Devoured Book 1 - Page 24

“It’s me,” I say, blus.h.i.+ng when the cab driver gives me a knowing look in the rearview mirror. A second later, the gate buzzes and the driver pulls forward.

The home itself is stunning—three stories and all brick, with a long, high fence encompa.s.sing the back yard. Over the years, I’ve retained very little information from the days I spent helping my grandfather in the office of his construction business, but I know enough to definitively say this house is Euro style.

And probably worth more than I’ll make in my entire life, save for the house Lucas has promised me, but then again that’s not really mine.

I’m almost reluctant to let go of the $40 the cab driver collects from me—my bank account is just that pathetic—but I take a deep breath, rea.s.sure myself again that it’s only money. For some reason, when words like that come from me, they don’t have nearly the same effect as when Lucas says them so flippantly.

It’s 8:04 when I ring the doorbell. To my surprise, Lucas’s attorney opens the door—the male lawyer. I wonder if b.o.o.bs McBeal is inside the house, too, but I hope like crazy she’s not. I’m not in the mood to witness her jutting her br**sts out toward Lucas first thing this morning.

“I’m Court Holder and you must be Ms. Jensen,” he says pleasantly, taking my hand into his as soon as he closes and locks the door behind us. As he activates the security system on the wall behind him, I decide that his name has got to be the most kicka.s.s lawyer’s name I’ve ever heard in my life. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

My body freezes in place. What exactly has Court Holder heard about me? The idea of Lucas revealing details about me to his attorney is enough to make me sweat. I mutter my mantra over and over again in my head to keep from turning around and saying screw this.

It has to all be worth this.

“Nice to know Lucas—I mean, Mr. Wolfe—talks up all his help,” I reply through a clenched smile.

Court chuckles, reaching out his hands to take my suitcase. My fingertips brush across his palms as we make the exchange. His hands are smooth and his fingers are neatly manicured, the opposite of Lucas’s calloused hands. Placing my Coach suitcase with its worn, brown leather piping at the foot of the stairs, Court tells me that the couple who comes to clean every afternoon will take it in the room Lucas designates to me. Then, motioning me to follow him, he ushers me through the house.

“This contract is ready for your signature,” he explains, and I bob my head in understanding. “You will, of course, agree to take over Ms. Wolfe-Martin’s duties until she returns and then I’ll a.s.sist Mr. Wolfe in initiating the transaction to return Mrs. Previn’s home. The contract is extremely . . . simple.” But another word hangs in the air, and silently, I mutter it.

Generous.

Does the contract mention anything specific from the instruction list I received yesterday evening? My agreement to obey, to listen, to Mr. Wolfe in exchange for the house? Our mutual agreement about emotions and s.e.x?

Unless I ask for it, I’m safe from his affections, and I’ve already decided that I’ll fight the temptation with all my might.

As Court and I navigate our way towards the very back of the house, I take in the place I’ll be living in over the next couple days at least. There are photos and awards lining the walls of several of the rooms, and when we pa.s.s through the living room, I notice a giant image of a short man in a suit along with the members of Your Toxic Sequel and the lead singer of Wicked Lambs, Cilla Craig. She and Lucas have their arms around each other, and my stomach hardens.

“Their record producer?” I ask Court, pausing in front of the photo. I choose to ignore the sliver of jealousy I felt a second ago.

Jutting his square chin out, Court corrects me. “The executive. It’s his house, and I’m his personal attorney, of course.” He sounds incredibly proud of himself for being able to handle everything from carrying out eviction proceedings to acting as an entertainment attorney.

I consider patting him on the back, but I stop myself, locking my fingers in an uncomfortable angle by my side. This attorney will be handling the transfer of property once I’ve fulfilled my agreement with Lucas. The last thing I want to do is p.i.s.s him off thanks to some sudden burst of rebellion and cause a delay in the whole freaking process.

Smiling sweetly, I say, “It’s a beautiful house.”

“I live right up the block,” he tells me in an almost superior tone. “In the Tudor.”

Lucas is waiting for me in an office with bamboo flooring and a high ceiling. He looks every bit the kicka.s.s rockstar with his s.h.a.ggy dark hair tousled about, distressed jeans, and a vintage Pink Floyd t-s.h.i.+rt, but he’s so much more that.

Seated behind the L-shaped desk with his hands clasped together, he’s all business. All in control.

Suddenly, I’m tingling all over.

“It’s 8:10,” Lucas points out, standing up. “You agreed to be here at 8am.”

I take a tentative step forward. Then another until I’m on the other side of the desk with my thighs pressed against the hardwood. I stare up into Lucas’s eyes and say, “Sorry, Lu—Mr. Wolfe—my taxi was late picking me up from my grandmother’s place.”

His hazel eyes seem to go from green to toxic brown in a matter of seconds. “Do you make excuses like this to Tomas Costa?” he asks me, his voice dark. Oh G.o.d, he knows my bosses full name? Has he contacted Tomas? What else has he discovered about me? “I play music but I’ve got the same expectations as any other employer you’ve had. Probably more. Do you understand?”