Page 9 of Art of Sin
“Mr. Masters—”
“Gideon.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you, so you can drop the act. I want you to hire me as your publicist.”
“Not going to happen,” he says lightly.
A moment later, a blushing server puts a bowl of oatmeal and cup of fresh fruit before him.
“Anything else?” she croons.
“That’s fine, thank you.” He doesn’t even look at her, his gaze pinned on me. When she’s gone, he continues. “It’s nothing personal, but I don’t want a publicist. Especially not one who works for my father.”
“That sounds pretty personal to me. And I don’t work for your father anymore.”
His eyebrow cocks, disappearing behind that damned copper curl. “Why not? You got the job done Sunday night.”
He doesn’t sound bitter but humored, throwing me. Back to unpredictable. As much as my mind rebels against the chaos he represents, there’s a part of me that revels in it like it would the embrace of an old friend.
A dangerous, volatile old friend.
“Look, Gideon, you were right. I’ve had you followed the past few days and came here this morning to talk to you. And as I’m sure you noticed, I changed my mind. I don’t like being jerked around, and I don’t spread my legs for my clients. But let me give you some friendly advice—you need a publicist like a skydiver needs a parachute.”
He doesn’t reply, instead taking a bite of oatmeal. Watching him chew from such close proximity is disturbingly intimate. Each swallow, each flex of his jaw, hits me with a visceral punch.
“Why’d you change your mind?”
I frown. “What?”
He points his spoon at me. “You said you changed your mind about talking to me. Why?”
My brain short-circuits. “Because I’d rather move back to the trailer park than work for you.”
The words, spilled without conscious permission, shock me more than him. My head spins as blood drains away.
“You’re hired.”
