Page 28 of Dirty Damage

“My den,” he tacks on like it’s an afterthought.

Of course it is.

As I take a second pass over the room, I see the framed pictures between the windows. Women in various states of undress—tasteful enough to be called art, explicit enough to make my cheeks burn.

No need to ask what he gets up to in “his den.”

I tear my gaze away, latching onto the marble chess set in the corner. No one can make chess sexy. I tip my head towards it. “You play?”

“Would I have a set if I didn’t?”

I meet his eyes, refusing to be ruffled. “Probably. Rich people have a lot of things they don’t use. They just like to possess them.”

His eyebrow lifts, and suddenly, those scars seem a lot more threatening. They transform his face from merely intimidating to downright dangerous.

Reality crashes in.

I’m trapped on water with a stranger who could easily buy his way out of murder charges.

I need to watch my mouth.

“How long are we going to be out here?” I blurt through a nervous laugh. “I have plans. Dinner plans. With… a man.”

His pause before responding tells me he sees right through my lie. “Not long. Don’t worry, I’ll get you back in time for dinner with… ‘a man.’”

Shame flares bright and hot inside of me again, so I decide to cut to the chase. “Do you really have a job to offer me, or is this some twisted joke?”

“No joke. I’m serious about the job.”

“Then why are we having this interview in the middle of the ocean?”

“I wanted privacy.”

Heat floods my face as realization dawns. Play stupid games, like showing your tits to your boss, and you win stupid prizes, like him thinking you’re a sure thing.

The erotic art suddenly feels less artistic and more like a warning sign.

This isn’t a den.

It’s a seduction chamber.

“Privacy only requires a closed door at the office.”

A sharp smile cuts across his face. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to show your face there so soon after your exhibitionist little stunt.”

Ouch. I walked right into that one.

But I refuse to let him shame me into his bed.

Even if a traitorous part of me wouldn’t mind recreating a few positions from the pictures on the walls.

The damaged part of me whispers:What’s the harm? It’s just sex. No one has to know. Not Mara. Not Sydney. Just another secret to bury.

ButIwould know. I’d know I’m no better than my mother—another Palmer woman trying to fix bad choices with worse ones.

“Whatever the job is, I’m not interested. Take me back.”

He doesn’t even blink. “You haven’t heard my offer yet.”

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