Pulled Into The Billionaire's Redemption

CHAPTER 4

Caine POV: Another Fight

The problem with corporate America is a simple, frustrating truth: you don't have to be smart to sit on the board of directors of a major company.

It is for this reason that I find myself at a complete impasse tonight. I am sitting at the head of my own conference table, forcing my eyes to stay on the dry-erase marker in her hand, trying my best not to stare at Anna Uris’s butt.

Admittedly, that butt is incredibly fun to look at. But scientifically speaking, butts are just localized deposits of adipose tissue. They are just fat. What matters in the real world is the person the anatomy belongs to.

And unfortunately, this particular asset belongs to a literal prostitute. What a damn shame.

Last night when I picked her up, her name was Sidney. Tonight, she stands in front of my senior board and claims it’s Anna. It doesn't matter. A fake name for an indecent profession.

She steps back from the whiteboard less than five minutes later and caps the marker with a snap. A small, distinctly satisfied smile on her lips.

I sit forward in my chair, my eyes scanning the board. Damn. She's fast.

Across the table, the rest of the suit-and-tie crowd begins to murmur in collective confusion.

Owens, head of Human Resources, blinks at the complex web of numbers and then looks over at me.

"Is that . . . is that it?"

Anna turns around, a hand on her hip. "Yup."

Owens shifts uncomfortably in his seat, looks from the board to me. "Caine, what did you say she does again?"

Oh, Christ. Not this question.

I clear my throat. "She works in social services."

Anna’s cheeks color slightly. She clears her throat and offers the board members a tight smile.

"Hm, social services," Owens muses, leaning back and tapping his gold pen on his notepad. "Er, Anna. How exactly did you come by the coefficients with those specific variables? Our risk assessment team has been running simulations on those metrics for a week."

She looks back at the whiteboard, then turns her head to give me a questioning glance. I give her nod.

"Okay," Anna says, taking a step toward the center of the room. She speaks with calm authority. "I think you folks completely misunderstood the variables here. I'll go over the breakdown one more time, and I'll do it slowly so everyone follows."

And just like that, she begins to dissect the algorithm. She navigates the complex fraud patterns with an ease that makes it so anyone with even half a brain in this room can understand it.

She is good. In fact, she is brilliant.

I frown, my gaze drops from the mathematical layout to her lips as she speaks. There is something intensely magnetic about her in this element. Something that forces you to look beyond, you know, how she chooses to make a living at night.

I have been with women of all sorts over the years. I've paid for company, I've done the affluent dating circuit, I've done it all. But last night, in my private office with Anna, or Sidney, whatever, it just hadn't clicked for s*x. The friction between us had been wrong for it.

Yet right now, watching her command a room full of overpaid executives, the tension is different.

"What about the tail-risk variance?" Mike Talbot asks, leaning over the table to interrupt her.

She delivers a rebuttal with a level of class and intellectual precision that I have only ever witnessed in university lecture halls or at economic presentations. It leaves Talbot speechless.

Who the hell is this girl?

I catch myself and pull my thoughts back.

A w***e.

That's exactly what she is. A prostitute can be smart. It isn't a mathematical impossibility. There is nothing inherently special about it.

Still, my eyes roll down her figure, tracing the curve of her waist before snapping right back up to her lips. I feel a sudden stir between my thighs. She is, without a doubt, a very beautiful woman.

Owens nudges me.

"Who is she?" Owens whispers, his eyes glued to the hem of her short skirt. "I really like her, Caine. Seriously."

"A finance analyst who couldn't get a proper job and went out into the street to make a living, I guess."

“I agree.”

Owens doesn't seem deterred. He goes back to staring at her. I watch his expression shift, and an unexpected spike of irritation hits me. I don't quite like the way Owens is doing the looking.

Anna finally finishes her summary and steps aside from the board. "If there are no more questions, I'd really like to . . . leave."

I stand up. "Yeah. Thanks, Anna."

The room erupts into motion. The men suddenly get up from their chairs, and about six of them crowd toward her. They are all extending their hands, trying to introduce themselves, asking for her phone number, or fabricating absurd follow-up questions just to keep her talking.

I step into the fray and herd her away from the pack. "Okay, guys, that's enough. That's enough for tonight. We have what we need."

I guide her out into the quiet hallway. Once we are clear of the boardroom, I stop and to stare at her.

"So, I didn't ask you before," I say. "Where exactly did you learn to do this stuff? At a real university, or what?"

"CSU."

I shrug. "Hm. Okay. Let's go to my place."

She gapes at me, her eyes searching mine. And just by observing her body language, I can tell what she's thinking: this has all been about going to your place to have s*x? Helping to solve your fraud pattern issue on the board was just a front?

Yeah, well, last night we were supposed to have s*x but we didn't. Let's do that now, hoe.

"Why did you stop them from getting my number?" she asks.

“What?”

I look at the conference room doors, then back to her. "Is that a problem? Look, that is not why I brought you back here tonight. Our agreement was very simple: you solve my company's problem, and you leave. That's it. We're done."

"I did solve it!" Anna fires back, stepping closer. "What I choose to do after I finish the job is none of your business!"

I shake my head and chuckle cynically. "Goddamn it. You just can't help yourself, can you? Up here, we keep it strictly business only."

Anna’s brow furrow. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? One of those men back there could have had an opening, a real job!"

I scoff.

She pauses, her lips trembling.

Looking at her now, I find myself experiencing a twisted enjoyment of her misery. She wants to play the victim, but she chose the corner.

"We are done here," I say coldly. "You can leave."

"Asshole!" she says as turns to leave.

"What did you just call me?"

She whirls back around, her face dark with rage, all her composure gone.

"You're nothing but a hypocritical asshole! A corporate slut, just like every single one of those men in that room! You and men like you are the ones who created women like me,” she rails at me, “women who have to resort to the damn street just to survive!"

"You didn't have to resort to anything, you opportunistic slut!" I fire back, my voice booming in the hallway. "You could have gotten a proper job like everyone else!"

"I had a job, you prick!" Anna hisses. "I had a job!"

She rushes down the hall toward the elevators. She hits the call button, and by some stroke of luck, a cab opens instantly. She rushes inside, turning around to face me as the steel doors begin to slide shut.

Just before the barrier closes completely, blocking her furious face from view, I take a step forward and yell, "Don't you ever call my number again!”