What? One to two years. Uh-uh. I wouldn’t survive that long.
“Either that,” she added, “or Cole Cosmetics will go public, and you’ll be a millionaire before you’re thirty if you can score some stock options.”
I blinked at her.
“Didn’t you hear?” she asked.
I shook my head dumbly.
“According to the rumor mill, his company is getting ready for the big IPO.”
Wow. Going public. That was big. And no, I didn’t know.
She went on, “But I heard from my coworker Terri, whose boyfriend works with G.S.—”
“Goldman Sachs?” I asked.
“No. Gary and Smitty—a day-trader outfit they run out of Gary’s parents’ basement.”
“Oh.” How terribly reliable.
“But she said that he said that Cole’s competitor, B&H, is trying to do everything it can to derail the stock offering. They know if that capital infusion happens, they’ll be wiped out. C.C. will eat up their market share.”
I sat back in my vanity chair and let that sink in. I was suddenly in a position to destroy C.C., because if the truth about him got out, it would trigger some serious outrage from his adoring, everyday-woman customer base. He did not respect them or care about anything other than making money.
I gave it some thought, the little vindictive devil on my shoulder rubbing its hands together. No, stop. It didn’t matter how horrible that man was, I wasn’t the vengeful sort. But I could be an opportunist.
Whoa. I suddenly realize I wasn’t in some weak “take it or leave it” kind of situation. I had leverage. I had some power of my own here to negotiate a different deal.
So what exactly did I want? It wasn’t plastic surgery.
Was it?
“Can I ask you something, Danny? And I want you to be honest with me.”
“The answer is yes. You should get a tattoo of Maxwell Cole on your back.”
I flipped her off with my eyes.
“Sorry.” She held up her hands. “Ask away.”
“Do you think I should have my face done?”
Her eyes flickered with shock. She hadn’t been expecting that question. “Does this have anything to do with your meeting Maxwell Cole today?”
Yes. But not in the way she probably thought—that I wanted to be his girlfriend or something stupid like that.
“Just answer the question,” I said.
“Umm…that’s a hard one.”
“Danny, I want an honest answer. No BS.”
She nodded and looked down at the floor. “I think that if it’s something you want because it’ll make you happy, then great. But if you’re considering it for any other reason, then no. You shouldn’t change who you are just to make other people like you. You’re also the happiest, most genuine person I’ve ever met. So I’m not sure messing with your face would make you any happier.”
I sighed. Danny was right.
“What’s brought this on, Lily?”
“Nothing.” I cracked a smile to lighten the mood. “But you’re right. All of the pretty girls I know are miserable dirty whores. And, yes, that comment was directed at you.”
She laughed. “Bitch.”
“Crazy bitch,” I countered.
“It’s a dirty job.” She stood from the bed and grabbed her heels from the floor. “But not as dirty as the rim job you’ll be giving Max Cole, you sick little slut.”
“Ewww!” I laughed. I was anything but a slut, and we both knew it. But even if I were, I doubt I’d ever go around licking butt holes. Yikes.
“Did you at least offer him your customary ‘thank you’ blowjob?” she asked, trying not to crack herself up.
“Yes. I offered. He accepted. And next I have my sights set on getting pregnant with his love child just to make you jealous. My years of hard work and graduate school are finally about to pay off.”
“Excellent. And be a good friend, would ya? Ask him to throw in a quickie for me as part of your signing bonus?” She made a dreamy little sigh. “Okay. I gotta mix up some vitamin water and take a shower now.”
“Meeting up with Calvin?” Calvin was her new boyfriend, and for whatever reason, she always drank a bunch of vitamin water before seeing him. It was kind of strange.
“Yep, I’m meeting up with my real man for some real dinner and real, very mediocre but vigorous sex. Let me know what happens with my dream lover, ’kay?” She left the room, leaving me there with my thoughts. My very indecent sex-fantasy-filled thoughts.
No, I decided. That was ridiculous. I would never ask for that. I didn’t even want Maxwell Cole. Especially after learning what a disgusting pig of a human being he was.
I groaned and pushed my hands through my hair.
So I didn’t want surgery. Or sex. (Ridiculous.) What did I want out of this deal? A line on my résumé and a paycheck didn’t cut it, considering what I’d have to endure seeing that man on a regular basis. Maybe I should be asking for stock options to fund my own company.
God. What am I thinking? I can’t take this job. It’s degrading. Besides, he only wanted me for some hidden agenda and not because he believed in me, which meant accepting the role would go against everything I believed in.
But then why had I already made up my mind to see him in the morning? Was it to turn him down to his face? Or was it because I had a burning desire to see him again and find out the truth?
What did he really want with me?
The next morning I put on my favorite navy blue skirt, tan heels, and a tight cream silk tee with a low-cut neckline. Simple. Sexy. Elegant. I wore my blonde hair loose and wavy—my natural look—and applied a little bronzer to my cheeks and mascara to my very light lashes. Yes, I enjoyed feeling feminine. Even my underwear was known to be a little racy, and it didn’t matter that no one would see them. I had never deprived myself of the pretty things in life most women enjoyed, and I never would. I had just as much right as any to want soft skin, nice clothes, and a great job. I was no different from any other woman with needs either. And right now, I needed answers. As painful as the truth might be.
He’s probably some fucked-up creep with a fetish for ugly women. It would explain his dating track record. Though, I now suspected all those “girlfriends” were really PR stunts.
Time to find out.
I got in my red Mini and drove back to C.C.’s headquarters, located not too far from the Chicago Board of Trade building downtown. When I entered the spacious, bright-white, heaven-like lobby (minus the pearly gates), I told the receptionist—different from the day before—I was there to see Mr. Cole but didn’t have an appointment. That won me the “oh, another female stalker” look.
“He really does want to see me. Would you mind calling his assistant, Keri?” I told the woman.
Skeptically, she dialed. “There’s a Miss Snow to see Mr. Cole.” She listened. “Okay. I’ll send her up.”
She handed me a visitor’s badge and gave me a strange look. She was gorgeous, by the way, and now I knew why: Mr. Cole didn’t want to be greeted each morning by someone who wasn’t up to snuff.
As I got inside the elevator, a man in a suit—slender build, light brown hair, and pretty brown eyes—got in with me. He held a laptop and some files in his hands.
“Can you push the top floor, please?” he asked, looking down his nose at me.
“Already pushed,” I replied.
“Oh. You going up to the big guy’s office, too?”
“Yep.”
His expression leaned toward judgmental, like he didn’t understand why I was there.