Page 4 of Madame X

Your eyes narrow and you take a deep breath. “You’re playing games with me.”

I smile at you, and this is my razor-blade smile, my predator smile. You shrink away from me as I lean in, and your eyes go tomy cleavage. “Eyes on mine, Jonathan,” I snap. “You don’t get to look at me like that. You haven’t earned it.”

“Earned it?” There is hope in your voice.

Pathetic boy.

I put my hands on the back of the couch, on either side of your head. My face is inches from yours, and I can smell your putrid breath, and I can tell you didn’t bother to brush your teeth this morning. I do not even know where to start with you, how I can even begin to salvage your entitled, spoiled, lazy, passive personality. I stare you down until you look away and try to bury yourself into the couch cushions.

When I know you will listen, I straighten and stand with my spine stiff and my head high, literally and figuratively looking down my nose at you. “I am not being paid to beniceto you, Jonathan, so I’m not going to be. I am being paid to teach you how to be aman. How to sit, stand, speak, eat, drink, and think like not just some rich and lazy little bastard, but like the heir to a multibillion-dollar company. I wouldn’t give you the time of day otherwise, Jonathan. I wouldn’t look at you twice. I wouldn’t even bother to smile at you if I saw you at a bar, or on the street. You exude incompetence. Your entire bearing and attitude says you don’t give a single shit how you’re perceived.”

“I thought I wasn’tsupposedto care?” you ask.

“Wrong. You mustalwaysbe aware how you are perceived. Appearing as if you’re so confident in yourself that the opinions of passersby don’t matter is one thing, and that is what you’re after: the appearance of casual confidence, the appearance of insouciance and just enough arrogance to be attractive.” I gesture at you with a finger, sweeping up and down to indicate you as a whole. “Right now, Jonathan? You stink. Your breath is rancid, and you’ve put on far too much overpriced, low-quality cologne. That all by itself is a turn-off. No woman will ever want to be around a man who can’t even remember to brush his teethbefore he meets her. And that’s just my olfactory impression. You’re deferent and submissive, yet utterly arrogant. You didn’t bother to read a contract you signed, so you don’t even know what it is you agreed to. This tells me you’re hopelessly lazy and totally incompetent. You have no bearing, no presence. I have no desire to spend another moment in your company, not for anything. You bored me with talk offootball, of all things. In a word, Jonathan Cartwright, you are pathetic. We’re done here.”

I point at the door, and you stand up, visibly angry now.

“You can’t talk to me like this—”

“I most certainly can. I do not need you. I have a client waiting list two years long. I did not seek you out; your father soughtmeout, because you are hopeless. Your father, now...hehas presence. When your father enters a room, people notice. When he speaks, people listen. And yes, that is due in part to the fact that he’s one of the wealthiest men in the country. But how do you think he earned his wealth? By sitting around and watching football? By coasting along on his father’s coattails? No! Hedemandedthat his peers take notice, and they did. He demands attention and respect simply by merit of who he is. You... do not.” I twist the doorknob and pull the door open, gesture to the foyer and the elevator beyond. “Go away, Jonathan, and don’t bother coming back unless you can learn basic hygiene at the very least, if not how to make interesting conversation.”

You stare at me, anger and embarrassment and hurt in your eyes. Youhatebeing compared to your father, of course, but only because you know that such comparisons find you deeply lacking.

I shut the door behind you, and when I hear the elevator door slide open and closed once more, only then do I let myself slump against the door and shake with nerves and breathe. I just insulted the son of one of the most powerful men in the world.

But then, such is my job.

A knock on the door, the silent swing of hinges, and then heat and hardness behind me, a faint but intoxicating hint of cologne, the creak of leather. Hands on my waist, lips at my neck. Breath on my skin.

I don’t dare tense, don’t dare suck in a sharp breath of fear. I don’t dare pull away.

Strong, hard, powerful hands twist me in place, and an index finger touches my chin, lifts my face, tilts my gaze. I cannot breathe, don’t dare, haven’t been given permission.

“You are lovelier than ever, X.” A deep, smooth, cultured voice, like the purr of a finely tuned engine.

“Thank you, Caleb.” My own voice is quiet, careful, my words chosen and precise.

“Scotch.” The command is a murmur, barely audible.

I know how to prepare it: a cut-crystal tumbler, a single ice cube, thick amber liquid an inch from the top. I offer the tumbler and wait, keep my eyes downcast, hands behind my back.

“You were too harsh on Jonathan.”

“I must respectfully disagree.”

“His father expects results.”

I bristle, and it does not go unnoticed. “Have I ever failed to produce results?”

“You sent him away after less than an hour.”

“He wasn’t ready. He needed to be shown his faults. He needs to understand how much he has to learn.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Ice clinks, and I take the empty tumbler, set it aside, and force myself to remain in place, force myself to keep breathing and remind myself that I must obey. “I didn’t come here to discuss Jonathan Cartwright, however.”

“I suppose not.” I shouldn’t have said that. I regret it as soon as the words tumble free.

My wrist bones scrape together under a crushing grip. Hard dark eyes find mine, piercing and frightening. “You suppose not?”