Chapter Two
Elliot
T he look on his face when I say no is a photo worthy moment.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a simple, yet important word. No. I’ve got better things to do than hold the hand of a billionaire.”
“You helped Chris Leone! You got him elected.” He gives me a thoughtful look, at odds with his outraged tone.
Yes, I did. Long ago, and that bastard, one of the people I built my reputation on by being invisible, powerful, and able to deliver the undeliverable, haunts me.
“Look—”
“It’s four weeks. Four weeks. For a family company. A necklace. They mean something to me. I’m not changing the world. I’m not trying to bring it down.”
My mouth is dry.
I can’t work for Ryder Sinclair.
What sane, living, breathing heterosexual woman with no chance in hell—not that I want a chance—would?
His photos don’t do him justice. In those, he’s gorgeous, charismatic; I know, because the media loves him. Rich and hot and a bad boy.
But what they don’t capture is the fact he’s devastating. The height; I’m tall enough at five eleven, and he’s about six three; the lean, hard lines of him; the elegance: those are more pronounced.
Beyond that, he’s arresting. Thick, softly curling charcoal hair that borders on too long, but perfect for sliding fingers into while kissing or during sex. Dark chocolate melting eyes that hold a wicked light, a sensuous mouth that looks made to kiss and do other things to a woman that should be illegal but thank goodness aren’t. And he’s hard, dangerous, and decadent. They shouldn’t exist together, but they do, and the combination is irresistible.
There’s absolutely no way I can work with him.
Normally, men like him don’t even get more than a blip on my radar, but he makes it go haywire. He’s too good looking, too aware of that, and he exudes sex. Not smarm, but that animalistic undercurrent that’s just him. And he looks at you.
Like he sees you.
Like you’re important.
I know it’s one of his moves. A man like that never notices a woman like me. That’s not insecurity, that’s experience.
I’m tall and red-headed and people don’t notice me. That’s fine, it suits my business down to the ground. I know it’s some kind of feat to be tall with this hair and still go about unnoticed. Call it a miracle of the world.
And he…
Yeah, he’s the quintessential bad boy rich guy. Spoiled, and thinks he can do whatever he wants. Actually, I take that back. He can do anything he wants; he’s so loaded it’s almost unbelievable and I’m not hurting at all.
“I don’t really care,” I say. I get up and walk around the desk, aware his gaze eats into my every move. Jesus, does every woman who crosses his path feel like this? I’m betting it’s a yes, and that includes grandmothers and the happily relationshipped. I take a seat and settle back, keeping my game face switched on with added defenses.
“I’m not asking you to care.”
“You’re asking me to do a job I don’t want to do.”
A small smile plays over that sensual mouth. “Why?”
“It doesn’t interest me.”
The smile grows. “If that’s your attitude, Perry, then I’m wondering how you made it this far.”
“Asking if I fucked my way to the top?”
The asshat laughs. “You? No.”
I stand and so does he. But anger and the meaning of his words fuel my move. I’m not sure why he does it, though I doubt it’s out of politeness. “I think we’re done.”
“You might be, but I’m not,” he says, “and I meant you don’t look the type.” Ryder shrugs. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it. If sleeping your way anywhere floats your boat.”
“Is that what you did?”
He laughs again. “Perhaps fucked my way down to here.”
“I’m still not interested.”
His laughter dies and Ryder gives me a considering look. “It’s an easy job.”
It should be, but I know it won’t be. He’s charming even when he’s an asshole, like he was at the start, and I really don’t need the grief. He likes women too much. As in, get down and dirty with a new one every day, and… Shit.
He’s too damn good looking and I’ll develop an unwanted crush on him and it’s going to be awful. If I take the job. Which I won’t.
“Ryder, I see the papers. I read the stuff online. And you’re the party boy, the guy who takes nothing and no one seriously. There’s a line of women gagging for it—” his brows rise when I say this “—and you don’t care if they’re married, in a relationship, or anything. If it’s female, and you want her, you go for it. Getting you to keep it in your pants is going to be a losing battle. With extra headache thrown in.”
He doesn’t say a word, simply crosses his arms. “You’ve got me all figured out, I see.”
“Am I wrong?”
“It shouldn’t matter.”
He’s right, it shouldn’t. Not in the grand scheme of things. But I promised myself a few things when I started having enough money to walk away from jobs if I chose.
I promised not to take on the monsters.
I promised not to take on unnecessary headaches or clients who were pushed into my hands.
I promised not to torture myself.
He’ll be torture.
I know myself well enough to know a man that hot, that charming, that bad-boy-to-the-bone will appeal on a molecular level.
Shallow, yes. But hormones and pretty and sex appeal don’t care about depth.
I won’t like him and I’ll tangle up in stupid hormonal responses to him.
And he won’t even notice me.
Not that I want that.
“It shouldn’t, but…” I can’t say that to him. I’m not an idiot. “Chances are this is going to be an above and beyond job. Chances are you’ll fail.”
“So I fail and you look bad? No one except those in the know know you.” He rubs a hand over his eyes and shakes his head. “That sounds like a bad song.”
“I’m choosy with clients I take on. I have someone who works for me. Andre. He’s excellent and he—”
“No. I want you.”
I sigh. And my pulse starts to beat hard. He wants my expertise. Nothing more, nothing less. “But you can’t have me.”
His dark chocolate eyes meet mine and everything goes into freefall. The look is pure sex and he knows it. Imagine if he really turned that dial to on.
“This is important,” he says. “I want the best. So I want you. Jillian Cohen gave me your name.”
Beautiful, smart, talented, and a female version of him. I don’t swing that way, so working with her had been difficult but doable. No lust.
“And yes, we did, in case you’re wondering,” he says this like he’s discussing the weather. “I don’t have photos. Well, none I’m willing to share.”
“Your name never came up.”
“I met her after you turned her into the respected anchorwoman she is now.”
I pick up the sleek black and gold antique pen on my desk. “And she gave you my details?”
That’s how it worked, word of mouth. I moved years ago from PR into this strange little niche and found people wanted to pay me a fortune to sprinkle fairy dust on their lives and make them into something else.
“You’re moralistic?”
“No. Not like that. And Jillian should never have needed to hire me. She’s smart and—”
“You know how the world works. No one can do a thing, or have done or said anything without it biting them in the ass. Hey, I never did any soft porn.”
“Neither did Jillian.” He just looks at me.
I get his point. I made a lot of that go away. And without lies. I trained her how to own her past, downplay it, and reinvent herself.
“You don’t even need someone like me. Do you care what others think? She did. To a point. And that matters.”
He crosses to the window and stares out. “Think of me what you want, Elliot. You will anyway, and I don’t care about most opinions. I do my job, I do it well. I can be responsible in business and have a good time.”
“You like having a really good time.”
“Not a crime.”
He’s right. It isn’t. But I’m not turning him down for that. I’ve also turned people down for so many different reasons or handed them to Andre because I could, because I wanted to, because I didn’t like them. But I don’t think I’ve ever turned someone down over a very probable crush.
And not one of those people have fought me on it when I said no.
“Lena can help you find someone else if Andre doesn’t meet your expectations. There are excellent PR companies and contractors who are discreet and also specialize in this sort of thing.”
“Those,” he says, not looking at me, and even his profile is gorgeous, “are lies. No one does what you do the way you do it. If I wanted just PR who specialized in this sort of thing, I’d have it. This needs your touch. And yeah, I need you to help me not step out of line. No dates unless they’re the right ones, no fucking around—”
“No scandal.”
“—for four weeks.” He runs a finger along the glass like he’s tracing the line of the building opposite. “And I don’t seek out scandal.”
“That wasn’t your first.”
“That was complicated.”
“True love got interrupted, did it?”
He shoots a dirty glance my way. “Hardly love. And it’s in the past. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been fascinated by the Sinclair jewels. Now they turn up. And my family heritage is important. These things are worth more than money. They belong to the family. They’re part of my past and I want them to be part of my future. And apparently, I have to prove I’m worthy. That I can be the figurehead of the company, which means not being me. Four weeks. That’s all.”
“And then you go back to your old ways?”
“Well, I’m not planning on becoming a monk.” The corner of his mouth tilts up into a smile. “But I’m not about to give a big fuck you to the board and my mother by having an orgy in Times Square.”
I laugh in spite of myself. “That’s quite the image.”
“My point is, I’m not planning to screw up the work we do by fucking about, or anything like that. I want this. But I need your help.”
“To stop you fucking about.”
Ryder doesn’t answer immediately, then finally, he turns, those melting chocolate eyes on me and I can barely breathe. “What answer do you want?”
“You’re just interested in chasing skirt, more than any of this.”
“Old fashioned of you.” He glances about and dips his head a little, but I see the slow grin. “To clarify, I’m way more interested in what lies beneath the skirt I’m chasing. But no sweet pussy is about to get in my way of what I want. The letter stipulates me being on the straight and narrow and the boring high road straight into morality town. Should be right up your shiny and pristine alley.”
“You have no idea what my alley is like.” I glare. He’s annoying right there along with the charm and hotness as sex appeal.
Hate crush. Fantastic. I can feel the simmering heat of electric push pull to him already.
“So the letter says be a monk for a month.”
He pulls a thick piece of folded paper from the inner pocket of his divine and no doubt bespoke three piece suit. It’s completely unsuitable for the kind of thing he’s talking about, a wild silk purple paisley on the inside and the material itself for the outer suit is a dark, soft red with a subtle black and purple plaid. It’s, in short, outrageous for business. And it’s completely devastating on him.
Ryder hands it to me. The paper, not the suit. That, he keeps on.
I scan the letter, and it’s everything he said. I just hand it back and he puts it away.
“As you see, it doesn’t say that, but scandal free and not making a lot of women happy is something I’ve been told I have to do. Which is why I’m here. So, take the damn job.”
“No.”
That’s self-preservation speaking, right there.
He looks me up and down. “I’ll pay you five times your asking price.”
I stare at him. If I were a weaker woman, I’d fall to the ground.
That’s…that’s an astronomical amount of money.
The fee I set Ryder Sinclair was already outrageous because he’s Ryder Sinclair and I figured if the billionaire wanted my services he’d have to pay.
Then I met him and realized I couldn’t do it.
But for that kind of money?
I can’t say no.
“Okay.” I get up and cross to him. “I’ll do it. But there are going to be ground rules. Follow them, or I walk.”