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  I reach the door that I spotted earlier, and I pull on it. It’s locked.

  Panic delivers a jolt of adrenaline through my system. Am I locked in this room?

  I swivel around and see that on the opposite end of the room there is another door that is clearly the room’s exit. It’s wide open.

  My hand drops from the locked door handle, and a fleeting wave of curiosity zips through me. What’s behind this locked door?

  I’m too eager to get back to my purse to give it much thought. I walk toward the exit and out to the hallway.

  I have a vague memory of following Hunter down this hallway the night before. I continue until I reach the sitting area, and I exhale a held breath as I spot my purse. It’s lying on the couch, right where I left it the night before. It’s on its side, and I see that my phone, lipstick, and a compact mirror have spilled out of it.

  I must have forgotten to latch it closed. I need to be more careful about that.

  I pick up my phone first, and take a quick look through my messages, anxious for any from Camila. I’m glad to see that she hasn’t tried to call this morning. No news is good news. There is a text from Jemma, asking me about coffee.

  I’ll respond after I put back this watch.

  I start digging through my purse with a sense of urgency. I need to return it before—

  “Missing something?” Hunter’s voice makes my bare shoulders jack straight up to my ears.

  Chapter 7

  Hunter

  I know what she’s looking for.

  I was up last night after she fell asleep. As I walked from the bedroom to the kitchen for a glass of water, the silver watch was hard to miss. It had spilled out from her purse and was lying on the couch, in plain sight. I recognized it immediately as mine, and a quick look through my collection confirmed my suspicions.

  “I—I’m not sure,” she stutters and then increases the speed of her search. She peers into her purse as her hands work. Her tangled hair falls over her eyes.

  “I found the watch, Maria” I say.

  Abandoning her search abruptly, she looks up, her eyes wide and frightened.

  “Oh, my goodness I am so sorry,” she gushes. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I had such a good evening with you—and I never do things like this. I’m not a thief, Hunter. I just—” She stops short. Her cheeks are flushed pink.

  “You’re not a thief…you just happened to put a piece of my property into your purse.”

  “Hunter, I’m sorry. I saw all of those watches, and I…” She lifts her purse and puts it over her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’m so embarrassed. I should go. I…”

  She shakes her head several times as if at a loss for words.

  I don’t want her to go.

  “You’re missing your shoes,” I say. “They’re in the bedroom. You can’t go like that.”

  She looks down to her bare feet. “It’s fine. I’ll stop at a store and grab some—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll get your shoes. Stay here.” I turn and look at the case of watches pointedly. “Just don’t take anything,” I add.

  I walk away before she can answer, but I don’t go right to the bedroom. Instead, I make my way to the kitchen and pull four shots of espresso from my machine. I mix two each with half cups of hot water and carry steaming cups back to the sitting area.

  Maria looks surprised as I hand her one.

  “First, coffee,” I say. “Then, I’ll get your shoes.”

  She’s sitting now, and as I stand in front of her, I’m reminded of the night before. A flash of her on her knees in front of me fills my mind.

  I sip the hot liquid in my cup while dwelling on the memory. God, she was good last night. I don’t plan on letting her get away without arranging another encounter.

  “You’re not mad?” she asks, looking up at me.

  I lower myself to the couch. “Maria, I believe that every individual acts to their highest capacity at every given moment. We make decisions based on our past. Last night, you decided to take a watch from me. Given your life circumstances up to that point, it was the best decision you knew how to make.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “What are you trying to say?” she asks. “Are you saying I’m poor and ignorant or something?”

  “No. I’m saying that individuals don’t have as much free will as they like to think they do. Our choices are based on our conditioning—our upbringing.”

  She grins, fleetingly. “That’s right. You were a philosophy major, weren’t you?”

  I smile too. “Right.”

  “My mother raised me to be a good, upstanding citizen,” she says, somewhat defensively.

  “Then why did you steal from me?”

  She’s been avoiding my eyes this whole time, looking everywhere around the room except at me. But now she meets my eyes with hers. “It’s my sister,” she says. Her hands work nervously at her purse zipper. She’s twisting the tassel attached to the zipper nervously in her hands. “She’s in trouble.”

  “The one who’s getting a divorce?” I ask. The story starts coming back to me. “You said that her husband left her with some credit card debt?”

  “Not ‘some,’ Hunter. A lot. Twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth.” Her eyes leave mine and begin wandering around the room. “That might not seem like a lot to you, but to us, it is. That’s a lifetime's worth of savings, and she’s supposed to somehow come up with it in just a few weeks.”

  Her eyes, which have been roving the room, now settle on her coffee cup. Her shoulders slump. She frowns, and then lifts the cup to her lips, muttering “You wouldn’t get it,” before sipping the espresso.

  “I understand what it’s like to be under a deadline,” I say. “I work in real estate—many of our deals are done under high-pressure, high-stress circumstances. I know what it’s like to feel you’re running out of time.”

  “I wish I could help her,” Maria says. “But I can barely pay my own bills. I’ve been unemployed for a few months now.”

  “You’re out of work?” I ask. An idea is coming to mind, and I want to buy some time while I flesh it out in my mind. Would it work? Would she agree?

  “Yes,” she says. “I’m signed on with a temp agency, but they’re a shit show. The coordinator keeps screwing up my assignments, and on top of that, they take a cut from my paychecks. I can barely pay rent, let alone help my sister.”

  “I have an idea,” I say, slowly.

  She’s still staring into her cup, but at the mention of an idea, she looks up at me with curiosity.

  “What?” she asks, hopefully.

  “Maria,” I say slowly. “You enjoyed last night, didn’t you?”

  The blush returns to her cheeks.

  “I did,” she says.

  “I did too,” I say. It’s the understatement of the year.

  I take a sip of my coffee before continuing. She’s waiting eagerly for me to speak. The coffee is hot and delivers an immediate jolt of energy.

  I swallow and purse my lips, looking at her. She’s stunning. So willing. Good at following orders. Her lips—so full. Her dark hair, caramel skin… the feel of her legs wrapped around me.

  Yes. I’m going to ask her.

  “I have a job offer, of sorts, for you.”

  “Yes?” she asks, her eyes shining.

  “How long until your sister needs to pay off her debt?”

  “They’ve given her two weeks,” she says.

  Two weeks. Plenty of time.

  “Perfect,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have very much experience in real estate. But I’m good with computers, and…oh, sorry. I know this is the tech capital of the US and everyone’s good with computers.” She rolls her eyes.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “This would be a different sort of arrangement. I’m not worried about your office skills.”

  “What are you talking about, Hunter?”

  She’s going to say yes. She has to say yes.
>
  “I’d like to buy you,” I say. “For two weeks. At the end of two weeks, I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars.”

  I watch her swallow this.

  “If you agree, you’ll be my personal secretary during the daytime hours. At night, I get to do with you what I will.”

  She gulps again. “You’re talking about…sex?” she asks.

  “If I want,” I say. “You’ll be my plaything. I’ll own you. You’ll be my servant.”

  She opens her mouth and then closes it again. She shifts in the seat. “Hunter, last night was amazing, but I don’t think I could—”

  “It was good, wasn’t it?” I ask. I lean forward then and use my fingers to brush the hair away from her face. I bring my lips close to hers. She’s breathing quickly; her breath smells of espresso. I kiss her gently, tasting the coffee she’s just sipped.

  When I move to pull away, she reaches up with her free hand. She wraps her fingers through my hair and pulls my head in, not letting me escape. Our lips touch again. The kiss grows deeper, and by the time we part, we’re both breathing heavily.

  “Okay,” she says, her chest rising and falling. She looks slightly afraid as she says this. “I’ve never done anything like this before, but okay.”

  “Trust me,” I say. “You’re going to enjoy it.”

  I grin, ecstatic that she’s accepted my proposal. If I stay sitting on this couch, we’re going to kiss again. I want to save my desire—and spend it under my own terms. I stand up.

  “I’ll get your shoes,” I say. “You’ll begin work tomorrow at nine. Just check in at the reception of Larson Global, and the front desk attendant will show you to an office space.”

  Five minutes later, I watch her slip on her shoes.

  “Wear those,” I say. “To work. I like them.” The sight of her hands reminds me of something else. I dig my wallet from my pants pocket and pull out a one-hundred-dollar bill. “And get your nails done, too,” I say.

  She looks as though she might protest, but then she closes her mouth, folds the bill up, and tucks it into her purse.

  I stand in the doorway and watch her walk down the hall to the elevator. I know that I’ll see her tomorrow, but that feels like a long way away.

  I could have had her, just now on the couch.

  The heat of her kiss let me know that she would be happy to lift her dress to me. I know that she’s not wearing panties; I saw them on the bedroom floor. It would have been so easy.

  But easy isn’t always best. The challenge of waiting is part of the fun.

  This game is the best that life has to offer. For the next two weeks, I’m going to enjoy myself to the fullest.

  Chapter 8

  Maria

  After a hot shower and a change of clothes, I meet Jemma for coffee. She’s in a tizzy over her lack of progress getting hot-guy Jackson to ask her out, so it’s easy to sidestep her questions about my night.

  I don’t want to talk about Hunter.

  Not yet.

  Not while it’s all so fresh.

  What have I agreed to? I’m still in disbelief about my situation. It hasn’t quite hit me yet.

  I rush our chat-fest and stand to go while we each still have coffee in our cups, explaining that I have errands to run. Jemma doesn’t mind; she has a personal training session scheduled with Jackson later that afternoon. She wants to get primped in advance.

  I part with Jemma and make my way to a salon a half block away from my apartment. I’ve passed by this place a million times, but never had enough spare funds to book an appointment. I haven’t been to a salon in years—since the day of my high school prom when I splurged on getting my hair and nails professionally done.

  It feels wonderful to be pampered by the beauticians.

  Hunter’s crisp hundred buys me more than just a manicure. Along with long, French-tipped nails, I also get a full wax—including eyebrows and my bikini area. I feel slightly guilty about spending all of the cash while Camila is in such desperation for money, but Hunter’s promise of fifty thousand soothes my guilt.

  Besides, he gave me the money to spend at the salon. If I want to see the payday at the end of two weeks, I better do as he says.

  That evening I pick up my phone, careful not to chip my fresh polish, and dial Camila. I’ve been thinking about Hunter’s proposal all day. As I wrap my mind around it, my excitement has grown.

  When Camila picks up, I can’t hold back. “Camila! I have some really, really good news,” I say before she can speak.

  “Oh yeah?” Camila sounds doubtful that any news I have could really be all that good.

  “I think I’ve found a way out of this,” I say.

  “Really?” Camila asks. I picture her raising her eyebrows. I can tell she’s still doubting.

  I’ve known my sister for twenty-six years—my whole life. Sometimes, it feels like telepathy flows between us. She doesn’t have to spell out her doubt; I feel it.

  “Really,” I say. “I know you think I’m full of it, but Camila, I think I’m onto something.”

  “You think,” she says, repeating after me. “Maria, don’t just say this to make me feel better. This is a real big problem. We can’t wish it away.”

  Though she’s older than me, she’s shorter, with my mother’s build. My mom always said that I took after my dad. I picture Camila in the kitchen—the one room in her small apartment with enough privacy for a quiet conversation. I’m betting the boys are in bed.

  “I met someone,” I say vaguely. I don’t want to tell her the details of my night with Hunter. Not yet. But I’m too excited about the money to keep it all a secret. “He’s rich,” I say. “Really, really rich. Billionaire-rich. He offered me a job. It’s high paying. I think I can get the cash that you need.”

  “What kind of a job?” Camila asks.

  “Office work, mostly,” I say vaguely. “Some other stuff too.” I can’t lie to her, but I can’t fill her in on details that I’m not too clear on myself.

  “What kind of office work is worth twenty-five grand for two weeks?” Camila asks in disbelief.

  “I know, it sounds too good to be true,” I say. “But Camila, sometimes good things just happen.”

  “I don’t know, Maria… How much do you know about this guy? Is he asking you to do anything illegal?”

  “No, nothing like that,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure. Prostitution is illegal, I’m fairly certain. Is that what I’ve signed up for?

  A crying sound floats over the phone. “That’s Sammy,” Camila says. She sighs. “I’m trying to keep it together, but he’s so sensitive… He picks up on my moods. He knows something is going on. He’s been crying on and off all day.”

  “Tell him his Tía Maria loves him,” I say.

  “Thanks.”

  “Camila, it’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ve got this. Stay strong, okay mi media naranja?”

  In Spanish, mi media naranja mean literally “my half orange.” It’s like the English phrase “my better half.” My mother used to say that Camila and I were two perfect halves of a whole, and because we got along so well, we must have known each other in past lives. Though mi media naranja is usually reserved for husband and wife, Camila and I started using the phrase for each other at a young age.

  My use of our old nickname seems to cheer her. Her voice sounds slightly brighter as she replies. “I’ll try, mi media naranja. I’ll try.”

  * * *

  The next morning, I arrive bright and early to the front desk of the Larson Global high-rise. As I step through the revolving glass doors, a rivulet of sweat snakes down the small of my back. Despite being dressed immaculately for my day in my red pumps and my best blouse and pencil skirt combo—in addition to the bikini wax and new nails—I feel the opposite of confident. I’m a nervous, perspiring wreck.

  A young woman accompanies me up a high-speed elevator to the top floor of the building. She shows me to an office as big as my entire
apartment.

  She talks the entire way up, rattling off details of the company’s structure faster than I can comprehend.

  Am I in over my head? It definitely feels like it.

  The woman waves toward a massive desk and says, “I hope this will suit you! The computer password is LarsonGlobal!, capital ‘L’ and capital ‘G’ with an exclamation point at the end.”

  I look around for a paper to take notes on, but she’s already on to the next topic. “The CEO is out of the office today, so of course, you’ll want to answer the incoming calls. I’m sure you already have experience with phone systems like ours—it’s an industry standard. Almost all offices use it these days. Phonestack?”

  I’m wondering if she’s speaking a foreign language. I find myself nodding.

  “Great!” She rattles off a few more foreign-sounding instructions and then excuses herself with a polite smile. She closes the door to the massive office behind her so that I can “concentrate on my work.”

  “What work, exactly?” I want to ask.

  She’s handed me a small business card with my name on it, as well as an email address.

  [email protected] the card reads.

  I have an email address?

  This is all too bizarre. Seeing as the address seems to be my only starting point, I decide to try to access it.

  I wake up the computer and pull up a mail icon. Sure enough, my inbox pops up. In it, I find clear instructions for several simple tasks. The first is to enter a list of names into a database, along with numbers and addresses.

  The task takes me all day. I’m glad that I’ve packed an energy bar and drink for lunch because the office starts to feel like a safe-haven. I don’t want to venture out of the doors, for fear that someone will ask me to do something.

  I haven’t seen Hunter all day. As the afternoon stretches on, I start to think about five o’clock.

  I’m going to leave.

  I’m going to make my way back to the elevator doors, and then step out onto the sunlit sidewalk, into sweet freedom. I’ll get on the bus and go home. I don’t know what else to do. Maybe Hunter’s proposal was a big joke all along. Maybe he was just seeing if I would really turn up, and he’s going to laugh his ass off when he finds out I was here today.