The office was the biggest she’d ever seen, and she’d seen some doozies. Through several floor-to-ceiling windows, the views of Central Park were striking. But then again, they always were. From every angle.
Squinting, Natasha could almost make out her own family’s corporate building clear across the expanse of lush trees, only interrupted by waterways and green spaces. From this vantage point, she barely saw the dots of tiny people moving this way and that down below, content that they were meant to stay far beneath her.
She turned and glanced around.
The office seemed elegant, yet understated. No photos or homey touches. The clean lines could have cost an arm and a leg or been a quick buy from IKEA. The oversized desk in a deep cherry wood was the only piece of furniture that looked to be worth an outrageous amount. The design wasn’t familiar, but Natasha had grown up around enough opulent furnishings to know the really expensive stuff from the crap.
Moseying over to the desk, she set down the heavy box with a clank. Curious, she pried open the lid. Her hands flew up to cover her wide-open mouth.
Holy shit. Condiments!
The stacks of teeny-tiny jars made her eyes widen. How many women does this guy go through?
Easing herself into his chair, Natasha stared. The thought of sticking her finger into the icky goo of a condiment and smearing it anywhere made her shudder. Gross.
Casting her gaze around to absolutely anything else, she caught sight of the open planner on his desk. Before she could get a good long look-see, her cell buzzed with a text.
SUPERVISOR STEVE: Where are you?
NATASHA: Bathroom. Period. Gushing everywhere.
She added a toilet emoji and a dozen blood drops. That should stop the texts. After snapping a few quick shots of his calendar, she headed out.
11
Natasha
From across Gotham Hall, the grand banquet hall in Manhattan, Natasha fixed her gaze on the man who would be hers.
Tickets to the event started at five thousand dollars, and that was just for dinner and ambience. The fundraiser boasted a charity auction openly targeting a million-dollar goal for the event.
Obtaining a last-minute ticket was no easy feat. She could have gotten it legitimately, offering herself up as a date to any of half a dozen Wall Street yutzes who’d love to be photographed for the society pages with a blueblood like her on their arm.
But her eye was on the prize, and the last thing Natasha needed was the ball and chain of a date. So, using her wits, know-how, and a tank top, she found just the ticket she needed . . . bumming it off her uncle.
Uncle Cecil was good for three things—cash, cars, and charitable event tickets. Or at least he used to be. At her parents’ insistence, he’d recently shut off the cash tap. And after one crash too many in his Maserati, the dude had suddenly gotten pissy about it.
But with enough cleavage and a lot of teasing, she got her ticket.
What? He’s related by marriage, and everyone knows Auntie Lacie fucks around. Besides, it’s not like I gave him a blow job.
As Natasha moseyed through the towering floral arrangements of creamy white and violet orchids to the tempo of the twelve-piece orchestra playing soft top-forty hits, she relished how everything about the gala screamed expensive. Lifting a flute of champagne from a harried waiter’s tray, she pulled in a meditative breath that relaxed every muscle in her body.
It’s good to be home.
Another tuxedoed waiter paused next to her, offering a tray. Carefully selecting a canapé that didn’t reek of fish, she caught the eye of just the whale she’d snag.
As Alex Drake worked the room, his wandering gaze locked in on Natasha and raked up and down her body. There was no mistaking the hunger in his eyes. Batting her lash extensions, she smiled back.
I’ll be engaged by the end of the week.
Surrounding him were a few social climbers she didn’t recognize, and one guy she did. And that man started heading straight for her. Thinking about how Alex had barked at him, and how he was always on the CEO’s heels, she reconsidered his position.
Must be his personal assistant. What’s his name?
Then Natasha remembered. Pablo.
With a bright smile and a song in his voice, he said, “Mr. Drake would like the pleasure of your company.”
“Of course he would.” Handing the flunky her half-consumed glass of bubbly, she tucked her hair behind an ear and grabbed herself a fresh drink. The look on his face prompted her to explain. “Oh, that’s really good stuff. Don’t worry, I’ll let Big Al know I said it was okay. No need to thank me, Pablo.”
His smile stretched across his face. “How very generous of you, Ms. Taylor.”
Whatever he meant by stressing her supposed last name was something she’d deal with later. A billionaire was waiting for her.
Gliding elegantly toward him, Natasha hoped her upper-crust lineage was unmistakable. And by the looks of Alex’s pearly-white smile, he was all in.
He’s already eating out of my hands. And I haven’t even graced him with a hello.
“Hello.” The sexy timbre of his voice sent a shiver through her. Whatever the hell she was about to say was gone.
“Uh, uh . . . hello.”
He didn’t wait for more words, taking her hand in his. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. Ms. Taylor, is it?”
“Hmm? Oh, uh, yes. That’s me.” Collecting herself, she said, “But you may call me Natasha.”
Alex smiled. “May I? And of course, you know Paco from your waltz in the hall.” He reached out to tilt Paco’s hand, turning the champagne flute just so, as the sugar-berry lip gloss on its rim shimmered.
He has to know it’s expensive.
With a half-cocked smile and a popped brow, Alex asked, “May he call you Natasha too?”
“Huh?” Confused, she looked at the two men, not quite grasping the peculiar intent behind their smiles.
Oh God. Is he proposing a three-way? Not that I’m a prude, or would mind a delectable sample of all this hot and spicy beef, but seriously? Chatting about this . . . out in the open and in front of everyone? How about a little discretion?
“Paco!”
An attractive man with quite the looker on his arm strolled up to clap a hearty pat on Paco’s back. The man was immediately recognizable, and she prayed her gasp was silent.
Trevor Stuart had made her top-ten list of most eligible rich bachelors, but just barely. His gaming company’s banner year jumped him ahead three spaces to a solid number ten—until that very morning, when his engagement was announced.
Natasha’s initial gawking turned to a sneer.
I can’t believe he’s with this fake-boobed bimbo. Ogling the woman’s baseball-sized diamond ring, she redoubled her resolve to have one much bigger on her finger. Soon.
“Trev,” Paco or Pablo said, “this can’t possibly be the woman we’ve heard so much about. Anna Lindsey, your work in robotics precedes you. Alex and I would love to steal you away to the dark side if you’d ever consider leaving the gaming world.”
This dude seriously needs to stop kissing their ass and work on mine. And what’s with Alex and me?
Skeptical, Natasha bounced her gaze between Alex and Paco. They’re definitely weirdly close.