But the war is far from over.
Hades puts the exclamation point on the asshole’s departure with another hiss.
As soon as Hunt disappears, I race to lock the door behind him, then I reward Hades with a couple of kitty treats from the pantry for backing me up. He thanks me with another prowl between my ankles, a rub against my calf, and a meow that tells me I have permission to pet him now.
“Good boy.” I scratch him between the ears, then head up the stairs before our coffee gets cold.
Hades races past me, and he’s on the bed, curled against Mr. Force’s feet by the time I return with steaming mugs and dessert.
“This looks great.” My prospective boss forks his way into his pie.
“Hope you like it.” According to an interview he once gave, he’s fond of butterscotch. I hope that wasn’t BS.
A bite has him groaning. “If I wasn’t thinking about hiring you, I’d marry you.”
His words make me smile. I’ve enjoyed my afternoon with him—way more than any guy I’ve dated. The attraction is stronger, too. I’m starting to wonder if being married to him wouldn’t be equally awesome.
But my ambitions have nothing to do with being a rich man’s trophy, even if I wouldn’t mind a night or two in his bed. “I’m not in the market for a husband.”
“At all?”
“I have trails to blaze, and as you pointed out, working for you would be nearly a twenty-four-seven job. But if you hire me, I’ll throw in a butterscotch pie whenever you want.”
He laughs. “Bribery? Did you learn that in college?”
“No, but any smart person knows grease makes the wheel turn faster.”
“That it does. You’d be surprised how many people aren’t smart.”
Like Mr. Hunt. “I’m well aware.”
He sips his coffee, then frowns. “Where’s Marcus? I buzzed him in a few minutes ago.”
I scan Mr. Force’s face. His expression is like a fortress. My gut still tells me it’s too soon for the truth, so I paste on a smile. “You’ve had an eventful day, and I knew you wanted to study the Asian markets a bit more. I suggested he come back tomorrow.”
“He actually took that suggestion?”
“Well, I strongly suggested.”
Mr. Force laughs. “I’m betting Marcus wasn’t thrilled.”
Nope, but I don’t want Mr. Force to think I’ll be trouble in the office. “If you hire me, my allegiance is to you. Only to you—unless you say otherwise. I will work tirelessly to that end.”
He continues staring with a wily grin. “I’m beginning to believe you.”
After another couple of hours studying the incoming results from Asia, I took the dessert plates away. Mr. Force refused another pain pill, so I said good night, then indulged in a long shower in the most elegant bathroom I’ve ever seen.
The roomy rectangular sink with a mother-of-pearl inlay and its silver-legged vanity alone probably cost what I paid for my crappy apartment near campus all last semester. But everywhere I glance in the room, refined details like floor-to-ceiling marble, towel warmers, and a floor mosaic wow me.
Life doesn’t suck right now—except that I still need to find a way to tell Mr. Force about Marcus Hunt’s subterfuge before business hours tomorrow. And I still have no plan.
As I step out of the shower, I wrap the plush towel around my dripping hair and slip into my new nightgown. There’s something subtly sexy about the pink cotton nightie, but it doesn’t cover much. Narrow straps hang over my shoulders, holding up a thin triangle of fabric over each breast. A little black bow punctuates the V where they meet over the shadow of my cleavage. A strip of white lace inlaid with black ribbon sits just under my breasts and edges the two halves of the gown that caress each other a scant inch below my pussy before they flow apart like the petals of a tulip across my thighs. I also have a matching robe and fuzzy slippers, but after my scalding shower, I don’t need them.
Quickly, I braid my hair, then head to my bedroom before pulling my new phone from the box to text Renee my new number. Since I don’t get a reply, I’m assuming she’s gone to bed. It’s nearly midnight, after all. I should be exhausted.
But when I settle onto the cloud of a mattress and lay my head on the pillow, sleep won’t come.
How will I convince Mr. Force that his right hand is a Judas? He trusts Marcus Hunt and he’s known me less than twenty-four hours. Blurting the truth seems like a recipe for disaster.
An hour later, I’m still turning solutions and scenarios over in my head when I hear a crash followed by a groan across the hall. “Fuck.”
Mr. Force—and he sounds as if he’s in pain.
Tossing off the covers, I scramble out of bed and dart across the hall to find my prospective boss on the floor, cradling his injured knee with one hand, grabbing the bedpost with another. Moonlight streams in, illuminating his bare, muscled shoulders with a silvery glow.