Chapter 2 Rejection

Chapter 2 Pero watched with interest as the color leached out of Vera Swift's milky skin. The pupils of her pretty brown eyes had dilated, the darkness swallowing the glints of pure gold that he'd seen flash in the depths as he'd circled around her. Glints of temper or fear, he wasn't sure. But he'd like to find out. In fact, there were a whole lot of things he'd like to find out about her. Now, preferably.

He didn't question why he wanted to know, because he didn't question himself much generally. It was only that there was something about her that he found . . . intriguing. He liked surprising people, or rather, he liked shocking them, and yet apart from that initial widening of her eyes as he'd walked through the door into his office, Vera Swift hadn't shown any signs of shock or even surprise. She'd merely sat there with her hands clasped in her lap, those sharp features of hers betraying nothing but calm. And she'd looked at him like . . . Fuck, he didn't know. Only that he hadn't seen a woman give him that kind of look before. Normally they either stared at him like he was something good to eat or they ran the hell away.

Not prim Miss Swift, though. Apart from that initial shock, her gaze had been detached almost. As if he was a problem she had to solve.

He decided he didn't like it. Not one bit.

"The rumors are true," she echoed in that prissy little British accent, one red-gold eyebrow lifting as if he'd said something completely ridiculous and she was humoring him. "Are they indeed?"

Which would have been infuriating if she hadn't been pale, revealing the delicate dusting of freckles across her nose. Getting up in her face had scared her, no doubt about it.

He didn't move, staring into her eyes, watching for more telltale signs that his nearness bothered her. Yet apart from a certain rigidity in her posture, she gave no sign that it did.

"Yes," he said flatly. "They are. Now answer my fucking question. Why do you want the job?"

A normal person would have been moving restlessly in their seat, disturbed by the fact that he was so close and possibly by his crude language, but not Phoebe. She sat very still, self-contained, and utterly self-possessed, matching him stare for stare.

"I want the job because it pays well," she replied, her tone as flat as his. "And because it's better than stripping."

Honest. Good. That was a start. He liked honesty.

"How do you know stripping isn't something I might want you to do?" Her skin was incredibly fine-grained and smooth. Soft, too, he'd bet anything.

"I would assume you have other people who could do that better than I could." Her voice was calm, but pink tinged her cheekbones.

Pero reached out and trailed a finger across the pretty color, and sure enough, her skin was as soft as he'd imagined.

She became even more motionless but didn't pull away. "Is this still an interview for your personal assistant?" she asked levelly. "Or are you interviewing for another position?"

He very much wanted to cup her cheek in his hand, feel her skin against his palm, and since he was a man who never denied himself anything he wanted, he did just that, sliding his fingers along the line of her jaw, letting his palm press against her cheek.

Fuck, so soft. Like a rose petal.

Her pupils dilated more, whether in shock or something else, he couldn't tell, but that was the only response she gave.

She smelled good. Not of those intense, deeply sexual perfumes that the women who usually came to his house wore, but of something else. It was a simple, sweet smell that reminded him of his garden. Was it . . . jasmine maybe?

"What other position would there be?" He let his thumb trace the line of her cheekbone. "My personal assistant is there to provide me with everything I need. Everything I want."

"I see." Her voice remained infuriatingly calm. "If providing you with what you want includes touching, then I'm happy to find someone else who can let you do that."

He gave her another stroke. "What if what I want to touch is you?"

"That might be a problem. I have a fiancé."

Pero frowned in genuine puzzlement. "How is that a problem?"

Some expression he couldn't interpret rippled over her face, which annoyed him. Though he had no problem with reading people's most basic feelings, such as fear or anger or desire, he had difficulties with reading complicated or subtle emotions. Normally this didn't bother him since he interacted with very few people and those he did interact with, he didn't much care about. But for some reason, right now, the fact that he couldn't read Verawas profoundly irritating.

"It won't be a problem," he said, before she could respond. "Because whether you have a fiancé or not makes no difference to the requirements of this job." He let his hand fall from her cheek and straightened. "Which are as follows. This is a live-in position. My assistant needs to be available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They are required to fulfill any requests I care to name, without argument and without protest."

Vera didn't move, the expression on her face was exactly the same as when he'd had his hand on her cheek. She seemed utterly unfazed by anything he'd said. "I see. So, to be clear, I have to live here and be on duty twenty-four hours a day?"

He scowled at her. "Didn't you hear me when I said I don't like to repeat myself?"

"I just wanted to be sure I heard you correctly," she said in the same level tone. "Your requirements are not . . . usual."

"I don't give a shit whether they're usual or not. Those are the requirements, and they're not up for discussion." Abruptly restless, he turned away from her, moving over to the window that gave a view out to the walled area that was his private garden, pausing there to check the weather. It was brilliantly sunny, which added to his general irritation.

Summer in New York always made him even more restless than he was normally.

"When you say you require every request to be fulfilled, do you mean . . . anything?"

He stared at the greenery below him, noticing that one of the rose bushes looked like some insects were getting to it. Shit. He was going to have to get John to speak to the gardener again. "Of course, I mean anything," he said brusquely. "I get what I need when I need it. End of story."

"What if I can't provide that?

"Then you're fired."

There was a pause.

Sensing some kind of emotion coming from her, Pero swung around. "What?" he asked.

Her gaze was calm. "I didn't say a word."

"No, but you have opinions, don't you?" He moved away from the window. "One thing you need to be clear on, Miss Swift, is that I do not pay for anyone else's opinions. I'm not interested. The only opinions that matter are mine. Is that understood?"

Her expression didn't give so much as a flicker. "Yes, that's understood."

He moved behind her, but she didn't turn, her gaze directed instead to the stag's head above his desk. "All you have to do is whatever I need, whenever I need it. That's all. And in return, I'll pay you six figures." He paused, looking down at the top of her red-gold head. Not a curl, not a single wisp of hair escaped the bun at the nape of her neck. It was coiled neat and tight with small, practical brown hairpins. "Six figures every three months."

Her head turned quickly to the side, and he couldn't help baring his teeth in a feral smile. Money, it always came down to that. Offer people enough and they'd do anything for you. Anything at all.

Even things they wouldn't normally do.

"That wasn't in the advert." A certain sharpness had entered her tone.

"No, because I've just decided to up the salary right now."

"Why?" Again, her voice was sharp, and this time there was an edge of demand to it that should have made him angry and yet didn't.

No, it excited him.

"You don't get to ask the questions, Miss Swift." He reached out to take one of the hairpins, slowly sliding it out of the tightly coiled mass of hair. "Like I said, this position requires total obedience, and if I don't get it, you don't get paid."

"If I take the job," she amended.

Pero dropped the hairpin on the ground and reached for another one. "You haven't answered my question."

"Which one?"

"About why you want the position." He dropped the second pin and reached for a third, tugging it slightly.

Clearly feeling the tug, she shook her head, as if trying to free her hair from a branch that had caught it.

"Keep still," he growled, pulling the third pin free.

She let out a soft breath. "What are you doing?" The question was perfectly calm and yet . . . was there an undercurrent of something there? Some kind of reaction?

"I want to see what your hair looks like." He reached for a fourth pin. "Answer the fucking question."

She went very still, which pleased him. "I did. I told you I wanted the money."

"Why do you want the money?"

"Why does anyone want money?"

"You're supposed to do whatever I say, not answer questions with questions." He eased out a fifth pin then went on to the sixth. Fuck, she had a lot of hair. "Last time. Why do you want the money?"

"I see. This is a test. Very well." She was silent for a moment. "I need the money because my fiancé is in hospital. He's been in a coma for two years, and I'm coming to the end of my savings. The care in this particular hospital is very good, and I'd like him to stay there."

Another man might have felt some sympathy for her, or even felt sorry for her. But Pero felt neither. He generally didn't like to feel much at all beyond basic, physical pleasures, and certainly other people's traumas were of no interest to him. Not when he had his own to deal with.

"If you want money, you'll have to work for it." He picked out the last few pins and discarded them with the rest on the floor, watching in fascination as the coil of hair began to loosen and fall down her back in thick, red curls. "I'm not a fucking charity."

If his harsh words had any impact on her, she gave no sign. "Obviously," she said, her tone cool. "If it was charity I wanted I would have used GoFundMe."

"Or you could try stripping." Reaching out, he pushed his fingers through her hair, watching as the coil began to break apart into a glorious fall of red-gold curls. The strands felt silky against his skin, soft, too.

"Apparently I still might if I take this job."

That cool note was in her voice again, and for some reason it sounded like . . . amusement? Strange. Why the hell would she find something she didn't want to do funny?

He looked down at her, sifting her hair through his fingers, that sweet, flowery scent rising around him. "You'd do it if I asked you to." He didn't make it a question.

"Or else you'd fire me, of course." A pause. "I should warn you that I draw the line at getting rid of bodies."

Pero frowned. Then he eased his fingers from her hair and prowled around her chair so he could see her face. She stared back at him, absolutely calm, as if he hadn't suggested he might want her to strip for him. As if she hadn't had a complete stranger take down her bun and run his fingers through her hair.

"And if I wanted you to?" he demanded.

She gave him a pleasant if impersonal smile, her lovely hair falling down around her shoulders, softening her sharp features. "Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now, is there anything else I should know?"

* * *

Phoebe's heart was beating uncomfortably fast and her scalp was prickling all over from the feeling of his fingers in her hair, but she absolutely refused to let any sign of her discomfort show.

Six figures every three months was worth any kind of provocation. Even letting a complete stranger touch her. Even having his fingers in her hair, taking out her hair pins and scattering them on the floor.

She'd expected him to be difficult, but she hadn't fully realized just how difficult until now. Until he'd touched her cheek without asking. Until he'd run his thumb across her cheekbone. Until he'd taken her hair down . . .

It had been a long time since anyone had touched her. Certainly, the last time anyone other than her stylist had touched her hair had been when Charles had pushed it behind her ear as he'd kissed her good-bye, just before he'd left on that business trip to Vermont. That had been two years ago.

She hadn't wanted anyone's touches since then and still didn't. And that included Pero de Santis. But for six figures every three months? Hell, she'd even change her stance on the stripping thing.

Verasat still and calmly met Pero's black eyes. She badly wanted to fix her hair, but she ignored the urge to put it to rights. No point in letting him know he'd bothered her. He'd probably only repeat the same bad behavior if he did or maybe do something even worse.

In many ways, he reminded her a little of her father, who'd always been demanding and self-centered. He hated fuss, too, and Verahad found that the best way to handle him was not to argue, but simply give in without drama. That discovery had come in handy with many of the executives she'd worked for in New York, and she suspected it would come in handy now.

Pero said nothing, the pressure of his impenetrable inky gaze like a hand pressing down on her. He was standing close, giving no regard whatsoever to her personal space, that wild energy he gave off crackling against her skin like electricity.

It was unnerving.

"You understand you'll have to live here?" he asked in that same harsh, abrupt way.

"Yes."

Having to live here was another thing she hadn't expected, but on thinking about it, she decided it wasn't a problem. The apartment she'd once shared with Charles could get lonely at nights, the silence reminding her acutely of a man who shouldn't be in a hospital bed but back at home with her. As the months had passed, she'd toyed with the idea of moving, going somewhere else, somewhere smaller. But then, what if he woke up? What if he wanted to come home? She had to make sure his home was still there for him if that happened.

"I should warn you that I don't sleep much," Pero said. "And if I want something in the middle of the night, you'll have to wake up and get it for me."

Again, that wouldn't be a problem. Her own sleep had been disturbed for two years now, and getting up and having tasks to do was certainly better than lying awake thinking. "I can deal with that."

Pero took a couple of steps back and put the heels of his hands on the desk, leaning back against it and curling long, powerful fingers over the edge. "I might want anything in the middle of the night." That hard, uncompromising gaze held hers. "Sex for example."

Perhaps this was another test to shock her. In which case, he was going to be disappointed.

Veralifted a shoulder. "Then I'm sure I can arrange that for you."

He didn't move but his gaze drifted down her body in an openly appraising look. "And what if I want sex with you?"

Her heartbeat sounded weirdly loud in her head and she could feel her cheeks heating. Which was annoying. He didn't want her, of course he didn't, so why the comment should unsettle her, she had no idea. This was merely yet another test. He did seem to be a man who liked to push people.

"Again, we'd have to cross that bridge when we come to it," she said, making sure her voice was completely calm.

His gaze narrowed, zeroing in on her like a sniper with a target. His features were completely unyielding, as if they'd been carved out of granite, and she had the odd impression that if she flung herself at him, his body would feel just as hard, too. She'd probably break herself or shatter or-

Good God, why was she thinking about flinging herself at him? She wouldn't, not in a million years. Why would she? She was engaged, and it didn't matter that the man she was going to marry was in a coma. She still loved him.

But would you have sex with him? If he asked? For six figures?

Veraignored that thought, too, keeping her hands clasped in her lap, meeting Pero's disquieting stare.

He said nothing, the silence around them becoming not so much awkward as heavy, dense. As if she was standing on a mountain top and the clouds were rolling in.

Then abruptly he pushed himself away from the desk and turned, heading toward the mysterious door behind his desk without another word.

Vera blinked at his retreating back. Was he leaving? Was the interview over? "Mr. de Santis? Is that it? Do I have the job?"

He reached for the door handle, gripping it in one long-fingered powerful hand. Then he paused and turned back to her, his expression hard. "Do you want the job?"

It's not like you have a choice.

"Yes," she said firmly, ignoring the disquiet that coiled in the pit of her stomach. "Yes, I do."

"Then it's yours. You start in an hour."

Verastared at him in shock. "Wait . . . What? An hour? But I'll need to get back home to-"

"John will organize to have your stuff brought to you," he said curtly. "You should find everything else you need here already. An hour, Miss Swift. Be ready."

And then before she could ask him any more questions, he'd disappeared through the door, shutting it very firmly behind him.

Veraallowed herself a glare in the door's direction. Ridiculous. Did he really expect her to take up the position within an hour of being given it? There was so much to prepare. She had to get home and organize her things, go to the hospital, and give the staff her new contact details. Tell her parents she had a new job and would be living somewhere else. And . . . and . . .

Not so much to do.

Vera let her breath out. Well, maybe not, but still. An hour? He really expected her to start what was sounding like a very difficult job without any preparation at all?

Apparently, he does.

At that point the door to the office opened and James, the butler, came in, his craggy face expressionless. "Mr. de la Cruz has requested that your belongings be brought here, Miss Swift. If you could kindly let me have your apartment key and a list of items, I'll make sure that happens as quickly as possible."

God. This was moving too fast. Far too fast. She needed to get home and sort through her stuff, not have someone else do it for her. What if she forgot something important? And did she really want some complete stranger going through her knicker drawer?

"Miss Swift?" John prompted.

Come on, pull yourself together. This isn't how you deal with unexpected changes. You cope. You handle it. And apart from anything else remember. Six figures. Every three months.

Vera Shook herself. "Yes, of course. Do you have something I can write about?"

Five minutes later, after she'd collected her discarded hairpins and given a list of items to James, plus a few instructions on what not to touch in the apartment, Verawas escorted upstairs and through the hallways of the house to what would be her rooms.

Nervousness and a certain amount of trepidation sat in her gut, though she did her best to ignore them, looking around her at the house to distract herself instead.

It seemed much bigger on the inside than it had looked on the outside, with great long hallways, stairs spiraling up to other floors at various intervals, and lots of doors leading to many different rooms. It was almost maze like. And there was hardly any furniture. A hall table there, an armchair shoved into a corner there, a shelf or two against a wall.

What there was a lot of, though, was art.

Paintings lined the dark walls, along with beautifully shot photographs, all, without exception, landscapes. Of cities. Of jungles. Of mountains. Of deserts. There were none of the people whatsoever.

Interesting. Did he have something against people, or did he just prefer nature?

As they passed one long, artfully framed panorama shot, clearly taken from the top of a mountain, Vera murmured, "I see Mr. de la Cruz enjoys the outdoors."

"Yes," John answered. "Mr. de la Cruz admires landscapes."

"Lucky he has lots of walls in that case." She glanced over her shoulder at the long hallway stretching behind her. "This house is certainly much bigger than I thought it was."

"Mr. de la Cruz bought the whole block. The buildings have all been renovated into one house."

Vera Stared at the butler in surprise. Well, that certainly explained why the house felt so big inside. "That's . . . what? Five houses? Seems an awful lot of room for one man."

"Mr. de la Cruz likes his space," John replied with finality, indicating that was the end of the matter.

But she couldn't resist pushing a little. "They say he never leaves his house. Is that really true?" She could hardly imagine it was. There was something so vitally alive about him, a kind of raw, animal vibrancy that didn't go with the image of a man huddling inside his house, too afraid to go out.

It would be like putting a lion, or a tiger, in too small a cage.

John did not respond, his expression forbidding, so Vera let it go. She expected to find out the truth soon enough.

Finally, John led her through an ornate door and into a spacious and surprisingly light set of interconnected rooms.

There was a bedroom painted a delicate shade of mint green, with huge windows covered in swathes of sheer, billowy white curtains, and an honest-to-God four-poster bed in one corner. Off the bedroom was a small sitting room painted in the same shade, with lots of bookshelves full of books and a comfortable looking white couch and armchair. There was a bathroom off the bedroom, too, white-tiled, with a separate shower and bath that looked big enough for an entire football team.

It was rather lovely, she had to admit. Not to mention unexpected. The decor was feminine and romantic, that made her think that Pero de la Cruz had definitely not had a hand in planning it. Though maybe she was doing him a disservice. Maybe there was a hidden romantic underneath that hard, intensely masculine exterior of his.

The thought made her smile. No, there was nothing romantic about him, she'd bet her life on it.

"Anything else I can get for you?" John asked, already moving toward the doorway, clearly impatient to get on with whatever it was he did.

"No, I don't think so. Oh, I suppose Mr. de la Cruz will . . . what? Call me when he wants something?"

"Yes," John said. "He will." And before Veracould ask him anything more, the elderly butler vanished through the doorway, pulling it firmly shut behind him.

Vera Stood for a minute in the middle of the room, feeling the sudden silence settle down on her like a heavy weight, combining with the nervousness and considerable trepidation to form a thick, hard lump in her gut.

Had she really done the right thing in taking this job? It clearly wasn't going to be easy, not with Pero as an employer. He was . . . strange.

In fact, this whole set-up was strange.

Vera Moved over to the windows, pushing aside the gauzy curtains, peering out. For some reason, she half-expected there to be bars over the glass, but there was nothing marrying the view down into what looked to be a stunningly beautiful garden.

There were small trees and shrubs and beds of colorful flowers. White shell paths wound through the foliage, and she could even see the sunlight catching on the drops of a fountain in one corner of it.

She leaned her head against the glass, half-smiling. New York could be wonderful like that, with small emerald gems of gardens hidden behind imposing brick walls or behind the gray facades of buildings. It reminded her of the rose garden in London her father was fanatical about maintaining, though that garden had been planted much more rigidly than this one here was.

There was a wildness to the garden below her window, a certain untamed quality to it that her father would have never allowed in his rose garden.

Rather like Pero de la Cruz himself.

Her scalp suddenly prickled at the remembered sensation of his fingers in her hair, the skin over her cheekbone tingling from where he'd stroked it.

Vera frowned and pushed him out of her mind. It was not time to think about her employer; instead, she needed to prepare for her new job.

She let the curtain fall and sat down on the bed, placing her handbag in her lap and searching for her phone. Bringing it out, she punched in the hospital's number, giving them her new details about which they sounded completely uninterested. After that, she quickly checked the time, then called her parents to let them know that she finally had a job and would be living somewhere else temporarily.

Her mother answered the phone on the second ring, sounding the way she always did, light and slightly out of breath, as if she'd been running to get the phone. "Oh, Phoebe! I'm just on my way out. Why do you always call at such an inconvenient time?"

Once, her mother's first words every phone call had been "How is Charles?" Now, they were either about how inconvenient Phoebe's call was or questions about why hadn't she called sooner.

"Sorry," Verasaid patiently. "I just wanted you to know that I have a new job."

"But how wonderful!"

"Yes, it is. But it's a live-in arrangement. Which means I won't be at the apartment for a little while."

"Sounds fabulous! Oh, Phoebe, I do wish you were back here. Your father has decided to give dinner to those stuffy old colleagues of his and . . ." Her mother rambled on, repeating the same list of complaints and slights that had been the soundtrack to Phoebe's life for years. She did not ask anything about Phoebe's new job, which was exactly what Vera expected given that her mother was only interested in herself.

"That sounds terrible, mum," Vera said, only half-listening, her mind already preoccupied with whether the items she requested from her apartment were the correct ones and what she would do if she would forgotten something. All her mother required was soothing anyway, not actual input.

Another five minutes and more soothing noises later, along with the usual gentle "No, I'm not coming home quite yet" statements, Vera disconnected the call and sat on the bed, fighting the feelings of vague frustration that always filled her after a phone call with her mother.

Then, just as she'd begun the laborious process of pinning her hair back into place, her phone buzzed again with a text message that looked to be a long list of instructions. It was from Pero.

Vera slid the last pin into place, smoothed down her skirt, and picked up her phone.

Okay, Pero de la Cruz. Bring it on.

She was ready