It’s Just Business

“Mr. Sharpe, we may be delayed a minute or two,” my driver, Vince, says from up front. Dressed all in black, he’s a classic chauffeur, minus the cap. “Looks like there’s a traffic accident up ahead.”

I crane my neck, looking through the currently lowered black-tinted separation window in the Mercedes and see a sea of cherry red brake lights, and just beyond that, the swirling blue light of a police car.

“We’ll get there in time, Mr. Sharpe,” he adds, and my gaze finds his in the rearview mirror.

Vince is a quiet man, older and gentleman-like. He’s worked for me for over three years now and mostly keeps to himself. Which I appreciate.

Which means when he says something, he’s got a reason.

I nod, finding his assurance out of character, and vaguely wonder what he thinks of my decision to bring a date tonight. In the time I’ve known him, I’ve never felt compelled to do so. I only attend what I must or what benefits me to do so. Plus-ones aren’t necessary. In fact, they’re usually a danger—highlighting weakness, serving as potential targets, and hindering the business at hand.

Unless the plus-one is the business.

His gaze shifts back to the street, and I let the conversation die. I don’t really need to respond, and I don’t plan to. Vince is my employee because he’s got the class and refinement of a chauffeur, with the pathfinding and driving skills of an experienced taxi driver. The man can practically sniff out the fastest route from anywhere in the city, and I’ve never missed an appointment because of him.

As it should be.

My suit is pressed, black as midnight and sharper than a razor. The champagne that’s chilling to my left is equally high end, ten-year-old Louis Roederer Brut. I picked it out because it reminds me of Raven. To the uneducated masses, they might overlook it because it’s not a trending name like vintage Dom Perignon. But they’d be missing out in doing so.

In much the same way, I would be a fool to ignore the potential Miss Hill possesses. But I’d be an even bigger fool to bring her into my employ. Especially given how my dick reacts to the mere thought of her.

All week, while the markets opened and closed, projections were presented, and people have volleyed for my attention, I’ve thought of nothing but tonight. I’ve plotted and planned, being more thorough than I had a chance to be during my lunch with Raven. In every scenario, one truth reigns.

Business should remain business. There’s no need to muddy the waters with silly, transient things like lust when clean, strategic, logic provides the best return on investment.

So I will be a man of my word and introduce Raven to the right people. I will not hold her down the way Evan Faulkner clearly did, sabotaging her career.

And though I wouldn’t mind holding her down in another way, I won’t do that either. She is a risk I shouldn’t take.

Which means my intention tonight must be singular—burn what’s left of the ashes between myself and Evan.

I’m playing out the evening in my mind as the city passes by outside the window. Lost in possibilities, I’m surprised when Vince alerts me to the fact that we’ve arrived at our destination. Raven’s apartment. The neighborhood itself is up and coming. I’m certain it’s not cheap, as nothing in the city is, but it’s not at all what I’m accustomed to these days.

Buzzing the apartment, I’m surprised when the door lock simply clicks open without any verification that I should be permitted entrance. I glance back at Vince, who moves as if to escort me into the building. I hold up a staying hand, and he stills. I’m fine and don’t need protection from whatever potentially lurks inside. He chuckles but hides it with a sharp clearing of his throat.

Beyond the door, I find my first annoyance. A complete lack of an elevator. Raven’s text said she lives in apartment 4C, which means I have several flights of stairs ahead of me.

Moments later, I take a deep breath to steady myself as I reach the top and look up and down Raven’s hallway. The building’s old enough to still try and carpet their hallways, although I suspect by the worn-down appearance that this generation of rugs will be the last before a more budget-friendly option is employed. The hallway lights are LED bulbs in shatterproof glass globes, and the walls are painted a very economical off-white.

Down the hallway, a door opens and a man with a round belly like he’s got a basketball stuffed under his bathrobe shuffles to a garbage chute, dumping his trash inside before turning and giving me a once-over. “How you doin’?”

“Just fine, thanks,” I reply, knocking on Raven’s door. I ignore the man, not inviting further conversation, and focus all my attention on the painted black door before me. I hear high heels approach, and then the door opens to reveal Raven.

My heart beats in a way that multiple flights of stairs can’t hold a candle to as I take her in. Her red dress is absolutely stunning, hugging her lush curves in all the right places and highlighting her assets in a way her professional attire at our interview did not. Her hair falls in a straight sheet down her back, her green eyes look feline with sharp black liner, and her lips shine with gloss. The total effect is one of elegant seductiveness.

My dick twitches in my slacks, arguing with our current plan of business only.

She’s fucking gorgeous. I thought my memory might’ve been playing tricks on me, or that my eagerness to get back at Evan had made Raven seem more attractive that she was in reality. The truth is, my memory didn’t serve her justice in the least.

Words escape me a touch too long as I’m lost in the vision before me. “Too much?” she asks, and her voice brings me back to her gorgeous gaze.

“Miss Hill, you look…” I clear my throat, steadying myself.

“Please, Raven,” she speaks as I hesitate.

“Raven,” I correct myself, “you look absolutely beautiful.” Behind the door, I hear a hushed squeal. I arch a brow, guessing at the noise. “Roommate?”

An auburn head and blue eyes sneak around the edge of the door to look at me, and the woman gives a short wave. “Hi.” She appears to be around the same age as Raven, who’s several years younger than I am.

Raven doesn’t offer an introduction, so I follow her lead and simply say, “Hello.” Looking back at Raven, I ask, “Are you ready?”

“Yes. See you when I get home, Maggie,” Raven says, a hint of warmth coming to her voice. They’re obviously more than just roommates. They’re friends as well.

The two exchange a look I’m not quick enough to discern, and then Raven smiles warmly as she steps into the hallway with me, closing the door behind her. For the first time, I’m alone with Raven. Even in these less than five-star environments, with industrial grade overhead lighting and plain walls that seem to make everything a little dingy, she looks gorgeous. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, turning to her left. When I don’t follow, she glances over her shoulder, never breaking her stride. “You took the stairs, didn’t you?”

“I did,” I answer in confusion, and Raven gives a shy yet devilish smile that’s contagious even though I don’t know what’s causing my lips to unconsciously rise.

“There’s a cargo lift down the hall,” she says, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. It’s perfectly straight and stunning how it drapes over her shoulders. My fingers itch to push the locks from her neck and expose the bare skin beneath.

In the hallway, her quiet confidence comes to the fore again, and despite the nerves that must be ripping through her, she doesn’t allow them to show at all. In fact, she’s comfortably leading me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and to my own surprise, I follow her quite willingly. She’s a warm contrast to my cold reserve.

“Normally, I take the stairs too, but I’m not daring it in these heels.”

Her tone is almost self-deprecating, as if she’s not certain of her skills despite her sure-footed, even strides. The effect of the off-hand comment is quite different, though. It drags my eyes down to her gorgeous legs, where her calf emerges from the red hem of her dress, which drapes to the floor but is cut dramatically in the front and along her left leg.

I have to resist the urge to end tonight’s plans early by pinning her against the wall and slipping between her legs right now.

Fuck.

“The elevator is fine,” I finally declare, forcing my mind to not imagine what she tastes like and wonder if she feels the same tension I do. I hold onto my professionalism with every bit of grit and determination I possess after seeing her into the small, enclosed space, clasping one hand over my wrist in front of me, standing tall with my shoulders straight and my eyes on the door.

The ride down the elevator is quiet, mainly because the elevator itself is, as Raven said, a cargo style elevator that’s too noisy and open for any sort of actual conversation.

We reach the street level, and Raven stops just shy of the car. I can feel tension rise in her as she sees Vince. Turning to look at her, I ask, “Is there a problem?”

“No, I just… never mind,” she says, climbing in as I hold the car door open for her.

Vince waits until I’m seated before smoothly pulling away and raising the privacy screen to allow Raven and me a chance to speak privately before the event.

“Champagne?” I offer, and Raven’s façade of calm cracks ever so slightly.

Is it being alone with me? The alcohol? Or more likely, a show of nerves about tonight’s undertaking? I do wonder if that’s more about Evan or the professional opportunities I’ve promised her.

“Thank you,” she finally responds, and I carefully pour her a flute of champagne. She takes a sip and lets out a breath. “Thank you. This is good.”

“You’re welcome,” I reply, pleased that she seems to be shaking off her moment of reservations. “Have you applied anywhere else?” I question, thinking that her potential job prospects may be a good place to begin conversationally to ease us into the deeper discussion we should have before our arrival at the fundraiser.

“Practically everywhere,” she admits. “Initially, I applied to as many places as I could, hoping for interviews to hone my skills, so that when I had the chance at my top-choice firms, I was ready to wow.” She flashes a wry smile as if we both know how that worked out. “Now, I’m back to a ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ situation. If I can get my foot in the door somewhere, I know I can impress. I just need the chance.”

A part of me balks at the idea of passing Raven on to another firm, despite that being the carrot I dangled to get her to come tonight. Raven Hill is mine, a voice roars in my head. But that’s not the case. She is a means to an end, as I am for her. Nothing more and nothing less.

Which we should address.

“I see.” I take a sip of my own champagne and decide to be blunt. “Let’s discuss tonight. Who do you know in the Financial District, besides the obvious? Is there anyone in particular you’d like to meet?”

Raven takes another sip of champagne and thinks before answering. “I trust your judgment of my resume and your contacts. I’m open to whoever you feel might have a role for me and appreciate any and all introductions. I’ve met some people during my internship and recent interviews, but by no means everyone. And to be frank, though Evan talked shop, that only let me know people’s reputations. He never went so far as to introduce me to those who might be in a position to hire me.”

“Reputations,” I repeat. “Their public or private ones?”

“Most of them,” she says, sounding amused, “both.”

“Ah,” I reply, turned on by the sparkle in her eyes. I shouldn’t ask, but I’m curious about both what Evan has said and how Raven feels about it, so I venture, “And what sort of reputation do I have?”

“That depends,” she says, turning the full impact of those twinkling green eyes on me. “Some people say you’re ambitious, principled, and that your work ethic is only outweighed by your brilliance.”

“Some?”

“Others say you can be… brutal, even ruthless. I’ve also heard you described as a menace.” She holds my gaze as she says it, as if studying my reaction.

The way she says that last word sends a thrill through my body, straight to my balls. She makes it sound like… a compliment. To me, it is. I’ve worked too hard to amass wealth and power to be seen as anything less than the ultimate threat.

“I feel like I should thank you,” I say lightly.

Her lips purse as if she’s hiding a smile. “Why are you doing this, Mr. Sharpe?” she asks suddenly. “You said there’s history with you and Evan so you can’t bring me into your firm—which, to be clear, would not be an issue on my side.’ She pauses, one brow arched as if giving me an opportunity to correct her. I drop my chin in a silent answer, and undeterred, she continues, “But there must be more than merely parading me around like a show pony to irritate him.”

I consider how best to answer her. Some degree of truth seems prudent, but I’m not prone to showing all my cards just yet.

“I’m an asshole who holds a particular grudge for Evan Faulkner. The hatred I feel for him is likely my only vice,” I admit with a sigh. “Long ago, he crossed a line that should never be crossed, and he did it with ease, taking joy in my pain. For that, I will happily watch him suffer and enjoy making him look like a fool, and feel like one too.” I pin her with a cold look, ensuring she sees the depth of my depravity. “Raven, I invited you tonight because I want to see Evan Faulkner’s cocky fucking smile fall at the sight of you on my arm. That moment.” I hold my fingers up, as if I can pluck that precious second and hold it in my hand.

“So, this isn’t about me?”

I’m careful with what I say next. “Yes and no. No, if he hadn’t done that to you right before our interview, I would not have made the offer I did and we would not be here now. Then again, if you weren’t his jilted ex, our lunch interview likely would have gone very differently.” I almost tell her I would have hired her without a second thought, but I resist. “Yes, it is about you because I’ve spent a good amount of time since we met wondering first, how Evan got a woman as intelligent and beautiful as you to fall for his shit, and second, why he’d fuck that up. Especially at that time, in my restaurant, by throwing a meaningless affair in your face. It was needlessly sadistic, even for him.”

She winces slightly when I mention Evan’s indiscretion, and for a moment, I regret being so blunt. She swallows thickly before murmuring, “I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

Her eyes glimmer with pain but also anger, and I nod approvingly, glad to see it. “Good. Remember that anger and use it. Tonight, you will be on my arm, and I promise you, that will sting Evan like salt on an open wound.”

She lifts her chin, stubbornly jutting it forward as she resets her armor.

“You will be the talk of the event, so be prepared.” Her eyes widen slightly, as though she hadn’t considered that. “Raven, you’ll be walking in with me, a man who rarely attends these things, and never with a guest. Everyone there will know who you are within moments of our arrival, and they’ll know about your recent relationship with Evan. Not to mention, your beauty could incite wars.” I scan her face reverently before chuckling under my breath at the irony. “In fact, it very well might.” More seriously, I conclude, “Like me, everyone there will have their eyes on you.”

She breathes in deeply and then stills, as if holding her breath.

“I’ll make the introductions,” I tell her, reminding her of the carrot in case the honesty of what we’re walking in to has scared her. “But the charming, the arranging of interviews and meetings? That will be all on your merits, Raven.”

She nods, and I’m pleased to see her rising to the challenge. She clears her throat, her eyes sharp and absorbing everything. She’s in learning mode, which is smart for her. “How do you anticipate tonight’s events?”

“Well, other than a relatively long-winded welcome speech by one of the Faulkners, most likely Jerome Faulkner since he likes to style himself the head of the family, you can expect a passionate yet relatively empty speech by… well, I’m not honestly sure,” I tell her. “Each year, the Faulkners pick some charity to donate the money to, and they’ll have someone connected with the charity speak. They’ll spout a five-minute or so-long plea for donations, everyone will clap, and the rest of the evening is pretty much your standard cocktail party. Drinks, hors d’oeuvres, an area set aside for dancing, and the rest is all schmoozing.”

“So, mingle, be sociable and relatable, and allow the conversion to flow.”

She gets it. “Exactly. Any other questions?”

“One,” she says slowly, as though still formulating the question in her mind. “What happens after? I mean, I’ll get interviews, and hopefully, a job. But what about you and Evan? And you and me?” Her gaze drops as if she knows that sounds oddly intimate for what we’re doing. This isn’t a date, after all. It’s revenge via teamwork.

“And you and Evan?” I add, nearly choking on the idea, so I swallow it down with the remainder of my champagne. “There won’t be a big moment that fixes what Evan’s done to either of us. This is a win of symbolic increments. After tonight, my hope is that we walk out with an ounce of satisfaction at seeing Evan fall—publicly, personally, and professionally.”

“An ounce?” she echoes in disappointment. She lifts fiery eyes to mine. “I wish there were a way to hurt him more, really hurt him, for what he’s done.”

She’s not talking about killing him or anything that diabolical. I might’ve dreamed about it a time or two, but Raven doesn’t seem the type to find even imaginary joy in that. Still, as she stares into my eyes, the tension between us grows, and there is only one clear and obvious way to hurt Evan the way she’s insinuating. I’m a little surprised at the suggestion, but I’m certainly not averse to the idea.

“Perhaps we could discuss something further,” I suggest darkly, not sure how far she wants to take this. But I watch, transfixed, as a pretty blush races up her chest to color her cheeks.

She is a beautiful woman, and I’m a bastard of a man. There would be a delightful irony in fucking Raven hard enough to rattle any memories of Evan loose from her mind and rewrite myself onto her psyche.

We come to a sudden but smooth stop, and there’s a knock on the car’s door a moment before it opens. There are a few muted flashes from photographers outside, and Raven glances back at me, holding my gaze for a long moment. Not because she needs me, but rather because she’s with me.

“Ready, Dylan?” she asks, a polite, polished, perfect smile settling on her face.

“Ready, Raven.”

The greeter offers a hand to help her out of the car, and I watch as the round curve of her ass moves in front of me. Fuck, I’m going to need to adjust my dick just to walk this ridiculous red carpet.

This is going to be an eventful evening. I can’t wait.This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.