Mistresses: After Hours With The Boss. Maisey Yates
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for you to pay it for me!”
He shrugged. “But I can, so I don’t see why it’s an issue.”
“Because I can,” she said.
“Don’t be stubborn.”
“Me? You’re telling me not to be stubborn? That is funny, Dante, real funny.”
“This ruse really ought to be easy. In fact, they may assume we’ve been married for twenty years given the way you argue with me.”
“I argue with you? Hmph.”
“Yes, you do. Just like that.”
“Well, I’m annoyed with you.”
“Then you had better get un-annoyed, cara. Remember, this whole thing is of your making. I never would have sought you out.” His words made her flinch internally. “I will take advantage of the situation, yes, but I would not have sought you out. You’re completely unsuitable, obviously, and if I had felt the need for a wife pressing I would have one already.”
Stupidly, a little pang of hurt hit her square in the chest, knocking the wind out of her, making her eyes sting. “I’m … unsuitable? Wh-why?”
She shouldn’t have asked why. Not when she really didn’t want to hear it all.
“Am I suitable to you?” he asked, his tone incredulous.
“No,” she said. “No, you’re rude. And obnoxious. And you don’t know how to laugh.”
He took a step toward her, his dark eyes intent on hers. “And you are disorganized and scattered.”
“I must not be too bad since you keep me on here. Clearly I know how to do my job.”
“As do hundreds of my employees, but that does not mean they would make a good spouse for me.”
She took a step toward him, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. “I’m sure they feel the same way about you.”
He reached out his hand and took a lock of her hair, her pink hair, between his thumb and forefinger. “I would clearly never become involved with a woman who has pink hair.”
She leaned in, up on her tiptoes, trying to make herself eye level with him. “And I would never become involved with a man who’s more starched than his shirt collar.”
He reached out and wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her up against his hard body. She squeaked as her breasts came up against the muscular wall of his chest. “You think I’m too serious, is that it?” She nodded mutely, no words coming to her. “That I don’t know how to have fun.” His fingers flexed against her back, sending little pops of sensation from the point of contact all throughout her body.
“Yes,” she managed, heat flooding her.
He dipped his head so that his lips were nearly touching her cheek, his breath hot on her skin. “I think I might surprise you.”
She was trembling, actually trembling, and in danger of having a knee-buckling experience. No man had ever held her like this before. With such purpose, with such strength. No man had ever made her feel so wanted. No man had ever made her want to arch against him, press her breasts harder into his body.
And most especially, no man had made her want to kiss him while she was angry at him.
But here she was, quivering with the need to touch Dante, even while thinking murderous thoughts about him and his autocratic behavior.
Dante released her suddenly and she stumbled back, trying hard to catch her breath. She looked at him, searched his face for some sign of what he was thinking. To try to figure out if he was as affected, as shaken, as she was.
But he wasn’t. He was just standing there, his hair smooth, his suit crisp, as though he had never taken her into his arms. As though he hadn’t just held her so close she could feel his heart beating, hard and heavy against her chest.
“You had better figure out a way to forgive me,” he said. And that was when she realized that he was affected. Because he might look as smooth as ever, but his voice was rough, his shredded control evident in each word he spoke. “Because at the end of the day, you’re coming home with me.”
DANTE’S home was his most prized possession. The lawn was immaculate, cut perfectly and kept in top condition by his team of groundskeepers.
The house itself was a triumph of architecture. Clean lines, an open design, windows that made the most of the ocean view. The interior was white, the carpets, the walls, the furniture. Evidence of how orderly it was.
Evidence of the control he now held over his life.
And as Paige, with her glittery high heels, walked over the threshold, carrying a bright-eyed baby girl with drool running down her chin, he felt a pang of absolute dread hit him in the gut.
There was nothing orderly about either of them, and he could feel the hard-won control of his surroundings slipping away from him.
“This is …” Paige looked around, her mouth open, her blue eyes round. “This is incredible. Gorgeous. I don’t. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I had it built five years ago, shortly after the control of Colson’s passed to me.”
“I’m thinking the social worker will like this place better than she liked mine.”
“Probably,” he said, thinking of her cluttered little apartment. “I apologize for my lack of boxed wine. I suppose something from the cellar with have to do.”
“Now, now, nobody likes a show-off.”
“That depends on what they’re being shown.”
“Heh. No, it depends on how much money and power the show-off possesses, and then the person will pretend to be suitably impressed based on how much they figure ingratiating themselves will help them out.”
“So you think my admirers are merely out to use me for my wealth and fame?”
She shrugged. “Not so far-fetched, is it?”
“You’re not very good for my ego, Paige, as you seem to think no one would suffer my company without heavy compensation.”
“That’s not what I meant. Oh … pfft. I like your house—that’s the important thing right now.”
“I assume the location of your bedrooms are important, as well?”
“Bedrooms?”
“Ana will have a nursery. I called my housekeeper earlier and ensured that all of her things have been put in there.”
“A nursery?”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “Did you think I would cram you both in the basement to keep you out of the way?”
“Well, I didn’t know. I didn’t … We really need to discuss this more.”
“I agree, which is why we’re having dinner together later.”
“Oh.”
“Here, so you don’t need to worry about a babysitter. Now come with me.” He started up the stairs and down the hall. He could hear Paige’s footsteps behind him, slow and methodical. He turned and saw that she was practically getting whiplash. “What is it?”
“Your art!” she said.
“What about it?”
“It’s so beautiful. And it really stands out in the white space. You have fabulous taste.”
“Fabulous? Rarely am I accused of being fabulous.”