Dirty Filthy Fix: A Fixed Trilogy Novella (Fixed #5.5)(6)

I threw my shoulders back, put on my best grin, and reminded myself once more that Nathan Sinclair did not know who I was. I was the one with the upper hand, and that was all that mattered.

I grabbed a glass, filled it with ice, and stepped back out to the waiting area. In several confident strides, I made it across the room to Mr. Sinclair and handed him the water bottle and the glass. “Here you go, sir.”

I even managed to keep all the ice in the glass instead of spilling it all over the place.

“Thank you.” He was regal and professional in demeanor, but his eyes were mischievous as they darted up to my face.

Did that mean he had been checking me out when I wasn’t looking?

It was probably nothing. But it made my heart hammer faster anyway, and it was already beating as fast as I thought it could.

“Anything else, Mr. Sinclair, while you’re waiting?” Besides, you know, maybe a reenactment of Saturday night? Because I was about two seconds from losing all my hard-fought control and crawling into his lap. He was just as defined-looking in this suit as he’d been in the tux he’d worn on Saturday, and even more put together. More noble, somehow. More restrained.

And he’d been quite restrained at the party, giving in only to a simple kiss the entire night.

I can be that restrained, I reminded myself. Maybe he would show up again at this weekend’s party, and I could play with him then. And if he didn’t, I could take out all this pent-up desire on someone else. Chuck, or Kennedy, someone new, even.

“Just one thing,” Mr. Sinclair said, catching me by surprise since I’d nearly forgotten I’d asked him anything.

I perked up, giving him my full attention.

“I was wondering how you could have possibly gotten an invitation.”

In my world, the only invitation that mattered was to the Open Door. It threw me for a second, when my mind went immediately there. I was thinking as hard as I could, scouring my brain, trying to come up with some other event that he could be referring to, but I came up empty.

“Invitation?” I asked innocently. Because there was no way he was referring to the party.

“The Open Door.”

Well, shit.

I took a step back and pivoted, and then another step, this time forward. I was practically dancing, making tiny little movements with my hands, as I tried to work out how I was going to handle this situation. I’d never had anybody bring up the Open Door to me face to face, outside of the parties, and certainly not at my place of employment.

I finally sank into the armchair next to him.

“You can’t tell anyone about that. How did you know? I’m not supposed to go there. I’m not supposed to have those passwords. You can’t tell anyone. How did you figure it out?” I realized immediately that I’d probably given away more than I should have. I should have played coy, but he had me so flustered, so dazed. He had me so damn torn up and twisted.

“Your ears,” he said, evenly. Lucky him, with no reason not to remain calm. “You’re wearing the same earrings you wore on Saturday. Even if those earrings were common, I like to think that profile belongs only to you.”

I was blushing now. I wore these earrings all the time, short, dangly gold and diamonds. Nothing too gaudy or bold. But they were unique, and vintage. They’d belonged to my grandmother.

And for the first time in ten years, someone had noticed them.

I swallowed and peeked behind me at the door to Hudson’s office. It was still shut, thank goodness, but I had to be sure. Then I looked back into Nathan Sinclair’s mischievous green eyes.

“I keep my business life and my private life very separate, Mr. Sinclair. I hope you understand that.” I had to bargain with him somehow. It was evident he had the advantage, but I had to try and regain control. In the last ten years, I’d only slept with a handful of people from the Open Door, and all before I’d made my list of rules. After that, I’d made sure that the only men I’d slept with were people I knew through friends, or work, or people completely disassociated with the club. “But I could make an exception if I had to,” I said aloud.

“If you’re suggesting we barter,” Mr. Sinclair said, leaning forward, his elbows on his muscular thighs, “I think I could agree to something.”

“I’m off at five. I could meet in the bathroom, or there’s a hotel just down the street…”

Mr. Sinclair shook his head. “I’m not asking for anything that complicated. I’m not in the habit of forcing women into seduction.”

Huh. That was disappointing for some reason. “Then what did you have in mind?”

Under his beard, the short, boxed style that George Clooney made sexy, I caught the hint of a smirk. “I’ll take your panties.”

“My panties?”

His nod was short and subtle. “You are wearing some, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m wearing panties.” I scowled. What did he take me for?

Though, the idea of not wearing panties and sitting so close to him was doing weird things to my insides. Yummy weird things.

I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. “If I give them to you, you won’t tell a soul that I work here and go to those parties? You’ll never mention it again?”

“Cross my heart.” He had a dimple when he smiled. His eyes sparkled, and those tiny wrinkles at the corners made him dignified at the same time.