His Indecent Proposal (2 page)

“I think I’m about 105.”
 

Mr. King nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Very good. Very good, indeed.”
 

He continued to smile as if at a private joke, crossed his arms and walked back to the desk, leaned against it. “However, we still need to get to know each other. Like I said, the position requires a certain personality.”
 

A tougher personality, I supposed—one not thrown off by questions about weight.
 

 “Do you have any objections to nudity?”
 

Even though I had prepared myself for that question, I still blushed. I took a deep breath and shook my head.
 

“We would have to work on that blush,” he smirked, making me blush redder. He made a twirling motion with his finger, and I turned on the spot.
 

“Perfect.”
 

So quickly it made me jump, he grabbed his desk chair and placed it across from the couch, told me to sit again. I sank back down on the couch and crossed one leg over the other, trying to look calm and professional, when in truth I couldn’t remember ever being as nervous.
 

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through it. “I composed a list of personal questions I thought relevant to ask in order to get to know one another.”
 

He glanced up at me as if to ask if that was okay, and when I nodded, he began.
 

“How old are you, Miss Clair?”
 

“Twenty-two.”
 

“Are you from New York?”
 

“No, I’m from California. I came here for school.”
 

“And what did you take in school?”
 

“BA in Fine Arts.”
 

“Oh?” Mr. King raised an eyebrow. “What fine art did you study?”
 

“Both drawing and painting. I tried to study something that would be more…useful, but I wasn’t interested.”
 

“Useful?” He arched a dark brow.
 

“I considered going to law school because, well, my parents suggested it and my best friend wanted to study it.”
 

“But it wasn’t for you,” he said, finishing my sentence and looking at me intently with his blue eyes.
 

“No,” I said softly.
 

“You’re passionate.” Mr. King nodded in understanding. “I am too.”
 

I looked down at my hands, trying not to think of all the ways Dallon King might be passionate. A glance around his office, and my thoughts traveled to him being passionate on the couch, on the desk, against the door…
 

 “Where are you living at the moment?” His question broke through my thoughts.
 

I knit my fingers together and instantly pulled them apart, realizing it betrayed my nervousness. “I’m still in the student residence apartments with a friend, but I have to find my own place by the end of the week.”
 

The eyebrow raised again. “Do you have any leads?”
 

“No.” I looked down. What was the point in asking all these questions, just to get to know me better? Or was he trying to gauge what he should offer me, if anything?
 

“Well, Miss Clair, I should let you know that I am prepared to compensate you very generously. If you’re interested in the position, that is.”
 

“I am,” I said, almost too quickly. “I mean, if you’re interested in me, that is,” I added and instantly blushed again. I saw the corner of his mouth twitch and he adjusted his position on the chair.
 

I hadn’t meant to sound so eager, but I was. It wasn’t just that I needed the money; I also liked how Mr. King made me feel. There was something about the way he looked at me and asked me questions that made me feel like I was truly being seen. For the first time in my life.
 

Mr. King smiled and leaned forward to touch my knee. “You’re so sweet. Before you agree, however, I would like to show you my studio. It will give you an idea of what I expect. Are you free right now?”
 

“Sure,” I said, somewhat surprised.
 

Without further discussion, he led me back through the now dark, empty office. Outside the building, a black Audi SUV was waiting. Mr. King opened the door and waited for me to climb in before sliding onto the seat after me.
 

 “Home, sir?” The driver asked.
 

 “Please, Arnold.” Mr. King responded before turning to me. “My studio is in my home.”
 

My eyes widened and I turned to the window so he couldn’t see my surprise. The butterflies in my stomach intensified at the thought of going to Dallon King’s
home
, and my head screamed that I was doing something I shouldn’t be. My parents would have said it wasn’t
appropriate, considering I didn’t really know him, and he could get in trouble for taking a young woman to his home after work hours.
 

Then again, my parents would also die if they knew I was pursuing something as lowly as a modeling career.
 

Beside me, Mr. King was looking out his own window as if lost in his thoughts. I leaned back in my seat and tried to relax. I was new to the corporate world—how was I supposed to judge what was appropriate? His receptionist had known about our interview, so there was nothing to worry about.
 

He adjusted his perfectly knotted tie, shifting the seat slightly, and his scent wafted toward me. I inhaled and held my breath, trying to shut him out, even though there was less than a foot of space between us. I’d never felt like this around someone before—it was like every fiber of my body was aware of him. I tried to focus on the scenery out the window, but I couldn’t push him out of my mind; all I could think about was how I was reacting to him. I’d entered the interview only somewhat intrigued but now I wanted desperately to be the person Dallon King was looking for.
 

When we arrived, the doorman greeted us, addressing Mr. King with a smile. Mr. King put his hand on my back and led me into the lobby, which seemed to be made entirely out of marble. It was the most grandiose building I had ever been in. There was even someone to push the elevator button for us.
 

Mr. King scanned a card once we were in the elevator and pushed the button for the 33rd floor. “I own the entire top floor,” he explained.
 

“Wow,” I breathed. “Do you have a big family?”
 

He glanced at me from the corner of his eye and a smile twitched on his lips. “No, Amy, I do not. That life is not for me.”
 

The elevator doors opened and he breezed into the living area. “Please, feel free to look around. I’ll get you a drink.”
 

I walked around slowly, looking around me in awe. Like him, his penthouse exuded money and power. All the artwork and furniture was modern, of course, and clearly valuable. Through the windows I could see a balcony that seemed to wrap around the entire floor. It was a lot of space for one person.
 

Mr. King was in the kitchen, which looked out into the living room, and I joined him at the breakfast bar. He poured two glasses of champagne and handed me one, his eyes boring into mine.
 

“To hopefully making a deal,” he said and we clinked glasses.
 

As we each took a sip, he watched me over the rim of his glass, those piercing blue eyes studying my movements. I suddenly felt exposed and glanced away. I was undeniably attracted to and intimidated by him, and I was sure he knew it.
 

He pushed a contract toward me across the breakfast bar. “This is a simple non-disclosure agreement, not an official work contract. If you accept the position, we can prepare a contract together. This agreement simply states that if you do not accept the position, you will not reveal the nature of my artistic project. I hope you understand that it is here for my protection.”
 

He lowered his head slightly, looking at me intently before releasing the contract so I could look through it. I didn’t know anything about non-disclosure agreements and certainly couldn’t afford a lawyer if I wanted to, but it didn’t seem to matter anyway. I had no desire to tell anyone the details of Mr. King’s project. So, I signed and dated the agreement and passed it back to him.
 

“Wonderful.” He placed the contract in his briefcase. “Come, I’ll show you the studio.”
 

I followed him down the hall where we stopped at a set of closed double doors. For a moment he looked unsure, but it was a very brief moment, and then he was pushing both doors open at the same time to reveal the studio.
 

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. The white backdrop, yes. Clothing racks full of outfits, yes. But a bed in the middle of the room?
 

I could feel him watching me.
 

“What color is your bra?”
 

The tone of his voice had changed, grown lower. I couldn’t look at him when I responded, even though I knew I should have; I didn’t want him to know I was afraid. There was a strange energy in the room, like the one I’d felt earlier in his office, but magnified.
 

“Black.”
 

Mr. King walked up to a clothes rack and shuffled through the items, pulled off a red plaid skirt. “I think we should try this one,” he said, cocking his head to the side.
 

I stopped breathing. This was the moment that decided whether or not I could be what Mr. King needed. It was time for me to choose between the timid, appropriate girl I had always been, or a new Amy Clair that could live a little.
 

He held the skirt out to me and I took it.
 

“Now, I know this is all new to you, but if we try some practice shots, you will have a better idea of what the job entails. What do you think?”
 

“Sure,” I said, smiling with fake confidence.
 

“Wonderful,” he smiled. “I’ll help you out of your dress.”
 

My heart began to race, but I ignored it and nodded before turning around to give him access to the zipper. I felt him before he touched me—an electricity that raised the hairs on the nape of my neck. He gently lifted my hair off my back and put it over my shoulder before slowly, leisurely, unzipping the dress down to my bottom, pausing briefly before pulling it over my head.
 

“Face me.”
 

I obeyed, wearing only my bra and panties and trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. Luckily I’d foreseen stripping down and was wearing a nice matching pair.
 

“Don’t be nervous,” he said, looking pointedly at my arms, which were across my chest protectively. “Being comfortable with your body is an important aspect of modeling.”
 

I dropped them but still struggled to hold his gaze.
 

“You are a very beautiful woman, if you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Clair.” He looked me up and down appreciatively. “Exactly what I was looking for.”
 

I hid my blush by focusing stepping into the skirt. While I fiddled with it, Mr. King pulled off his suit and slacks and changed into a pair of worn jeans with holes in them and a simple black T-shirt. I averted my eyes as he changed, but not before I caught a glimpse of his muscular back. Now looking the part of a photographer, he swaggered over to a nearby shelf, picked up an expensive-looking camera.
 

“When we’re in here working, think of me as a director. Do not question me—just obey my requests. Understood?”
 

I nodded, and then spoke. “Yes.”
 

“Good. We should be able to tell very quickly whether or not this arrangement will work.”
 

My stomach clenched momentarily. I wanted more than anything for the arrangement to work.
 

“Lie down on your right side and prop yourself up so you’re facing me.”
 

Easy enough. I got into position on the bed and he snapped a few pictures.
 

“Don’t smile, just look into the camera. Stare like you’re looking right through it. Perfect. Now, roll onto your back.”
 

Mr. King climbed onto the bed and stood above me, snapping away. From my vantage point, I was looking up between his legs, and my mind traveled to places I didn’t want to go.
 

“There’s that blush, Amy,” he said softly, using my given name for the first time. “It is really starting to grow on me.”
 

I heard the shutter go again and then he was sitting beside me, whispering as he gently moved my limbs.
 

“This is my true passion, Miss Clair.” He pulled my right ankle, opening my legs. “Put one arm under your head and the other on your stomach. Look relaxed, like you don’t even know I’m taking a picture of you. Wonderful.”
 

I found myself basking in the glow of Mr. King’s compliments. He called me a natural. Exactly what he was looking for. But it wasn’t just that; I wanted to impress him.
 

He took a few pictures of me standing with my hand on my hip and then said, “I’m very pleased, Miss Clair. Just a few more and we can discuss our contract.”
 

I smiled and waited for his next instruction.
 

“Now turn around and face the bed.”
 

I turned and faced the bed.
 

“Bend over.”
 

I froze.
 

“I said bend over, Miss Clair,” he said warningly. “Following instructions is an integral aspect of this position.”
 

My heart started to race. Why did he want me to bend over? Was he hoping to get a shot between my legs? I did as he asked and heard the snap of the shutter. When I moved to stand, he growled.