Page 110 of The Billionaires

Which I’m totally not.

It’s the puppy. It has to be.

Said puppy wags his adorably bushy tail. I crouch and give him another belly rub, whispering, “It’s not your fault your daddy is a monster.”

A monster who needs to be told off.

I get my note out and review the most salient points.

Yeah. Here we go. No more indecisiveness.

As soon as Roxford comes back, I’m going to hit him with my words.

Then again, maybe I should locate him right now, rip his phone from his hands, and let him have it. Alternatively, I could tape this note to the front door and skedaddle. Or even take the job and?—

A clearing of a throat brings me back to Earth.

Damn him. Even his stupid throat is hot—all muscly, sinewy, and with a prominent Adam’s apple that just begs you to give it a lick or a nibble.

“Here.” He steps so close to me that a hint of lemongrass and lime pleasantly tickles my nostrils. “Since I was in my office, I printed the contract you are to sign. Assuming you find the rate acceptable.”

I scan the stack of papers he’s handed to me until my eyes land on said rate, at which point I nearly drop the document.

Given Roxford’s propensity to throw people out of their homes, I assumed he’d be cheap, offering minimum wage at best. But I was wrong.

Veterinarians don’t get paid this much. Neither do gynecologists, urologists, or proctologists. Nor high-end escorts… as far as I know.

It’s the kind of money where I’d be an idiot not to at least consider forgetting why I actually came here—and most of my other scruples and principles as well.

No. What am I thinking? I can’t possibly train the puppy of the man responsible for the loss of my childhood home. That would be like sleeping with Hitler. Or bathing Putin. Or clipping Mel Gibson’s toenails.

But the money…

And there’s no sleeping with or bathing the enemy involved…

Unless… wait a sec. Going back to escorts and proctologists, is it possible he’s expecting something from me that isn’t puppy training? Or at least not the kind of puppies I normally work with? I’ve heard there’s such a thing as BDSM puppy play…

Holy crap. Is this why this is a live-in position with a contract?

Is this mansion where his Red Room of Pain is?

How insulting… and yet bizarrely tempting.

No, not tempting. Disgusting—that’s what I meant.

Although, come to think of it, there’s a real Chihuahua puppy in front of me, so?—

“Well?” he demands, narrowing his icy eyes. “Does this work for you?”

“The pay seems reasonable,” I manage to squeeze out. “But—so there’s no misunderstanding—what services do you expect from me in return?”

He looks at Colossus. “I want him to earn the dog equivalent of a PhD in Rocket Science… from Harvard.”

“You mean, turn him into a service dog?”

Why is a part of me disappointed about the lack of sketchy sexual favors?

Roxford gives me a look that implies I’m a total idiot. “What kind of a service dog could a tiny creature like Colossus become?”

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