Free If I Were You by Lisa Renée Jones

His
expression is impassive, unreadable. “Which brings my curiosity back to what
we've already covered. Why not ask what wage you will be paid?"
    “I have enough of an idea of the going rate to know why this
has to be a summer job that I don’t do this full time.” A pinch of irritation
and defensiveness sneaks up on me. "And you walked away before I could get
the opportunity."
    He laughs and it surprises me more than anything else he has
done thus far. "I suppose I did." He turns somber quickly and
considers me for so long and so intently that I feel like I’m going to lose my
mind. What is he thinking? What is he about to say? I am being judged and I
know it. I tell myself that I don't know him well enough for his opinion to
matter, but like his approval, it does. He is of the world where I so yearn to
belong.
    "Perhaps," he says, "I didn't want to give
you the chance to decline."
    "I can certainly see you as a man who prefers to do the
declining yourself," I say before I can stifle my reply.
    He laughs again and sits up, scrubbing his clean-shaven jaw.
"You don't pull any punches, do you?"
    I shake my head. "Not today."
    His smile widens and it is a gorgeous, handsome smile that
could melt chocolate. "Let's see how true that is. Your top three Italian
artists are whom?"
    I sit up straighter, my blood pumping, immediately alert. My
answer is immediate. “Present day — artist and sculptor Marco Perego. Pino
Daeni for his soft romantic characters. Contemporary Italian Master artist,
Francesco Clemente who is one of the most illustrious European trans-avantgarde
artists today.”
    He arches a brow. “No Da Vinci?”
    “He’s in a class by himself and is the expected answer that
tells you nothing about my personal tastes."
    His eyes light and I think he might be pleased with my
answer.
    “Damien Hirst," he says, throwing out the name of a
famous painter. 
    I am in my element, and I reply easily. “He’s in his forties
and already one of the most acclaimed contemporary artists alive. He’s worth an
estimated one billion dollars. In 2008 he sold, through Riptide which your
family owns, the full exhibition Beautiful Inside My Head Forever , with
223 works for $198 million, breaking the record of the most expensive auction
by a single artist.”
    A smile lingers on his mouth, the same mouth that I keep
looking at with ridiculous obsession, and this time, I know I see the glow of
approval in his eyes. I am warm again, energized anew. Comfortable in a way I
hadn’t been before this moment with this man.
    “Impressive, Ms. McMillan."
    I smile, not even trying to suppress my pride at his words.
“I aim to please.”
    "I must say, I'm getting that idea, and I like
it." His voice is low, laden with silk. "I like it immensely."
    Without warning, the air crackles with a charge that steals
my breath. His eyes have darkened with something akin to a predatory gleam. My
body responds without my permission, tingling with awareness that I don't want
to feel, but yet I do. I am frustrated with myself for being affected by a man
I will not dare cross a line with. A man who is dangerous to me, who might well
have been dangerous to Rebecca. 
    “Excuse me, Mr. Compton,” Amanda says from the doorway. “But
you have a call.”
    “Take a message,” he replies, never taking his eyes off of
me. And despite my vow, I am transfixed by their color, by the intensity of his
stare.
    Amanda delicately clears her throat. “It’s Mrs. Compton
about the auction that begins in an hour at Riptide.”
    Mrs. Compton? The spell is broken and I gape. I know
I do. I can’t stop myself.
    He sighs and flicks Amanda a look. ”I’ll call her back in
five minutes.”
    “She’s pretty clear she wants to talk now.”
    His tone grows sharper. “I’ll call her back.”
    “Yes,” Amanda says, looking flustered. “I’ll tell her.”
    My new boss returns his attention to me as Amanda
disappears. “Mrs. Compton would be my mother,” he