TEMPTATION - A Bad Boy Romance by Gabi Moore Page A

with what’s-his-name? Is it from him? What a douche,” she said, bouncing from foot to foot like a kid at Christmas.
    The arrangement was overwhelming the entire surface of my small desk; the whole thing was unreal, the giant roses and lilies completely out of place in our minimalist chrome office. I felt worryingly conspicuous. I opened the card, gingerly; not quite believing this was really for me.
     
    Miss Mack,
    Please forgive my disgusting phone manners
    67 Baltic Terrace, 9:00pm
    You’ll have my full attention, promise
    T
     
    My eyes whipped over the lines again and again, trying to make sense of the letters.
    It was an actual house address. An invitation. At night .
    Clara looked at me with big eyes. “Oh God, it IS from what’s-his-name, isn’t it?”
    I stuffed the card back in the envelope and buried it into the mound of stems.
    “Uh, yeah, it’s from my ex. What a douche.”
    I looked at my watch – it had just gone 3pm. Thinking twice, I grabbed the card again and slid it into my pocket.
    “Hey, Clara, could you just let Penelope know I went out for a sec?”
    “Sure. But she’s at the other office for a few days anyway. She’s been asking about your interview with what’s-his-name though – how’d that go?”
    “Uh, yeah, the interview …if you see her just let her know I’ll have it ready for Friday, OK?”
    I dashed out, not giving Clara the chance to pry any further. I only had a few hours. I would need time to think.
    And I would definitely need a sexier dress. And shoes. Maybe.
     

Chapter Five
     
    If you had asked 5-year-old me to imagine what the home of one of the country’s wealthiest personalities looked like – she would have accurately described 67 Baltic Terrace.
    It looked like it was the scene of a movie. Flush with vaulted marble ceilings, dense green lawns folding into infinity pools, and a swooping grand staircase at the main entrance.
    Tom Hood had made his fortune speculating on hot tech start ups, “angel” funding those two bit operations that turned into outrageous money-machines in a span of just a few years. He had a knack for spotting business diamonds so rough that it was almost as if his investment in them alone was the very thing to transform them, to make emperors out of the long sighted nerds in garages, and empires out of their impossible dreams. Tom Hood had made many people’s dreams come true, and he was living his own, clearly.
    Coming down the staircase was a lithe, black haired girl in some kind of luxurious-looking kimono. A week ago, I would have laughed if someone had told me that this is what my dream magazine job would be paying me to do on a Wednesday evening, but by this point, I was getting used to the feeling that everything associated with Tom Hood had a sheen of unreality to it, a strange glint of power that he seemed to wear so well.
    He was still a dick, though, obviously.
    The black haired girl smiled broadly at me, slinking down the last few of the steps and gliding over to me as though she had been expecting me all her life. This, I thought, was some weird Stepford Wife nonsense right here. I made a mental note to take in every detail about her, knowing I’d find a place for her in my article, whatever it turned out to be.
    “Are you Miss Katie Mack? Oh, welcome! It’s very nice to meet you,” she said with just a distant waft of an exotic accent, and then extended her slender hand.
    I followed her all the way back up the staircase, eerie music seeming to come and go in pockets of air as we passed by rooms and corridors, finally reaching a wide conservatory style room at the end, and the source of the music.
    The jaded part of me saw only the ill-gotten gains in the glittery tiles and disgusting privilege dripping in every giant mirror and painting we passed …but another, smaller part of me was quietly amazed.
    Tom Hood was barely 30 years old. This was success, and there was no denying it. I was so used to seeing him