Midas

By Valerie Herme

Evan Wall is called Midas because every investment he touches turns to gold. His power came to him after a supernatural presence swept through his mind. The gift was accompanied by a curse. He can understand finances perfectly, but he’s clueless about women. Then his old love, Chen, shows up with weird powers of her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Aug 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781771112529

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Button

She did it again. She left the top button of her blouse undone. Ms. Nutt, intent on her screen, leans forward in her chair. The unbuttoned gap deepens. Don’t look, you idiot. She did the same Tuesday, and once last week. Was it this blouse? Maybe it’s supposed to be open.

Ms. Nutt with her second button undone. I can’t let myself think this. The one between her breasts, where the crisp white cotton stretches. The circle of pearl wants to pop. She’s got a lot under there to see. Oh, lord.

I look at my shoes. I’m safely past her desk before she says, Good Morning, Sir.

She sounds distracted. Her screen is filled with pictures of…of…bikinis. Tiny ones. Ms. Nutt wearing nothing but the two wisps of silky blue I can see on the screen. Oh, save me.

What if I came behind her chair and touched her arm? And she sighed. And I pressed my lips to her neck.

And she sued me for harassment. My name blackened. Evan Wall, sexual predator. My clientele evaporating. My lawyers slavering. Ruin and humiliation. Forlorn in a dingy apartment, binging on microwave macaroni, and watching Ms. Nutt escort the hosts of Rich and Famous through the Tribeca loft she bought with my money.

I’m safely inside my office, with my back to the closed door. I’m sweating. Ms. Nutt pushes her breasts into my hands. She closes her eyes and parts her lips. I shake my head. I look past the ebony desk and the Zuzunaga couch, to the wide view of Central Park and the towers of Manhattan turned golden by the gold-flecked sheers on my floor-to-ceiling windows. I concentrate on breathing.

My pants bulge. My swollen cock aches. Would Ms. Nutt laugh at me, if she saw? I’ve never heard her laugh. I wish I understood women.

Chapter 2

The Client

Bzzt. Ms. Nutt on the intercom says, Regina Sterling is here, Mr. Wall.

What if Ms. Nutt sweetened her voice? What if she called me Evan, when we were alone?

I say, Show her in, please.

I dive for my chair and scoot my legs under my desk to hide my hard-on. What was the client’s name? I look at the gold-embossed cover of the portfolio. Fair Warrior Ventures LLC. Regina Sterling, CFO. Never heard of them.

My clients are rich people who desire to grow a whole lot richer. They’re never simple. They come to me because I can see a way forward, make them a map for future wealth-grabbing. I’m called Midas because I bear the classic curse. Every investment I touch turns to gold.

The door opens. The client is a woman in her early thirties, with a pointed face, bleach-blonde hair, and a dress tight enough to show off her pert tits. She pauses at the threshold. Ms. Nutt holds the door. They’re waiting for me to offer my hand.

I wipe my sweaty palm on my pant leg. I stand and extend my arm across the desktop. I hold the portfolio in front of my crotch. Do the women peek at the lump in my pants?

I say, Ms. Sterling, welcome.

She opens a smile and says, Reggie. She takes my handshake. Her grip is firm and dry. Her nails are pearlescent. Her hazel eyes meet mine fleetingly.

I say, Please have a seat on the couch.

Ms. Nutt, wearing the smile she reserves for clients, says, I’m going for coffee.

Ms. Nutt dropping down onto her knees. I blink away the image. I say, Black with a shot.

She nods as if this isn’t the same drink she brings me every morning. She looks at the client.

Reggie Sterling asks, Hazelnut cappuccino?

Ms. Nutt wrinkles her nose at the frou-frou order. She nods and closes the door.

Reggie sits in the middle of the couch, her short navy dress punctuating the riotous patterns of the upholstery. She crosses her legs and fishes in her huge red purse for her iPad. The whiff of golden mist floating around her doesn’t surprise me. I see it on all my clients. It’s my secret power.

Her spiked heels match the red of the big buttons on her dress. The underside of her left leg makes a firm curve into her skirt’s high hem. Her heavy tan suggests hours of sailing, golf, or tennis. Or maybe hitting tennis balls with a golf club off the deck of a yacht, in one of Ms. Nutt’s teeny bikinis.

She isn’t helping my hard-on problem. I quit holding the portfolio in front of my bulging pants. I try not to sit too quickly. I glance past her, preparing to remark on the splendid day. She dips her head toward her iPad and fingers an icon.

Weather comments wither on my lips. I open the portfolio. The numbers look decent. The investments are conventionally diversified but lack direction. Which makes her a typical client, except clients don’t usually walk in on delicious legs. Oh, crap. I’m so hard I hurt.

I try to concentrate on her investments. The edges of the portfolio glow. The paper turns