BILLONIARE SECRETARY BABY

Chapter 12

“Yeah. My knee hurts,” she confessed.

“This is why you have been limping since we left the first restaurant?” He had noticed that? She had tried very hard to disguise the slight limp.

“Greys-san,” one of the other men called from a few meters away, “you are coming?”

“Chotto matte,” Christain snapped back. “Give me a moment!”

Cami still stood with her arms crossed and her bad knee bent so that her other leg was taking most of her weight.

“Explain!” he commanded, pointing to her knee.

.

.

“I have a weak knee, and sitting in seiza made it flare up a bit.”

He swore colorfully in about three different languages before running an agitated hand through his hair.

“What’s wrong with your knee?” he asked after a moment, and she huffed impatiently.

“You’ve seen every inch of my body,” she said. “I assumed that, over the course of the week, you’d have noticed the great, ugly scar on my knee?”

.

.

“Of course I did,” he admitted. “And I’ve been meaning to ask you about it. Only—”

“Only you’ve never had the time?” she completed. Where would he find the time? At night he was fully occupied with seducing her, and his days were dominated by back-to-back meetings required to get his precious hotel built. And then there was the obvious fact that he simply didn’t care enough to delve into personal details. They didn’t speak about anything other than superficial nonsense when they were alone at night, and once the s*x started, the conversation dwindled down to what felt good and where.

“I was aware of the scar. I just never really appreciated that your knee might have been weakened by it. Which was foolish considering the extent of the scarring. But in my defense, it never seems to bother you, you usually walk without impediment, and you’re quite limber—as I can personally attest.”

His comment flashed her back to two nights before, when they’d had s*x in the middle of his room, his hands supporting her butt and her legs wrapped around his waist, without even a wall to bolster them. It had been quite a testament to his strength and her flexibility. Only their mutual orgasms had finally sent them sinking down to the carpeted floor. She flushed at the memory and felt uncomfortably hot as she remembered how intense that session had been, the fear of falling combined with the excitement of maintaining rhythm and balance.

“Anyway,” she said, hoping to divert them both back to the point at hand, “the knee doesn’t really bother me unless I’m testing it, and, trust me, that seiza thing tested it sorely.”

“How old is the injury?” he asked, looking deeply uncomfortable with the question, and she knew it was because he felt compelled to ask her a personal question to make himself look—and possibly feel—like less of an uncaring d**k.

“I injured it about three years ago,” she recalled, her lips twisting as she remembered the catastrophic fall that had killed all of her dreams.

“What happened?” Again, the question sounded torn from him. He clearly hated asking and probably had no real interest in the answer.

“I had an accident and needed knee surgery. The end. You don’t have to ask me any more questions, sir. You’ve shown an interest. Noted.”

He said nothing, merely watched her for a very long moment, that handsome face maddeningly blank.

“So be it.” He shrugged dismissively. “We will return to the hotel.”

“You don’t have to go back. I can make it back on my own.”

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed. “But I find myself rather tired.”

“Do you?” she asked on a whisper, and his lips quirked in that sexy, dreadful cat-that-got-the-cream grin.

“—ish.”

“What?” she asked, although she knew exactly what he meant by that.

“I’m tired-ish,” he clarified, even though the expression on his face suggested he knew he didn’t really have to. “I may find my second wind by the time we return to the hotel.”

Of course he would.

And did.

Breakfast felt different. Usually the meal, which was always delivered to their suite, was eaten in a rush while Christain rapid-fired a list of the day’s requirements at Cami. Today, with the urgency of the week behind them and the memory of the previous night’s fantastic s*x still throbbing between them, everything felt odd. Different. Wrong.

They would leave for the airport in under an hour, and they were in this weird space of nothingness where everything had been arranged and there was no more to be done other than enjoy the rare moment of peace and quiet.

Only it wasn’t peaceful and it was much too quiet.

Cami swallowed a piece of toast that felt like sandpaper as it slid down her dry throat. She chased it down with some acidic orange juice and wondered at her nervousness.

She got up and restlessly made her way over to the huge picture windows beside the Bakokko armchairs, which now had some pretty raunchy memories attached to them. There was a layer of smog hanging over the city that did nothing to detract from Tokyo’s vibrancy. She had voraciously read her guidebook from beginning to end, diligently folding over the pages dedicated to places that she had longed to see, promising herself she would come back and visit someday. She knew that it was unlikely to happen and considered herself lucky to have seen this much of it at least, from way up in her glass tower and the claustrophobic confines of the car.

“Miss Gaspy.” Christain’s quiet voice intruded upon her thoughts, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d called her Miss Gaspy because he’d forgotten her name again. The absolute ludicrousness of a man who knew her body better than she did addressing her so formally caused a tiny burble of hysterical laughter to rise in her chest. She swallowed it back down, instinct telling her he wouldn’t appreciate her humor right now.

She turned to face him, hiding a grimace when her still-sore knee twinged in response to the movement. Sure enough, the grim set of his jaw and the tense line of his mouth confirmed that he was ready to have a Serious Discussion.

“Wait.” She held up a hand and he paused. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. It was fun while it lasted but now it—whatever it was—is over, and we will never speak of it again. How did I do?”

“I will require you to sign a nondisclosure agreement,” he said stiffly, and the words stole the breath right out of her. She felt so outraged, insulted, and—shockingly—hurt.

.

.

“And what if I don’t sign it?” she asked through stiff lips. “I mean, aren’t you supposed to sign those things before we do the stuff we’re not supposed to disclose?”

“Usually, yes, but we were in bed together before I had a chance to consider the possibility that something s****l might happen between us. We don’t suit. You’re not my usual . . .” His voice petered off as he grasped that his next words would be in bad taste. Still, he might not have said them, but they hovered between them like an offensive odor.

“I’m not your usual type,” she finished for him. “And because of that, you never thought we’d wind up screwing each other’s brains out. So you didn’t protect yourself the way you normally would have.

“Do you make all of your lovers sign nondisclosure agreements before you sleep with them?” she asked combatively, and his jaw clenched.

“Usually.” The tight one-word answer surprised her.

“You do? All of them?”

He seemed to have no shortage of female companions, and the thought of him going through this same distasteful scene with all of them was a little revolting.

“I don’t trust many people,” he admitted, and his broad shoulders shifted uncomfortably.

“That’s not a very romantic way to start a relationship,” she noted absently, still a bit taken aback by his admission.

“The women I usually associate with understand the need for privacy. Nobody wants their private lives smeared all over the papers for the titillation of the masses.”

“And you think that’s something I would do?” she asked, stung.

“I don’t know you, Miss Gaspy. I don’t want to know you. We enjoyed each other and that’s the end of it. What you are or aren’t capable of doesn’t interest me. I want you to sign the agreement so that I no longer have to consider the possibility that you may one day decide to do a cheeky little sexposé on your ‘tryst with Christain Greys.’” Tryst was such an un-Christain-like word for him to use that for a moment she could only gape at him before his words sank in properly.

“How do I know that you won’t be the one to brag to your mates about screwing your secretary?”

“First of all, you’re not my secretary, and secondly, this agreement would protect you from such an eventuality. It works both ways.”

“So what happens if I don’t sign your agreement?” she asked again, trying very hard to disguise the tremble in her voice. “Do I lose my job?”

“Your job has never been, and will never be, at stake because of our personal association,” he said, the answer coming so quickly that she didn’t doubt its veracity. “But this gesture would go a long way toward convincing me of your integrity.”

“And yet it does nothing for yours.” She could see that he didn’t like the idea of his integrity being called into question. He tugged at his cuffs and straightened his already immaculate tie before launching another volley at her.

“You sign it and you have the comfort of knowing that none of this ever gets out. That your brother and friends never discover how very quickly you fell into bed with me.” He played dirty, and for a second she almost fell for his bluff.

“Why would you tell anybody about this when you just admitted that you don’t want it to come out?” she asked skeptically. “Also I’m a consenting adult, and you’re not my first s****l partner. I’m pretty sure my brother and friends don’t have any misconceptions about me.”

“But they don’t think you’re an easy little slut either, do they?”

She could feel the blood draining from her face at the question. She struggled to breathe as the emotional impact of that sucker punch nearly caused her to double over in shock and pain. Why did this hurt? It shouldn’t hurt. He meant nothing to her. He didn’t have the power to hurt her. And yet . . . there was pain. An awful lot of pain.

“You think I’m a slut?” For a fleeting instant, she saw an expression almost like regret flash across his face.

“I could make it look like you are.” He didn’t answer her question, not really, but the failure to give her a yes or no was more of an indictment than an actual reply. “I could make you look like a scheming, manipulative, money-grubbing little tramp, while I come out smelling like a rose. But if you sign this agreement, you’d be protected from that. We could both go back to our lives none the worse for wear. Failure to sign would force me to play dirty. To go on the offensive, and neither of us wants that.”

She hated him so much in that instant that she was shaking with it. He had to know how she felt, had to see it in her eyes, but he didn’t even flinch, merely held the document out with a steady hand until she took it from him. Cami tried to read it, but her eyes were blurred with tears she hadn’t even known were there. She took the pen from him and signed in the allotted space beside his sprawling signature.

She handed both pen and paper back to him with violently shaking hands, wanting nothing more than to get out of his presence and take another shower.

“This is for the best, Cami,” he murmured gently, almost regretfully, and she laughed bitterly as she turned away from him.

“I would rather you didn’t talk to me unless it’s work related, sir. I don’t think I could stomach your empty platitudes right now.” She retreated to her own room without a backward glance.