The Billionaire's Command
Page 34
“I need you to go through these papers and highlight any mentions of Bywater Ventures,” he said. “And if you see the name Martin anywhere, or Reginald Martin, set it aside and show it to me.”
He handed the folder to me, and I took it. It was several inches thick and bristling with sticky notes. A few paper-clipped sheafs of print-outs poked from the top. God, what had I gotten myself into? “Don’t you have a secretary for this sort of thing?” I asked.
His mouth twitched to one side. “No.” I waited for him to continue, but he sat down in front of his computer and pulled a stack of papers toward himself with every indication of going right back to work.
I sighed. Getting information out of him was like squeezing blood from a stone. I slid off the table and sat across the table from him. I watched him for a few moments, waiting for him to announce that this was all a big joke and we could have sex now, but he turned pages and pecked at his laptop and didn’t pay any attention to me.
Fine. I leaned across the table to grab one of the highlighters sitting beside his computer. He didn’t blink or look up. I uncapped it and stuck the cap on the end. I opened my folder and picked up the stack of papers, and whacked the bottom edge on the table a few times, straightening things out. Turner didn’t react.
Well, there was no helping it. I gave in to the inevitable and bent my head to work.
It was incredibly boring. The papers were some sort of business document, and I didn’t understand half the words they used. It was something about buying and selling, and stock offerings, and something else about reorganization and shipments. I saw Bywater mentioned here and there, and I highlighted the name each time it appeared. A few dozen pages in, I found a reference to a Mr. Martin, and I highlighted that and set the page to one side.
After a while it got to be automatic—scanning the page, highlighting if necessary, moving to the next one—and my thoughts wandered. If Turner didn’t only own the club, what else did he do? What sort of crisis had him enlisting me, a woman he was paying an awful lot of money in exchange for sex, to review paperwork on a Wednesday evening? Maybe he was in the Mafia, and federal prosecutors were building a case against him, and I was his last chance to avoid prison. I spent a few minutes in a romantic daydream about visiting him in prison. I could take him care packages with books and baked goods, and the other prisoners would be so jealous of his sexy visitor that they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves.
Then I realized what my brain was doing while I wasn’t paying attention, and rolled my eyes at myself. For Christ’s sake, Sasha. Prison wasn’t romantic.
He probably wasn’t in the Mafia, anyway.
I came to the end of one paper-clipped set of papers and decided I needed a break. I capped my highlighter and said, “You aren’t in the Mafia, are you?”
Turner looked up, frowning. He narrowed his eyes at me. “I’m afraid I misheard you.”
“The Mafia,” I said. “You know, the mob. Gangsters. You don’t own any laundromats in Queens, do you?”
“The—no,” he said. “I am not in the Mafia. Are you finished with those papers?”
“Some of them,” I said, guilty. He was so focused on his work, and here I was distracting him with my dumb questions. “Here, I found one that has Martin’s name on it.” I slid the paper across the table to him.
“Excellent,” he said. He looked at his computer screen, and then said, “It’s almost 8. I’ll order some food.”
“I’m not that hungry,” I said, and just then my stomach rumbled loudly enough that I was sure Turner could hear it.
He raised an eyebrow at me. “It sounds like you’re hungry,” he said. “Late nights working call for Chinese takeout. Any preference?”
“Sesame chicken,” I said immediately. “And some of those crispy noodle things.”
“Hmm,” he said. “I’ll order some steamed vegetables instead. It’s better for your waistline.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you telling me I need to watch my weight?”
He didn’t smile, but his eyes crinkled slightly, and that was enough.
“You’re teasing me,” I said. “Oh my God. Don’t you know that’s against the law?”
“I’m fairly certain that isn’t a law,” he said. “You know you’re gorgeous. You can eat as many crispy noodles as you want.”
“Thank you,” I said. This was turning out to be a weird evening. First he’d said okay, then he teased me about my takeout order—next he would reveal that we were long-lost siblings, or something. Except that would be disgusting, so I hoped it didn’t really happen.
Plus, then I couldn’t ever have sex with him again.
I really, really wanted to have sex with him again.
And not just sex: I wanted to lie in bed with him, my head resting against his chest, and listen to his heartbeat. I wanted to wake up with him in the morning and tangle our feet together and go back to sleep for another hour. Stupid things. Unrealistic, movie-happy-ending things.
Rule fucking one.
He went into the kitchen to order, and I heard him running the tap and opening the refrigerator. Maybe he’d finally bought some food. He came back a few minutes later with a glass and a bottle of Coke, and set them down in front of me.
“You didn’t have Coke the last time I was here,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “I bought some.” His tone said, obviously.
“Who told you I like Coke?” I asked, suspicious.
“Nobody,” he said. “It’s a common soda product. Most people enjoy it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Well. Thanks.”
“The food should be here in about fifteen minutes,” he said, and sat down and focused on his laptop again.
“Why don’t you have a secretary?” I asked.
He glanced up at me and sighed. “I take it you aren’t going to sit quietly and let me work.”
“Nope,” I said. “I’m too hungry. And this isn’t in my job description, anyway. I’ll highlight some more stuff for you after we eat, but first you have to answer my questions.”
He closed his laptop and pushed it away. “I thought I was paying you to be quiet, docile, and scantily clothed.”
“You should have put it in the contract,” I said. “So why don’t you have some underling to go through all this paperwork for you?”
He handed the folder to me, and I took it. It was several inches thick and bristling with sticky notes. A few paper-clipped sheafs of print-outs poked from the top. God, what had I gotten myself into? “Don’t you have a secretary for this sort of thing?” I asked.
His mouth twitched to one side. “No.” I waited for him to continue, but he sat down in front of his computer and pulled a stack of papers toward himself with every indication of going right back to work.
I sighed. Getting information out of him was like squeezing blood from a stone. I slid off the table and sat across the table from him. I watched him for a few moments, waiting for him to announce that this was all a big joke and we could have sex now, but he turned pages and pecked at his laptop and didn’t pay any attention to me.
Fine. I leaned across the table to grab one of the highlighters sitting beside his computer. He didn’t blink or look up. I uncapped it and stuck the cap on the end. I opened my folder and picked up the stack of papers, and whacked the bottom edge on the table a few times, straightening things out. Turner didn’t react.
Well, there was no helping it. I gave in to the inevitable and bent my head to work.
It was incredibly boring. The papers were some sort of business document, and I didn’t understand half the words they used. It was something about buying and selling, and stock offerings, and something else about reorganization and shipments. I saw Bywater mentioned here and there, and I highlighted the name each time it appeared. A few dozen pages in, I found a reference to a Mr. Martin, and I highlighted that and set the page to one side.
After a while it got to be automatic—scanning the page, highlighting if necessary, moving to the next one—and my thoughts wandered. If Turner didn’t only own the club, what else did he do? What sort of crisis had him enlisting me, a woman he was paying an awful lot of money in exchange for sex, to review paperwork on a Wednesday evening? Maybe he was in the Mafia, and federal prosecutors were building a case against him, and I was his last chance to avoid prison. I spent a few minutes in a romantic daydream about visiting him in prison. I could take him care packages with books and baked goods, and the other prisoners would be so jealous of his sexy visitor that they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves.
Then I realized what my brain was doing while I wasn’t paying attention, and rolled my eyes at myself. For Christ’s sake, Sasha. Prison wasn’t romantic.
He probably wasn’t in the Mafia, anyway.
I came to the end of one paper-clipped set of papers and decided I needed a break. I capped my highlighter and said, “You aren’t in the Mafia, are you?”
Turner looked up, frowning. He narrowed his eyes at me. “I’m afraid I misheard you.”
“The Mafia,” I said. “You know, the mob. Gangsters. You don’t own any laundromats in Queens, do you?”
“The—no,” he said. “I am not in the Mafia. Are you finished with those papers?”
“Some of them,” I said, guilty. He was so focused on his work, and here I was distracting him with my dumb questions. “Here, I found one that has Martin’s name on it.” I slid the paper across the table to him.
“Excellent,” he said. He looked at his computer screen, and then said, “It’s almost 8. I’ll order some food.”
“I’m not that hungry,” I said, and just then my stomach rumbled loudly enough that I was sure Turner could hear it.
He raised an eyebrow at me. “It sounds like you’re hungry,” he said. “Late nights working call for Chinese takeout. Any preference?”
“Sesame chicken,” I said immediately. “And some of those crispy noodle things.”
“Hmm,” he said. “I’ll order some steamed vegetables instead. It’s better for your waistline.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you telling me I need to watch my weight?”
He didn’t smile, but his eyes crinkled slightly, and that was enough.
“You’re teasing me,” I said. “Oh my God. Don’t you know that’s against the law?”
“I’m fairly certain that isn’t a law,” he said. “You know you’re gorgeous. You can eat as many crispy noodles as you want.”
“Thank you,” I said. This was turning out to be a weird evening. First he’d said okay, then he teased me about my takeout order—next he would reveal that we were long-lost siblings, or something. Except that would be disgusting, so I hoped it didn’t really happen.
Plus, then I couldn’t ever have sex with him again.
I really, really wanted to have sex with him again.
And not just sex: I wanted to lie in bed with him, my head resting against his chest, and listen to his heartbeat. I wanted to wake up with him in the morning and tangle our feet together and go back to sleep for another hour. Stupid things. Unrealistic, movie-happy-ending things.
Rule fucking one.
He went into the kitchen to order, and I heard him running the tap and opening the refrigerator. Maybe he’d finally bought some food. He came back a few minutes later with a glass and a bottle of Coke, and set them down in front of me.
“You didn’t have Coke the last time I was here,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “I bought some.” His tone said, obviously.
“Who told you I like Coke?” I asked, suspicious.
“Nobody,” he said. “It’s a common soda product. Most people enjoy it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Well. Thanks.”
“The food should be here in about fifteen minutes,” he said, and sat down and focused on his laptop again.
“Why don’t you have a secretary?” I asked.
He glanced up at me and sighed. “I take it you aren’t going to sit quietly and let me work.”
“Nope,” I said. “I’m too hungry. And this isn’t in my job description, anyway. I’ll highlight some more stuff for you after we eat, but first you have to answer my questions.”
He closed his laptop and pushed it away. “I thought I was paying you to be quiet, docile, and scantily clothed.”
“You should have put it in the contract,” I said. “So why don’t you have some underling to go through all this paperwork for you?”
