The Carrero Contract - Selling Your Soul (Book 1 of Contract Trilogy)

3

I am not about to let Carrero think that I am a woman you leave waiting around on you like some desperado, hanging on his presence. When I get up to the apartment, I get changed into my silk nightdress and robe and start getting ready for bed.

My sleeping pattern dictates that I won't pass out until after four when I would normally be up here, but he doesn't need to know that, and I am putting my plan B into action. I strip off my makeup and re-apply the barely there, going to bed, yet still sexy look. Sitting at my vanity and brushing out my hair before I pile it on top of my head in a carefree messy bun that takes a lot of finesse and skill.

If he thought he had an easy woman to deal with, then he doesn't know me or what he is about to come up against. I have a lot to learn about what makes him tick and a lot of tells to identify to work out the mechanics of this one, but the same goes for him. If he thinks I am a regular girl with easy to read attributes, then he has another thing coming. I never do anything just for the hell of it—I always have a plan.

My new plan is to find how he ticks and use it to my advantage. Fundamentally, most men work on the same principles, just with varying degrees of manipulation applied. If I find his buttons to push, then I will have him eating out of my palms before long. Or from between my thighs.

***

After an hour of sipping three glasses of Chardonnay, and sick to death of picking my goddamn acrylic nails, I get up in a strop and throw the bottle in the open-plan kitchen that spans a whole L shape in the corner of the apartment. Walking past the sunken lounge area and his black leather sofa, I curse him out loudly, boiling inside with the nerve of him.

I cannot abide people who leave you hanging around like your time isn't worth shit to them. Making me wait for an age and still no goddamn sign of him.

Bloody arsehole!

I cage towards the door of my bedroom angrily as I am alerted to the main apartment door beeping with someone accessing the hand scanner on the other side and spin on my heel. Glaring furiously that he really thinks leaving me waiting on him for an hour is acceptable, and then completely baulk as he strolls in casually with some blonde bimbo on his arm.

Fury finding a path from my toes and coursing through every vein in my body. Internal rage spiking at the sight of this bull shit.

She is pouting and fluttering his way like an amateur and I swear it's so cringey it's almost puke worthy. I have to curb the urge to outright laugh at him and his complete balls for bringing some whore up here after having me hanging about like a dick head for the best part of the evening.

She looks cheap and nasty in a tacky red dress that leaves very little to the imagination, and I literally blink at the absolute nerve of the man. He could have had caviar and steak, and I was handing it to him on a plate—something that I don't just do for any man, but instead he brought home some pop in the microwave cardboard meal.

I try to conceal my rage by smiling airily as our eyes lock across the room, and he smiles right back with an air of ''problem?'' That I can definitely not miss. I feel like this is some sort of test or maybe he gets a kick out of goading people. If he is trying to get under my skin, he is about to learn I have claws.

It's the first time I have seen him smile properly, all white straight teeth and annoyingly handsome. It practically changes his whole face from good looking gangster too, and I just curse him out even more. Feeling completely engulfed with burning fury bristling in my bones. I start tapping my fingernails on my hip as I slide into a casual pose and rest my shoulder against my doorway in an act of nonchalance. I won't let him see that he has got to me in any way, shape or form.