The question is, do I have a personal interest in him?
I turn my attention to the view outside the window, admire the glimmering reflection of the cityscape on the river, and come to terms with the situation. I’m drawn to him in a way I haven’t been drawn to anyone since Cole.
Trace could be both a job and a solution for my loneliness. Maybe we’ll fuck. Maybe we won’t. What’s the worst that could happen? If it gets complicated, I’ll quit the belly dancing gig and focus on teaching and other side jobs.
But before I seriously consider this, I need a better feel for his intentions.
A short walk takes me down the hall and into the only open doorway at the end. Inside a huge lavish office, he sits behind a glass desk with steel supports shaped like mini arches. His attention doesn’t leave the laptop in front of him, his fingers tapping over the keys.
“I’m on to you.” I stroll toward him and circle the desk to stand beside him.
He doesn’t acknowledge me as he sends what appears to be a revised contract to the printer across the room. Seated in a stiff leather chair, he’s almost eye-level with me, his sexy blond hair close enough for the woodsy aroma of his shampoo to reach my nose.
After a few more clicks on the keyboard, he shuts down the laptop and swivels the chair to position his knees on the outsides of mine. “You’re on to me?”
“Sure am.” I cock a hip and hook my thumbs in the back pockets of my jeans. “This thing you’re cooking up between us? With the house visit and the stage in your new restaurant and the obscene salary? It’s more than a business deal.”
He props an elbow on the armrest, rubs his jaw, and stares at me with disinterest. “How does that make you feel emotionally?”
“Emotionally?” I jerk my head back, grappling for what to say. “Do you say random shit just to keep things interesting?”
“Depends. Are you interested?”
He has contempt and sarcasm down to an art, but I think, maybe, this might be his attempt at humor?
“You’re a lot of fun, Trace,” I deadpan. “You’re also strange.” Strange in an elusive, intriguing, I-bet-he’s-kinky-as-hell way. “Did you actually read my counteroffer?”
“I did.” He rolls the chair back, rises to cross the room, and returns with the document from the printer. “I met all your demands except the schedule. I’m not paying you three-hundred grand a year to work two nights a week.”
I choke at the mention of the salary, even though I’m the one who wrote it into the offer. It was just a number I pulled out of my ass. What if I’d asked for more? What’s his breaking point on this deal?
He places the contract on the desk beside me, and there, stated in bold print is his requirement of five nights per week. Wednesday through Sunday. Three to midnight, with a one-hour break.
“I have a busy schedule.” I cross my arms. “I’ll give you two nights.”
“Five nights, and you’ll agree to a one-year contract with the option to renew.” He stands over me by sheer height and taps the signature line on the contract. “Sign here.”
No way in hell will I agree to a year. “Three nights, and you’ll get a two-weeks notice whenever I grow bored of your sparkling personality.”
He clasps his hands behind his back and stares at the document. “Five nights a week, and you can have your two-weeks notice.”
Fuck, how can I turn that down? I pace away from him, walking a circuit through the office as I think.
Who is this man, this modern-day overlord, who sits behind a desk, beckoning people to his presence and casting down hirings and firings? His simple yet luxurious corner office with its gray tones and architecturally-themed lamps and furniture validates his rich and powerful status. But there are no pictures or awards. No memorabilia or framed degrees. Not a trace of the man behind the suit.
“How old are you?” I glance over my shoulder and find him facing the wall of glass that frames the Gateway Arch in the distance.
“Thirty.” He doesn’t look at me, though he can probably see my reflection in the window. “You?”
“Twenty-eight.” I pivot, making my way back to him. “How did you become the owner of…” I wave a hand at the office. “All this?”
“All this?”
“The largest hotel and casino in the Midwest.”
“Wealthy parents.”
I’m not sure what surprises me more—his candidness or the icy chill in his tone.
“Trust fund?” I rest a shoulder against the glass beside him.
“Inheritance. They died a couple of years ago.”
Oh. My chest clenches. “I’m sorry.” I soften my voice. “How did they—?”
“You’ve wasted enough of my time tonight.” He tosses a pen on the desk behind him. “Sign the contract, Danni.”
I suck in a breath. “Don’t do that. If I cross the line with you, just tell me. You don’t have to be a dick about it.”
He bends down, putting his face in mine and forcing my back against the cold window. “You’re having a hard time understanding the roles here, so I’ll make it clear for you.” He brushes his nose through my hair. “You don’t know me, and you’re not going to know me. From this point forward, you’ll do what I say with a great deal more respect than you’ve shown me so far.”
“I don’t know about that last part, but I do know you.” I slide my fingers beneath the lapel of his suit jacket.
“Is that right?” He doesn’t push my hand away and instead rests his weight on an arm braced against the window above my head, his mouth inches from mine.
“Yep.” I tilt my chin up to meet his arctic eyes. “You don’t date or do relationships. You fuck. Then you send them home with a pat on the ass.”
He scowls in a way only he can make look indecent.
“You exude intimidation and upper-class superiority,” I say, “because you want everyone to think you’re aloof and untouchable. And maybe you are.” I push against the rigid wall of his chest. “But being aloof and untouchable is kind of like being an asshole, and that’s not a special trait. The world is overrun with assholes. You don’t have to be smart or wealthy or good-looking to join that club.”
His gaze narrows, cutting like blue lasers. “I know you, too, Danni Angelo.”
“Oh yeah?” I feather my fingers down the buttons of his shirt. “Do tell.”
His eyes follow the movement, one blond brow arrogantly arched. “The only thing you hate more than an asshole is a guy who isn’t an asshole.”
I flatten my spine against the window. “That’s not—”
“Sensitive guys bore you, and their flattery gets them nowhere. Assholes make your pulse race and your panties wet, especially when they tell you when, where, and how hard.”
Heat coalesces between my legs, and my molars crash together. Damn him.
“You’re the kind of dish that looks enticing, smells delicious, and tastes even better.” He gives me a chilly once-over bristling with judgment. “But after a few bites, it festers in the gut like a bad decision.”
An abrasive breath lodges in my throat, and my face tightens. “What’s the matter, Mr. Savoy? Too scared to sample something deep and stimulating for a change?”