Page 23 of The Client
RHYS
I haven’t stopped thinkingabout the girl since I closed my front door on her.
She’s under my skin.
I am not a timid man and I rarely regret anything. Last night, I had sex with a beautiful woman who was more than willing to participate. It pissed me off that my father brought her and looking back, I probably should have sent her away. I’m still not entirely sure why I went through with it. I’ve never exchanged money for sex before, and the fact that my father paid for the girl doesn’t make the deed any less unsavory.
Something struck me about her, and I didn’t want to let her go. It wasn’t her beauty. I can find that anywhere. It wasn’t the tone of her voice considering she barely spoke to me. I’m not sure what drew me to her, but whatever it was made it impossible for me to look at my bed without feeling something strange in the pit of my stomach.
There was a fierceness to her that unsettled me.When she looked me in the eye, I saw past her youth, her eagerness to please, her fear. I saw steel.
Or maybe I’m just telling myself that to assuage the guilt I feel about taking her virginity. Someone dutifully completing a task they were paid to.
Did I destroy some purity in her, some innocence that she can never get back? Of course I did. I won’t deny it. But I could have sworn that she felt something good when I was with her. And not just because she orgasmed.
Hence my relentless brooding at work. So far, no one has taken notice. I’ve had back-to-back calls since I got in this morning, then lunch with one of our senior board members, and now I’m preparing for an afternoon meeting with some eager new investors from Dubai.
My cell buzzes on the desk and I pick it up, inwardly cringing when I see yet another text from my father asking how my “date” went last night. I don’t reply. I’ve been ignoring him all day. I can’t hide forever, though. His office is right down the hall from mine.
“Mr. McConnell?”
There’s a knock on the doorframe and my assistant, Tamara, pops her head in. I’m quite fond of her. She’s a single mother who went back to school to finish her degree once her kids got to high school, and when she came in for her job interview, I was so impressed that I hired her on the spot. Unlike the younger applicants I’d seen—all slick corporate sharks in the making, only interested in working for me as a means to launch their own careers as quickly as possible—Tamara said she was interested in assisting at the executive level long term. She was also whip smart, and the ideal combination of adaptable, confident, and competent.
“I have the P&Ls you wanted for the meeting, and the company profile stats,” she says. “Ten copies of each, right?”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll take those.”
“I made twelve, just in case,” she says, passing me the folder with a melodious jangle of her bracelets.
“Nice,” I tell her, snapping my laptop shut and tucking it under my arm as I stand. “Which conference room are we in?”
“Four. I assume to impress everyone with the best view of the city.”
I shake my head. “Of course. Coffee and refreshments all ready to go?”
“Just set everything out. The Dubaians are waiting in reception. Is Dubaians a word?”
“It is.” I check my watch. “Walk them down to four at two on the dot, please. I just need a few minutes to get set up in there. And then you can go ahead and take off early today.”
“Bless your heart. You’re a prince among men,” she says, grinning from ear to ear.
“Hardly. But you mentioned that Jackson had a scrimmage today, and I don’t want you to miss out when he makes that half-court shot. Go take care of your family.”
“Thanks, boss.”
A moment later I walk out of my office, pull the door shut behind me, and then immediately freeze.
Down the hall, I see the girl from last night standing off to the side of the reception desk. Except she’s undergone a complete transformation, and wow. She looks like she belongs here, in a tasteful black pencil skirt, a silk blouse, and black flats. Her blonde hair is pulled up in a bun and subdued pearl studs gleam from her earlobes. She checks her watch, then glances around searchingly, like she’s here for a lunch date or a social call.
My initial shock gives way to irritation. What the hell? Is she stalking me? Tracking me down at my workplace, showing up here uninvited, unannounced—is she trying to con me into one more night? God, and the timing is garbage. I have to get that conference room set up in less than five minutes.
Aware that the Dubaians are seated just a few feet away from her, I walk coolly toward the woman, take her by the elbow, and lead her back into my office. Steering her into a chair, I leave the door wide open to give the impression that this is strictly business. Which it is.
Eyes wide, she starts to say, “Sorry, I have—”
“What’s your name?” I interrupt.
She hesitates and then softly answers, “Izabela.”
