Page 28 of The Client
“Thank you, Mr. McConnell,” I say, inching toward the door.
“One last thing,” he says. “You’ll need to be ready at eight tomorrow morning. A car will pick you up at that time and take you to your doctor’s appointment.”
“Doctor’s appointment?”
That cruel smile pulls his lips again. “Before you move in, you’ll be thoroughly screened for sexually transmitted infections and prescribed birth control.”
I feel the blush creeping across my face. “But—”
“You’ll find I’m a man who plans for every contingency,” he interrupts. “Now get out.”
11
RHYS
The soundsof Izabela moving into my house interrupts my attempt to work.
I’m still not entirely sure if I made the right decision, but I have no regrets. My goal was to keep her as far out of my father’s reach as possible. This will accomplish that goal quite tidily.
But while thwarting the man is satisfying, this is about much more than being petty or stealing his plaything right out from under him. I simply could not stomach the thought of my father annihilating the last shreds of her innocence.
I prefer to do that myself.
She’smyplaything now.
And play with her I will. Her lack of experience makes her the ideal blank slate. I’m going to turn her into a fucking masterpiece.
Starting today, I have six full months to train her, to shape her into exactly what I want. If amateur hour last night was any indication of what she’s capable of, it won’t be difficult to mold her into my own personal fantasy. She’s got quite a mouth on her. Just the memory of Izabela down on her knees, choking on my cock, has my pants getting tight.
With a heavy exhale, I banish the image from my mind and get up from my desk chair, squeezing the back of my neck to release some of the tension there. I’ve been hunched over my laptop in my home office all morning, reviewing an endless stream of documents related to the Dubai deal, but Izabela’s arrival with the moving crew just now has utterly destroyed my focus.
The scent of her coconut shampoo is all I can think about. Hearing her move around makes it worse. I become so distracted that I can’t even focus on my email. Frustrated that my work time is already interrupted, reminding me why I live alone, I leave the office and watch the movers hauling things into my house. Two men cart in four medium size boxes and a shabby-looking lamp. Izabela has a laptop bag over her shoulder and a small duffle bag in her hands. They make one trip to her room, leave, and don’t return.
That’s it?
Despite telling her to keep her things to a minimum, I assumed she’d still cart over way more than this. Most of my past girlfriends could fit their entire shoe collection in those four boxes. Girlfriends. Izabela isn’t exactly that, is she? And she’s already shown me that she’s not typical of the woman I tend to spend my time with. She doesn’t seem interested in working her way into being a kept woman. She wants to continue modeling and making a name for herself instead of being passed from man to man. I bought her so easily and I briefly wonder why she got herself into that position in the first place. Seems she would have known what she’d gotten herself into. Not that it matters. I’m getting what I want. A woman to warm my bed and accompany me to necessary functions.
That’s all this is.
But it still feels strange to have her permanently inserted into my personal space.
She opens a box and looks around the room. At first, she doesn’t seem to notice that I’m watching her from the doorway where I lean against the frame. She spins slowly, her eyes full of sadness in the second before she schools her features.
My chest tightens at that shadow of emotion. I hadn’t thought it would be so trying for her to live here for the next six months. My past lovers are usually trying to worm their way into a more permanent spot in my life. It’s…nice that I don’t have to worry about that for a while.
“Doctor gave you a clean bill of health,” I tell her. “Did you take your first pill yet?”
“I took a shot before I left the doctor’s office.” Even better—effective immediately.
“Good. Here’s a copy of the house key for you.”
She takes it from me and sets it on the night table. “Thanks. Is it okay if I unpack?”
“Of course.”
Izabela continues opening the box while giving me a sideways glance. Her room is perfectly styled and should suit her well while she’s here. The bed sheets are Egyptian cotton, the duvet some expensive brand my designer choose. The furniture is modern and comfortable. An oversized chair is perched by the window. The bed could fit four, easily. There’s a birch desk and office chair. And the walk-in closet could work as a small apartment on its own. Despite the luxury, she doesn’t seem at all impressed.
Fishing clothing from the first box, she places them neatly on the bed, then does the same with the second box. The third box appears to be full of books and some framed photos. The fourth is shoes, a winter jacket and odds and ends.
