The Bet Read Free Page B

good?”
    â€œLooking forward to tonight?” he lashed before he could think. Damn my mouth.
    â€œBastard,” she replied so softly he could barely hear her.
    Double damn.
    Â 
    She washed her face in cold water, and went to hide in her cubby—which was not a corner office. The napkin was sitting on her desk, or at least a photocopy of it was. Without alcohol in her veins, the letters stood perfectly still. She read, “If Zoe Lauterborn is promoted . . .”
    With a small cry, she crunched it up and tossed it away. Under it, a note said, “Wear something appropriate for Peter Luger’s. Not a suit. Not pants.” He’d also left a map to his home.
    She picked up the phone and dialed his extension.
    â€œKingdom,” he said.
    â€œI’m going to sue you.”
    â€œNo you won’t.”
    â€œFor sexual harassment.”
    â€œYou agreed to it.”
    â€œYou mean I signed it? Ha. You got me drunk. That’s harassment, too.”
    â€œYou got yourself drunk, and you did more than sign it. You amended it.”
    â€œWhat? My initial?”
    â€œYou weren’t that drunk.”
    â€œI was so.”
    He laughed.
    â€œHow did I amend it?”
    â€œYou added three clauses. I could sue you for sexual harassment.”
    â€œYou’re crazy.”
    â€œRead what you wrote, Zoe L.”
    Zoe picked the crumpled sheet off the floor and read her own writing, “No pain. No pictures. No penetration.” She gave a cry of dismay.
    He didn’t soothe her. “You’ll regret the ‘no penetration’ part before the night’s over.” She could hear the grin in his voice.
    â€œCreep.” She slammed down the phone.
    She was going to die.

3
    A t exactly seven o’clock, she rang the bell of his brownstone.
    â€œWow,” he said, when he opened it. “A dress. You look great. Please, come in.” As she walked past him, he caressed the small of her back. He watched her suppress a flinch. He’d need a slow hand tonight. But she’d definitely be worth it. “Black suits you. What is this?”
    â€œCalvin Klein. Velveteen. A little spandex.” She could barely speak, she was strung so tightly. Could he really blame her?
    â€œIt’s okay. Breathe.” He led her to the living room, and she followed silently.
    â€œI made dinner reservations for seven forty-five. We have a few minutes. Here, sit down.” Phillip waved her toward a leather couch. He watched her sit woodenly on the sofa as he headed toward the kitchen.
    He brought back two glasses of red wine and handed one to her. “The way I see it, this is about control. You’re so used to managing every little detail that you don’t know when to let go.”
    â€œThanks for the analysis.” She didn’t use the lighthearted tone that usually accompanied their banter.
    He sat on the couch opposite her. “Ah, lighten up. You’re probably terrified, but I’m not going to hurt you.”
    â€œI’m not terrified.” He might have believed it, if her voice hadn’t quavered.
    â€œHave another sip of wine.”
    She did. So did he.
    â€œTake off your panties.” He paused then said, “Tonight you’ll have no say. In anything.”
    â€œMy—”
    â€œNo. Don’t argue. You agreed to this. Now take them off.”
    Zoe took another deep drink and looked away from him. “How mortifying.”
    â€œThink of it as indulging one of my fantasies.”
    â€œA fantasy?”
    â€œKnowing I can touch you any time I want to . . . yes, a fantasy.” Explaining this to her ratcheted up his excitement, but Phillip squashed it, knowing self-control was his only hope for winning her over.
    Zoe emptied her glass, set it on the table, and stood. He bet her knees trembled, and she looked extremely aware of his gaze. She reached demurely under her clingy dress, hooked her thumbs under the