Arab royalty and it was just a reflex? This place was too much. My vague, dim memories of my father's offices were of stately grandeur, not spartan modernity or spa-weekend getaway gaudiness.
"Ms Dare," the man said. "You may call me Arthur. Mr Waters is waiting for you inside." And he gestured to the right, at a pair of double doors, the twins of the doors on the left.
Butterflies raged in my stomach but I lifted my chin. I was not going to be cowed. "That's tits," I said. I had the satisfaction of his startled face as I swept by him and through the doors.
Another small foyer waited behind the doors. This space was decorated much more sparingly, with a large aquarium full of brightly coloured fish and a few zen fountains dotting the corners and walls. Two grand doors of frosted glass stood in the centre of the wall across from me. A small, understated name plaque simply said, 'Waters.'
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Anton Waters stood behind his desk staring out at the New York skyline from one of the windows. He turned when I entered and watched as I marched to the centre of his office.
I didn't even look around. I'd seen his face everywhere in the past few years, and he was, depressingly, just as stunning in person as he was on magazine covers. His dark hair was a perfectly coiffed mess, and his vivid green eyes were visible even from across the room. The light fell on them beautifully, as though the whole world were set up to highlight his incredible looks. High-cut cheekbones framed a straight, powerful nose, but his lips were full and sensuous. He had a chin you could cut diamonds with. And, judging from his comfortable and yet oh-so-GQ attire, he had the body to go with it.
I hated him on sight. For guys like Anton Waters, the earth was a photography studio, not a planet, and everyone was a sycophant telling him to make love to the camera. My first thought was, Man, I'm going to hate this guy.
Unfortunately for me, my second thought was, Holy shit, he's hot.
Even more, unfortunately, my third thought was, Those are some tips you could ride until morning.
Goddamn hormones. I hadn't gotten laid in six months since I broke up with Steele—no, that hadn't been his real name and yes, he had been just as much of a douche as you would expect from a guy who willingly called himself Steele—and it was showing.
I crossed my arms. "So what's this about us getting married?" I demanded. He stared at me and didn't react.
My words seemed to fall to the floor between us, clattering like spilt silverware. The longer he stared, the more I realized that he was no ordinary handsome man. Even from across the room I could feel the magnetic charge he gave out. It was terrifying, intense, turbulent. The force of his personality far outweighed his beautiful face, even when he wasn't even moving.
This was a man who could rule the world if he wanted to. You know. Like the antichrist.
Finally, he smiled faintly. "Hello, Miss Dare," he said.
Vaguely, I wished I'd been sitting down. His voice was like... something sinful. Deep. If he'd been singing, he might have reached the great depths of a basso profundo. It was the kind of voice you could turn up loud and then sit on your speakers too. Not, of course, that I'd ever done that...
Oh, fine. When it's three in the morning and you've had too many PBRs everything is a great idea, okay? And if I'd had his voice stowed away in a little file on my computer, I'd have played that damn thing on repeat for an hour.
I shook myself, trying to focus. "Yeah," I said. "Hello." I forced myself to look away from him and tried to concentrate on studying in his office.
Except there was nothing in it. There was only his desk with his chair and his computer at one end of the room, and just to my left, two sofas arranged across from each other with a spartan coffee table between them. The only nod to individuality he seemed to have given was another small fountain sitting on the coffee table, the water running over carefully placed river stones.
A small, hysterical part of myself wanted to laugh. Waters! it said, and I had the sudden, wild idea that Anton Waters was just like poor, dumb old Steele, except with actual charisma. He'd chosen a name for himself—a far better name
—and gone out to conquer the world. The fountains were a hint to anyone keen enough to decipher them.
No, that's stupid. I was almost afraid to look back at him, but I did it anyway.
He hadn't moved. He was still staring at me with that faint smile on his face.
I never had known when to keep my mouth shut. "Looking's free," I snapped, "but touching will cost you."
Slowly, deliberately, he tilted his head. "Nothing is free," he said.
If he had been any other person, the words would have been laughable, comical, a real human being trying to sound like a Bond villain, but the way he said it, his entire demeanour, screamed that he had given those words serious thought and he had said them because of a long struggle to find the truth.
I swallowed and tried to stay calm. Against my will, my heart was picking up speed. For a second I couldn't quite understand why, but then he broke out of his stillness.
Slowly, he rounded the desk and walked toward me. His gait was graceful and flowing. Like a predator. Like water.
I stood my ground as he approached and forced myself to remember just what I was here for. I was pretty sure it wasn't sex. What was it again?
Oh yeah. This guy wanted to buy me.
That thought cut through the strange spell he seemed to have placed on me, and for a brief second, I was able to distance myself from the situation and break free of his gravitational pull.
"God, you're rude," I said. "You want to marry me and you haven't even asked me to sit down. Usually, guys try to get me drunk first."
The only reaction he had to my words was a slight tightening around the eyes. When he got to the place where most people stop and respect personal space, he took two more steps.
He was tall. He loomed over me, and his scent filled my head. It was cool and calm, like ice, but underneath it, there was the subtle, rich tang of his skin.
The smell of a man.
My heart, already doing double time, picked up the pace. My blood rose.
His body was only inches from mine. If my tits had been bigger I could have inhaled deeply and brushed them against his chest.
This is not going well, I thought, but it was a fuzzy thought. Slippery. Hard to hold on to. Other thoughts were coming to the fore, thoughts like, kiss him! and grab his crotch!
Not helpful.
The faint smile returned, and he lifted an arm. For a split second, I thought he was going to crush me on him and my heart leapt.
But he only gestured toward the couches off to my left. "Please," he said. "Sit."
Man, I thought. I hate him.
I whirled in place, making sure to give him a good smack with my shoulder—not in a sexy way, but in a good old you're-in-my-way-asshole way— and stomped to the couch. The effect was somewhat marred by the gasp I had to stifle; the touch of his body on mine sent electric shocks through me.
I hate him.
I made sure to flop down on his perfectly appointed couch without ceremony, and propped one of my flip-flop-clad feet on the table. My chipped toenail polish was, I thought, a nice touch. Subtly, I squirmed, hoping to grind dried clay into the fabric.
Anton Waters didn't even move. He stood in the centre of his office, regarding me coolly.
"Aren't you going to sit down?" I asked him.
"Yes," he said, but he didn't. He tilted his head, studying me. I sat on his couch, feeling awkward and horny. At last, he seemed to be satisfied and walked over.
However, instead of sitting on the opposite couch, he sat down next to me and crossed his legs, exposing the fine, well-made lines of his suit pants. He was close to me. Too close. I didn't want to shift away and show him he made me uncomfortable—in more ways than one—so I busied myself with fishing the contract from my purse.
"So what's this?" I said. I brandished the contract at him like a knife. It would have been far more effective if he'd been sitting across from me, like a normal person. Instead, I sort of had to flap it under his nose.
That faint smile creased his face again, and he turned, propping one arm up on the back of the couch in an overly intimate manner, and tilted his head again.
"It is a marriage contract," he said. "I thought your father would have told you that much."
Oh my god. He was infuriating. And sexy. The heat of his body radiated across the small space between us. My shoulder nearly brushed his chest, and I wished I had worn a thin skirt, because I was almost positive his knee was touching mine, but my clay-stained jeans were too thick to feel it. My knee tingled anyway, sending shivers up my leg. They wrapped around and under, curling at the hot apex of my thighs.
I did my best to push the feeling away. "Yeah, I know that, but why?"
He shrugged. "I would like a wife," he said.
"And you're willing to take on my father's bad debt for it?"
He pursed his lips, a gesture too delicious to not be purposeful. Which, of course, didn't stop my gaze from being drawn to them. I wanted to run my tongue against the seam of his mouth and tease it open, snake my tongue inside and do battle with his. Unconsciously, I found myself licking my lips as I stared at his face. When I realized what I was doing I stuffed my tongue back behind my teeth and raised my eyes.
He stared back at me, cool and knowing. "Your father's debt," he said, "is not insurmountable. His company is still worth something in name and... contacts." Almost absently he reached out and took the contract from me, angling his wrist so that his fingers slid over mine. Over the sudden sound of my blood pounding in my ears I heard myself gasp.
Deliberate and controlled. That's what he was. He laid the contract on the table and turned back to me. His gaze drifted up to my hair, a messy bird's nest of dark chestnut curls that I could never tame, and settled for piling on top of my head in the most haphazard manner possible. One hand reached out and teased a curl from the mess I'd pinned it into today.
I should have stood up and walked away. I should have slapped him. I should have screamed.
Instead, I let him. Boy was that dumb.
His fingers twined around the lock of hair. It was as though he were twisting me around his fingers, up and over and under. My skin burned and my lips—both pairs—were swollen and aching for his kiss. I tried to think through the desire unfurling in my belly.
"So... you get my father's company and me. I, uh, I mean... it, uh, seems like a guy like you would have no trouble... whoah!"
Anton Waters had leaned in and buried his nose in my hair. This was a little too far, even for me.
I staggered to my feet, snatching the contract from the table. "What do you think you're doing?" I demanded.
For the first time, he seemed vaguely surprised. "Seeing if we are sexually compatible," he said, as though this were obvious.
"That's presumptuous of you. I haven't even said I would marry you yet!" I exclaimed. My legs trembled and I wished I could sit down again, but I didn't want to show weakness.
A faint line appeared between his brows as he frowned. "But why would you agree to marriage if you did not desire me sexually?" he said. Like he was a fucking robot. A fucking hot robot. "It seems wise to get such things out of the way, to begin with before anyone makes a decision they regret." He lifted his chin and ran his eyes over me appraisingly. I felt his gaze like a blowtorch, blasting away my resistance, exposing my skin, melting my bones. "I believe we would do quite well in that regard."
I didn't want to think about this man desiring me. No, I didn't let myself think about it. It was too tempting. I had to stay focused on my goal. Which was... what again?
"Wait... why do you want an arranged marriage? You could get any woman you wanted." Yeah. That was my biggest problem with this whole thing. God, I was an idiot. But at least it was a question and not me ripping all his clothes off.
He shrugged. "I do not require love or emotional attachment," he said. "But a wife—as outlined in the contract—would be ideal for my personal needs."
I hadn't read the contract. I didn't need to. There was no way I would marry this guy.
"What made you think I would agree to this?" I said.
He raised his brows. "I believe you can evaluate the benefits for yourself," he said. "There are generous clauses within the contract for your use."
Rage bubbled up in me. "Fuck you," I said. "Like I would ever get married for money. My father had money, and it left my mother with nothing."
The vague smile returned. "Not money for you, Miss Dare. Money for certain... pet causes of yours."
My breath caught. "What?" I said. "How could you know anything about
me?"
"I know a lot about you," he said in that same cool tone. "I know you
enjoy knitting but abandon your projects frequently. I know you sometimes leave very cruel anonymous comments on other artists' websites. I know you often feel bad enough to go back and anonymously attack your criticisms. And I also know you recently posted the phrase 'eat the rich in response to the latest financial crisis on a certain left-leaning website."
My face burned. "Wh—what? You've been... checking up on me?"
The barest expression of confusion flitted across his face, as though he could not comprehend why I would ask such a question. "Of course," he said. "If we are to wed, I should know the sort of person I will be marrying."
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. What else did he know? What was he
not telling me?
Anton Waters could see right through me. He knew everything.
He knew it, too. I could see it in his eyes as he stood lazily and walked toward me.
"Of course, you would have all the time in the world to work on your artwork, as well. No more working as a bartender. No more taking gifts from your mother. No more shoving your creations down a flight of stairs because you have to move and can't afford to take the big pieces with you."
My chest constricted. That had only happened once. But it had hurt. Oh, it had hurt.
He drew closer and closer and I backed up until I hit the floor to ceiling window behind me and flattened myself against the glass.
He reached out, running a finger over my cheek, down my throat, down between the valley of my breasts.
"There are a few small clauses in the contract that I thought you might find... distasteful," he said. His voice had taken an almost dreamy quality, but I could barely hear him over the roar of blood in my head. "But given how much you want me, I don't think that will be a problem."
How much do you want me? Yes, I did. Oh god, more than I had ever wanted anyone. If kissed me, I was sure I would spontaneously combust.
"I don't want you," I said. Even to my ears, I could hear my throaty arousal.
His lashes fluttered. His finger travelled across my breast, and when it found my nipple, he rested his thumb and forefinger around it.
"What did you say?" he asked me.