Bound Beneath His Pain (Dirty Little Secrets 1)

I take my seat at the rectangular office table, inhaling the fragrance à la Robertson—the moldy smell is worse in the conference rooms—reminding myself I’m a professional woman. I’m not one to be charmed by a man who thinks he’s all that. And I won’t let his good looks, charisma, and sexy smile distract me from negotiating my job.

He slowly opens his jacket, exposing his wide shoulders and thick chest beneath his black vest, all to tempt me, I’m sure. What’s frustrating is how much it’s beginning to work—my nerve endings tingle, and more and more warmth is sliding down between my thighs.

I expect him to begin negotiations, but he asks a question totally out of the blue: “Tell me a bit about yourself.”

My belly quivers with the low silky tenor of his voice and the power it has over me. He’s not looking at me. He’s fucking me with his eyes. Each long linger he gives me is like he’s imagining where he’d kiss me. The passion is right there and is so tempting I want to grab the flirtation between us and play with it a while. Boy, do I ever. But I can’t, I remind myself.

Micah lives a life I don’t want. A life of privilege that I once lived myself.

My mind leaves the meeting room, returning to a past that I wish I could forget. Shortly after my fifteenth birthday, my parents lost their lives in a plane crash. Fortunately, my older by ten years and very rich half-brother swooped in to save me from foster care and took me in. But a life of privilege isn’t the one I want and it’s not the life my mother would’ve wanted for me either. She wanted me to make my own mark on the world, and that’s exactly what I’ve done. It’s the very reason no one at Richardson—even Liv—knew I had millions in a trust fund.

I blink into the present, give Micah my most professional smile, and set to answering his question. “I’m twenty-five. Born in San Francisco. I’ve been a real estate agent for five years.”

His sculpted lips press tight. “I’m sure you know I didn’t want you to recite your resume.”

“Yes, I’m sure I know that, too.” I grin.

Judging by his soft chuckle, he’s enjoying the game between us. His playfulness isn’t helping the weight in my belly, but I need to keep my wits about me. This guy is so wrong for me that I know better than to give him a single flirtatious smile.

“We’re all business, then?” he practically purrs.

“On to negotiations,” I confirm.

He finally breaks eye contact to acquaint himself with the terms of my employment offer before addressing me again. “Please don’t feel nervous or unsure in what you want during these negotiations. I’m here to listen and discuss what you feel you deserve.”

Coming from any other guy, this speech would seem sweet and thoughtful. As it is coming from a guy dressed in an expensive tailored black suit, while he is leaning back in his seat, chest out, chin high, I refrain from snorting. Powerful men are all the same. And I certainly don’t need him to hold my hand. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

His eyes narrow at my demure tone of voice, then his mouth twitches. Obviously he sees the amusement in this scenario; not to be shallow, but I am Richardson’s top producer—I think I can “negotiate” a contract. Jeez.

I keep silent; he grabs out a pen from his jacket pocket, never taking his eyes off me. I shiver—not from the coolness of the room, but because of his intensity. He exudes a frightening amount of power. And a confidence that I’ve rarely seen in a man his age; if I recall correctly, the tabloids pegged him at thirty-five.

The strength he projects seems hauntingly dark. But it’s not a darkness I want to run from. It’s a darkness that draws me in. A darkness that I almost want to absorb.

I shake the thoughts from my head. Let’s be logical here, this guy has nothing to offer me except lust. And I want more than that when it comes to a relationship; I want love, trust, and, dare I say, maybe even the white picket fence? Which I suppose explains why I’m still very single.

He taps his pen against the paper. “Go ahead and negotiate your terms.”

I glance at the document before me, thinking of my very successful half-brother and the lessons he taught me about negotiation. Ask for more than you think you’ll get, because then you’ll end up somewhere in the middle, he once told me.

“This is all great, and the health benefits are appreciated,” I say to Micah, keeping my eyes on the papers. “However, I have some conditions besides what I’m seeing here.”

“Name them,” he tells me.

I note the commission on the papers, which is the same as I get at Richardson—the offer states that I’ll receive 2.5 percent of the purchase price as my commission from the sales, then out of the money I earn on the deal, I’ll give Holt 30 percent as their cut. I’ve done my competitive research over the years, just to make sure I knew what the market would bear should I ever leave Richardson. “In section four where the commission is noted, I want Holt’s commission adjusted from 30 percent to 20 percent of my earnings.” I watch Micah’s brows shoot up and add, “And if you haven’t already given Liv a salary increase, then she’ll need that, too.”

A slow, dangerous smile crosses his face. “Anything else to adjust?”

I pause, ponder, then shake my head. “No, that’s all.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” he says, considering me.

Of course I did, my big bro taught me all about business. I figured Micah probably operated the same way. I had to address him with the same intensity he shows me or I won’t get his respect. “It’s not a bargaining technique,” I correct him, mirroring his slow, dangerous smile. “It’s simply what I deserve based on the market today.”

He leans back in his chair, regarding me with a long look. “It seems you have more experience than what I’d originally thought. Where did you work before Richardson?”

“Nowhere.”

“No internship out of university?”