The Pleasure Contract, Caitlin Crews [epub e ink reader txt] 📗

rang a few days after Indy’s announcement in the cluttered office she shared with two other TAs in the social science building on campus, she didn’t do what she normally did—which was scowl at the offending call and switch it off. The office was empty, she still had no idea what to do with her life now that she couldn’t continue on being a student as she preferred, and the loud ring jolted her out of the same old circles she was tired of traipsing around, over and over, in her head.

“Ms. March?” came the smooth voice on the other end, with the hint of a British accent.

“Dr. March,” she corrected automatically, because she, by God, had earned her title.

“My apologies,” came the voice with no hint of any disruption in all that smoothness. “I’m calling on behalf of Lachlan Drummond. I’m pleased to tell you that your application has been accepted.”

Bristol had forgotten all about Lachlan Drummond and his pussy panel. Dismissed it, more like. Because it was ridiculous, and anyway, there was no possibility that a grubby, newly minted PhD would attract the attention of...a man like him, who routinely fended off the advances of gorgeous celebrities.

“I beg your pardon?” was all she could manage to get out, sounding squeaky and silly and not like herself at all.

“Interviews will take place this week,” the voice on the other end of the line continued, smoothly male and confident in ways Bristol imagined she would never be. And this had to be one of Lachlan Drummond’s assistants. “I’m going to text you a link to the interview calendar. We ask that you choose a time that works for you from the available options. This link is specifically coded to your cell phone and cannot be transferred. It is location sensitive and will work for exactly seven minutes after I terminate this phone call. Do you have any questions?”

“Does Lachlan Drummond think he’s in Mission Impossible?” Bristol asked drily. “Is that a rich-guy thing?”

“If you choose not to pick a time,” the voice continued on, plummy and still smooth, as if she hadn’t spoken, “the link will expire and you will have no opportunity to reapply. Once again, do you have any questions? Do you need me to repeat anything I’ve just told you?”

Bristol opened her mouth, because she had nothing but questions, but nothing seemed to come out.

“Seven minutes,” the voice advised. “If you miss this window, there will be no possibility of reopening it. When Mr. Drummond makes rules, he expects those rules to be followed.”

“I’ll bet he does,” Bristol muttered, but by then, the line was already dead.

The mysterious, unidentified assistant had already hung up.

Bristol found herself staring down at her mobile. Her first response was a rush of clarifying outrage. As if it wasn’t bad enough that this famous man employed hordes to do his bidding, he had to take it to truly cloak-and-dagger level. Who did he think he was?

One minute passed.

Then, against her will, Bristol found herself daydreaming about the last picture she’d accidentally seen of Lachlan Drummond. She’d been minding her own business, walking down Amsterdam on the Upper West Side, and there he’d been all over some magazine at a newsstand. It had been a typical tabloid exploration of a relationship they believed he was having with some or other famous woman, possibly a European royal, though Bristol couldn’t remember which one. She’d been far too consumed with the sight of Lachlan Drummond shirtless, gleaming golden and absurdly hot on the deck of an oversize boat in a glittering bay off the coast of what looked like Italy.

She’d felt as if she could taste his abs. She’d wanted to taste them.

When she checked her phone again, a solid three minutes had gone by.

Bristol could hear her sister’s voice in her head. What do you have to lose? Indy had demanded the night she’d brought up Lachlan in the first place. Worst-case scenario, nothing happens.

Or, worse-case scenario, I prostitute myself to a man who would rather hire an employee than attempt to have a relationship, Bristol had retorted.

How is that any different from being an adjunct professor? Indy had asked archly. At least Lachlan Drummond pays well.

That one still stung, Bristol could admit.

She heaved out a sigh and looked around the tiny little office that once upon a time, when she’d been new, she’d been delighted to call hers. Or partly hers, since it was shared. There were times when she’d loved everything about this life. Working closely with her favorite professor. The professional relationships she had with her fellow TAs and PhD students, many of whom she anticipated would be her colleagues for the rest of their careers. She loved the energy and excitement of teaching, finding that the enthusiastic students more than made up for the disenchanted or disengaged, if she made certain to concentrate on them.

But it didn’t matter how much she loved it here. It was ending. She’d done it. She’d aced her oral arguments, passed her exams, logged all necessary hours, and had taken a short walk in a funny hat to collect her degree.

Whatever she chose to do next, she couldn’t stay here. The academic year was winding down and one way or another, she was going to have to leave.

Two more minutes.

Without thinking it through, Bristol swiped up her cell phone, clicked that link, and entered her name into the first available time slot.

Tomorrow afternoon. Four o’clock.

And, naturally, she regretted it instantly.

But it wasn’t until she was back home that night, eating a bowl of cereal as her dinner on the love seat, with Indy off on some or other adventure, that she allowed herself to think about what she’d done. And more, allowed herself to look at the texts that had come in from that same number.

She only did it because Indy was out. If her sister had been there, there was no way Bristol would have let herself look. Indy would have made too much