Emma Holly (3 page)

"Are you waiting to go in?"

He looked up, slowly, with no expression that she could read, though his furrow remained where it was.

She felt an embarrassing zing when his eyes met hers.

"No," he said in what she thought of as the voice of East Coast privilege. "I'm here to speak to you. Mr.

Green was kind enough to lend me his office. I thought I'd wait for you out here."

She caught her breath without meaning to. The way he spoke, the way he held her gaze, suggested he knew perfectly well who she was. It crossed her mind that this might be some kind of weird setup for asking her on a date—though even she knew that would be out of line. Had he been following her, or was she finally going around the bend? Confused, she jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "I'll, ah, just go in."

She nearly tripped on her heel as she turned.
Geez
, she thought.
Way to convince Mr. Hot you're
completely spastic
.

As if he was too much of a gentleman to notice, Eric reached ahead of her to hold the door. He followed her in and closed it behind them, then took the seat behind Mr. Green's keyhole desk. He didn't look at home exactly, but as if he had the right to take over whatever space he liked. He straightened his tie, shot his expensive cuffs, and spread his hands like starfish on the file that sat dead center on the green felt blotter. All thoughts of inappropriate dating scenarios fled her mind. No way could that file be hers. It was almost two inches thick. Even she couldn't have collected that many complaints in a couple months.

"I thought you were a vendor," she blurted out.

"I work for one of Future-Tech's advisers. Occasionally I deal with personnel. Why don't you take a seat, and I'll tell you what this is about."

"Hoo boy," she said. "It's never good when they tell you to sit down."

To Charity's relief, he smiled. She was used to the suits not getting her sense of humor, not that this made her stop joking.

"I assure you, Ms. Wills," he said, "I haven't called you here for a scold. No one has any complaints about your work."

"They don't?"

He laughed at her automatic doubt. "No, Ms. Wills. In fact, your boss says you're quick, accurate, and let's see—" He referred to the top page of the file: hers, apparently, despite the brevity of her employment. "He mentions you're especially good with visitors."

"That's because they're mostly science guys," Charity said. "They like it when I flirt. A little, you know.

Strictly a little businesslike sort of flirting." Sensing she was digging herself a hole, she tugged her too-short hem. "I could buy longer skirts. Money's been kind of tight, but I wouldn't mind keeping this job if dressing more conservatively would help. I never worked anyplace where I rated an ergonomic chair."

Eric seemed to think this was funny, though her offer was genuine. "You're not being fired! I suspect the people who work here like your skirts just as they are. They're… festive."

"What's this about then? If I'm not being fired or told what to wear…"

He folded his hands on top of her file. Coupled with his suddenly serious expression, the gesture made the skin tighten on her nape. "I hope you'll bear with me," he said, "while I explain the proposition we have in mind."

" 'Proposition'?" Charity's tone was sharpened by the bright red flag that had started waving in her head.

For the first time since they sat, Eric's composure slipped. Wincing briefly, he waved his hand. "We thought you might enjoy a position that utilized your talents a bit more than filing."

Utilizing her talents
didn't sound much better than a
proposition
. Plus, why was he saying
we
? Charity knew she had the kind of looks that made men jump to conclusions—some of which were true. She was curvy and soft and wide-eyed, proud of her glowingly pale skin and her lush, shoulder-length hair. She loved her femininity, seeing it as a stroke of luck that was fun to share. What she didn't love was the suggestion that, because of her looks, she ought to be anybody's fool.

Drawing herself up to her full five foot, five inch height—or as close to it as she could get while sitting down—she prepared to nip this assumption in the bud. "Forgive me if I'm misreading you, but if you're hoping to set me up as some kind of 'escort' to shmooze prospective clients, you can think again. I've left jobs over less than that. And I'm not afraid to sue."

Eric grinned at this, a disconcerting response, to say the least. "I know. That's why we think you're perfect for this position. You're friendly, you're—if you'll pardon my saying so—sexually adventurous but also capable of saying no. Emotionally, you present evidence of being resilient. You seem, so to speak, the captain of your ship. It's all in the file, Charity. Mr. Massey and I were very careful to ensure your fit."

Charity shook her head to see if she could clear it. It was a measure of her befuddlement that his calling her by her first name sidetracked her ability to think most of all. "Dave Massey? The guy who has the cube next to mine?"

"Mr. Massey has a degree in behavioral science," Eric said, as if this excused everything. "And a private investigator's license. Believe me, this file was compiled for your benefit."

"You
were
following me. You're, like, Nutty Stalker Guy."

A hint of color crept up his neck. "I prefer to think of it as being responsible, as you'll see once you hear me out."

Before she could make the crack she sincerely hoped would cut him down to size, he began slipping papers from the file and passing them across the desk. Charity was reminded of a card shark's sleight of hand. Maybe he hoped to distract her from her anger. In truth, she couldn't deny a touch of fascination.

This was like a bad girl's
This Is Your Life
.

"Here's the bit he found about your childhood," he said, tapping a neatly typed report. "Mother unmarried. Father unknown. Various 'uncles' joined your household and moved out. Lived in six states before you were twelve. Mr. Massey theorizes this is the source of your adaptability." A copy of old report cards joined the pile. "Didn't finish high school, but got your GED. Three separate teachers mentioned you were bright but didn't apply yourself. You attended secretarial trade school while working as an exotic dancer. Successfully took one employer to court for sexual harassment. Waitressed briefly.

Took assorted clerical positions where you performed well but refused, in your words, 'to become a corporate drone' and showed, in their words, 'a noticeable lack of interest in moving up.' "

"Those were really boring companies," Charity said in her own defense. "They weren't worth moving up in."

"Exactly." Eric uttered the word with a sincerity and an approval she didn't expect. "What you need is the means to convince someone to hire you to do a job you'll enjoy. For that you'll need a decent education and someone to foot the bill. A Harvard-type education, where your brain will be challenged, where you can find an ambition that will engage you enough to build some security. I think you'd be tired of living like a gypsy."

Charity was too floored to be polite. It took a moment for her to do more than gape. "Are you nuts?"

she demanded once she caught her breath. "Maybe you grew up believing you could be anything you want, but women like me can't get into Harvard."

"You can," he insisted. "Everything I've seen in your record suggests you're not lacking in intelligence.

Yes, you'd need help, but Future-Tech can arrange that. You'd have tutors, mentors, people who could guide you through the different disciplines you might choose."

"And they'd do this because—?"

Eric sighed and put her papers back in a stack. He seemed reluctant to answer. "Are you familiar with the work of B.G. Grantham?"

"I think so. He wrote that
Quantum Quirks
book about time travel and multiple universes, the one everybody bought and nobody read."

He grimaced at her description, but acknowledged she'd remembered right. "What matters to you," he said, "is that B.G. Grantham is the Future-Tech adviser for whom I work. He consults for them—a one-man think tank, you could say. You might not know this, but true creative geniuses, the kind who spur revolutions, are extremely rare. Most scientists need someone else to spark their greatest thoughts.

We stand on the shoulders of giants, as Newton said."

"And B.G. Grantham is a giant?"

"To put it bluntly: yes. Were it not for his contributions to the fields of medical technology, to engineering and computer science, Future-Tech wouldn't have been able to develop half the instruments that make them big profits. Without B.G. Grantham, Future-Tech would be one more victim of the high-tech crash."

"Bummer," she drawled, ignoring the cloud that crossed his face, "especially for the patients who need those pricey doo-dads."

"Better a pricey doo-dad than none at all when it's your only hope. I mean no offense when I say this, but B.G. Grantham has helped more people in the last five years than you or I will in our whole lives."

Charity couldn't argue the likelihood of that. She gripped the arms of her chair. "Let me get this straight.

You want me to sleep with this Einstein whose brain is saving the world."

"No." Eric's graceful hands flattened on the blotter. "If that were all there was to it, we wouldn't require a candidate with your spirit."

"O-kay," said Charity, feeling like Alice down the rabbit hole. "Then what do you want me for?"

"I want you to cede to my boss the responsibility for fulfilling your sexual needs—or deferring them, as the case is likely to be. I want you to let him rule your pleasure." Eric leaned earnestly over the desk to explain. "B.G. is obsessed with the lure of things that seem out of reach. The Theory of Everything. The meaning of life. The mysteries of the human soul. Most of all, he's fascinated by the way denial whets longing, especially in people with well-developed erotic imaginations."

"I might have
imagination
, as you put it, but whatever you might think, I haven't been swinging from the chandeliers!"

"It's your potential to swing that interests him. If you'd been everywhere he hopes to take you, he'd miss half his fun."

Such passion to convince suggested—to Charity, at least—that Eric was hiding a catch. "Is he hideous?"

"Not at all. He's quite attractive. My age. Perfectly fit." His discomfort at admitting this snagged Charity's interest. Was the golden boy secretly bent? With a tug at his collar, he continued hurriedly. "He couldn't play these games as well as he does if he weren't appealing. Your desire is his prize, Ms. Wills. However he can elicit it, he will. He finds the challenge refreshing, says it clears his mind of scientific obsessions.

Then, when he returns to work, he's renewed."

Charity rubbed her face, wondering how a silver-spoon prince like Eric came to be selling this patch of swamp. Unless she missed her mark, his world was maids and polo ponies and holidays in the Hamptons with an ever-so-tastefully screwed-up family. She squashed the temptation to ask if his parents knew about his job. His background was none of her business. She might be pretty, but a girl like her would never be more than a walk on the wild side to a man like him.

Sighing, she sagged back in her chair. "This is the craziest thing I ever heard."

"I expect it seems that way," Eric agreed. "But think of the adventure. Plus, you really might be saving the world. It's not every twenty-four-year-old who can say that."

Charity's laugh was only half dismissive. "What if I don't like him? What if he does something that scares me?"

"I doubt he would. B.G.'s not dangerous the way you mean. But if you wanted, we'd cart you back and pay you just like I said. Tuition to wherever you like, plus all the bells and whistles. You wouldn't have to study science, either. I'm sure Future-Tech would like to hire you, but they have jobs for all sorts of skills."

"Harvard, huh?"

"Yale's nice, too, or Stanford… if you can stand the Californians."

Charity suppressed a smile. East Coast transplant or not, Eric Berne was enough of a Seattleite to enjoy bashing their neighbors. "You really think I can do this?"

"I think the chance to turn your life around is worth a very serious try."

He probably didn't
realize
he was insulting her by suggesting she hadn't been trying all along. He probably thought she ought to be flattered by this offer. She was flattered, but that didn't mean she couldn't also be mad.

"Stupid rich kids get through college all the time," he said more persuasively. "Their parents' money and clout ensures it. Why shouldn't a smart girl like you claim their advantages for yourself?"

That this was more flattery, she had no doubt. When she thought about it, though, why shouldn't she go to college? At the least, she'd prove she wasn't afraid. So she'd have to play footsie with some eccentric brainiac. For all she knew, it might be fun.

She'd never met a genius before.

"All I have to do is meet this guy?"

"All you have to do is meet him. We've even put it in writing." Smiling, Eric pulled a contract from beneath her file, then set a slim silver pen on top. "Just sign your name and claim a new future."

The fact that he was prepared gave Charity pause.

"Huh," she said. "I think I'd better read this first."

The rules seemed simple enough. She'd have a keeper—an erotic manservant, it sounded like—who'd relay the wishes of the mysterious Mr. Grantham and keep her in sensual tune. Punishments would be imposed for infractions, but no harm—physical or otherwise—would be done. She'd be given pleasure or refused it at a whim. If at any time she became uncomfortable with what was asked, she had only to tell her keeper and he'd whisk her home safe and sound and, most important, paid in full.

The same confidentiality agreement she'd signed on joining Future-Tech finished out the contract. That was fine with her. With her past, Charity understood the value of not blabbing everything.

"So basically," she said, rubbing her temple in bemusement, "we're talking chains but no whips?" When Eric nodded, she released her breath. "You know, your boss really has this company over a barrel, getting them to facilitate all this stuff."