Catching Sin, page 9
“Do you speak to your lord and master this way, or do you save it all for me? Something tells me your pillow talk with him is a bit different.”
My warm cheeks turn into matching infernos. Wow, he’s really not holding back this morning. Maybe I went too far with my comment. I was angry and defensive, and I snapped back, knowing I probably shouldn’t have. Especially to my boss. But . . . “I’m not . . . I mean, he’s not my—” I’m at a loss for words. His brutal accusation wraps around my heart, digging its talons in so deep I feel myself bleeding internally.
He thinks I’m sleeping with Anthony Conti? That I’m his mistress?
A wave of revulsion consumes me. I should tell him the truth. Tell him that even broken strippers have limits. That when his lips pressed against my neck last week, it was the first time someone had ever touched me there in a non-threatening way. That despite the whore badge he clearly thinks I wear, I’m as untouched as a woman could possibly be. Conti may own my life, but he hasn’t owned my body. Not yet. When he does finally decide he wants to ruin me once and for all and make me his submissive fuck thing, that will be the day I end my life or run so far he’ll never find me.
If Maddox were closer, I’d likely take a swing and let the cards fall where they may. That’s how fired up I am. Because this bastard didn’t just pop my happy bubble, he exploded it into tiny unrecognizable pieces. And for what purpose? To intentionally hurt me? To raise those hackles he knows how to manipulate with skilled fingers? Well, I’ve had enough of that in my life to just sit idly by and take it from him.
I open my mouth to tell him everything. To let it all pour from my lips like the blood hemorrhaging in my chest, but a swell of emotion chokes me, and I know that as soon as I speak, I’ll sob. All I can do is shake my head at him, balling up my fists so tight my bones creak, and turn on my heels to leave. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I don’t. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“Fuck,” I hear him growl behind me. “Isabel, wait up.”
I shake my head and walk faster, heading I have no idea where and not caring as long as it’s away from him.
“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so goddamn sorry. Shit. Wait!” he yells, as I quicken my steps into a jog. He catches me in no time, his one stride equaling two of mine and then I’m practically swept off my feet, his arm encircling my waist as he swings me around to face him.
He glances around, checking to see if anyone is watching our little encounter, but they’re not. It’s early and only Mallory is here, but she’s down by her office on the far side of the floor. Maddox carries me into an empty office, shutting the door behind him and setting me down on my feet once more. Storming over to the window like a pissed-off child, I stomp my foot as I stare out the window, my back to him.
“I’m sorry.”
“Screw you.” I know I shouldn’t speak to my new boss like this. I know I’m dancing on the line of getting fired, but my pride is eating at me. I want to nail him in the balls, and I can’t, and it’s frustrating me to no end.
He heaves a harsh breath and I can’t help but listen as he abandons the door and moves closer to me. If he touches me, I’ll fall apart, so I stiffen my posture, ready to fight off whatever he’s about to throw at me. I don’t know why his words affected me this much. It’s certainly not the first time someone has assumed the worst of me. Maybe it’s because for the first time, it felt like someone actually saw me. Cared enough about me to ask personal questions and dig a little deeper beneath the surface.
“Isabel,” he starts, his voice soft and lined with regret. His hands drop to my shoulders as he reaches me, and I shudder, stuck somewhere between wanting to shove him off and maintain his touch. “I didn’t mean it. I had a shitty night’s sleep and then you came in with that coffee for me and that smile and . . .” He trails off like he doesn’t know how to finish.
“And what?” I press. “You thought you’d wipe it from my lips? Mission accomplished.”
“No.” He sighs, squeezing my shoulders. “And yes. But it’s not in the way you think. I’ve been watching you. I’ve watched you with the other assistants and women in the break room when you go to get a drink. I’ve watched you when they help you with things. You smile with them and chat. You ask them about their lives. You listen, and they tell you things. I mean hell, Carmen, Sarah, and Olivia cannot shut up about you. About how smart, sweet, and beautiful you are. Sarah even said she has a girl crush on you. They knew you for two minutes, and Olivia and Carmen were trying to set you up with their sons. It’s all so very different than the girl I’ve gotten to know. I just . . .”
He trails off once more, his warm breath brushing over the top of my head. His hands slide past my shoulders and over the top of my chest, crossing just under my neck as he pulls me back into his chest in a backwards hug. I close my eyes. Jesus. Nothing has ever felt as good as being held like this.
“I find you difficult to get a read on, and reading people well is what I do. One minute you’re angry and feisty. The next you’re broken and despondent. And then you’re practically skipping with a smile so wide your entire face lights up. I don’t know what to believe is real with you. Tell me what’s real.”
Ten
MADDOX
* * *
Isabel sinks back into my chest, her body less rigid. She fits into me so well, her head tucks under my chin perfectly. Her body so easily wrapped up in my arms. It’s wrong, what I’m doing right now. All of it. Me trying to draw her off-sides. Rile her up. Her snapping back at me. Me chasing after her. Me holding her like she’s something important.
I tell myself that I’m just offering her comfort. That this is my way of apologizing.
But I know better, and I bet she does, too.
Hell, Sarah’s cried three times in the office and each time I’ve just given her a small pat on the back and walked away. I’m not good at that stuff. But with Isabel, it’s so easy I don’t even think about it. It’s not awkward or an uncomfortable challenge I have to rise to emotionally. It’s just there. Sort of how it was with Fiona, only different.
I turn her slightly to look in her eyes. Eyes that are alive with disdain and it pulls me to another level. It’s enough just to hear the way her voice bites into me. This feisty raven-haired beauty who hates my guts has somehow managed to tug at every string I’ve got. I wonder how far off I am about her. I feel like I’m the only person on this floor—other than Jake, who hasn’t even met her yet—to know the real Isabel.
But that’s the question.
Do I know the real Isabel?
I’m starting to think I don’t. That my preconceived notions are just that. Conceived.
I’ve never witnessed hurt the way I did when I accused her of being Conti’s mistress. My words didn’t stir embarrassment or even contempt. It was as if they broke off that last shred of her pride and flicked it away. I realized then that my assumptions about her might have been wrong. But it was Conti who planted that seed. He referred to her as different. Implied she was someone who was in his life, but now he was done with her. Right? Did I misinterpret that? What really messes with my head—worse than that rat bastard touching her—is that she’s only nineteen. He’s at least twice her age.
And if she were his mistress, then where are all the accessories that accompany belonging to a rich and powerful man like him? Clothes? Nope, those I bought for her. A nice apartment? Wrong again. She has stacked books as furniture and a couch that’s older than she is. She also lives in a shit neighborhood. Expensive jewelry? She wears tiny silver hoops in her ears—one of them is bent—and nothing else.
So, what is his hold on her?
Why is he her great and powerful Oz, puppeteering her life and choices?
Her head falls back, practically tucking itself into the nook where my neck meets my shoulder. Her hair smells like a tropical oasis in the middle of the Caribbean. “Everything I’ve shown you, told you, is real. And I don’t do that, Maddox. I don’t open up to anyone. I am a closed, locked box.” She releases a breath and it sounds so tired. So defeated. “I’m happy working here. I like the other women in the office, so I ask them about their lives, because I like to know that what they have is possible. I like listening to Sarah tell me about her kids and how nervous she is for twins. I like listening to Carmen and Olivia try to set me up with their sons, even though I know I’ll never date them. If they want me to date their sons, it means I’m worthy of that in their eyes. Don’t you get that? Can’t you see how something like that could mean everything?”
Fucking Christ.
“You think you know me, but you don’t. I told you that night at the club. I don’t fuck men for money and I never have. There are no exceptions to that. If you want to know something, then just ask me flat out. I’ll either tell you or I won’t.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, wanting to plant my lips into the top of her head, but resisting. “You told me that night at the club that you can’t buy what’s already owned.”
“So you assumed I’m his whore?”
“Did I assume you were sleeping with him? Yes. That’s typically what it means when a man owns a woman. You told me you couldn’t go to college because of him. You told me you couldn’t date and that you’ve never been to a restaurant before. You danced in the club and it obviously enraged him enough to punish you for it. I couldn’t figure out why a girl like you would let a man like him take over your life like that if you weren’t in love with him. If you weren’t his mistress.”
She laughs bitterly, the sound reverberating through my chest. I really should release her, but I can’t seem to get the mechanics of it in motion. She doesn’t reply. Not even a deep sigh or a scattered, short, choppy breath or a sniffle of a tear. She stays silent after that laugh is finished, and once again, I hate that I can’t get a read on her. It’s infuriating.
“Isabel?”
“That’s not always what it means when a man owns a woman.”
I shouldn’t care. That’s what I told myself all day yesterday as I watched her. Or even the afternoon before. Or the one after our lunch together. And all fucking night, every night since I met her, I told myself I shouldn’t care. There are lots of smart girls who want to go to college and can’t. Lots of girls who don’t date or have the money for nice clothes or furniture or restaurants. In fact, there are lots of people out there who have it a hell of a lot harder than she does.
So yeah, I shouldn’t care.
But I do.
I want to help her, and I can convince myself that’s what I’m doing by giving her the job that I was forced into giving her. She’ll earn a good paycheck. She’ll have benefits. I bought her thousands of dollars’ worth of new clothes. She’s making friends in the office and learning a profession she could conceivably continue for the rest of her life. But something is seriously fucked with her life and that miserable curiosity is quickly turning into a fascination.
Same as her.
And who has time or space for that in their lives?
“I’ll never make assumptions about you or your situation again. Am I forgiven?”
“I suppose I don’t have a choice. I work for you.” There is a smile somewhere in her voice, I know it.
“I’ll take it.” When I think my shit is back under control, I release her and step away. She spins around to face me, her dark eyes clear and her smile genuine. Even with this rock-star Brunette Barbie thing going on, she undoubtedly has one of the sweetest faces I’ve ever seen. “I even have an olive branch to extend. I have to go downstairs to the spa and pool area this morning. I’ve been asked to take a tour of the new pool retreats they redesigned over the winter and see the new spa. You interested in tagging along?”
“Sure. Sounds fun. But what’s a pool retreat?”
I laugh, taking her upper arm and guiding her back toward the door I had slammed shut. “Most of our pools in Vegas are open year-round and heated in the winter with minimal services for guests. But the pools here have gotten a whole overhaul. There are three large pools as part of the property, all with different themes. But we’ve added on a ten-thousand-square-foot European-style adult-only pool area that’s a strange combination of a spa retreat and a nightclub. Plus, we redid the spa because it needed it.”
Isabel scrunches up her nose. “I’ve lived in this town my whole life and I still don’t understand it. I’m assuming European-style means topless.”
I nod in confirmation. “It’s a new trend. There are two sides to it and guests can pick which vibe they’re into. There are cabanas in both areas, and we offer a special menu exclusive for this area.”
“And why do you have to view this?”
“Because the facilities director asked me to as facilities in all our hotels report to me.”
Isabel follows me out the door and down the hall. People are just starting to arrive. In fact, we have to wait for everyone to shuffle off the elevator before we can step on. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that this is a growing trend. I just wonder if this town will ever hit a limit.”
I chuckle at that. “I highly doubt it.”
“And you like this? This life?”
“Yes. I love all the naked women around me. You know, the girls in tiny bikinis who get way too drunk and occasionally pass out in the sun? They’re my favorites. Sunburns and vomit breath really turn me on.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Just so you know, your sarcasm is not attractive.”
I shrug, poking her in the side with my elbow. “Good thing my face is.”
Her face drops to the ground to hide her smile, but I catch it all the same. “Your arrogance isn’t attractive, either.”
“I believe you’ve already mentioned my over-inflated ego once this morning.”
“Once isn’t enough to crush it down to normal human size.”
“Baby, nothing on me is normal human size.”
She laughs at that. The sound so warm and full of rich color that it stops me dead in my tracks. Literally. A group of tourists in matching hats nearly plow into me as we step off the elevator. She catches me looking at her and twists away, waiting for me to lead her. “Mind the brick wall,” she mutters under her breath, and now it’s my turn to chuckle.
“How do you feel about getting a massage?”
“What?” Her eyebrows draw together as she stares up at me like I’m speaking to her in French. Which I already know she speaks so she’d likely understand me better than she does this very minute. “A massage?” She’s testing the words now. Likely waiting for the punchline to my joke. Maybe still not catching my meaning. Either way, her confusion is adorable.
“Yeah. A massage. You want one?”
So, true story number one: We have just finished renovating our spa. True story number two: I got a call from the facilities director for our Las Vegas hotels asking me to come down and check it out. True story number three: He offered me free spa services for the rest of the day. But really, I have no time or desire for that crap. And I don’t exactly trust Isabel enough to give her a real task to do. So, it’s not wrong or even an abuse of company whatever by offering her a massage or a facial or whatever it is girls like. It’s simply testing it out on our prime demographic. Right?
Absolutely.
“Sure.” She laughs, still thinking that I’m joking. “Right after I take my clothes off and parade around the pool area in just my thong. I mean, I’m here to get the full Las Vegas resort experience.”
I narrow my eyes at her, and she tosses her hands up in the air, shaking her head at me with wide eyes like I’m the one not getting it.
“When in Rome, Maddox.”
Is it considered wrong or illegal to spank your new assistant’s ass red? I swear, a woman has never infuriated me more, and I have four older sisters.
“I’m getting you a manicure and pedicure, too.” I grab her by the upper arm and practically drag her toward the spa. Well, drag might be a bit of a stretch. It’s just that I have long legs, and while hers are long and toned and sexy as fuck, they’re not as long as mine. So, she has to practically jog next to me to keep pace. We enter the spa and I shove her forward, straight into the arms of a surprised girl in a black uniform with a name tag that reads Victoria.
“She’s to have a full massage. I don’t know what kind you guys have here but give her something that will turn this feral cat into a purring kitten. Then I want her nails and toes manicured. I’m sure she’ll pick black as the color, but I can live with that. After that’s all over, I want her to eat whatever she wants from the spa menu for lunch. No alcohol since she’s underage. When that’s all done, make sure she returns to me, so I can hear all about her experience in our newly redesigned spa.”
“Um.” Victoria appears lost for a beat but quickly recovers. “Of course, Mister Sinclair. It will be our pleasure to ensure Miss . . .”
“Bogart,” I supply.
“Miss Bogart has the full spa experience.”
Isabel spins toward me. I expect her to be pissed. I expect a rocket launcher to be aimed at my head, ready to fire. I expect her to unleash holy hell, but she doesn’t. She smiles sweetly up at me. It throws me for a second before she steps into me, getting up onto her tiptoes as she whispers into my ear. “You’re an adorably sexy bastard when you spoil me. You pretend to want me docile, but the joke’s on you, boss,” she emphasizes. “I’m going to enjoy the hell out of this, and you might just get exactly what you claim you want from me. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She plants a soft kiss on my cheek, throws me a wink, then saunters off with Victoria like I don’t exist.
Shit, I think, rubbing my jaw as I listen to Victoria go over the spa’s new amenities. She might just be right. Then what the hell will I do?
Eleven
ISABEL
* * *
I get lucky and catch the express bus that drops me a half a mile from my apartment. This week ended about the same as it began. At least from a job standpoint. Honestly, it’s been the best week of my life and sparring with Maddox is only part of that. A rather large part of that. But the lunches out in swanky restaurants and chatting with the other office women and the fucking spa treatments that made me feel like Cinderella? Yeah, best week ever.
