3. Chapter 3 #2
“Half a million dollars?” I squeak out.
She nods, her expression softening at the look of wonder on my face. “Half a million for half a year, yes. What do you say, dear?”
Half a million dollars would be worth taking a sabbatical from porn for. Hell, even $300,000 would be well worth it.
“I’ll meet him,” I say.
She nods, crossing her legs. “I had a feeling that’d be the case. Grab his file on your way out, but keep in mind, it’s very bare bones. The client prefers for most of his information to remain confidential prior to your meeting.”
“Okay,” I say with a nod, still stuck on mentally calculating what half a million dollars could do for me.
“He’ll have a car pick you up at seven to bring you to his place.”
I huff an incredulous laugh, and Genevieve smiles.
“This guy is really loaded, huh?” I ask.
“Quite.”
“All right. Guess I’m doing this,” I reply, getting out of my seat.
“Malibu,” Genevieve calls out before I can make it out of her office. “There’s one thing you should know.”
“Yeah?” I ask, turning. Whatever it is, I can’t imagine it would sway me away from a half-a-million-dollar contract.
Genevieve blinks, face carefully blank as she folds her hands together atop her desk.
“He’s blind.”
When a black Mercedes pulls up outside the curb of Dixon’s apartment building at exactly seven o’clock, I straighten my jacket and head out the door.
Genevieve’s receptionist instructed me to dress nice but casual.
I wish I had a manual because I stood in front of my closet for a good half hour trying to decide exactly what that meant.
In the end, I chose a deep-v shirt in a blue that brings out my eyes and paired it with an open, charcoal-colored blazer.
It wasn’t until I’d finished getting dressed that it occurred to me the color might not even matter to a man who may or may not be able to see it, depending on the extent of his blindness.
Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t still try to look nice for him, though.
The late winter chill nips at my exposed skin as I step outside and approach the waiting vehicle, but the driver appears in an instant, rounding the Mercedes in a pressed black suit that matches the exterior of his car.
“Mr. Jones?”
“Yeah. That’s me,” I confirm.
He nods, opening the rear passenger door deftly. “Please, come with me.”
I chuckle nervously as I get into the vehicle, feeling a little bit like I’m about to be whisked away to some sort of mafia man’s headquarters.
Oh God , I probably should have confirmed that’s not actually the case.
The drive is smooth, at least, the car blocking out most traffic noise and the tinted windows reducing the glare from the city lights, and within fifteen minutes, we’re pulling into the underground parking garage of one of the swankiest residences I’ve ever seen up close.
The building towers above the rest of Las Vegas, all gleaming blue glass that reflects the colorful lights pinging off every surface of its massive frame.
I swallow as we descend into the garage.
Once the driver eases us into a private, marked spot, he comes around and opens my door. “Mr. Larsen lives on the penthouse floor,” he explains, ushering me into the building. “Delroy will call the elevator for you.”
I nod as if I understand what he’s talking about, and then the man is gone, leaving me inside an entryway that screams wealth.
The floors are gleaming white marble, not a single shoe scuff in sight, and fresh flowers flank both sides of the doors that lead outside.
Gold accents cover almost every surface, including the elevator panel and mailboxes, and a massive chandelier hangs overhead, casting the space in an intimate glow.
Immediately, an immaculately dressed man I assume is Delroy steps forward with a welcoming smile on his face. “You must be Mr. Jones,” he says, calling the elevator.
“That’s me,” I reply, wondering if I’m in some sort of alternate reality where this kind of service is normal. I feel widely out of my comfort zone.
“Mr. Larsen is on the top floor. I’ll send you right up.”
I simply nod. When the elevator arrives, he holds the door for me, keys in a code, and then presses the button labeled “P.”
“Welcome to the building,” he says before the doors close on his face, leaving me without a chance to correct him that I haven’t yet agreed to stay.
The elevator starts to rise, but my gut stays on the ground floor, and my pulse pounds all the way down into my sky-blue Converse—the one comfort addition I allowed myself when picking out my wardrobe earlier.
Blowing out a breath, I collect my hair behind my head, attempting to relieve some of the heat crawling up my neck.
I’ve never lived like this, surrounded by so much opulence. I have no clue how to act, no clue what to think , and I can’t help but feel like this Mr. Larsen is going to take one look at me and send me on my way.
Except, crap , the man can’t see. God, I’m going to make an absolute mess of this. It’s not even a question.
When the elevator pings its arrival, I jump, releasing my hair. The doors whoosh open, and after one more brief internal freak-out, I step into the penthouse.
It’s absolutely massive; that’s the first thing I notice.
The place spans the entire top floor of the building, of course, and as if that wasn’t enough, it’s surrounded by glass-paned, world-class views of a lit-up, glittering Las Vegas.
The neon lights are familiar, but up here, it’s like I’m in an entirely different world. Perhaps I am.
The ambient light inside is set lower than I’m used to, but it’s not unpleasant. And as I take another step into the foyer, the distinct aroma of fall washes over me, like cranberry and crisp leaves. It’s nice.
I’m so caught up taking everything in—the sprawling open-concept living space separated in only a few spots by brief segments of wall, the windows in every direction, the high-end furnishings and fancy black-and-white furniture, and the abundance of colorful art on the walls—that I miss one very crucial detail.
“Mr. Jones, I presume.”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of the client’s voice, and when my head snaps his way, his lips quirk like he knows it.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I manage, my pulse jackhammering like a rabbit’s.
He nods, hands placed casually in his pockets as he strolls toward me with surprising ease. When he stops only two feet in front of me, a small gasp sneaks past my lips.
His file said forty-two, and while his dark brown hair is threaded with a few strands of silver, he certainly doesn’t look old. He looks damn fine .
His broad form is dressed in an impeccable silver button-down and smart black slacks that fit him beautifully.
Short stubble graces his strong jaw, framing smooth lips.
And his cheeks cut a sharp figure along the sides of his face.
But it’s his eyes I can’t seem to look away from.
Vibrant green, like fresh moss. Bright and clever.
He’s looking toward me, but he’s not looking at me, and that’s the only indication I have that this man truly is, as Genevieve told me, blind.
I don’t know what I was expecting when I accepted the chance at this half-mil contract, but it certainly wasn’t this man in front of me who, quite honestly, is so handsome I’m having trouble finding my tongue.
I’m not sure if my continued elevated heart rate is because I’m nervous or because of him .
I want to lean closer and pick out the impressions of color in his vibrant irises.
I want to count the specks and variation of tone.
Want to trace my fingers over his cheekbones and down his chest so I can find out what lies under that pressed exterior.
Want to hear more of the rich, deep tones of his voice. Want…
Christ .
I cut those thoughts off at the head and push them firmly away.
Attraction in my line of work is a dangerous thing. It can easily lead to blurred lines and heartbreak.
Everyone knows you don’t fall for the client.
But I’m not that careless. I can’t be.
I need this job. My wallet needs it. I’m here for one thing, and it has nothing to do with what lies beyond the allure of my body. As long as I remember that, I’ll be fine.
This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
I won’t mess it up.