3. Chapter 3
Tom Peterson sat at the polished conference table, his tie loosened just enough to make him look casual, but not sloppy.
Around him, his executives droned on, but he’d stopped listening about forty-five minutes ago.
They were talking about revenue projections, theft margins, quarterly profit analysis.
He nodded occasionally, the practiced motion of a man who didn’t need to listen because he already owned the room.
Plus, he paid other people to attend to these tedious details.
So, it wasn’t a surprise that his thoughts were far from profit margins.
They were on her.
Naomi, the little nanny who was, he glanced at his watch and smirked, probably leaving his house right about now.
Darling, careful Naomi with her long ponytail falling forward over her shoulder when she bent to tie his boys’ shoes, her voice calm when she coaxed them out of their tantrums. She was too good for them, he knew that.
Hell, too good for him. But that innocence, damn, that’s what got his blood pumping.
She wasn’t like the women he paid for, the ones at the strip clubs.
He loved the clubs. And he loved the easy access to the commodities within the clubs!
The seedy joints on the South Side reeked of cheap perfume and stale beer, and he thrived on it.
But he also loved the upscale ones downtown, which were basically dressed up versions of the same thing—velvet booths, prettier lighting, hookers with better shoes.
In the end, it all came down to the same service.
They’d take his money and submit to whatever depravity he demanded. And he demanded plenty.
But Naomi? Naomi would never bend. Not willingly.
She smiled too softly, touched his sons’ heads too gently when she herded them inside or gave him updates on their progress and activities.
That sweetness was a hook in his gut. He knew he couldn’t touch her—excellent nannies were harder to keep than competent accountants.
He’d burned through half a dozen of each since the divorce, the revolving door spinning faster every time Melissa tried to stick her nose into things.
Melissa. He nearly laughed out loud at the thought of his dumpy ex-wife.
Demolishing her had been the easiest game of his life.
Convincing the court she was mentally unstable?
Child’s play. He’d had the judge eating out of his hand within minutes.
And getting her fired from that pathetic little teaching job?
Even easier. One quiet conversation with the school principal about “concerns” and “safety,” and Melissa had been shoved out the door like yesterday’s trash.
After all the lies he’d whispered about her, Melissa would never recover, would never teach in the state again. And he’d enjoyed watching it happen.
But Naomi…was different. Fresh. Unspoiled. She made his sons behave better than anyone else ever had. Which meant he needed her. He couldn’t risk driving her away. Not yet.
Still, the thought of her lips, her startling green-blue eyes lifting to meet his, the way her cheeks pinkened when she was flustered—it tightened something low in his gut. He shouldn’t want her. But the fact that he did, that she was out of reach, only deepened the craving.
At the far end of the table, an executive cleared his throat and launched into a new slide about expansion forecasts.
Tom blinked back to the present for a moment, looked around the table, then dismissed the newest information, preferring to anticipate the moment when he could work out his lust, his grin curling slow and secret.
Let these idiots talk about profits and margins. His thoughts were on a different kind of investment. One that involved sweetness, innocence, and how much more satisfying it would be to ruin something so pure.