Entry-Level Mistress (3 page)

I must have looked like some anime figure at that moment with comically wide eyes.
Kiss me?

All right, then. There really wasn’t a simple explanation for
that
.

The afternoon at work was painful and Happy Hour at the Belmont was an exercise in modern torture. Even if there weren’t the uncomfortable “elephant in the room” of my lunch with the company CEO, I wouldn’t have enjoyed the scene. Crowded, a smoky haze obscuring the no-smoking signs, and loud. Eyes darting every which way, despite conversations supposedly so engaging that they elicited piercing laughter. It wasn’t just a “meet market”; it was a “meet market” with ambition.

James stared at me, acted as though he were going to speak, but then kept shutting his mouth. Clearly he wasn’t finding a casual enough way to ask, “Hey, do you know Mr. Hartmann or did he ask you to lunch ’cause you’re hot?” Well, maybe James wouldn’t phrase it quite that way. “’Cause you’re hot,” sounded a lot more like what my last boyfriend, the video installation artist, would say.

We met up with Frank and Suzie, who, as James had said, worked in Research and Development. They were new to the company, and had both been recruited from one of the graduate programs at MIT. Apparently MIT was one of the biggest feeding troughs for Hartmann Enterprises. That and Harvard, where Allison had received her MBA. I was the odd man out in this gathering.

Any cozying up to Allison to find out the inner details of the company or the man was pointless. The other woman, whose trousers and tailored jacket were clearly
not
from a discount store, had no such compunction as James. At the first opportunity, when I stupidly asked, “So what’s Hartmann like?”

Allison raised a thin, well-tended eyebrow and returned, “You might know better than me. Didn’t you have lunch with him today?”

I brushed it off with a laugh and a deflecting comment. Studiously ordered a cold lemon drop martini and then welcomed the distraction of needing to hunt through my bag for the phone when it vibrated. I flipped open the phone and the room spun a little.

He’d
texted
me. Which also meant he’d made the effort to get my cell phone number from personnel.

I’ll pick you up at 8 tomorrow. Dinner. /Daniel

That was it. No question. Just that same assumption I had avoided responding to earlier in the day. Right, the date on which he was going to kiss me.

Outrageous. High-handed. Surprisingly sexy.

And despite everything that was wrong with the situation, despite the sleepless hours spent analyzing and reanalyzing every moment of that lunch with him, twenty-four hours later I found myself getting ready for that date, with the clock stubbornly ticking down the hour.

What did one wear for dinner with a billionaire? I stood in my boyshorts and camisole staring at my closet. It was packed with clothing, with costumes for any situation or eventuality. Except for this. I had the wardrobe of a rebellious, impoverished art student. And those sweater sets. The last time I’d worn anything elegant or designer was the dress for Hartmann’s mother’s funeral. Twelve years ago.

I’d even worn pants to prom.

But I needed to convince Hartmann that I was more fascinating than any of those models. Because the only excusable reason to go on a date him was to find some way to hurt him. We were both clearly attracted to each other. History is filled with examples of attraction being used to bring down foes.

Of course, if he was only interested because he knew who I was, then he might be more of a danger to me than I was to him. Perhaps he wasn’t yet through ruining my life. I stilled.

“Ooh, naked girl alert!” Leanna sashayed by, plucked a purple tank dress off of a hanger. Then she continued to rifle through the closely pressed clothes, despite the fact that Leanna’s own closet was filled to the brim with designer labels, both new and vintage.

“You are in my room,” I pointed out.

“Yes, I am, my dearest, darling friend. And why are you still in your underwear when you are about to go on a date with
Cosmo’s
Most Eligible Bachelor of the year?”

“Because what does one wear on such a date?”

“Oh.” Leanna paused, turned and surveyed me. “Better underwear?”

“Hmmph.” I crossed my arms and waited for Leanna to give a real answer. After all, there had to be some sort of perk for living with someone who worked on the fashion pages of a life and culture magazine.

“Okay, okay, maybe an LBD? Or what is it they are saying? Pink is the new black? So you’d better make that a little pink dress. Or purple. I guess you can wear this instead of me.” With a long-suffering sigh, Leanna held out her purloined tank dress. “This with my Wolford stockings and my black Miu Mius.”

“Really?” I accepted the dress and then followed Leanna across the apartment to her bedroom. Leanna’s blonde hair swung down her back, beautifully glossy. In spite of four years of friendship, I had a rare moment of jealousy. Thanks to the nearly black dye in my own hair, glossy was pretty much a thing of the past.

“Well, with accessories, of course. But a bit of vintage mixed with designer is always the way to go. You’ll look fab.”

“Is this a bad idea?” I asked as I unrolled the stockings over my legs, tweaking the fabric gently so that the intricate flower design lay correctly.

“Going to work for him and wasting your summer in an office building was a bad idea,” Leanna reminded me. I slid my arms through the holes of the purple dress and let it slide down my body. “Going on a date with the man? Too crazy an opportunity to pass up.”

“Right.” Left foot slid into four-inch platform heels, then right foot. I did my best imitation model walk over to the full-length mirror. Examined myself critically. Leanna’s face appeared over my left shoulder as she studied my reflection as well.

“I think you look more like an actress than a model. Even with the extra four inches.”

I knew what that meant. Actresses were pretty but models were stunning, freakish even in their beauty. Daniel dated models. This would never work.

“Do you think he asked me out because he’s suspicious?” I didn’t have to elaborate. Some drunken night in the first year of our friendship, I’d confided in Leanna about my entire complicated history. In typical Leanna fashion, she’d had a nonjudgmental perspective on the whole story.

Just as she did now.

“Suspicious of what?” Leanna returned, with her usual bluntness. “That you might ruin him via poorly done graphic design? I doubt it would even cross his mind that you could.”

History was filled with triumphs of those who had been underestimated. Only in this case, I suspected Leanna had the right of it. “I’m out of my league, aren’t I?”

“In business, yes.” But then Leanna turned serious. She lifted a few strands of my hair and slid a Swarovski crystal pin into place. “In art, he can’t touch you. Just imagine you’re Warhol deigning to have dinner with a suit. Hey, maybe he can be your muse or your benefactor or something.”

I smiled. Trust Leanna to say exactly the right thing.

•  •  •

I didn’t see his Porsche when I peered out the window at a minute to eight. However a black Bentley idled on the street, complete with chauffeur opening the door to the back seat. I watched, captivated, as one be-suited leg appeared and then the next, along with that glossy head of chestnut brown hair.

Hartmann straightened, looked up, and unerringly found me, peering out of a bay window three stories above. Heat flushed through me. How did he do that? I turned from the window, negligently, as if I had all the time in the world. Then I gathered my things—keys, mints, cell phone—and tossed them into my purse. I thought about condoms. Discarded the thought.

When I stepped out into the cool night air, he was leaning against the wall of the building. Ready to move to my side, to place a warm hand on my back.

“You look lovely,” he said, the deep tenor of his voice spreading the warmth from his touch throughout my body. It was silly, but I stood straighter at his words,
felt
lovely. “I’m so pleased you agreed to join me.”

Verbally, I’d agreed to nothing, but I didn’t say that, didn’t pierce the sweet fabric of the night with unnecessary truths.

I slid into the car. There was champagne chilling in a silver bucket of ice. I held my breath until he slipped in from the other side, until all the doors were closed around him.

He handed me a glass of champagne. It was like a movie: me, in borrowed stockings and shoes, sipping champagne in the back of a Bentley. With Daniel Hartmann.

If my dad only knew.

Even that dire thought wasn’t icy enough.

I couldn’t think, barely registered where the car was driving. Daniel was making everything so convenient for me, yet beneath it all I still had this utter disbelief that this worldly man could possibly find me interesting. Especially the sweater-set version of myself.

He had to know who I was. He had to be stringing me along, seducing me with all his famed charm, for some nefarious reason.

I had nothing to say to him. Except—

“Do you like art?” Which was an utterly and completely stupid thing for me to say.

“I’m on the board at the Museum of Fine Arts.”

Which I had known.

“Do you collect privately?”

I expected him to say yes. After all, I’d seen photographs of his architectural loft and dotting its walls were huge canvases by famous twenty-first-century artists.

“My house is decorated with art, thanks to a buyer and ex-girlfriends,” —girlfriends,
of course
— “but no, I don’t actively collect. You look disappointed.”

I laughed, covering, drawing on my actress alter-ego. “No, not entirely disappointed. Simply adjusting my plans. If you won’t be my benefactor, you’ll simply have to be my muse.” I slanted a look at him, indulged myself by admiring the line of his jaw, the sculpted length of his neck disappearing beneath the lavender of his shirt. He made the color look so masculine.

“Emily.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ve heard that before,” I said quickly, “but I’m not the jealous type.” A fine statement for a woman who was playing a game, who didn’t intend to get emotionally involved, but I knew, if I were
really
interested in Daniel Hartmann, I wouldn’t be willing to share.

My words charged the air, laid out a challenge. We both understood where this was leading. There was no doubt the attraction was there. What I didn’t know was, would I gather up my clothes and be driven home in the wee hours of the morning, or would there be breakfast and normal, awkward, next-morning conversation? And why was I considering sleeping with a man I didn’t like? On the first date? When only half an hour earlier I had rejected the possibility.

I had always believed that personality was part of attraction, but since I didn’t really know Daniel, had every reason to dislike him, I was coming around to the idea that attraction was a purely physical thing.

•  •  •

At the restaurant, he ordered a bottle of wine, made sure my glass stayed full. Watched me carefully as I grew more relaxed over the course of the meal, more aroused by the alcohol and him. Every part of my body came alive and I wanted to feel everything with my skin—the coolness of the silverware, the sleek wood of the chair beneath my thighs.

The air was tense and electric yet somehow the conversation passed with nothing of import said. Instead we talked about safe topics like food, people and places. In Boston’s social scene, chefs were as much celebrities as musicians and actors, and of course, Daniel knew the restaurant’s creative director. I wasn’t a particular fan of molecular gastronomy, but nonetheless, I enjoyed the puffed mozzarella bites and the basil oil-injected grape tomatoes.

“Well, truthfully,” I said, eventually answering his question from the day before, “working for you isn’t my first job. I’ve been painting murals for local businesses for a few years now. Between that and designing posters for musicians, I’ve managed to avoid the usual part-time jobs.”

The waiter left the dessert plate on the table, with a spoon in front of each of us.

“Why did you come to work for me?” His mouth pressed into a thin line, as if maybe he wanted to say more, or hadn’t even meant to say that. As if maybe Daniel Hartmann could be as impulsive as I clearly was. Maybe he simply didn’t want to get serious, to change the playful, flirtatious, charged atmosphere between us. Or maybe that was just me.

“For Hartmann Enterprises, you mean?” I shrugged, choosing the vaguest of answers. “I should think anyone would jump at the chance for a position with growth, with an excellent entry-level salary and benefits.”

“But why would Mark Anderson’s daughter?” Ah, there we were. I looked down at my plate. He’d clearly known all along.

I looked up again, met his gaze head on.

“I was wondering if that was why you’d asked me out.” I swallowed hard. Honesty time. There really was nothing else to say or do. “I was curious about you, but I never imagined … I should hate you. In some ways I do.”

He laughed. I watched him closely, trying to decode the tone of the sound and the way his body seemed to contract. I’d learned to read emotion and symbolism in sculpture, but that didn’t help me understand. I watched him tap his finger against the leather seat of the booth as if the motion were the biggest mystery in the world.