“I’m not sure why you chose to come here today and attempt to sell yourself, but I know you have your reasons and that they must be good ones.”
I nod.
“Unfortunately, at this point,” he continues, “all you have going for you are your looks and some reasonable intelligence, and it’s not going to be enough for QG’s clientele.”
Reasonable intelligence? Who the hell does he think he is?
The man with his perfectly tailored suit and the air of old money reeking off him has the audacity to suggest I’m “reasonably” intelligent? I gave up college and all mydreams because of my father’s screw-up. This man has no idea what I’m capable of…and neither do I, because right now, I don’t have the ability to pay my tuition and keep pursuing my goals.
Not unless I swallow my pride and go through with this devil’s bargain.
The flash of anger quickly snuffs out and I feel suddenly weak and powerless, as if all my strength has been pulled out of me.
“How can I be sure this is going to work, Mr. Windemere? What if I do everything that you ask of me and no one wants to bid anyway?”
He smirks at me, as if I’m cute…or stupid. “Sweetheart, apparently you have no idea how much weight I carry in this city. You’re going to be the hottest commodity in NYC just by dating me. Men are going to see you on my arm and fight themselves for a chance at your attention. They always want what they can’t have.”
Glancing over at his computer screen again, he starts typing rapidly. Is he drawing up a contract this very second? The seriousness of his proposition begins to really sink in. When he turns the screen my way, I see a legal document facing me in stark black and white.
“This is just a basic draft,” he says. “I’ll go over it and finalize the verbiage so every term and expectation is perfectly clear.” Turning the screen back toward him, he looks at me again, those brown eyes darker than they were before. “Where are you currently living?”
He sweeps me with a heady gaze. A sweet pang unfurls low in my belly. I have the urge to cross my legs, but I don’t.I don’t want him to know he’s gotten a reaction out of me with those sexy eyes.
“My mother’s friend's guest house in the Hamptons. They’re summering in France and offered it to us until we can find something more permanent.”
He scowls. “Hamptons? Much too far. What is that, a four-hour train ride?”
“It’s less than three.”
“The commute would be ridiculous. No. I’ll prepare my housekeeper’s quarters for you instead.”
My pulse picks up at the idea of living with him, at his beck and call. “I'm already commuting three days a week to teach at the dance studio while I’m out of school, so it won’t be a problem to take the train to your place.”
“It’s a problem for me. You can’t live so far away when you’re with me. You have a lot to learn, and your training is going to be a twenty-four-seven job, Ms. Barclay. Are you sure you’re ready for this? This isn’t a hobby that you dabble in, or some kind of side gig. You’ll be fully committed to me for the next six months.”
Twenty-four-seven? He can’t be serious. What about my teaching? I love my job; I love those kids…and what about Nana? We play our game every week, and her health is already declining. I need to spend as much quality time with her as I can.
My panic returns at the thought of losing her. Never in my life have I had such a rollercoaster of emotions play through me in such a short amount of time. Since I walked into this office, I’ve felt everything from fear to hopefulness to humiliation, from lust to panic to desperation. But everything clarifies for me when I think about my grandmother,the tangle of emotions shoving me in the only direction I can possibly go in if I’m going to save her.
A lump lodges in my throat. If I don’t do this, she’ll be on the street by April.I have to find a way to make this work.
“I can see that you’re torn,” Mr. Windemere says blandly. “Which is surprising, if I’m being honest. I’m giving you the opportunity to take back control of your life and your financial situation, and you’re sitting there looking like you’re going to be sick.
“So here’s how this will go, Ms. Barclay. I’m giving you seventy-two hours to decide. If your answer is yes, come in person to this address ready to sign the necessary paperwork. If it’s no, well, best of luck to you. And don’t step foot in this office again, because no one else here can help you.”
5
PIPER-LILY
I can dothis on my own.
Propping my right foot on the barre, I stretch over my leg until my chest touches my thigh and grip the arch of my foot with both hands. The pull in my calf muscle and my hamstring is delicious, but I’m not enjoying my warm-up as much as I usually do. Sleep didn’t come easily last night, thoughts of Nate Windemere and my meeting with him replaying over and over in my head. The more I mulled it over and ran through every possible emotion tied to his offer, the stronger a secondary thought became.I can do this without him.
Do I really need his help to find myself a rich husband? I know one girl who signed up on a website that matches young women with older men from overseas. She connected with a hot retired guy from the Maldives, and after a few months of talking online and on the phone, she flew to meet him. Unfortunately, the website did a poor job of vetting its users and the man ended up looking nothing like his photos, not to mention that his “estate” turned outto be a one-room shack. She didn’t even stay one night, just turned around and flew right back to the US, but still. Just because it turned out badly for her, doesn’t mean it would for me.
There must be other websites—legitimate and safe ones—that connect rich men to young women. Like The Quattuor Group, except without a central group of businesspeople charging exorbitant matching fees. The Group can’t be the only one capitalizing on the demand for trophy wives.
A hard shiver goes through me when I realize what I’m doing. I’m rationalizing a dangerous situation because I’m desperate to keep my Nana in her home while also not having to take Windemere up on his offer.
