The Proposition by Amelia Wilde
3
Charlotte
I hate Mason Hill.
I hate the perfect fall of his dark hair, and I hate the cruel curve of his lips, and I hate the brilliant green of his eyes. They shouldn’t look so deep, so vivid, in the gray, natural light of his office. He takes up all the air available to breathe. Even his clothes feel like a scold. The dark, flawless suit was made for him. I can tell by the precise stitching and the way the sleeves fall just so on his wrists. His jacket moves with him, with no ill-fitted tug at the shoulders, and all of it might as well be an advertisement for what has to be a perfect body underneath.
God, he’s such an asshole. Such an asshole. I know why he wanted to stay standing now. So he could tower over me. Make me look up at him. It’s tiring, standing in heels. Standing up to him.
What I hate most of all is how right he is. The glint in his eyes when he said how desperately you need it made a cold knot form in my gut. It also made my face burn.
And the word need in his mouth while the rich green of his eyes settled on my skin—
I don’t feel like I’m standing in an office building on 6th Street. I feel like I’m standing in the lion’s den. I feel like someone pushed me in and slammed the gate behind me, and now I’m in here with an apex predator.
But Mason Hill isn’t dangerous. He’s just a prick with the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen and a killer suit. His hands move at the button, and I look. I can’t help it. The jacket parts to reveal the perfect tuck of his shirt over what must be carved-out abs.
It reveals the leather stripe of his belt. And the buckle—it’s a Tom Ford, a thousand dollars at least. It’s like a magnet. Draws the eye. It’s an understated style. It looks like it was made to be around his hips. Like it only found purpose in the loops of his slacks. Oh, god, his hands would look so good, unbuckling that belt, so strong and right.
I can’t look away until I do, and then there’s nowhere to look but back into his face.
His smile gets sharper. It makes me feel strangely powerless, even though I’m the one standing closer to the door. I could walk out and never speak to him again. I should. He’s being awful. Insulting. He knew I would look when he undid that button on his jacket. He’s pushing me. Almost as if he’s trying to make me give up and leave.
Not today. Not this meeting. I came here to fix things for my family. And I’m going to fix things for my family.
No matter how much it rankles that he’s right, we do need him. Far more than he needs us. He doesn’t need us at all. We’re nothing to him. And he’s the only hope I have right now. Mason Hill’s offer is the only one that’s come in. There’s no one else.
“If you want a majority stake in the company, I’ll have to take this back to the CEO.”
“Yes, yes. Your daddy will need to sign. I’m sure he can be convinced. Someone needs to pay for his next bottle of vodka.”
Mason’s eyes glitter. The color there takes my breath away, but so does the comparison. My father’s the CEO of a company on the brink of failure, an alcoholic with no power, and Mason could not be more powerful. It radiates from the hard muscles beneath his clothes. I hate him, and I would kill to see him without the slacks and the shirt—I want to know what all that strength looks like when it’s not hidden by cloth. It’s a terrible thing to want.
It shouldn’t throw me as much as it does to hear him talk about benders and bottles as if he’s been in our house. My father’s drinking problem is supposed to be a secret. It’s not supposed to be something that people like Mason Hill, in their gleaming high-rises, use in business negotiations.
I summon all my disdain, but it’s impossible to look down my nose at him. He’s too tall. He has the advantage. He’s tall enough to tower over anyone. With his height and his icy control he’d be the king of any room he walked into. But I draw myself up anyway. “What my father does with his money is none of your business.”
“Of course it is. It’s his company you’re pleading with me to save. It’s his habit that has Van Kempt Industries halfway to its grave. If he’s spent the last ten years drunk, it’s my business.”
My mouth drops open and I snap it shut. Too late. Mason saw, and what flashed across his eyes was pure satisfaction. Fresh hate scorches the back of my neck. “What happened in the past isn’t relevant.” Oh—that was the wrong thing to say. Mason’s jaw tightens, and the part of me that senses danger screams to back up a step. But I don’t. Those small expressions on his face never last. “What matters is that I’m here to deal with you now.”
“You, instead of your father. You, instead of the CEO himself. Tell me again how it’s not relevant that he can’t be bothered to show up to a meeting and save his own life.”
“He didn’t know about the meeting,” I shoot back.
And freeze.
Delight flares across Mason’s eyes, his face. The carved planes of his face make him look like a Greek god. Like something to worship. “He didn’t know,” he muses. “You kept it from him. Little Charlotte Van Kempt planned this all by herself. Things must be much worse than I thought.”
“No. They’re not. I wanted to handle it by myself. Then once we’ve worked out the terms, I’ll bring it to him.”
Mason Hill is breathtaking when he grins, even when that grin is pure evil. It’s there for a blink, settling quickly into an expression so piercing that it shoots down my spine and makes my thighs engage underneath my skirt.
Shit.
Please, let him not have noticed.
Another flare in his eyes—of light? Of heat? I can’t tell, and I can’t look away.
“If you’re handling this yourself, then you’ll want to take special care not to tell him about the final clause in the new offer.” It’s lighting me on fire to look into his eyes like this, but he’ll see if I look down at his body. He’ll use it against me.
“What is it?”
“You’ll spend a night with me at my apartment.”
If I weren’t already standing, I’d be out of my seat. All I can do now is take several steps back. At least now I’m out of his reach. My face burned before. Now I feel like a house fire. Images flicker through my mind at high speed. Mason Hill. An apartment as gorgeous as this high-rise. His hands on me. His body. “This is a joke.”
At joke, the delight in his eyes hardens to ice. Or maybe it was always frozen through and I didn’t notice. I’ve angered the god, and I hate, down to my bones, how beautiful anger looks on his face. Artists would fall all over themselves to paint him. “Is anyone laughing?”
“You’re disgusting.”
He raises an eyebrow. “How badly do you want your family’s company saved, Ms. Van Kempt?”
“Not badly enough to do that.”
“To do what, exactly?” He’s mocking me now, and I know because his tone hasn’t changed. Mason Hill sounds like we’re having an actual business meeting, and that makes it worse. He’s in control of himself, and I’m not. I believe, with all my heart, that the world is a good place, but Mason Hill is not a good man. “Tell me precisely what it is you won’t do to save your parents.”
“I won’t come to your apartment.”
“You’re afraid of seeing a real luxury apartment, then.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Are you sure? Your face is red and your pupils are all blown out.” Mason’s eyes drop to the front of my throat. Damn it. Now that I’m aware of my breath, I can feel how shallow it is. “You’re either terrified or extremely aroused.”
“I’m neither of those things.” He’s definitely going to believe me now that my voice shakes and I said it too loud.
“Is it the fantasy of saving your family that turns you on so much, or imagining all the filthy things I could do to you?”
“I came here to make a deal with you, not to be—not to be played with like this.” I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. Not when we had to start selling our furniture. Not when I had to make excuses at the office to cover for my father’s absences. Not when I had to make hours of phone calls to debt collectors. This is the worst. This is rock bottom.
“We’ve had a misunderstanding if you think I’m joking, or playing.” Mason’s voice fills the room. He owns every square inch of this place, and probably every inch of the building we’re standing in. “Go out into my offices and ask anyone. See if I’m in the habit of fucking around.”
Even his cursing is precise. Like he’s taken the words and made them into his own sharp arrows. Which means that when he made me this deal, he did it with precision. Not fucking around. To hurt me. I force myself to be sharp, too. “I’m not fucking around, either.”
“No?” His eyes rake over my body, head to toe, and I regret stepping back so far into his office. It means he can see all of me. I don’t have the protection of his desk. “Then it’s interesting to me that you’re pretending to be above this. You’re most certainly not, Ms. Van Kempt. You have a gorgeous body and you’ve managed to dig up some last-season couture, but no one could miss the cheap cardboard shoes you’re wearing.”
Oh. Oh. Pride hits first, just before new embarrassment. He thought my clothes were couture. I made these. I made these, and nobody else. But he’s right about the shoes. I bought them on clearance at Target with a coupon, and they’re too cheap for this office. For this kind of deal. Shame flutters down over all my other feelings like a blanket thrown over a piece of furniture. Cover it up and move it out. Sell it for money.
That’s what he’s asking me to do. What he’s demanding that I do, actually. There’s nothing about Mason Hill that makes me think he’d ask.
He’s telling me to trade my body for the money we need.
I wish I could hide, somewhere here in his shining, perfect office. The world outside is nothing but rain and slate-colored clouds, and I have the lurching sense that he could make the windows disappear and let in that rain. It wouldn’t touch him. All that water, all that wind. But it would destroy me. Rip my handmade clothes to shreds. Tear apart the cardboard shoes.
“Do you have a real offer or not?”
Mason narrows his eyes. “I’ve been clear about the terms.”
“Then you’re just an asshole who likes wasting people’s valuable time.” I’m glad we’re both standing now. It makes it easier to turn my back on him and leave. On the first step, the heel of my cheap shoe wobbles in the plush carpet. Fine. I accept it. I accept that I’m desperate, but I’m going to fix this. I don’t care what Mason Hill says. I wrench open the door with one hand. “I have a business to run. A development to build. If you don’t want to invest, someone else will. And you’re done wasting my time.”
I almost make it out without looking back.
Almost.
But even now, even in my hurt and embarrassment, I don’t want to slam the door in front of Mason Hill’s secretary. I put my hand out to catch it, turning my head, and—
Mason smiles at me from behind his desk, standing up tall and unflustered and perfect. “I’m done with you,” he says. “Until you beg.” Then the weight of the door meets my hand and pushes me away from him.
