Page 8 of Never Say Yes To Your Boss

Chapter four

Everleigh

What was I thinking? A million dollars is already a crazy amount. Why was I adding more to that?

In all fairness, it’s no less than his asshat, scheming, lying, horrible, two-timing, poo pants of a brother deserves but instead, it's going to cost his maybe not-so-bad brother. I’m still undecided on the not-so-bad part. I’ve been whisked away on a private jet to a location I still am unsure about, and my phone is nowhere in sight. I’m in a palatial room that is dripping in opulence, from the dark burgundy wallpaper to the plush rugs on the wide plank hardwood floors to the wainscoting and crown molding and fancy chandelier. All this for a bedroom, and one the house’s main occupant clearly doesn’t even use. The furniture, if sold, could probably pay for six months to a year of all our household bills combined.

We’ll discuss it at dinner.

That’s what Darius said when I’d asked for two million. I just pulled that number out of my ass because I was pissedand it sounded good to say. His lips had twitched, and then he instructed his goon of the month to untie me. When I saw the smile he was trying to hide, I knew I should have asked for more. The guy probably makes a million dollars a freaking minute or some crap I can’t comprehend.

And the worst part? I’ve been up here brooding about it for a few hours now, alone, without my phone or anything to do but worry. And think about my captor. I mean husband of convenience. He’s freaking handsome as sin—okay, his arm being all operated on and painful and scarred and sad-looking kind of makes me feel for him, but that’s neither here nor there—and richer than god. What the heck have I gotten myself into?

Even worse, when I got bored and started to explore the room, I found a dresser as well as a huge walk-in closet full of clothes, and they were all in my size. I suppose Bradford Asshole Lion the Turd filled his brother in, and he had someone do some personal shopping ahead of time.

Which was kind of nice of him, I guess.

I’d like to thwart him by not wearing any of it, but I don’t want to have dinner in the gauzy wedding dress from earlier. I say earlier because I have no idea what time it is or how long I’ve been out for. I want to say a few hours, but that would make it the middle of the night. Do people have dinner in the early hours of the morning? I freaking hope so because I’m starved. After I got over the shaking, the aching head, and the nasty tumbling tummy from the chloroform, I realized I was starving.

I’m feeling more than good enough now that I’m able to pick out a comfy-looking, flowy black dress that goes to my knees and a black cardigan that lands almost in the same spot. Next, I choose a pair of fuzzy pink slippers as a bit of a middle finger, and afuck no, I’m not getting dressed up for this.

Then, I wait.

And wait.

Until finally, someone knocks at the door, and I hear it being unlocked because, yes, the goon locked me in here after he and Darius left. When the door opens, it’s said goon with all his tattoos and bulk and scariness that he’s perfected.

He gives me an approving once over and grins when he notes my choice of footwear. I think he actually likes the fuzzy pink, damn it.

“Dinner be ready. If you’d like to come and eat, my lady.”

I huff back a sigh. I’m so not rising to that. Not sure what’s up with the accents, but it’s probably yet another tool to throw people off or drive them crazy. I’m not even sure what that one was. Middle ages something or other? I let my fuzzy pink slippers lead me out of the room as I follow behind the big hulking figure.

I’ve managed not to shed a single tear about this whole bait-and-switch and basically being kidnapped thing, which is a marvel. At least I won’t be going to the middle-of-the-night dinner with swollen eyes. I’m going to need to be tough to bargain. Everyone underestimated me, but maybe that’s a good thing. I can use it to my advantage. I can drive a hard deal even in fuzzy pink slippers.

The house is a maze of doors and wainscoting, dark colors, fancy artwork, heavy drapery, chandeliers, and more artwork. It’s exactly like what I thought it would be—a fortress. But not like the rocky, craggy kind of castle-style fortress. No, it’s the kind of fourteen to twenty-million-dollar house that is extremely old school and built in another century. It’s the kind of place that probably does have stone on the outside, and on the inside, it has at least forty-three rooms.

The dining room is its own entity, with more dark colors, two huge chandeliers that are blindingly bright for my poor head, which still hasn’t quite fully recovered, and a table that is hewn from approximately sixty-eight trees, with at least as manychairs around it. At the head of it all, there are two places set, with one dark-haired gorgeous mystery of a devil sitting like a regal king, straight-backed and dressed entirely in black, and one hulking brute positioning himself next to him.

The place beside Darius is obviously mine. It’s the one thing in this place that might actually belong to me. He owns everything else. Everything that I see and touch. And now, by marriage and by merits of the money already in my bank account, he owns part ofme.

If I were a child, I would take the place setting, move it down a good ten chairs, stick my tongue out, and pretend I couldn’t hear a thing that was being said. But I’m not a child, and I need to bargain. It’s up to me to save my family since I’m already screwed. The time for doubts and regrets is over, and I have to make my case.

I sit down on the chair the brute pulls out—at least he has nice manners. There are two covered domed trays on the table. Yes, for real. The wine is already poured—a dark red one—so I’m not surprised when I lift the cover to find a steak that takes up most of the plate and is thicker than my foot. The rest of the plate is heaped with long spears of asparagus and baby potatoes roasted in some kind of delicious-smelling herbs. My stomach chooses that exact moment to rumble loudly, betraying the fact that I have been too much of a wreck to eat anything all day.

“So…” I pick up the steak knife and the ridiculously heavy and likely very expensive fork and start sawing away at the steak. I’m one of those people who needs to cut the whole thing up before I eat even a single bite. I concentrate on that task so I don’t have to look up at the dark stranger who is my husband. But, after a long pause, I break and sneak a glance. “About that million dollar…”

A blink. There’s no smile of amusement, but there is laughter in his tone. Not mocking me. “Two million. You’re set on that, then?” He sounds like he really wants to know.

I grasp my fork tight, and the handle of the knife bites into my opposite palm. I’m holding it too tight, holding on for dear life. “Absolutely. I think I’m worth it. Judging from this place, the fact that you have a private jet, and the damage I could do to your family’s reputation if I don’t keep my mouth shut about what your brother did and how you drugged me and brought me here, I’d say the number is quite reasonable.” I can’t ask for more now. I just can’t. Two million dollars. That figure already makes my head swim. It’s the kind of money that makes it so a person has to worry about very little in life.

I inhale deeply, more for courage than to relieve my lungs, but I don’t smell the steak, wine, or dinner. I smellhim. Clean, fresh, and manly. He doesn’t smell like a rich person. Not like Bradford did. My heart pulses so fast that it hurts. I don’t want to think about Bradford. Gross. I can’t believe I ever had a crush on him. That I ever thought he was a white freaking knight. He’s more like a turd on a stead. I focus on Darius instead. I have to admit, he’s much more captivating.

Get a grip and cut your steak. Steak is good, while Darius Anderson is bad news. He kidnapped you, and his brother tricked you. Don’t forget that. Don’t feel sorry for him. Don’t feel anything.

I work at the meat, sawing, sawing, sawing, all while I get tingles in my posterior because, of course, I’m nervous. I note that under this lighting, which happens to be a series of huge, ornate old fixtures, my assumptions about Darius’ eyes in the church were correct. They’re just a very dark brown, and they even have a few specks of gold.

My mind gets away from me a little. I always kind of wondered what Bradford would look like without a shirt on, and that one gets chalked up and written into the books of everlasting shame, but I know what Darius looks like. I know what that admission cost him, yet he still showed me. He’s tall and muscled, hisbody carved in the gym for entirely different reasons than most people. There are two sides to him, one perfect and the other flawed, but both chiseled.

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