The Billionaire's Command
Page 36

A buzzing sound jolted me out of my thoughts.
“That’s the Chinese,” Turner said, without looking up.
“Okay,” I said.
He fished his wallet out of his trousers and tossed it across the table to me. “Go pay,” he said.
I rifled through his wallet as I walked to the front door. How could I possibly resist that kind of temptation? But there wasn’t anything interesting. Just his driver’s license, a few credit cards, and a few crisp twenties. I was sort of disappointed that he didn’t have any hundreds, but it made sense: Turner was too practical to carry large bills.
The delivery guy was waiting for me in the foyer, looking bored. He was probably in buildings like this every day and had stopped being impressed by the fancy architecture. I paid him and gave him a big tip, because Turner could afford it, and then I went back inside with the food.
Turner had stacked all of the papers neatly at one end of the table, but if I had been hoping for flatware and actual cutlery made out of metal, I would have been disappointed. Either he didn’t own any of that stuff, or he just didn’t see the point in setting the table for takeout.
“I guess we’re going to eat out of the cartons, like animals,” I said, and tossed his wallet back to him.
“That’s right,” he said, very bland in the face of my disapproval.
Well, okay. I set the plastic bag on the table and unpacked the cardboard containers and fortune cookies and chopsticks and plastic forks and napkins and endless packets of duck sauce. Turner sat and waited for me to finish, his expression totally neutral. I wanted him to tease me some more and smile with his eyes crinkled up, but it was like me leaving the room had broken the spell. We were back to square one, and he was a stranger again.
We ate in silence. The food was good, but the Chinese place down the street from my apartment was better. I wondered why Turner hadn’t ordered the very best. Maybe he was going for convenience over quality. That seemed like the sort of thing he might do.
After dinner, we went back to work. I lost track of time as I skimmed through pages and highlighted and moved on to the next stack of papers. My neck got stiff, and my back started hurting. After a while, I set down the marker and stretched my arms above my head, feeling something in my spine crackle. Better. I rubbed my eyes and looked at Turner. He was staring intently at his computer, but he glanced up as I watched him, like he could tell I was looking.
“What time is it?” I asked. My voice sounded ragged.
“Almost midnight,” he said. His expression softened a bit, barely noticeable. “You’re tired.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s just kind of, you know.”
“Tedious?” he asked. “Soul-crushing? I know. You can sleep here. There’s a toothbrush for you in the bathroom.”
“You aren’t coming to bed now?” I asked, a little disappointed.
He shook his head. “I can’t. This needs to get finished tonight.” He tilted his chin at me, beckoning me over. I crossed to his side of the table, and he squeezed the back of my thigh and slid his hand beneath my dress to cup my ass. “I’m grateful for your help tonight,” he said.
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I said, “Hey, you’re paying me.”
He chuckled and let me go.
I woke in the night when he climbed into bed behind me. I half-turned toward him, making a sleepy questioning noise. He kissed me behind the ear and said, “Go back to sleep.” He slid one arm around my waist and tugged me back against his body, holding me close. I slept.
He was gone when I woke up in the morning, and I didn’t see him again for a week.
10
The first few days were great. I hadn’t had a vacation, or even two days off in a row, since I had arrived in New York. It was nice to laze around my apartment and make dinner with Yolanda when she got home from work. I did a lot of yoga and spent some time lying in the park. Nothing too exciting, but I didn’t need any extra excitement in my life.
But by Saturday I was starting to get worried. I hadn’t heard anything from Turner, and when I texted him—just a casual “how’s it going”—he didn’t respond. I felt silly for worrying. It wasn’t like we were dating or anything, and if he wanted to pay me to lounge around in my pajamas and read makeup reviews online, that was fine with me. But I was afraid I had offended him, or annoyed him by talking too much, and now he had lost interest and I wouldn’t ever see him again.
I tried not to think about it. After all, if Turner really was sick of me, he could just void the contract. He hadn’t done it yet, so I was probably okay.
I still worried.
And then, on Wednesday, everything changed.
I was watching some stupid talk show and flipping through a magazine when I heard the doorbell ring. Teddy, who hated the sound of the doorbell, promptly waddled underneath the couch to hide. I sat up and frowned. It was too late in the day to be the UPS guy, and nobody else ever came by. Nobody knew where I lived, and all of Yolanda’s friends knew she was at work for another half hour.
Probably the lady downstairs had locked herself out again. I got off the sofa and went down the three flights of stairs to the front door.
When I opened the door, I wasn’t entirely surprised to see Turner standing there.
I was, however, pretty surprised to see a second man on my front stoop.
“Uh, hi,” I said, feeling my eyebrows crawl up my forehead.
Turner pushed past me without saying a word. I automatically stepped back, and the strange man followed Turner into the building, holding a small duffel bag.
“You can’t just let yourself in,” I said, annoyed that I had given way instead of slamming the door in his face, but Turner was already climbing the stairs.
The other guy looked at me and shrugged, and then started climbing after Turner.
“Where are you going?” I asked. “What’s going on? Didn’t you get my text message? I haven’t heard from you in a week. You can’t just show up at my apartment and barge in—”
Turner stopped, one hand on the railing, and turned to look down at me, as regal and aloof as he had ever been. “I can and will do exactly that,” he said. “Which one is your apartment?”
I swallowed. I didn’t want to get into a fight with him in the stairwell; one of my neighbors would hear and come out to investigate, which was the last thing I wanted. “Top floor.”