At His Command

AT HIS COMMAND - Chapter Two

I spend a week in a dreamlike daze, thinking about his offer. During the day, I do the math, rows of calculations on empty, white pieces of paper, scrawling columns of numbers with many zeroes.

With five million, I could pay for Mom's assisted living facility for years. Maybe long enough for researchers to find a cure for Lou Gehrig's disease. I'd even donate to an ALS research fund, like I've always wanted.

Rent would be paid on time. I'd eat at my favorite restaurants once again. Get back into scrapbooking, a hobby I've shelved because I need every penny for food and utilities. When I step into the craft stores, I want to weep because of all the pretty things I can't afford.

Perhaps I'd take a vacation, to have something to scrapbook about.

It's worth finding out what the bossy man has in mind. Still, I doubt my ability to write anything coherent. But I guess I should try. What's the worst that could happen?

At night, I toss and turn, feverish. It's spring in New York, which means one day is cold and the next sweltering. Regardless of the temperature, I can't get Mr. Black's eyes out of my mind. Or the way his big hands looked, those crisp French cuffs at his wrists. How his smile played arrogantly on his face, or how those cheekbones seemed like they would cut my finger if I caressed them.

I masturbate every night, thinking of him. It's the first time I've touched myself in months. During the day I walk around in a perpetual state of edginess.

On the eighth afternoon following the interview, I grab my cell. Shaking, I dial the number of Blackmoir Publishing. I need to put on my big girl panties and try to overcome my writer's block.

For Mom.

Even if I half-ass it and write crap, only to get a fraction of the money, it will be worth it. Because that thousand dollars in my bank account won't last long, and the bill from the nursing home is sitting in front of me. It's burning a hole in the kitchen table with its due date.

"Yes, Tristan Black's office." From the sound of her throaty voice, I can tell it's the efficient older secretary.

"This is Sienna Amato. I interviewed last week. I'd like to speak with Mr. Black, please."

"I'm sorry, but he's away on business. May I take a message?"

I hesitate, wondering if I should hang up. "Please let him know that I'd like to discuss his offer." I grab the bill from the nursing home as if to give me courage. "Tell him I look forward to his response."

"I will give him the message, Ms. Amato. Have a good day."

Perhaps if I meet with him, we can have a more detailed conversation about my experience and he'll hire me for another position after all. We'd had a bad start, and under more relaxed circumstances, I could make a case that I'm actually qualified for something other than writing.

Three hours later, I receive an email.

Miss Amato,

I'm glad you have reconsidered my offer. I'd like you to meet me at the Algonquin Hotel tomorrow evening at eight for drinks. I'll explain everything, and I believe it will be to your satisfaction and pleasure. Please wear the red dress, the one in the photo.

T.B.

* * *

I still have the dress, of course. It was one of the first expensive things I'd bought back when I'd gotten the advance for my book.

Those were amazing days. I'd been on top of the world. People purchased my novel, and I bought everything I'd never been able to afford as a teenager. I gave Mom all she needed and wanted. We'd even rented a five-room apartment in Williamsburg and had plans to buy a duplex so we could live side-by-side. She worked as a legal secretary, and on the weekends, we'd visit museums and bookstores, then spend hours talking about art and books in cafes.