I nod. I’ve seen that before. Good, skilled tradesmen are irreplaceable on a job site, but many of them are happier working as part of a firm than going out on their own. It strikes me that I can probably find the guy something.
Later. I’ll deal with that later. “He took out this loan to pay for some kind of arts academy for you?” I ask, glancing over at Samantha.
“Yeah.”
“What kind of art?”
She sighs. “Acting. I’ve wanted to be on Broadway since before I even knew what Broadway was.”
Something in her voice catches my attention. “Tell me more about that.”
She’s silent for a few moments, and I wait it out. I can be patient, but she’s going to answer me whether she thinks she wants to or not. Finally, she says, “My mom was a Broadway actress. I remember seeing her on stage. When I was little, we used to make blanket forts in our living room and eat baklava and watch musicals. I knew every word to every song of ‘Singing in the Rain’ by the time I was five,” she says, and a glance shows me that there’s a sad little smile on her lips that makes my gut twist, just a little.
“And where’s your mom in all this? Did she leave your dad?”
Samantha shakes her head. “She’s gone. Breast cancer,” she adds softly, and I want to kick my own ass for bringing it up.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“How old were you?”
“Thirteen,” she answers. And then she sighs. “I knew I wanted to be like her. She was so graceful, so talented. Her voice was like honey. I kind of felt like, if I made it, I was making it for both of us. She wasn’t ready to be done yet.” And then she gives this bitter little laugh. “So I went to the same academy she went to for three years. Pops insisted on helping me. There was no way I could have afforded it, even with the scholarships I got,” she adds, and I nod. “And now, he’s in danger of losing his life because of me.”
The self-hatred in her voice makes me want to pull over and hold her. Which is fucking stupid. This is a business arrangement, a way for me to have an easy, no-strings escort for all of the mind-numbing but necessary events I’m forced to go to over the next month. I should be thinking about that, not about how to help her fix her life.
But the fact is, I’m already finding that, to my total surprise, I actually like Samantha. She is so far from the jaded whore I expected. She’s intelligent, well-spoken, driven. And despite her nervousness, she’s the rare woman who seems to know her own worth. I would have laughed in the face of anyone else who’d told me to pay a million dollars for the privilege of hiring her as an escort. I respected her for telling me what she needed. And we made it clear: we are both here for an arrangement: I’ll use her services as often as I need, and she’ll accompany me to the boring-ass events my father makes me attend. And when the month is up, when it is time for me to start my next project, she’ll be gone.
Easy.
“Well, you fixed that. The money’s in your account, but you won’t have full access to it until the month is up.”
“That’s all that matters,” she says quietly, and we drive the rest of the way to my place in silence. She doesn’t say anything when I pull into the parking garage, though I can tell by the expression on her face that she’s impressed by the building.
We step onto my private elevator, and she glances around. The sides of the elevator are glossy black, and I can see her reflection in it. A flash of me fucking her against the wall, seeing our reflection from every angle, has me hard again.
Tonight. I’m going to have her tonight. We just have some bullshit to get through first.
Chapter Three
Samantha
When the elevator doors open, Dante leads me down a short hallway. Dark wood paneling, marble floor. Everything gleams. He unlocks the door at the end of the hallway and steps aside, waving me in.
The first glimpse of his penthouse gives me a definite “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto” kind of feeling. The same dark wood paneling from the hallway wraps around the wide-open area, except for one wall of windows, which looks right out over the bay. A kitchen and dining area are at one end, expensive-looking stainless steel appliances and black granite everywhere. Wood floors span the area. At the other end is a large living room with dark gray furniture and a large fireplace.
“Your room is this way,” he says, heading down a hallway. I follow, taking in the gleaming floors, the expensive looking artwork on the walls. He opens a set of French doors and steps into a room. I follow.
This room looks out over the bay as well. Another set of French doors leads out onto a small balcony. There’s a fireplace, a king-sized four-poster bed, an antique-looking dressing table, and a dresser.
“Bath is this way,” he says, open
ing another door and turning the light on. A huge clawfoot tub, sleek white tile.
“We need to lay out some rules here,” he says, and I nod. “You will live with me until the month is up. When I need to attend an event, which is often, you will accompany me. You will wear what I tell you to wear. You’ll be where I want you to be. You’ll take care of yourself. Pamper yourself. Eat well. When I want you to spend time with me, I expect you to do it. You’ll eat your meals with me.”
I bite back a comment about how bossy he is. But of course he’s bossy. He just paid a million dollars for me. He can be as bossy as he wants.