Page 19

Ava

The crisp air conditioning blends with the salt-tinged summer night.

Holy fuck .

Jack Sullivan is out of his mind. He has more money than the gods, so I suppose in his world, spending a million is comparable to me shelling out two hundred bucks for a pair of jeans. Insanity, but something I once rationalized as a splurge. Only I buy jeans, and he buys a person.

No. He wants to buy a service. An exchange of goods.

It’s an exchange I’ve made before. Sex for drugs.

Not necessarily spelled out so callously.

But men would offer to share their stash, and there was an implied understanding.

It’s not something I’m proud of, and it’s something I’ve put behind me. But it’s there. And he must sense it.

The automatic door slides to a close, and I wave a hand over the threshold to keep it open. I’m wasting air conditioning, but that’s a nonsensical consideration, given the dollar amount he just threw out there.

Life changing.

One million is nice, but it’s not life changing. Or is it? But even if it is, at what cost?

I’ve worked too damn hard to put the past behind me. Could I feel good about myself if I agreed? Sure, it’s tempting. The idea that when a pipe bursts or a donation falls through, I won’t have to go into a tailspin, sure, it’s tempting. But would I feel good about myself?

I push open my bedroom door and fall onto the bed. I sit up and kick off my shoes. This is insane. How much did he have to drink? He didn’t sound drunk.

Is this what it’s like to have an incomprehensible amount of money? He could burn it in the fire pit by the pool, all night long, and he’d still be immeasurably wealthy. It’s too much to wrap one's head around.

I can’t believe he asked me that. So calm.

The funny thing is, if I met him randomly in a bar, well, first, I’d assume he wasn’t interested.

He’s refined and businesslike. Patrick refers to my style as bohemian.

I think of it as cobbled together from secondhand stores and sales racks.

Whatever you call it, it’s not Rolex and fine leather.

But if he did hit on me, I’d probably go for it.

Maybe. He’s handsome. Gorgeous, really, when his lips aren’t deadlocked in a scowl.

If the light hits his eyes right, it’s clear the color is closer to topaz than brown.

Under the right conditions, they appear luminescent.

He reeks of power and wealth. The man could walk into any bar, anywhere, and have anyone he wanted.

It’s been so long since I’ve played the single scene, what do I know? I close my eyes and run my hand vigorously over my face. But when I stop, I check, and no, all that shit really happened. Story of my life.

I’ll just ignore it. He’ll regret asking in the morning.

Footfalls against the wooden floors outside my bedroom freeze my lungs. I strain to listen. The click of shoes grows louder.

“Ten million.”

Ten? Did I hear him right?

“Did you hear me?”

Holy fuck .

“You are out of your mind.”

“Do you require more?”

I sit up on the bed and open my eyes. It takes a minute for my sight to adjust to the dimly lit room. The hall light glows behind his shadowy form.

“Are you high?” It’s the obvious question. I can’t really see his pupils. What would be a billionaire’s drug of choice? Opioids? Coke?

“I’m negotiating. Not particularly well, it would seem.” He seems almost amused, and yes, he’s drunk or high on something.

“You need to get out. Think of your daughter.”

“I am thinking of my daughter. This would be a contractual agreement. One she would never find out about. The contract outlines expectations and ensures a mutual understanding of the parameters of the arrangement.”

“You’re thinking with your dick. And you’ve taken something that is screwing with your logic. You need to leave, and if you’re lucky, you won’t remember this in the morning.”

“Are you saying no to my offer?”

I roll over onto my stomach and reach for a pillow to pull under me. I need something to cling to. This is unreal. “You need to go.”

“One hundred million. That’s my final offer. You can give me your answer in the morning. And Ava?”

I am fairly certain my mouth is wide open, given air flows through it.

“I’m not high. I’m not drunk. I offered a hundred million reward for information leading to my daughter’s safe return.

That money ended up back in my bank account.

It’s nothing for me to give it to you. I trust you’ll do good things with it.

” He slips his hands into his pockets and his shoulders shrug, like we’re having a perfectly normal late-night conversation. “Think of all the people you can help.”

“Why?”

“That’s what you do, right? Help people?”

“Why me?”

“Why not? You’re living in my house. I’m attracted to you.

Enthralled. Inexplicably, I’ll admit. You enter a room, and I want to touch you.

Fuck you. But I can’t offer more. One, there’s Sophia.

She’s my priority. And two, as you’ve already noted, I’m not enough for Sophia as it is.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t have needs and desires.

I don’t care about the money. When you have as much as I do, money doesn’t matter.

It’s simple. I want you. For a specified period of time.

You set the terms. Your hard limits. Your soft limits.

It won’t be every night. But I don’t sleep well.

” Another nonchalant lift of those shoulders.

“You can help me with that. For the rest of your stay here. And my money will help you for the rest of your life. It can be a donation to Nueva Vida, if you prefer.”

He steps to leave, but pauses in the doorway, casting his gaze over my body. Goose bumps rise across every inch of my skin.

“Sleep on it.”