Page 7 of An Improper Deal (Elliot & Annabelle 1)
“He’s gonna find you, and when he does, it won’t be me who told him. So don’t fucking sue the club, all right? I got enough problems.” He hangs up.
I glare at the phone. Maybe Chuck’s right, maybe he’s not, but I’m not going to make it easy for Elliot Reed.
Besides, there has to be something seriously wrong with him. A billionaire genius who wants to meet a stripper? I go to my room to pretty myself up for the birthday job, but my thoughts keep drifting to the man. I pick up my phone and google him.
Chuck didn’t exaggerate. Elliot Reed really is a prodigy. He and his twin brother created some kind of algorithm that takes “aggregate user behavior data” and predicts their purchasing patterns. It’s pretty fancy sounding, nothing I can even imagine. They sold the program for a little over a billion dollars on their twenty-first birthday. Since then Elliot invested his money in various ventures and almost doubled it. He also speaks at events and consults on the side.
But the search engine reveals far more than his accomplishments. He’s also a horrible womanizer. There doesn’t seem to be a single L.A. party he hasn’t attended, and he’s got a different woman on his arm each time. All his female companions are stunning, with the kind of face that should be in fashion magazines. I actually recognize a couple of them. An unfamiliar hot, ugly emotion fists in my belly, and I swallow through a tight throat. Who cares if Elliot wants to bang every woman he’s ever met? I don’t even know the guy.
And there is a sex tape. His poor parents. I shake my head. They must’ve been so humiliated. And his siblings, too.
Ryder Reed has a reputation for being wild, but Elliot is even wilder. They’re together in tons of photos, looking chummy. Something tells me Elliot is the enabler.
The sex tape article links to a video. I really shouldn’t, but…morbidly perverse curiosity wins the battle. I click on it.
The place looks like a living room. I don’t see a bed. A blonde—completely nude—lies on the floor, legs spread wide. She arches her back and moans as a second girl—a brunette—buries her face in her lady parts. The blonde makes keening noises, and she grips her breasts and toys with her nipples, while the brunette focuses on the flesh between her thighs.
I snicker. I’ve had oral sex before, and trust me, it isn’t that good. The blonde must be overacting for the camera.
Then Elliot moves into the frame. His body is magnificent, sleek and strong. On his right butt cheek is a tattoo—FU in some elaborate script. He positions himself behind the brunette. The angle’s wrong, so I can’t quite see what he’s doing to her with his hands, but she’s arching her body, pressing closer to him. Her moans are muffled, and the blonde screams louder.
The unmistakable sound of flesh slapping against flesh comes over my phone speaker. Elliot’s hips and ass flex as he drives in and out of the brunette. It’s obviously an amateur production since the camera doesn’t focus on the actual penetration, but it’s obvious what the three are doing.
My mouth dries, and I shift my weight as heat pulses through me. I wonder how much of what the brunette is doing on the screen is fake and how much is real. If she’s having half as good a time as she seems to be having, I wouldn’t mind trying it with Elliot, just once, just to see.
The realization slaps me hard, and I gasp, turning my phone off. Good god. What’s wrong with me? Fantasizing about a stranger—and a rude stranger, at that?
Besides, Elliot is the polar opposite of what I’m looking for in a man to have a relationship with. I want somebody stable, honest and ethical. What Mr. Grayson wants is immaterial. I’m not marrying a guy who’s only interested in partying and screwing around.
If he’s so hot to get married, why doesn’t Elliot grab one of the women he went to those parties with? Or one of the ones in the sex tape? I don’t get it. There’s no reason for him to find a fiancée at a strip club. By society’s standards, he’s a great catch. A lot of women would love to be his missus.
The more I think about it, the more I wonder if he has some kind of deviant personality that requires intervention. Aren’t geniuses supposed to be a little bit crazy? Who knows what the guy is really like in private?
And what does that make me, watching him screw on tape and getting all hot and bothered? That’s so not me.
Maybe his problem is that he makes people around him feel abnormal needs. No matter how much I may think I want it, I know it’s going to be far less satisfying than my lowest expectations. I have yet to have sex with a guy who was better than a vibrator.
Forget Elliot.
Go do the cake job and get paid.
Chapter Four
Elliot
The lunch venue Elizabeth picks out is Éternité. I went there once when it first opened. It’s owned by Mark Pryce, Elizabeth’s cousin, and he chose the name to symbolize his undying love for his new wife.
Kind of sappy, but the décor and food are great. Contemporary sensibilities merge with the old world, the interior is airy and open with stunning silk hangings that ripple like waves in the breeze created by the ceiling fans. And the food critics rave about the menu, the praise well deserved because the food tastes even better than its mouthwatering smell
.
Elizabeth is my half-sister from our dad’s first marriage. I’m the product of his second. Unlike my mother, hers is from old money and an impeccable pedigree. Mom often said you could cut Geraldine Pryce and she’d bleed blue. As a condition of the divorce, Geraldine made sure her children’s last name was changed to Pryce-Reed, since Pryce is the better and more socially significant name. She blew a gasket when Ryder decided to make his stage name Ryder Reed. I doubt she’s watched a single film of his, just out of spite.
I’m just a Reed—no hyphen—since my mother didn’t feel the need to leave her mark when she divorced to marry Dad’s half-brother. I also have a half-sister slash cousin from that marriage, but I don’t know her that well. She’s a shy little thing, and was always too busy with her figure skating career to hang out with the rest of us.
Most people can’t believe how fucked up my family tree is. They think I’m making shit up.
I wish I was.
