailed? How did they do that?"

He shrugged. "I got a new one."

She stared at it. "It's exactly like the one you had last month."

"Of course. The dealership kept my order on file."

"Your new car is exactly like your old one?"

"Of course."                       
       
           



       

"Why?"

One of his eyebrows lowered, and his shrug seemed nervous. "Because I wouldn't want people to notice."

Rich people were weird. When Rox had bought her little black sports car,  she had made all the paralegals and admins in the firm come out to the  parking lot and had given them all rides in it.