Page 19 of Toy Shop

Alistair doesn’t care for my resolve, yanking my forgotten sex drive to the surface, forcing me to face them one after the other.

“I haven’t.”

“Don’t tell me you’re slacking already.” His eyes glimmer. “I’d hate to have to punish you.”

I whimper. In a conference room of a highly respectable company. With the CEO. And I fucking whimpered.

“Do you have a shift today?” He keeps eyeing me like I’m his favorite meal.

“No.”

“Hmm.” And a smirk is all he lets on.

The observant, heated glare lasts another minute, cutting my blood circulation and my breathing abilities.

Alistair severs the weighty silence. He fishes out his phone out of his pant pocket, tapping while talking, “You’ll have your class. Tonight. My driver, Jeremiah, will park outside your building at ten.”

A looming, creepy sensation courses through me. “Wait, how do you have my address?”

He slides my resume across the table. Ugh, great job, hormones for making me look stupid. It’s there, black letters on the white paper under my name. Whatever brilliancy I exhibited in the interview is nonexistent when I’m this little, inexperienced girl engaging with him.

“Right.” My shoulders slouch, and I half-turn to the door, needing the space to regroup and for him to forget I’m an airhead.

Alistair’s smirk morphs into a warm smile as he rounds the table, and I pause, gazing at him. He stands close, but not too close, his speech a soothing balm to the rage of insecurities assaulting me.

“You’re adorable, and I’m fucking flattered that you care about my opinion. Here, you don’t need to worry about that. I see your worth. Where you should be concerned, though, is at my place tonight.”

“Um…” I fumble.

Alistair opens the door for me, his voice low for my ears alone. “See you later.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Nola

For this evening, Alistair hasn’t instructed me what to wear. I take the liberty of going for a badass chick look, determined to show up like I at least have some sort of clue. With my black, skin-tight tank top, black faux-leather leggings, and matching biker boots, I just might.

“Good evening, Miss Vickers.” A tall, middle-aged man waits on the pavement, holding the back door of a slick black Bugatti. For me. “My name is Jeremiah. I’ll be escorting you to Mr. Cromwell’s house tonight.”

“Nice to meet you.” I pause, my eyes skating to the shop behind me.

Rhodes’s tall figure appears out of Toy Shop as soon as I glance in that direction, according to plan. Alistair hasn’t given me a reason to mistrust him; the world has. His public persona and wealth aren’t sufficient comfort for me to head to his home blindly.

There isn’t a shortage of celebrities and billionaires who have kidnapped or tortured women. That’s why I disclosed everything to Rhodes, including Alistair’s name.

My friend aims his no-bullshit stare at Jeremiah, pulling out his cell phone. “Hi, my name is Rhodes, Nola’s friend. Where exactly it is you’re taking her?”

Jeremiah isn’t fazed, nor does he sound on the defense. “As I said to Ms. Vickers, to Mr. Cromwell’s residence.”

“See, that’s not what I asked.” Rhodes meanders to the back of the limo, snapping pictures of the plates. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

The driver’s lips tug at the side, a slight twitch. “Oh, of course. Mr. Cromwell instructed me to reassure you your safety won’t be jeopardized by any means you’d request, including handing off his address to a person you trust, should you ask for it.”

“We do.” Rhodes folds his arms over his chest.

Jeremiah turns to him, rattling out the home address in Medina.

Umm, shit. Not that I haven’t expected a billionaire living among other tech billionaires, but still. It’s weird. Then again, what isn’t about this whole situation?

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