The Bet (2 page)

T
he Manhattan breeze cooled her face if not her frustration. Wishing she hadn't lost her temper, she took a deep breath as she waved for a cab. She'd be regretting this night for months.

“Do you have the balls?”

Him. Why was he throwing her words back in her face?

Zoe looked into his eyes, surprised at how green they looked in the lamplight. Moss green. She said, “You want to wager that much? Yours'll be about two hundred gran. Grand.” She teetered drunkenly.

He grabbed her shoulders to steady her. Through the cool evening, the heat of his hands infused her shirt. “Thanks,” she said, stumbling into his chest. She stayed there.

“You're pretty good with numbers, Ice Queen. It took me half a beer to make that calculation.”

“Did you call me
Ice Queen
?” Zoe tried to sound outraged, but Phillip had to be the only man alive who noticed more than her ass. If it took ice to survive Wall Street, then so be it.

“Everyone calls you that—hell,
you
probably call you that.”

“Your point is?”

“You'll melt.”

“Last guy didn't think so.” Why was she having a heart-to-heart with Phillip?

“A neophyte.”

Zoe heard inherent competence in his tone. Ah, that capability. Her drunken mind flashed an image of Phillip running his tongue along her inner thigh. Slowly.

Zoe blinked to clear the picture. “Uhh—” Why was she standing out here, pressed against this spectacular man?
Oh yeah, a cab.
“I need a cab.” Then she looked up into his face from his chest and saw unresolved business. “I'm definitely bed—better than you.” She thought she needed to qualify that. “My funs—funds are better.”

She watched him suppress a smile. Those martinis were dragging her mind right into the gutter, and her mouth was happily following.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “You haven't heard the terms.”

Zoe grabbed his arms to catch herself. She could feel how well muscled he was. She moved her hands up a little bit and found more muscles. She had to stop this. “I need—I need to—”

Zoe's vivid imagination flipped her a picture of exactly what she needed—Phillip's hand in her hair, his lips on her neck, her eyes closed in appreciation.

She cursed herself and the martinis. “I need to go home.” She stepped away from him.

He stopped her, gently. “I don't want your money when I win.”

Zoe stumbled again on her dratted shoes and pressed against his thigh. “What
do
you want?”

“You. I want you—as my sex slave.”

“You didn't just say
sex slave
, did you?”

“Only if you don't get the promotion.”

The vodka easily let her imagine granting his every sexual wish. Her heart raced, and her cheeks burned. Even if the idea were slightly appealing—and it wasn't—could Haas or anyone else ever work for her if they thought she slept around? “You've been reading
Hustler
too long.”

“Who's going to get the promotion?”

“I am. And you know it.”

“Take the bet.”

“I'm not sleeping with you or anyone else from the office.”

“So I'd have to quit the firm?”

“Pretty much.” She staggered against him again and tried not to appreciate his masculine strength. “There's never a cab when you need one.”

“What if we take the ‘sex' part out?”

“Want a slave? Call a maid.”

“No penetration.”

“That's right. Not now. Not ever.” The smell of him made her want to wrap herself in his sweater.

“What I mean, is that if I lose the bet, I fork over my bonus—a sizable sum as you've noted. If I win, you'll be my sex slave—with no penetration.”

Zoe's head swam. She imagined his hand running the length of her body, an image so hot her mind skittered away from it. She then thought of the impassive New Englander and her new account. She couldn't lose.

“I'll do it,” she heard herself say.

“Sign here.” He 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.

“My God, when did you write this?”

“When I knew you'd never let me take you on a regular date.”

“You're right,” Zoe laughed, knowing he'd just signed away two hundred grand.

“I didn't know your middle initial.”

“Where's that pen?” Using a parking meter as a desk, she scrawled something. Then, ignoring the slickness between her thighs, she signed her name.

“I'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?”

“Lynn.”

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.

 

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.

“Poor 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.

 

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.

“I can't wait to see your hair down.”

“And I can't wait for that corner office.”

“I 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.

“I am. So are you. That's why this'll be fun even if I lose.”

“
When
you lose,” she corrected, and then, only half kidding, she asked, “Are you going to be able to take orders from me?”

“You'll be the one taking orders.”

“You have a one-track mind, Kingdom.”

He smiled. “Only where you're concerned.”

She wished his eyes were the color of wet cement.

“Go manage your funds, Kingdom. The last I saw, they needed it.” She strode off, taking heart from the bossy click of her high heels on the tile.

But when she walked into the conference room, she knew something was wrong. Moore wouldn't meet her eye.

“Zoe,” he said, “I need to talk to you. Alone.” Moore took her elbow and walked her out of the room.

He whisked her past the cubicles into his lair. He sat behind his mahogany desk and grunted.

“What is it?”

“I can't promote you.”

Although not a muscle twitched in her face, the blood drained from it.
How was she going to face these guys?
She thought for sure she'd land this.

“But my—”

“I know. You're the best. You outperformed everyone in the division—by a lot.”

Zoe looked through the glass door and saw Phillip Kingdom wink at her. Adrenaline raced down to her toes.
Oh my God. What exactly are the terms of that bet?
Her mind raced. Did her funds have to outperform his, or did she have to get the promotion? “You can't—”

“Sorry, Zoe. I would've advanced you, for the record, but the partners won't allow it.”

Those bastards.
“It's because I'm a woman. I'll sue,” she said flatly.

“I wouldn't do that.” Moore's tone was kind, not patronizing. “They think you're too . . . distant maybe. They think you don't have a good enough rapport with the other team members to lead.”

They won't promote the Ice Queen.
Zoe remembered the endless happy hours she'd endured for the sake of team spirit, and the injustice of it made her want to howl.

Then she imagined Phillip pulling her hair out of its bun and actually moaned.

“It's not the end of the world. You're consistently good. Hell, I think you're the best here. Next year they'll
have
to move you into a lead position.” Moore looked at his watch and stood. “We have to get to the meeting.” He held the door for her, and they headed toward the conference room. “FYI, Kingdom's getting this one.”

Zoe's stomach sunk.

 

Phillip watched her face when Moore announced the news. God, she was good. The muscles around her eyes tightened almost imperceptibly, but if hadn't known how much this meant to her, he would never have detected what must have been horror and disappointment.

Today, he felt like a fraud, and that thought surprised him. When she'd landed that huge account on Monday, they'd all been in awe, and he'd all but kissed that bonus away. Everyone in this room knew she deserved the promotion, but here he stood, shaking Moore's hand.

He was a rat.

“Congratulations,” Moore said, still shaking his hand.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Play nice, Phillip. Zoe's not far behind you.”

“I hear you.”

“FYI, management thought you were a better team player.”

So that was how they justified it. “I'll try to live up to it then.”

“You do that.” Moore walked away, leaving him shaking the hands of Haas then McMurtry and Thompson.

When Zoe came to congratulate him, he almost felt like he should apologize. The napkin, tucked into his pocket, felt like a lead weight. He's chuck it as soon as he got out of here.

“Congratulations,” she said, meeting his gaze. He wanted to brush that tendril of hair back from her cheek, until she said, “You're officially a good ol' boy. Feel good?”

“Looking forward to tonight?” he lashed before he could think.
Damn my mouth.

“Bastard,” she replied so softly he could barely hear her.

Double damn.

 

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.

“Kingdom,” he said.

“I'm going to sue you.”

“No you won't.”

“For sexual harassment.”

“You agreed to it.”

“You mean I signed it? Ha. You got me drunk. That's harassment, too.”

“You got yourself drunk, and you did more than sign it. You amended it.”

“What? My initial?”

“You weren't that drunk.”

“I was so.”

He laughed.

“How did I amend it?”

“You added three clauses. I could sue
you
for sexual harassment.”

“You're crazy.”

“Read 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.

“Creep.” She slammed down the phone.

She was going to die.

A
t exactly seven o'clock, she rang the bell of his brownstone.

“Wow,” 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?”

“Calvin Klein. Velveteen. A little spandex.” She could barely speak, she was strung so tightly. Could he really blame her?

“It's okay. Breathe.” He led her to the living room, and she followed silently.

“I 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.”

“Thanks 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.”

“I'm
not
terrified.” He might have believed it, if her voice hadn't quavered.

“Have another sip of wine.”

She did. So did he.

“Take off your panties.” He paused then said, “Tonight you'll have no say. In anything.”

“My—”

“No. Don't argue. You agreed to this. Now take them off.”

Zoe took another deep drink and looked away from him. “How mortifying.”

“Think of it as indulging one of my fantasies.”

“A fantasy?”

“Knowing 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 strings on her hips, and pulled down. The panties landed in a pink satin puddle around her feet. Zoe stepped delicately to one side and sat back on the sofa. She looked at him with a challenge in her eye.

Phillip walked over and picked them up. Holding them on one finger, he said, “Beautiful.” Then he grinned and said, “But your ass will look better without them.” He put them in his pocket and looked at her, appraisingly. “In fact, you look great without them.”

“Thief.”

“You'll give me everything I want.”

“I want my underwear back.”

“You just think you do.” Phillip sat next to her. “Without them, you'll be thinking about sex all night.” He put his hand on her thigh, on her inner thigh. “You'll be wondering how I'm going to touch you.” Her muscles tightened, and ignoring her, he moved his hand a fraction higher. “And when I'm going to touch you.” Phillip subtly stroked her leg—hinting that he might stroke higher, that he might venture under her dress. “Will I use my hand?” He gently squeezed. “Or my tongue?”

She sat very still, saying nothing.

“Is this so awful?” He continued the subtle caress.

“Yes,” Zoe nearly whispered. “It's awful.” She quivered under his touch.

“I think you're lying. How does it feel?”

“If I say ‘throbbing' now, can I go home?”

“Give it up. You know you want to be here.”

She didn't reply.

In a low and seductive voice, he continued, “Imagine feeling this way for the rest of the evening.” She didn't meet his eye. “Whenever I brush against you, you'll think of my touch. You'll brush against me—perhaps accidentally, perhaps not—and you'll think of my touch. You'll be craving me by evening's end.”

Still she said nothing.

Phillip bent to whisper in her ear. “I'll notice. You have a great ass, Zoe, even when it's under that Armani armor at the office. Dressed, or undressed, I won't be able to keep my eyes off you, and neither will anyone else.”

A small moan escaped her.

“Tonight, you are all mine.” He moved his hand again, pushing between her legs a little more, barely brushing her labia.

Pleasure corkscrewed in his stomach as she loosened her thighs just a bit. “Do you feel fearless yet?”

“Uh—I wouldn't describe myself as fearless right now.”

“That gives us something to work on during dinner then.” He stood and held out one arm, indicating that she should precede him. He was dying to see the curve of her ass without panties. But he wouldn't touch—not yet.

 

The four-star steak house was hip without being swanky—the kind of place she usually enjoyed. Zoe breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn't humiliate her too much in a public place, could he?

Despite the crowd and noise, Phillip procured a tiny booth in the back. He ordered for both of them: red wine, salads, medium-rare steaks.

“But what if I'm a vegetarian?” she asked, after the waiter had gone. “Or hate blue cheese?”

“I watched you inhale a medium-rare burger last Friday,” he answered, toying with his water glass. “You like to dip your fries in the blue cheese you order for your salad.”

Zoe blinked, impressed he'd noticed these details. What did she know about him? “I know you drink milk in your coffee,” she offered.

“That's a start.” He agilely fished an ice cube from his water glass and handed it to her. “You'll know a lot more about me before the night is through.”

She took it, looking puzzled. His hand seemed especially hot against the ice.

“Use it. Make your nipples hard.”

Her face grew hot. “What? Here? Are you cr—”

“Do I need to show you what you signed? Besides,” he grinned, “no one's looking.”

She looked around, hoping for some reprieve. “Don't look while I do it,” she begged.

“That would defeat the purpose,” he laughed.

She'd be lying if she said she didn't think this was a little bit fun. Zoe took the melting cube and sucked the excess water from it, with her eyes locked on his. She slipped it under her dress and bra to her nipple. It instantly hardened, throbbing an erotic message right to her core.

“Now the other one.” Phillip's voice sounded huskier than it had a moment ago.

Zoe groaned with the continued torture but switched hands. The tiny ice cube again sent an immediate zip to her clit. Zoe shifted so that her now throbbing sex wasn't pressed against the booth.

“How does it feel?” he asked.

“Embarrassing.” She looked at the crowd, anywhere but at him. She dropped the remaining frozen bit to the floor.

“Besides that. Does it feel good?”

“Yes,” she said, looking at him directly. What could he do to her right in the restaurant? “It reminds me of being in high school. It's the sort of thing I did when I was a kid.”

“You mean, masturbate in public?”

“Not masturbate exactly . . .” Her voice trailed off. Why was she bringing this up?

“You're lucky you never sent anyone to jail.”

“Who said I didn't?” she asked, and sipped her wine. “Maybe I'll send you to jail.”

Phillip chuckled. “Not yet. Let's see you pinch your nipples.”

“I don't think—”

“Slaves obey their masters, or they're punished.”

“This is really going to your head,” she said.

“Yes it is,” he agreed.

She clenched her teeth and made to slip her hand into the top of her dress.

“No. From the outside. I want to see your fingers at work.”

“But someone might—”

“I don't care if the whole world sees.”

“I do,” she said defiantly, but she gently worked her nipple between her thumb and middle finger. Her jaw loosened as the erotic sensation coursed through her, and she stifled a whimper as the hard bud easily peaked through the fabric of her bra and dress. She couldn't believe that this arrogant man could get such intense arousal from her.

“Do them both at the same time.” His voice was so thick it almost growled.

This time she didn't balk before she obeyed him.

“Here you are, miss. Sir,” said the waiter as he slid their meals in front of them. His expression appeared completely professional, and for a moment Zoe thought her little show had gone unnoticed. But a grin so quick she might have imagined it told her otherwise.

“I'm going to kill you when this is over,” she snarled at Phillip after the waiter left.