Page 8 of Bait Me
“Do I get to know who the client is?” she asks.
“No. Not the first time, not until you sign the contract on arrival.”
“Shouldn’t I sign that before I go?” Smart woman. Smart mouth.
“Usually, yes, but you haven’t agreed to anything yet,” I fire back.
“So if I sign the contract before Friday, I can know who it is?”
“Absolutely.” I can see how much she wants to do this. No sex required, one hundred thousand for a weekend of company… it’s got to be more than fucking tempting. It’s why I made it that way, for fuck’s sake.
Minutes tick by before she says, “You got the contract?”
I produce it from the inside of my jacket and hold it out to her, unwavering as she takes it and moves to the kitchen counter, where she proceeds to read it as I wait patiently, hands in pockets, watching her, waiting for her to just get a pen and sign on the line already.
“Is this real?” she asks when she gets to the last page. “I mean, it all seems too good to be true, to be honest.”
“It’s all real, Bonnie, I would never lie to you,” I tell her honestly, the tension as she looks deep into my eyes crackling around us.
“Pen,” she says, and again I reach inside my jacket and produce a pen, walking to her slowly, handing it over, making sure my fingers touch her so she can feel that fucking zing that I feel. And with a deep breath, she returns her attention to the page in front of her, the one where she signs her name and hands it back to me, where I pocket it for safe keeping.
“So, whose the client?” she asks cockily, and this is the part where I smirk, because I’m about to shock the shit out of her and commit her reaction to memory.
And with a one-word reply, I simply tell her, “Me.”
Chapter Seven
BONNIE
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Going for a weekend with my sister’s ex. For money. I must be nuts.
But even as I push down the guilt I’m feeling, I can’t help the excitement I feel, the curiosity, the want to spend more time with him, a man who is a total mindfuck.
When he told me that the client was him, I nearly fainted, the shock rendering me speechless as he then outlined what I had already read in the contract. A car would pick me up, take me to the destination, drop me off, where I would be met by a doorman and then taken to the relevant room to stay in for two nights.
And here I am, standing outside the penthouse door, with a keycard in my hand, working up the courage to put the keycard in the door and walk in like I know what the hell I’m doing. I don’t why I need to try and act like I know, because I don’t, and this is all new to me, which Darius is aware of, but fuck, I want to feel like I have some kind of power in this scenario.
“One hundred thousand, no expectations,” I whisper to myself, and with that thought in mind, I push the keycard in the door and open it, walking in and then whispering, “No turning back now.”
The penthouse is exactly as you would imagine—plush, unnecessary elegance that probably cost more than my paycheck for this weekend. But it’s his money, so who am I to question how much he spends.
I place my bag down and walk over to a side table that has a glass of champagne sat on it. I down the thing in one, moving my neck from side to side to loosen up a bit. The champagne will help, I’m sure, after a couple more.
Walking over to the other side of the room, I admire the view, taking in the city buildings below. This penthouse is fucking high, so high that as I walk out onto the balcony and look down, the people look like little dots moving about. Jesus. I’m in a whole other world.
“Good evening.”
I whirl around, his voice running over me like silk, and my eyes take in the fact that he’s wearing grey trousers and a black shirt, which is open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And I already know that I am so fucking screwed.
“Hi,” is my feeble reply. I stop myself from rolling my eyes, but internally I cringe. Fucking hi?
“Have you eaten?” Darius asks, and I shake my head. “Come, we’ll order some food.” I follow him back inside, reluctant to leave the balcony as the sun beams down, the last rays of the day getting ready to disappear as night starts to draw in.
“Pick anything you want,” he says as he hands me a menu that he seemed to produce from thin air. “Or I can order a few things if you prefer, and we can share?”
“Sounds good,” I say, because I have no idea what to pick, what to do, how to act, and I feel so out of my depth here.
“Relax, Bonnie. This isn’t a death sentence,” he says, and I can’t help but scoff. “It’s not meant to be a form of torture, you know?”
