The Bet Read Free

thrust a napkin from the bar and a pen at her. The napkin was covered in tiny handwriting, and the letters jumped and danced as she squinted. Focusing through the alcohol was difficult, but she finally read, “If Zoe Lauterborn is promoted, I, Phillip T. Kingdom, will sign over my entire bonus to her. If I am promoted, Zoe Lauterborn will be my sex slave from seven P.M. until the following noon, beginning Friday, May twelfth. She must obey my every command.” He had signed it on the bottom.
    â€œMy God, when did you write this?”
    â€œWhen I knew you’d never let me take you on a regular date.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Zoe laughed, knowing he’d just signed away two hundred grand.
    â€œI didn’t know your middle initial.”
    â€œWhere’s that pen?” Using a parking meter as a desk, she scrawled something. Then, ignoring the slickness between her thighs, she signed her name.
    â€œI’ll keep that,” Phillip said, taking the napkin from her. He read it and grinned. “I like the additions. Are you going to tell me what ‘L’ stands for?”
    â€œLynn.”
    He folded the napkin and put it in his shirt pocket. Phillip held out his hand to her. His palm sizzled against hers.
    Dear God, what have I done? Zoe wondered as a cab finally pulled up.
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    Running through Central Park early Saturday morning, Phillip wondered if he should feel guilty. Maybe sending her those martinis had been a bad idea. He’d never seen her drink more than a beer or glass of wine before last night—she’d probably have a hell of a hangover this morning. Poor baby.
    â€œPoor baby, my ass,” he said to himself, speeding up the hill past the Natural History Museum. She’d be mean as a hellcat and pissed off to boot. His sympathy would be wasted. Passing a college-age girl jogging with a giant poodle, he decided to absolve himself of any guilt. He hadn’t poured the drinks down her throat. Not exactly.
    Then Phillip grinned, remembering the way she’d pressed her thigh against his in the booth. Getting her drunk might have been worth it. And she definitely would have slapped him if she’d been sober when he handed her that napkin.
    That napkin. His heart rate raced now, and not only from his punishing speed.
    When Zoe remembered the napkin, she was really going to go ballistic. Maybe she’d been so drunk she’d forget about it. Slowing his pace around the pond, he considered crumpling it. Taking advantage of her rare bravado had been a dirty—if mouthwatering—trick. Tossing the napkin would be the gentlemanly thing to do.
    Then he grinned in the spring air. He had Zoe Lauterborn’s signature, and the world was his oyster.
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    On Friday at three, she took a deep breath and looked at the clock on her computer screen. Maybe the wager was a bad idea, but regret was for wimps. Abruptly the time registered in her brain, causing her stomach to flip. In fifteen minutes her win would be confirmed. Her New Englander had signed on Monday, and her ducks were in a row. Ten minutes ago her stocks had been outperforming Kingdom’s by nearly two percent. No one else was even close.
    She stood, planning a quick lipstick check, but a delicate caress along the nape of her neck stopped her in her tracks. Even as the delicious shiver traveled down her spine, she told herself it was only nerves.
    â€œI can’t wait to see your hair down.”
    â€œAnd I can’t wait for that corner office.”
    â€œI bet,” Phillip said with a grin.
    The double meaning wasn’t lost on her, but she couldn’t return the volley. Today she would see years of effort—college, grad school, low-paying, tedious jobs—bear fruit. Today, she would earn her own department, fair and square. “You think you’re very clever,” she replied, lamely.
    â€œI am. So are you. That’s why this’ll be fun even if I