The Contract (The Contract 1)

“I’m eating dinner. Would you join me?”

“I’m fine,” I lied. I was starving.

He grimaced. “I doubt that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re too skinny. You need to eat more.”

Before I could say anything, he grasped my elbow and led me to the high counter separating the kitchen from the living space. “Sit,” he ordered, pointing to the high, padded stools.

Knowing better than to argue with him, I did. As he moved into the kitchen, I looked around at the enormous, open space. Dark wood floors, two large, chocolate brown leather sofas, and white walls highlighted the vastness of the room. The walls were undecorated, aside from a massive TV hung over the fireplace—no personal photos or knickknacks. Even the furniture was bare—no cushions or throw blanket anywhere. Despite its grandeur, the room was cold, impersonal. Like the set of a magazine spread, it was well appointed and pristine, with nothing giving a clue about the man who lived in it. I glimpsed a long hallway and a set of elegant stairs that I assumed led to the bedrooms. I turned back to the kitchen—it was similar in style and impression, dark and light combined, and void of personal touches.

I repressed a shiver.

Mr. VanRyan set a plate in front of me, and with a smirk, opened the lid on a pizza box. I felt a smile tug on my lips.

“This is dinner?”

Somehow, it seemed too normal for him. I hadn’t had a slice of pizza in ages; my mouth watered looking at it.

He shrugged. “I usually eat out, but I felt like pizza tonight.” He lifted out a slice and slid it on my plate. “Eat.”

Too hungry to argue, I ate in silence, keeping my eyes on my plate, hoping my nerves wouldn’t get the best of me. He ate steadily, devouring the rest of the pizza, aside from a second slice he put on my plate. I didn’t object to it or the glass of wine he pushed in my direction. Instead, I sipped it, enjoying the smoothness of the deep red merlot. It had been a long time since I had tasted such a good wine.

When we finished our strange meal, he stood, discarding the pizza box, returning fast. He picked up his wine, drained his glass, and paced for a few minutes.

Finally, he stood in front of me. “Miss Elliott, I will reiterate from earlier today. What I’m about to share with you is personal.”

I nodded, unsure what to say.

He tilted his head to the side and studied me; I had no doubt he found me lacking in every way. Still, he continued.

“I’m leaving Anderson Inc.”

My jaw dropped. Why would he leave the company? He was one of David’s golden boys—he could do no wrong. David bragged about Mr. VanRyan’s talent and what he brought to the company all the time.

“Why?”

“I was passed up for partner.”

“Maybe next time . . .” I stopped talking when I realized what this meant. If he left and they chose not to reassign me, I was out of a job. Even if they did reassign me, I would be taking a pay cut. Either way, I was screwed. I could feel the blood draining from my face.

Mr. VanRyan held up his hand. “There won’t be a next time. I have an opportunity I’m exploring.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I managed to ask.

“I need your help with this opportunity.”

I swallowed. “My help?” I was even more confused. He never wanted my personal help.

He stepped closer. “I want to hire you, Miss Elliott.”

My mind raced. I was sure, if he moved on, he would want a clean break. He didn’t even like me. I cleared my throat. “As your assistant at your new opportunity?”

“No.” He paused, as if thinking about his words, then spoke. “As my fiancée.”

All I could do was to stare at him, unmoving.

RICHARD

Miss Elliott gaped at me, motionless. Slowly, she slid off the stool, facing me, her gaze flitting around the room. “Do you think this is funny?” she hissed, her voice shaking. “I’m not sure what kind of a prank this is, Mr. VanRyan, but I assure you, it’s not amusing.”

She marched past me, grabbing her coat and purse from the sofa, whirling back around. “Are you taping this so you can watch it later? Laugh over it?” A tear slid down her cheek and she brushed it away, the movement jerky and angry. “Isn’t it enough you treat me like shit during the day, now you want to have fun after hours, as well?”

She stormed toward the door, and I recovered from the shock of her angry outburst quick enough to rush forward and prevent her from leaving. I leaned over her, pushing the door shut.

“Miss Elliott . . . Katharine . . . please. I assure you, it’s no joke. Hear me out.” She was so close I could feel her body trembling. I had thought about her reactions but hadn’t considered anger. “Please,” I coaxed again. “Listen to what I have to say.”