Excerpt:
He says, "I have seen you around and taken note of your progress in all these years."
You have? She's astonished.
"I believe you have the ruthless ambition to make things happen for yourself."
"I do, Mr. Crawford, I do." This comes out in a bit of a rush.
He leans back in his chair, and it creaks with protest.
"You see, I have certain personal needs. I'm looking for the right woman to fulfill them, and I believe you have the characteristics to tend to my needs, Susan."
She can't believe what she's hearing. Her jaw drops.
"Wh-what kind of needs, Mr. Crawford?"
He steeples his hands. "Let's just say I enjoy taking a strong-willed, ambitious woman like yourself and molding her into someone who will bend the knee and obey my every command. Are you that woman, Ms. Susan Chalmers?"
The proposition dangles in front of her like a carrot on a stick.
This can't be happening, she thinks. This is surreal. Channing Crawford wants her in the physical sense? He who is unattainable and lives in the clouds, who is secretly desired by every woman in the company, only they are too afraid to even speak of it?
Bend the knee.
It sounds deliciously depraved . . . and yet tantalizing.
Her terror surfaces again.
"Wh-what's in it for me, sir?"
"I will be making a decision on the Vice-President post by Friday next week. Leonard Drake, a fine upstart individual with extremely impressive paper qualifications and a track record that dwarfs even yours, is your main contender - as you no doubt have acceded. He has promised to bring in the Buchanan contract by Thursday next week."
He lets this float in the tension-filled air between them.
The Buchanan contract? Her spirits sink. The Buchanan contract is the Holy Grail of contracts - the biggest, most notoriously sought among them. Edward Buchanan is a recluse whose company is worth eighteen billion dollars.
A recluse who donates generously to the church.
"I see," she says, the pit of her stomach caving in. How can she possibly compete with that?
But that's precisely the point.
She can compete with it.
Her voice is shaky as she says, "What would you require me to do, Mr. Crawford? And for how long?"
"Let's make it until Friday, Susan Chalmers. As for what I require . . . well, let's just say you will do my every bidding . . . my every command." His crystalline blue eyes bore probingly into hers.
She licks her lips nervously. "And would those . . . requests . . . be sexual in nature, sir?"
He waits a beat before answering, "Yes, for most part."
