Page 1 of The Pleasure Contract
CHAPTER ONE
BRISTOLMARCHWISHEDher younger sister was a little less messy, a whole lot lesslanguid, and maybe the tiniest bit less free-spirited, while she was at it—but she wasn’t.
Never had been and probably never would be.
Indy was two and a half years younger, liked to claim she hada bohemian flairin all things, and was underemployed as a deliberate life choice. This allowed her to have sex with all the pretty people she wanted without worrying overmuch about getting to work the next morning. Or paying rent. Or even cleaning up after herself when she was seized with the occasional cooking bug—but Bristol knew if she let herself start thinking like that, Indy would only laugh at her.
You don’thave tobe the mom of me,she would say, rolling her eyes.We already have a mom, remember?
Bristol did not plan to have that fight for the trillionth time. Not today. She eyed her sister, currently draped over the love seat in their tiny apartment on the border of the most hipster part of Brooklyn—Indy claimed that made themmorehipster—texting her many lovers and friends, taking the odd selfie, and also painting her toenails a shockingly bright yellow. All at the same time.
Since Indy couldn’t possibly be paying attention to what she was doing or saying with so much going on, Bristol decided that she must have misheard what her sister had said.
“If your boss wants a new secretary, I’m sure there are agencies for that,” she said, trying her best not to sound too academic. Indy laughed at her for hours when she gotstuffyand, worse,did thingsto snap her out of it. Even if it had sounded like Indy had said the man was looking fora new woman. “Especially at his level.”
“Bristol. I despair of you.” Indy lifted her gaze from her banana-yellow toes. She tossed her phone aside. The spring sunshine filled their puny living room, making their long-dead plants seem almost alive again. Bristol made a mental note to get rid of the withered things and also to not forget, the way she did every single year, that she was made entirely of black thumbs. “Two things. One, Lachlan Drummond is not my boss. He istheboss. I’ve been temping in that building for two months and I’ve never laid eyes on him. I think he comes and goes in a rainbow of his own incredible wealth and hotness. Or possibly by helicopter.”
“Fine. Your boss’s boss.”
“There are at least twelve more boss layers. I’m atemp. The man owns half of New York.”
Bristol never paid that much attention to the New York glitterati who were forever flinging themselves in and out of taxis and town cars up and down Fifth Avenue or swanning about at famous functions like the Met Ball. She’d been far too busy lost in the archives and libraries she’d basically been living in over the last few years while finishing up her doctorate. But even she knew who Lachlan Drummond was.
Everyone knew who Lachlan Drummond was. Notorious for walking away from the hedge fund he’d run, giving at least three fortunes away to charity in what the papers calledhis penance—though not the fortune or four he’d inherited from his blue-blooded parents—and now famous all over again for his brand of guerilla philanthropy. Not to mention his commanding presence in otherwise deadly boring global summits filled with ancient diplomats.
Also, he was astonishingly good-looking. The kind of good-looking that made even serious-minded lifetime students like Bristol stop dead and stare from the recesses of her study carrel.
So good-looking that, actually,mind-numbingly hotwas a far better way to describe him. Thick blond hair and serious blue eyes, an unsmiling mouth in a great many of his pictures though those eyes always seemed to gleam, a rangy athlete’s body that was always showing up in magazines that liked to feature him while he was engaged in sweaty, sporty things that often inspired him to rip off his shirt, and, of course, the intense problem that was Lachlan Drummond in formal attire.
But this was not the time to get swoony over a famous man she would never meet.
“Two,” Indy was saying, “he’s not looking for a secretary. He has floors of secretaries at his disposal. He’s looking for a new girlfriend.”
“Why do you know this if you’ve never even laid eyes on the man?”
It would be very like her sister to casually announce thatoh, by the way, last month when she’d said she was camping upstate she’d actually been hooking up withLachlan Drummond, no big deal.
Indy waved a hand. “You know people tell me things.”
“Okay. Is there a reason you’re tellingme?”
Indy’s gaze stayed steady on Bristol. “I’ve been working on a theory about Lachlan Drummond and I found out from one of his personal assistants that it’s true.”
Bristol could tell that Indy wanted her to be on the edge of her seat, so, as the older sister, she was required by all known laws to sigh and look bored instead. “It’s going to be very disappointing if he’s a furry.”
“He is not.” Indy laughed. “But he doesn’t have relationships in the classic sense. He hires his girlfriends.”
There was no rational reason that a notion like that should wind around inside Bristol the way it did, making her feel suddenly breathless.
And suddenly, shockingly wet between her legs.
You have spent way too much time lost in your books,she chided herself. When was the last time she’d gotten naked with someone? That she couldn’t remember offhand was...worrying. Surely she should know.
“You mean escorts?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t call them that. They’re more long term.” Indy shrugged. “He prefers to hire a woman so he gets exactly what he wants, when he wants it. No trawling around in bars. No swiping left or right. It’s not like he can go out like a regular person anyway. How is he supposed to get laid?”
“So hebuysit?” That did not fit with Bristol’s image of Lachlan Drummond. “I wonder if there’s an agency forthat.”