The Contract (The Contract 1)

The bed was huge—deep and plush—the sheets silky soft and rich, and the duvet felt like a warm feather floating over my body. The silence, however, was too loud.

I stole out of bed and went to my door. I opened it, wincing at the low creak as the hinges protested their use. I strained my ears, yet I couldn’t hear anything. We were up too high for traffic, and the walls were well insulated, so there was no noise from anyone in the building.

I tiptoed down the hall, pausing in front of the door I knew was Richard’s room. It was slightly ajar, and bravely I pushed it open wider and stuck my head in the opening. He was asleep in the middle of a gigantic bed—bigger than the one I had—bare-chested, with his hand resting on his torso. Obviously, the events of the past couple days weren’t bothering him at all. His shiny hair showed up in the dim glare against the dark color of his sheets, and to my surprise, he snored. The sound was subtle but constant. In repose, and without the ever-constant sneer on his face, he looked younger, and less of a tyrant. In the muted moonlight, he appeared almost peaceful. It wasn’t a word I had ever associated with him, and he wouldn’t look that way if he woke up and found me in his doorway.

Nevertheless, it was the sound of his even breathing and rumbling snores I needed to hear. To know I wasn’t alone in this vast, unfamiliar space. I listened for a few moments, left his door opened, and returned to my own room, leaving the door ajar, too.

I settled back into the bed and concentrated. It was low, but I could hear him. His odd wheezes offered me a small measure of comfort—a lifeline I needed desperately.

I sighed realizing if he knew he was comforting me, he would probably sit up all night in order to deny me the security it brought.

I turned my face into the pillow, and for the first time in months, cried.He was subdued in the morning when I walked into the kitchen. He sipped from a large mug and indicated I could help myself to the Keurig machine on the counter.

In awkward silence, I made a coffee, unsure what to say.

“I hadn’t expected company. I don’t have cream.”

“It’s fine.”

He pushed a piece of paper my way. “I wrote your resignation letter.”

I frowned as I picked it up and read it. It was simple and straightforward.

“You didn’t think I could write this myself?”

“I wanted to make sure it was plain. I didn’t want you detailing your reasons for leaving.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

“What? What don’t you understand now?” He ran a hand along the back of his neck.

“If you don’t trust me enough to write a simple resignation letter, how do you expect to trust me enough to act like we’re—” the word stuck in my throat “—lovers?”

“One thing I do know about you, Katharine, is you work hard. You’ll do a good job because it’s what you do. You’re a pleaser. You’ll act exactly the way I need you to act because you want to earn the money you’re being paid.”

He picked up his briefcase. “I’m heading to the office. There’s a spare key and a pass card for the building on the hall table. Your name is already added to the tenant list and the doormen won’t hassle you. You should introduce yourself to them, just to be sure.”

“How . . . how did you do that already? It’s not even eight o’clock.”

“I’m on the board, and I get what I want. According to the files, you’ve been living here for three months. I want your resignation in my hand right after lunch, and you’ll leave. I’ve asked for some file boxes to be delivered to my office. I don’t have a lot, but you can help me pack up my personal stuff this morning. Add anything of yours to the boxes. I’ll bring them here.”

“I don’t have much of anything at the office.”

“Fine.”

“Why are you packing up? You haven’t been fired yet.”

He flashed his smile. The one that held no warmth. The one that made the person on the receiving end acutely uncomfortable.

“I’ve decided to quit. It’ll piss off David, and show Graham how serious I am. I’ll accept your resignation, and hand them both in to David at three. It’s a shame you’ll be gone for the show, but I’ll fill you in on all the gory details when I get home.”

I gaped at him. I couldn’t keep up.

“You like Italian?” His question was offhanded, as if he hadn’t dropped yet another explosive bombshell.

“Um, yes.”

“Great. I’ll order dinner for about six, and we can spend the night talking. Tomorrow morning, you’re going shopping for a suitable outfit for the barbeque, and I’ve made an appointment for your hair and makeup. I want you to look the part.”