“He’s waiting until all potential buyers have been shortlisted. You wouldn't believe the amount of interest the resort has generated. Besides, this is what Mr. Peterson hired us for. Now back to the subject at hand, your proposal looks fine, ticks all the boxes, so to say, but there has been little to no mention of your private lives." Gregory stops talking and lets us fill in the blanks for him.
“I'm engaged with a child on the way and a daughter already, Peterson knows this. He has met my fiancée on many occasions,” Graham answers wryly.
“And you, Mr. Sloan?” Is it my imagination, or does the fucker sound smug all of a sudden? I'm sure he thinks he has me all figured out, but he has no fucking clue.
“I'm happily married and have been for a little over a year now,” I inform them, matter-of-factly.
My words are met with absolute silence, so much so I check the screen to make sure the call hasn't dropped.
“You do realize you'll have to provide documentation to back up this claim?” Gregory's sharp voice announces.
“Yes, that won't be a problem. I have the marriage certificate here. Is there anything else you need?” I question, keeping my voice civil. Inside, I’m thinking checkmate, motherfucker.
He splutters for a second. I can't tell if it's with shock or indignation.
“Where does your wife reside?” he asks haughtily.
“With me at our penthouse apartment. Where the hell else would my wife live except with me?” I answer rhetorically and this time Graham doesn't even try to hold back his snort of laughter.
“What I meant to say is that your marriage has been kept hush-hush. To the best of my knowledge, it's not information the public is aware of.”
“We are a very private couple. My wife isn't into being in the spotlight, and I like to keep my wife happy. If that means I attend the odd gala alone, so be it,” I tell him firmly.
“Well, yes, that's fine, but I'm sure Mr. Peterson would like to meet your wife at some point.” This guy has no need to inform me of that fact, it is something I’m well aware of.
“I'm sure he will, and that's fine. Just let us know when and where, and we'll happily be there.” Okay, maybe I'm laying it on a bit thick now.
“Okay then, I have everything I need for now. Your application is being processed. Please forward your marriage certificate to my office by the end of the day. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”
Gregory pulls out of the conference call, which causes a snowball effect of people leaving until only Graham and I remain on the line.
“Nicely played, asshole,” Graham drawls, making me chuckle as I loosen my tie and sit back in my chair.
“Yeah, yeah, I'm awesome, admit it.”
“I like to keep my wife happy,” he mocks, trying to emulate my voice.
“Fuck you. There is nothing wrong with that, and you of all people should get it.”
He's quiet for a moment, pondering my words. “You know I do, but Soraya is it for me. Can you really say the same about Laura?”
“It’s Linda, you fucking dick,” I snap.
He roars with laughter, making me pull the phone away from my ear. “I'm just fucking with you. When you know, you know. I've got to go.” He hangs up without saying anything else.
I toss the phone on the desk just as the intercom starts beeping. Hitting the button, I wait for Rosa to speak.
“I have a woman here claiming to be your wife, Mr. Sloan.” Rosa’s voice is a little higher pitched than usual, making me wince. Oops, I really should have told Rosa about Linda.
“Show her in, Rosa, and please let the front desk know that my wife Linda is always welcome here.”
She’s silent for a moment before answering, “Yes, sir,” then disconnecting.
I wait for them to arrive, a big smile on my face as the door swings open to reveal a flustered-looking Rosa, who is now staring daggers at me, and a bashful Linda behind her looking like a teenage wet dream in denim cut-offs and a band T-shirt that is shredded in places, briefly flashing the hot pink bra she is wearing underneath.
And now I'm hard.
“Hey, Skittle, great timing. I'm starving,” I admit—just not for food.
As Rosa leaves quietly and closes the door behind her, I stalk around my desk until I'm standing face to face with Linda. Taking the bag of food from her, I place it on the desk before sliding a hand into her hair and pulling her toward me.
Before she can protest, my lips are on hers, hot and insistent, demanding entrance. She opens up to me willingly, reaching around and gripping the back of my jacket, clinging to me as I press one of my thighs between her legs. I can feel the heat of her pussy spurring me on, but then common sense prevails and I pull back, enjoying the flustered look on her face.
“Now, that’s how you say hi,” I whisper, making her laugh.
“You can say hi like that anytime you like.” She winks. “I brought you lunch,” she adds, indicating the bag of food. “Club sandwiches and cookies,” she tells me with a smile as I walk her around the desk with me and sit, pulling her down into my lap.
“You can't eat with me in your lap,” she protests, trying to stand, but I don't let her up.
“Watch me. Now slide my food over here before I decide to eat something else for lunch.”
She gulps and hesitates for a moment before reaching for the bag.
Hmm, interesting. Perhaps another time, when the office isn’t so busy and nobody is around to hear her scream my name…
Twenty-One
Linda
“So, where to, miss?”
I give Davis the address of the club and lean back against the seat, preparing myself for what I'm about to do.
I'm going to miss everyone at Illusions, but my job was only ever meant to be something to keep me going while I focused on my art. Somehow, a year later, it's become more of a crutch than I intended. If I’m honest with myself, the real reason I’m holding back is fear.
Thanks to my mother, I have a lot to live up to. I am insanely proud of the artist she was and what she stood for, but what if my stuff just tarnishes the family name?
I know comparisons will be made despite the fact she was a sculptor and I’m a painter—that's the nature of the beast. I want people to love my work as much as they did hers, but the thought of putting myself out there just to get torn to shreds is terrifying.
Sitting in silence for the whole journey, my thoughts a jumbled mess. Davis, sensing my need for quiet, doesn’t try to make small talk.
I finally manage to corral my wayward thoughts somewhat as we pull up outside the club. It's closed for now, not opening till much later tonight, but there is always a skeleton crew on during the day who clean and stock the bar. Plus, Tony is always here. This place is his baby, his second home, so I know he’ll be upstairs in his office working on something.
“Thanks, Davis. Are you just going to wait around for me or do you want me to call you when I'm finished?” I ask, having no idea what the protocol is for this sort of thing.
“I can wait for you, miss, unless you think it might go on for a while, then I can circle around to avoid a ticket.”