What’s Next?
Thank you for reading Lux and Roman’s story!
The Blurb:
When college student Madeline Swanson stumbled into the wrong job interview, I immediately wanted her…on her knees.
My offer is simple–I’ll cover her tuition, living expenses, and a generous shopping budget. In return, she signs a contract, making herself available at my request–on my arm or in my bed, fulfilling all my darkest desires.
She says no now, but I’ll pursue her relentlessly until she signs the contract. Then, not only will I make her mine, I’ll own her…
Chapter One
The Interview
So today is the big interview. I just found out about it and already my expectations are soaring. This could change everything and though I’m fighting hard to keep from getting my hopes up, it’s hard. I’m already imagining a hundred different outcomes, each with me succeeding wildly at changing my stars.
God knows I need to change my stars. And quickly.
So I try my best to ignore the fact that it’s raining during this not-so-lovely spring morning in Los Angeles as I push through the fancy chrome-bedecked entrance of the Montage Beverly Hills.
Whoa, talk about snob central. I abruptly shorten my stride as the soles of my sensible—but very wet—heels slip across the perfectly polished marble. I pause, catching my breath and swallowing the lump in my throat. I need this. No one here needs it more than me.
And I’m smart. You’ve got this, girl!
My roommate, Sam’s voice echoes in my head again with her usually cheery upbeat encouragement. I do have this. Or if I don’t have it yet, I’ll grab it with both hands and never let it go. I’m determined.
But the only details I have are that this is for a personal assistant position and the pay is ohmigod fantastic. That was more than enough to pique my interest. Strangely, she’d only shrugged when I pressed her for more info.
The lobby of the Montage, Beverly Hills is done all in dark teak wood and stylish colored glass. Luxurious and modern in a trendy, Craftsman-inspired way. As a tuition-poor student of a private university, I’d rarely seen inside a place like this unless working a night job cleaning rooms or manning the reservation desk. I check the notes Sam scribbled out for me—a secretary would meet me at the entrance to one of the hotel’s restaurants to handle my intake. Unusual, yes. Maybe this is for a high-speed start-up with low initial overhead?
But… in Beverly Hills?
I glance at the time on my phone. Shit. I’m late, really late. Damn rain.
As I approach a table manned by two women in very fashionable business attire, I pull my application out of the folder in which I’d been carrying it.
One of the women smiles revealing perfect white teeth. “Your name?”
“Madeline Swanson,” I answer. “I have a two o’clock interview.” Hopefully, she won’t notice it’s almost two thirty. But her eyebrows rise as she glances at her gold wristwatch.
“I, uh, I got a little lost,” I add.
“No problem.” With a tight smile, she hands me a form on a clipboard with a pen attached. “Fill these out and wait right here.” She indicates the row of seated women to her right. “It’ll just be a few minutes.”
I take the forms and walk to the only available seat. It doesn’t miss my attention that every woman here is beautiful, and I suddenly fear I’ve stepped into the wrong interview. They know this is for an assistant position, right? Not a modeling gig? This is Southern California, after all but sheesh, someone should be plain looking… Maybe that was what I was here to do. To fulfill that quota.
I suddenly feel self-conscious in my black cardigan and flowered pencil skirt, a hand-me-down from one of my roommates, Gwen, who wears a size smaller than me. It’s too tight and doesn’t exactly scream professional assistant, but it’s literally the only skirt I own.
I glance down at the form the woman gave me. It’s all medical questions, which I answer pretty quickly, checking off “no” for nearly every question. The second form is a non-disclosure agreement. I fill in my name and sign without reading the details.
Once done, I take a minute to size up my competition. If they’re hiring on looks alone, then my chances are pretty dismal. Every woman here looks like an out-of-work actress—tight, thin bodies, carefully manicured nails, perfect makeup and smooth, flawless hair, designer bags. They don’t even bother to return my curious glances. With my hair up in a ponytail and my discount clothing, I’m clearly no competition.
After a few minutes, the woman calls me up and points toward an elevator. “Take that all the way up to the top floor, penthouse.”
I blink at that little bit of information she’d so casually delivered. Why they’d secure the penthouse for something as trivial as assistant interviews, I could never guess. Maybe the company wanted to make a good first impression? I’m not even sure what company this is for, anyway. I’d noticed no logo on the application forms. But I’m so desperate, I hardly care.
As I walk toward the bank of elevators, my insides begin to shake, my heart hammering hard against my ribs. I feel a little faint. But I manage to keep it together as I push the button for the penthouse.
The elevator sweeps upward with maximum velocity and I lose my stomach around the third floor. By the time the elevator doors whoosh open, my knees are practically knocking together in an attempt to hold me up. As I step through, my heels sink into plush pink carpeting and I look around. It’s a small receiving area and to my left, there’s only one door. It’s cracked open, but I knock anyway.
I hear a brusque “Come in,” and push the door open.
Blinking as I step in, I fight the urge to gasp. The suite is extraordinary—huge, for one thing. It’s at least one hundred times the size of my tiny shared room in student housing. And the place is drenched in luxury. The furniture is all glass and chrome—sleek, but in the classic style. Windows line the entire far wall, looking out over the spectacular skyline of downtown Los Angeles.
The sunken living room is ringed by a raised platform all around--which butts up against the floor-to-ceiling length windows.
Suddenly, I realize I’m out of my element. This is all a big mistake. Sam must have gotten her wires crossed. Whatever these people are looking for, it”s definitely not me.
Slowly, I turn to leave when someone enters the room through an interior doorway.
“Enter. This way,” the man says, his deep, accented voice stopping me cold.
Turning somewhat sheepishly, I try to school my features. I don’t want him to see my fear, my uncertainty, so I plaster on a shaky smile, lifting my eyes to meet his. He stands beside the window on the raised platform. Sucking in a sharp breath, I freeze, my heart thumping wildly. I’m stunned—actually stunned—by his beauty.
At least six foot three, he’s young with dark brown hair and blue, blue eyes. He’s hot. Like, crazy hot. It takes everything for me not to squeak and run out of the room, which I would do if I weren’t rooted to the spot.
He smiles and holds out his hand. “I’m Evan.” His smooth, British accent trickles down my spine and makes me feel a little light-headed. I blink, struggling to regain my faculties.
Then I totter up to him like a newborn foal, managing to climb down into the sunken living room, cross it, and climb the two steps up to the platform to him. Quickly licking my lips and working moisture into my mouth, I take his proffered hand.
“Madeline,” I say in a strangled voice.
His grip is strong, and a weird jolt of energy rushes through me at the contact. I jerk my hand back. My cheeks flush hot, and I’m suddenly embarrassed, though he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.
His spicy scent surrounds me as he pulls his hand back and slips both in his pockets. His smell is heavenly. I draw in a quick breath. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve never been this affected by a stranger before.
His eyes then travel—slowly—from my neck, down across my chest, my waist, lingering for a moment on my hips, till they hit my legs and the hideous skirt, skittering away immediately. I suddenly wish I was seated or cringing behind a table or desk somewhere, with at least a few furnished barriers between us.
Throughout this attentive inspection, his impossibly handsome features have remained impassive. That strange gleam in his blue eyes makes him appear conflicted until finally an almost bored look crosses his features.
Obviously he’s not much impressed with what he sees. Given my competition waiting downstairs, it’s not difficult to understand why.
Best to get this over with, then. My stomach sinks. All those wonderful hopes I’d entered the building with are now circling the drain.
I hold out my application and medical form to him. “I’m sorry, I don’t have my resume with me. My printer jammed this morning.”
A lie. The truth is I can’t afford the ink, so it now sits on my desk, a useless paperweight.
He eyes me, lids narrowing slightly before taking the proper paperwork and holding it near the window for the light in order to read the paper.
I lace my fingers together and mentally will myself to keep from fidgeting. How I wish he’d invited me to sit, dammit.
He shifts and with each movement, I get another whiff of that smell and it gives me this weird sort of rush. Nonplussed, I resolve to try and breath through my mouth for the rest of the interview.
God, this is awkward. But he is all cool confidence as he stands before me, large, designer-bedecked feet planted a wide shoulders-width apart. He shifts the focus of those baby blues on me again with laser intensity and I suddenly find it hard to breathe. “Tell me about yourself.”
I take a deep breath. This is always the part I hate. I’m more comfortable talking about other people, their lives, and their interests. I have no desire, whatsoever, to talk about myself.
“Well, I go to school at Caltech full-time. And I currently work in the campus coffee shop whenever I can get the hours.”
Interest lights in his eyes as he tilts his head suddenly. His gaze rakes over me, from head to foot, as though he can’t believe I’m a Caltech student. I get that a lot. “What do you study?
“Engineering and Applied Science, specifically Aerospace.”
His eyes narrow and he touches a finger to his chin. “And have you ever done work of this nature before?”
I’m too embarrassed to admit that I have no idea what the job description even is, so I do what any girl would do in my position. I bluff. “Not exactly,” I mumble. That stern, assessing gaze unnerves me. “But—but I’m a fast learner and I’m confident I can do the work.”
He laughs, his gaze still lingering on me, heating my skin in all the places it touched. “Well, we’ll see about that.”
I frown, puzzled. Did I say something amusing? It’s clear by his reaction that I’d botched this already. Suddenly, I can’t wait to get out of here. This is clearly a waste of both our time.
My hands start to sweat and I resist the urge to wipe them across my thighs over my skirt, as he again glances through my paperwork.
“It doesn’t say here whether or not you’re on birth control.” He glances up at me, expecting an answer.
My eyes widen as my jaw drops “I, um…” I’m searching for an answer. I’d deliberately skipped that question. It isn’t any of their business, anyway. “Is that even relevant?” Or for that matter, legal to ask?
His beautiful features harden. “Of course, it’s relevant. I insist on birth control.”
I blink. Wow, control freak central. Is he really that against paying for maternity leave? In my case it isn’t even an issue. I don’t have a boyfriend, let alone a sex life.
I’m now looking at him like he’s grown hooves, genuinely baffled. “Uh…Why?”
Now he’s looking at me like I’m an idiot. “I think that should be obvious, no?”
I frown but don’t reply. Best not to even press the discussion. This interview was over thirty seconds—at the most—after it began.
His gaze is on me again, hot, intense and I’m paralyzed by his brilliant aquamarine stare. I almost have to remind myself to breathe.
His mouth opens slightly and the papers crackle as his fist tightens at his side. “You may remove your clothes now.”
I blink, hesitating for a slight moment before even comprehending what he’s asking. I feel like I’m under some sort of strange spell that slows all my reactions.
“Um. What?”