The Contract (The Contract 1)

I pulled on my stubborn cowlick in vexation. “What do you want from me, Miss Elliott?”

“Could we not at least try to get along? Surely we can find something we have in common and engage in a conversation without your veiled insults and holier-than-thou attitude.”

A grin tugged at my lips. I was catching another glimpse of the backbone in Miss Elliott.

I tilted my head. “I apologize. I’ll try to do better. Is there anything else you want since we’re putting everything on the table?”

She hesitated, her fingers worrying the ugly shirt she wore.

“Spit it out.”

“You can’t, um, you can’t mess around while we’re doing . . . while we’re together.”

“Mess around?”

She looked everywhere but at me. “You can’t sleep with other women. I won’t be humiliated like that.”

“So what you’re saying is: I can’t fuck anyone?”

Her cheeks were so red I thought her head would explode; however, she straightened her shoulders and looked right at me. “Yes.”

This was too fun for me.

“Yes, I can fuck around?”

“No!”

“No fucking,” I enunciated the last word.

“No.”

“You expect me to remain celibate the whole time?” I asked, now incredulous.

“I will be, so I expect you to do the same.”

I snorted. “I doubt it’s anything new for you.”

She threw up her hands. “That’s it. You want to fuck someone? Go fuck yourself, VanRyan.”

I gaped at her retreating figure as she grabbed her coat and stormed to the door.

Like the idiot I was, I chased after her—for the second time.

“Katharine!” I reached past her so she couldn’t open the door. “I’m sorry. My remark was uncalled for.”

She turned; her eyes were bright with tears. “Yes, it was. So many of the things you say are.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “It’s almost instinctual with you.”

“That doesn’t make it any better.”

“I know,” I conceded, then changed tactics. “I won’t.”

“You won’t what?”

“I won’t fuck around. I’ll abide by your wish.” I pressed harder against the door—if she left, I was really fucked. “I’ll try not to be such an ass, as well.”

“I’m not sure you can change your DNA, but good luck with trying,” she mumbled.

I relaxed—crisis averted.

“I’ll drive you home.”

She began to shake her head, and I gave her a fierce look. “Katharine, we agreed I was going to be less of an ass. I’ll drive you home. Tomorrow is going to be a long fucking day.”

“Fine.”

I grabbed my coat and opened the door for her, knowing my life was about to change in ways I never planned.

I only hoped it would be worth it.RICHARD

ASIDE FROM KATHARINE’S HESITANT INSTRUCTIONS, the drive was silent. The farther away we went from my neighborhood, the darker my mood turned. When we pulled up in front of a dilapidated house, I turned to Katharine.

“This is your house?”

She shook her head. “No. I rent an apartment in the house.”

I slammed the car into park, yanking off my seatbelt. “Show me.”

I followed her up the uneven path, double clicking the key fob. I hoped the tires were still attached to my car when I returned. In fact, I hoped the car would be there.

I didn’t try to hide my displeasure as I looked around at what I assumed was considered a studio apartment. I considered it a dump. A futon, an old chair, and a desk that also served as a table were the only pieces of furniture in the room. A short counter with a hot plate and a small refrigerator posed as a kitchen. There were a half dozen boxes piled by the wall. A wardrobe hanger held the dowdy suits and blouses Katharine wore.

I strode over to the one door in the room and threw it open. A tiny bathroom held a shower so minute I knew I would never be able to use it. I closed the door and turned to Katharine. She watched me with nervous eyes.

None of this made any sense to me.

I stepped in front of her, towering over her small stature. “Do you have a problem I should know about?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you have a drug problem? Or some other addiction?”

“What?” She gasped, her hand clutched to her chest.

I flung out my arm. “Why are you living like this—like a poor church mouse? I know what you make. You can afford a decent place. What are you spending your money on?”

Her eyes narrowed, and she glared. “I do not have a drug problem. I have other priorities for my money. Where I sleep doesn’t matter.”

I glared right back. “It does to me. You aren’t staying here anymore. Pack your shit. Now.”

She slammed her hands on her hips. “No.”

I stomped forward. The room was small enough, when she retreated, her back hit the wall. I towered over her menacingly and studied her face. Her eyes, although angry, were clear. Holding her gaze, I grabbed her wrist, pushing her sleeve up. She almost snarled as she tugged her arm away, holding it up, then doing the same to her other arm.