His Indecent Proposal

His Indecent Proposal
 

(Overexposed #1)
 

by
 

Andra Lake
 

Published by Nuit Rouge Press, 2013
 

Text copyright © 2013 Andra Lake
 

www.andralake.com
 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
 

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
 

TABLE OF CONTENTS
 

Chapter One
 

Chapter Two
 

Chapter Three
 

Chapter Four
 

About the Author
 

“Have you found a job?”
 

I cringed, holding my cell away before I could utter something I would regret. I’d been on the phone with my mother for less than a minute and already she was asking the question I’d been dreading.
 

 “Working on it,” I told her, staring at the open webpages in front of me: remnants of my hopeless search.
 

I had just graduated from NYU with the most useless degree imaginable—a Bachelor of Fine Arts in sketching and drawing—and was facing the reality of my decision. I had to move out of my apartment in student residence by the end of the week, and I hadn’t found a new place to live, let alone a job to pay for it.
 

“New York is expensive,” Mom continued. “I hope you have a plan.”
 

My fingers closed tightly around my phone. Her meaning wasn’t lost on me; the plan had always been for me to enter law school after completing my BFA, and now that I wasn’t, my parents were cutting me off. They were hoping I’d crash and burn and come running back to them saying how right they were and pleading with them to send me. I was their only child and they had all their eggs in one basket.
 

Then she began the guilt trip. “Your father and I are very worried about you, darling. You’re all alone in such a big city and have no way to support yourself. I really wish you’d reconsider—”
 

I cut her off before she could continue, claiming a roommate emergency. “I smell smoke… I think Sam burnt something. Sorry, Mom—gotta go!”
 

Groaning loudly, I hit END and let my head fall into my hands. All my life, I’d strived to be the perfect daughter my parents wanted me to be and done whatever they wanted me to do. They’d raised me to be well-mannered, modest, ambitious and concerned about financial security…but it wasn’t me. When I finally decided to forge my own path and pursue my love of the arts, I felt free for the first time in my life. I could be whomever I wanted and do whatever made me happy.
 

Now it looked like my decision was threatening to blow up in my face.
 

Sighing miserably, I scrolled through the search results again: retail, restaurant industry, retail, telemarketing. I was about to close the page and give up for the night when I saw the ad. It was at the top of the page in one of those paid advertising spots, written in bold: Modeling Opportunity. I definitely wasn’t model material, but out of curiosity, I clicked the link.
 

“Modeling Opportunity: Model must be female, in her twenties, blonde, 5’0”-5’5”, 100-120 lbs. Lower end of height and weight scale preferred. Picture required with application.”
 

My mouth dropped open. It was like the ad was made for me.
 

I stared at my computer screen for a long time, processing this. Being barely over five feet, I’d never considered modeling a viable career option. What modeling position asked for a tiny female? A line of clothes for petite women was my only guess. But even at the proper height and weight, could I be a model? People had told me I was pretty, and though my hair was
growing darker, I was one of those rare natural blondes at the age of twenty-two. Maybe I had a chance.
 

I pulled my legs up onto the chair, wrapped my arms around them as I read through the ad again. The weirdest thing was that it had a numbered email address rather than a company name, so I couldn’t even research the company. What’s more, if I applied, I wouldn’t know where my picture was going. But did that matter? Worst case scenario: some weirdo had my picture. Best case scenario: I got a job.
 

As I opened my pictures folder and began to skim through, Sam entered.
 

“What are you up to?”
 

I slammed the lid of my laptop closed.
 

“Whoa! What are you doing that you don’t want me to see?”
 

Sam sat down on the edge of my bed holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and two glasses in another. “I thought we’d celebrate graduation!” she smiled, green eyes twinkling.
 

Now Sam was someone who could be a model. She had dark, almost black hair, and emerald eyes. Plus she had the height. But Sam didn’t need to consider becoming a model because she was headed straight for law school in September. Our plan had always been to go through together, back before I realized my personality wasn’t really Lawyer Material. I wouldn’t be able to handle people getting off on technicalities.
 

We clinked glasses and took a sip of wine.
 

“Do you have any leads?” Sam asked.
 

I shrugged, looking away. “Not really. I just started looking.”
 

“Were you chatting with a guy just now? Or looking at porn?” she teased.
 

I laughed and threw a pillow at her.
 

We spent the next few hours chatting about our plans for the summer. Sam was moving in with her boyfriend of a year, Luke. He was a lawyer who had just finished his articling and would now be making a decent salary. They’d met at some law faculty information session. Sam couldn’t wait to move in with him and enter law school and “start her real life”. She had everything planned out and it was all falling into place.
 

“It’s just so exciting, don’t you think, Amy? We’re making it on our own now, like real adults!” Sam squealed and gave me a tight hug before skipping out of my room to call Luke.
 

When my door closed, the plastered smile on my face vanished and I sighed deeply. Turning back to my computer, I found the best full body picture of myself available, wrote a cover letter and sent my application.
 

***
 

The next morning, I rolled over and checked the time on my phone: 9 a.m. Next I checked my email and almost fell out of bed. There was already a response.
 

Dear Miss Clair,

Thank you for your application. I believe you might be a perfect fit, but would of course like to meet you in person for an interview. The position requires a very specific personality. Would you be available this afternoon at 6 p.m.? If so, please let me know and we can meet at my office.

Regards,

Dallon King

6 p.m. today? Whoa, he moved fast.
 

Still groggy, I stumbled into the bathroom to brush my teeth and frowned at myself in the mirror. He hadn’t provided the name of the modeling company, only the address where we were to meet. An obscure email address and no company name? Why was he being so secretive?
 

I wrote him a quick message back saying I would be happy to meet him before rummaging through both my closet and then Sam’s to find something to wear. It took me most of the day to decide, but I settled on a knee-length black dress with a ruched bodice and a pair of pumps. I was going for simple and classy.
 

When I arrived at the building at 6 p.m., I rode the elevator to the floor Dallon King had provided in his instructions, surprised when the doors opened to reveal a glass wall with the name Walters King Capital. I hesitated, certain I’d made a mistake, and checked the email again. But there was no mistake; this was the building and floor Dallon King had provided me. I noticed the receptionist watching me quizzically through the glass wall and entered the office.
 

 “Do you have an appointment?”
 

 “Yes, I’m here to see Dallon King.” It sounded more like a question than a statement.
 

“You must be Amy Clair,” she said and put out her hand. “I’m Madeline. Would you like a glass of water? Mr. King is just finishing up with a meeting.”
 

Soon I was perched on a leather chair, sipping my bottle of water while looking around nervously. The reception area was sparse, modern. Almost cold. I was about to pick up a magazine and pretend to look nonchalant when Madeline called my name, asked me to follow her. She led me through a hallway and knocked once on the door at the very end of the hall. The nameplate on the door read Dallon King, President.
 

“Come in,” a deep voice said.
 

Madeline smiled reassuringly and opened the door.
 

My first impression was that the office was enormous, much larger than one man needed. Two walls were made entirely of glass, offering city views on both sides. Like the lobby, the room was sparse, decorated with only a wide wooden desk, bar with crystal decanters, white leather couch, and glass coffee table. On its surface sat a rectangular glass vase holding three flowers of red, orange and yellow, providing the only color in the room. Also like the lobby, the atmosphere felt cold.
 

The man behind the desk looked up, smiled at us before standing and buttoning his suit jacket. He was all monotones: black suit, white shirt, silver tie. I felt my eyes widen, unable to look away. He was so… pretty. And somehow intensely masculine at the same time, standing well over six feet tall with dark hair, a chiseled jaw line and piercing blue eyes. I tried not to look shocked at his appearance, though from the smirk on his face as he approached me, he had already taken note.
 

“Mr. King, this is Miss Amy Clair.” Madeline introduced us and then promptly turned on her heel and closed the door, leaving us alone in his office.
 

I made my way over to him on shaky legs.
 

“Hi, Miss Clair,” he smiled warmly, extending his hand. My pulse leapt as he squeezed my hand, his grip tightening. “I’m Mr. King. Such a pleasure to meet you.” He paused, still holding my hand, those striking eyes locked on mine. “I’m so relieved that you look like your picture.”
 

I blushed as he released me, saying an awkward thank you. Who was this man? I estimated him to be thirty at most, and he was a president. A jaw-dropping president at that.
 

“Please, sit.” Mr. King motioned for me to sit on the couch. Instead of sitting beside me, he sat on top of the desk and studied me for a moment before pushing a button on his telephone. “You may go home now, Madeline.”
 

“Good evening, Mr. King,” came the response.
 

Mr. King turned to me again, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. “Have you ever modeled, Miss Clair?”
 

I shook my head, heat rising into my cheeks. I was waiting for him to tell me he was no longer interested, but to my surprise, it seemed to please him.
 

“Good. I’m looking for an amateur. I want a...natural feel.”
 

“What exactly is the modeling position for?” I asked, fiddling with the hem of my skirt.
 

Mr. King noticed the gesture and smiled. “It’s a side project. I’m interested in artistic photography and looking for a very specific look.”
 

He continued to stare at me, and as he did so, his expression…altered. It was like he was looking through me. The effect was instantaneous; I felt it in my stomach, and my nerves fluttered to attention. Suddenly, the air between us felt different. Charged.
 

Mr. King hopped off the desk. “Stand up.”
 

I instantly stood and saw him smile again.
 

“Yes, you are the perfect height. I’d guess about five-foot-two?”
 

I nodded.
 

“You have a petite figure, so there is no doubt you fall within the weight scale provided in the advertisement.”
 

I nodded again, my cheeks heating. It was hard not to find talk of my weight offensive, but I reminded myself that if I wanted to be a model, I was going to have to toughen up. In the modeling industry, models’ statistics were common knowledge. It was how they got opportunities. So, I went a step further.