Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
I wanted to call off every meeting, and clear my calendar for a week. I wanted to call my secretary and have her book a room on a remote island, where I could live out every fantasy swirling around in my head, without being bothered by work, or the realities of our daily lives. Money isn't the obstacle; it's the logic of it all.
I have to tell myself to get a grip. It's a slippery slope—one minute you're wrapping your arms around the woman of your dreams, and the next, your life is spiraling out of control faster than a racecar skidding off its track in a pillow of smoke and flame.
I know how these things work.
Is my life already spinning out of control? I wonder to myself.
Fuck.
I shake my head as if it were an Etch-a-Sketch, and try to wipe these images clean from my mind.
Stay focused. Stay focused. Stay focused, I chant, as if repeating it will make it any easier.
I lean back into the leather of my chair and sigh. I drum my fingers against my desk. I gaze out of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, across the city skyline.
No amount of daydreaming will bring Eliza into my office. I can't magically will her here right now, no matter how badly I want to bend her over my desk and fuck her, or taste her mouth on mine.
I suck in a deep breath. These Excel files aren't going anywhere, I mumble. I better start adding formulas into these cells. It's slow going … my eyes take in each number, each cell … but it takes my mind a while to catch up with it all. I'm having a hard time deciphering the equations and financial projections. Let's face it; my mind just isn't functioning properly.
Just then, the door to my office opens without warning. There's no knock, no greeting.
I look up and see two women saunter into my office. They slither in as silent as snakes. It's Mandy and Wanda. I haven't thought about Mandy since the last time I deep throated her for Wanda's camera.
Mandy walks over, her hips swaying beneath a tight, black pencil skirt and her tits squeezed together in a blouse tighter than a homeless man's budget. She gives me a devilish smile and sits on my lap, flipping her auburn hair to one side and lacing one finger under the knot of my tie.
She smells good, but that's about the only nice thing I can say about her.
"What do you want?" I ask.
Wanda walks over to my desk and leans in close. I watch as a strand of her raven black hair catches the sunlight and falls, finally settling on a stack of my papers on my desk—her blackness a stark contrast to the white sheets.
"You haven't held your end of the bargain," she says, her crimson lips part and curl into a smile, devoid of any warmth.
I knew this moment was coming.
"I'm working on it," I reply.
Wanda's eyes narrow into slits. "I can ruin your career. Everything you've worked toward can vanish—poof—with a few phone calls. It's that simple."
"You've made that point clear already," I say.
"Have I? Because from what I can tell, you still haven't gotten Eliza to invest in Red Lion Aviation," Wanda hisses.
Mandy is still sitting in my lap, and my legs are growing numb. I shift in my seat and she brings her free hand to my hair, raking her nails against my scalp.
"That's enough," I say, moving her off my lap. She stands up and straightens her skirt, and I look back at Wanda. "I told you, I have it handled. It's in the works."
There' a moment of pregnant pause as Wanda eyes me suspiciously.
Then she breaks the silence.
"You have 24 hours or else this all goes to press."
I look at her, the silent realizing swirling in my mind—now I have to ruin Eliza, the woman I'm falling for.
Chapter Twenty
Carter
“Carter, there’s someone here to see you,” Cheryl says through the intercom, and the tone of her voice couldn’t be any clearer: whoever it is, it’s someone I’ll want to see.
“Who is it?” I ask her, but the answer to my own question takes shape in my mind fast enough: it’s either Eliza or Derek.
“Derek Stackford,” she says, and I smile to myself. See? I told you; Cheryl and I have such a relationship that I can take such guesses and be right about them. I close my laptop lid and, adjusting the knot on my tie, I clear my throat.
“Send him in.” With that, I press down on the blinking red button and shut down the connection. A few seconds later and the door to my office swings open, and Derek steps in with that confident gait of his, tailored Armani suit like always, and carrying a small beige folder under his arm.