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I can’t believe I’m actually going through with this—and I can’t believe I’m so nervous. This isn’t me. Men have never fazed me, ever.
There’s just something about Gus Winter.
I peel my eyes from the window and face forward. There are two men with me: a driver and a quiet, well-built man who I assume is security. While I appreciate the ride from my hotel, the security is overkill. I travel nonstop and have always considered it impractical to have a bulking guy following my every move. It’s not up to me though.
Gus Winter’s security detail examines me in the rearview mirror and then types on his phone. Occasionally, he touches an earpiece and mutters soft notes of confirmation. Yes, sir. Ten minutes, sir. Of course, sir.
The spectacle of this evening would upset me more if it weren’t par for the course. The build up to tonight has been over the top. A clean STD test, a list of sexual greenlights and hard stops, and the most thorough waxing I’ve had in a year are just the beginning. I also had to sign three NDAs—as if I would ever tell anyone about this.
I open my purse and take out one of two mini airplane bottles of vodka, twist off the top, and cheers silently in the rearview mirror, making sure the security detail sees me. He can tell Sir about it, for all I care. The shot burns on the way down and I breathe out through my teeth, grateful for the distraction.
Minutes later, when we arrive at Gus’s apartment building in Hyde Park, there are two more men waiting for me. One is additional security; the other is a sharply-dressed man, mid-forties, with a smile plastered on his face. The smiling one opens the door for me and shakes my hand once I’m out of the car.
“Julia, welcome to London,” he says in a melodic, sing-songy voice.
“Thanks.” I look up at the luxury building behind us. “You know, I didn’t expect to come to an apartment.”
“Mr. Winter owns the building,” the man answers, gesturing in its direction.
“Of course he does,” I murmur grimly. The entire evening is poised to be chock full of pageantry: the security, the cars, the staff, and now the multi-million-dollar digs. Clearly, Gus hasn’t fucked many heiresses before. If he had, he would know that throwing money around doesn’t impress me.
“I’m Brent,” the man continues as he gestures for me to walk alongside him. “Mr. Winter’s assistant.”
“He couldn’t greet me?” I ask, even though I’m not surprised. My father doesn’t open his own front door either.
“He’s waiting for you upstairs. I’m just here to…” We stop in front of an elevator.
“To make sure I’m primed and ready?” I snap. “To make sure I’m still hot? Go ahead. Tell him he’s in luck: I’m still really fucking hot.”
“To give you another chance to back out.” Brent delivers the words cautiously, like he’s terrified I’ll take him up on the offer and force him to break the news to Gus.
Loosening my stiff stance, I face him. “Should I back out, Brent? What’s waiting up there for me? A micropenis? A snuff film?”
“More likely, he’ll make you dress up like a cat and ask you to curl up in his lap,” he answers, not missing a beat.
My jaw barely has time to drop before Brent starts to laugh.
“I’m not serious,” he assures me, winking like we’re two regular strangers meeting at a cocktail party. “Apologies—that was uncalled for.”
“Actually, I appreciated it,” I admit. “I haven’t been able to laugh about the situation yet.”
“Glad I could lighten things up.” Brent waves a keycard at the reader in the elevator. “You’ve met Mr. Winter before, so you know how he is,” he goes on, speaking seriously now. “I get the impression you’ll have no trouble holding your own, but…”
“But what?”
“Despite how this went,” Brent continues, now nodding, “and despite his—let’s say—brusque temperament, Mr. Winter doesn’t want to do this unless you’re completely comfortable. He asked me to give you my card. Of course, you can always tell him you’ve changed your mind. But if you do find yourself in a bathroom, wishing you could get the hell out, call me. He’ll let you go, no objections, with or without my intervention.”
Brent hands me his card and nods again, encouraging me to take it.
I slip it into my purse. “Thanks, but I’m not backing out. Mr. Winter needs to know that when I say I’m going to do something, I do it.”
The elevator doors open at that moment, delivering me to a slick, minimalist landing. Brent doesn’t stick around. He ushers me out and heads back down without another word, leaving me to watch him depart.
Shit. I thought he would at least bring me in to dissipate some of the awkwardness.
Alone, I stand in the small hallway between the elevator and the entrance to Gus Winter’s penthouse and I wait. After a beat, footsteps sound behind the door and my heart begins to pound, knowing exactly what I’ll find on the other side.
And there he is.
