Free A Bona Fide Gold Digger by Allison Hobbs Page A

hung out. Anyone going there to have a good time deserved to be pitied. Milan refused to give Elise a “you go, girl” smile. “Have fun,” she said dryly and gave a mental head shake.
    Elise checked her watch. “Listen, you’ll have to give him another soothing tonight at ten.”
    “Tonight!” Milan shrieked as she followed Elise back into the master bedroom.
    “Yes. Three times a day. Eleven in the morning, four o’clock in the afternoon, and ten o’clock at night. He likes a different type of oil with each soothing, so switch it up. All the bottles are on the top shelf of the armoire.” Elise nudged her chin toward the ornate mahogany armoire.
    With disgust contorting her features, Milan regarded the elegant piece of furniture as if it contained deadly toxins or a colony of cockroaches. The sympathy she’d felt for Elise a scant few moments ago abruptly shifted to herself. How many times, she wondered miserably, would she have to rub the sickly man’s horrible buttocks before she had a complete nervous breakdown?
    “In addition to the bonus he gave you, you’ll get your weekly pay and you’ll get five hundred a day extra for soothing him.”
    Five hundred a day extra? Milan couldn’t argue with the money she was being offered. She’d have to grin and bear it. Let the money stack up, get her affairs together, and get on with her life.

chapter ten
    T he leather-bound collector’s edition of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens was heavy. The embossed front cover gave it an elegant and distinctive look, but Milan was certain that the unexciting text inside the impressive covers would have her yawning before she got through the first few pages. Now, if she were reading something hot by erotica author Zane, she’d really be able to stay alert and put her heart into the story. But then again, reading Zane’s spicy prose might not be such a good idea. She didn’t want the old geezer getting any sex tips from Zane; his own naughty notions were quite enough.
    Clearing her throat, Milan began reading. Mr. Brockington’s luminous eyes were riveted on her as if the main character, a boy named Pip, was an incredibly fascinating lad. Some of the paragraphs were outrageously long and so dreary, she wanted to hurl the miserable book against the wall. But when she thought of the primary role she played for her employer—a tawdry, live-in masseuse—she forged ahead and poured her heart into the reading of the Dickens classic. Perhaps Mr. Brockington would doze off from all the excitement of the reading and miss his eleven o’clock session.
    “My dear,” Noah Brockington said at exactly ten minutes to eleven. Milan cringed. Then, bracing herself for the dreaded words her employer would soon utter, she marked the page with the sewn-in red silk ribbon and closed the book.
    Noah Brockington did not speak another word. He casually pointed to the armoire. Trying desperately to repress hysteria, Milan took several deep breaths. Then, in a carefully controlled manner, she placed the heavy leather-bound book on the bedside table.
    “Be sure to return that to the collection downstairs,” he reminded her. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. If she could have gotten away with it, Milan would have used the book as a weapon and clunked Mr. Brockington upside his head with it, but of course, she couldn’t. She nodded an agreement to return the boring book to its designated spot in the maple-paneled library downstairs.
    With mounting trepidation, she opened the armoire and randomly selected a container of massage oil. When she turned around, Mr. Brockington had sneakily lowered his sleepwear and lay poised on his stomach.
    Having to rub an old man’s ass for pay was an all-time low and an extreme stretch from Milan’s perceived dignified persona. In order to survive this humiliation she instantly retreated to a vacant place in her mind. Now, successfully crossed over into an emotionless zone, Milan kept her eyes