Would Be King

by Kim Karr

  Never mind.

  Who knows? Perhaps my romantic side is taking over again at the most inappropriate moment.

  However, what I know for a fact is that he wants to see me alone…and my toes are curling.

  Alone.

  Alone with my boss and his rigid rules and kissable lips.

  I’m so screwed.

  NEW RULES

  Most of the lights in the office space are turned on, accentuating the sparse-by-design floor plan in all white and pink I never did agree with.

  Replicating Vogue’s office layout was Scarlett and Kendra’s idea. I don’t like copying anything or anyone.

  Period.

  Initiative. Ingenuity. Innovation. Those are the things I like and value in an employee.

  The two women came highly recommended by a company my great-aunt relies on heavily for hiring. A woman who at seventy-two, might still be brilliantly running the multimedia company, Sparrow, based in Casanovia; however, I fear her people skills aren’t what they used to be.

  I recently became a majority shareholder in her company and when she told me of her US launch plan for one of the publications she purchased, I volunteered to get it up and running.

  Volunteered is a slight exaggeration.

  My father, King Winston Alfred Montgomery of Casanovia, told me to find a job or else. He wants me to prove I’m a man worthy of my title, and working is how he expects me to do it.

  No big deal. It’s not like I’ve never worked before. I do it all the time for Christ’s sake, just not in the routine fashion he’s looking for. But since he’s never used those two words (or else) before, I took his threat seriously.

  Most seriously.

  And immediately called my great-aunt.

  Because the or else—is simply not happening. Marrying Princess Beatrice Hill of Eastwood, otherwise known as the ice princess, is nothing I plan to do anytime soon, if ever.

  I just got out of one arranged marriage. I sure as shit am not jumping into another.

  Not willingly and not yet, anyway.

  I have time.

  Fuck, I hope I have time.

  Scarlett’s office is empty, and it is a little too neat for my liking. I mean work is messy. To me, it looks like no action whatsoever has taken place in here.

  Continuing down the hall, I pass by a half dozen cubicles with low partitions. Stopping, I glance at the gold plaque that reads, Kendra Watkins. This area is also sparse. Neat. Unburdened by clutter. It’s as if little work has been done at it in the two weeks she’s been sitting here.

  When I come to the snug collection of tables, which form a continuous row across the room with laptops so close they touch one another in a way that make them look like dominos preparing to topple, I stop at the one with a sticky note on it that reads, “Kendra’s Assistant.”

  What the actual fuck?

  Don’t we use names around here?

  I snatch the Post-it and crumble it in my fist before doing a layup to toss it in a trashcan along my way.

  Score.

  So, I shouldn’t be jogging in the hall. And I shouldn’t be tossing paper like a basketball, but fuck, rules are meant to be broken or they wouldn’t be rules.

  Yes, sure, they are also meant to be followed, but who doesn’t like a rule breaker? Someone willing to stand up for themselves. Fight for what they believe in.

  I know I do.

  Hell, I’m a rule breaker myself.

  Which is what landed you here, shithead.

  Right.

  Fuck.

  Anyway, I actually don’t mind working. It’s just a chap likes to have a little fun, too. You know?

  Yes, fun.

  Fun with a particular girl named Gigi sounds just about right. But…will I only get in more trouble with her? Probably. She seems like she likes to have fun, too. I most certainly should fire her.

  No, I should keep her.

  No, I should fire her.

  She’ll only bring me trouble.

  By the time I open the door to my office, I’ve run the circle of firing her, to keeping her, to fucking her (right here and now), at least three times.

  Then I see her standing over by the window, all unconventional and wholesome and I know exactly what I’m going to do with her.

  “Gigi,” I say.

  Her satiny honey-brown strands move like a model at a photo shoot when she twirls around. “Yes, Mr. Montgomery.”

  So formal.

  My grin is wolfish, and fuck, I want to hear those words when I’m on top of her, pumping into her, making her come like mad as she screams out my name in ecstasy. Mr. Montgomery. Yet, I cast that image aside (for now). “Take a seat. We need to talk.”

  Her big chocolate-brown eyes go wide. “That doesn’t sound good. I already got fired once today. Please don’t tell me you’re going to fire me again?”

  She’s tenacious that’s for sure, and my dick really seems to like that trait, but my dick has gotten me fucked one too many times lately, literally, which is why I’m here in New York to begin with.

  Bombshell is a place for me to show the world I’m serious. Show my father I’m serious. That I’m respectable. A gentleman. Worthy of being a royal (without having to marry one). All of which I am—or was—before my breakup with the girl I fucked for most of my adult life, Victoria Blanchette, now Queen of Alexandria.

  That break-up ignited a hunger with me I must have been suppressing for years, and yes, I went a tad wild. For four months I sowed my oats, let loose, got crazy, fucked whoever I fancied. But I’m tame now.

  Or I’m trying to be.

  But this little temptation in front of me isn’t making things easy for me. Then there’s the issue that my father mandated I stay out of the press, or else. The only way to stay out of the press, it appears, is to stay away from women. Those pesky buggers only seem interested in me when I’m hot and heavy with another. Solo, they don’t seem to give a rat’s ass.

  So, ripping her panties off at the office isn’t completely off-limits. It is a Saturday, after all, and technically non-work hours, and we are secluded, away from prying eyes.

  “Well?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips and pouting those pink lips of hers.

  Trying not to smirk at her tenacity, I step further into the electrically charged room. “No, I’m not firing you,” I tell her, passing her still standing near the window on the way to my desk and making sure to brush against her but not in a blatantly unprofessional way. With my fingers curling the edge of my desk, I glance toward her. “But I do want to talk to you. Take a seat.”

  Yeah, tamer or not, I’m still a bit of a dick. Can’t stop myself, though. The chemistry her and I share is insane. I’ve fucked dozens of women in the past four months, but not one has made me feel the way she does, and I haven’t even been inside her—yet.

  “You could say please.” Gigi wrinkles her cute nose as she sashays to the other side of my desk and past the abstract I find boring to look at. She’s a much better sight. Too bad she’s clearly not happy with my manners, or lack thereof, because she frowns when she stops in front of the chair.

  Frowns.

  No one ever frowns in my presence.

  Then again, she has no idea who I really am, and I want it to stay that way for as long as possible.

  It makes everything so real.

  “Sit down,” I direct her.

  Unhappy or not, when I catch her gaze shift, I can see the way her pupils are dilating and her breaths are coming faster. It’s clear—bossy men turn her on.

  “If you’re going to explain the company rules to me, I got the memo this morning,” she tacks on.

  I almost laugh out loud. She absolutely did not read it or she would know who I am.

  Wanting to see how she spins her version of the company-wide memo, I lean back in my chair and place my arms behind my head. “Great. I’m glad you read it. Tell me, what did you find of most interest in your welcome letter?”

  When Gigi (I
like her name on my lips) finally sits to face me, she folds her legs beneath her instead of crossing them at her ankles and then she starts to tick off with her fingers, “First, tardiness is not allowed. Second, gossip will not be tolerated. And finally, there is a no fraternization policy.”

  With a throaty laugh, I throw my head back. “I asked what you found of most interest. Not the rules of the workplace.”

  “The rules are what I found of interest.”

  Okay, I’ll give her that, but I can’t leave it at that. “The email that was sent to welcome all new employees was two pages long, and the only things of interest to you were three simple rules?”

  Almost perturbed, she cocks her head to the side and stares at me in annoyance. “Simple. Those are not simple.”

  I shrug. “Guess that depends on the person. Are you typically punctual?”

  “Yes, I try to be.”

  “Good. Do you like to gossip?”

  “No,” she says with exasperation. “I find it rather demeaning, actually. Is this some kind of test?”

  “No. Just a few easy questions. Have you ever…had sexual relations with someone you work with?”

  She bites her bottom lip. “Not that I work with, exactly. Does my TA count?”

  My brows raise and I feel my gut churn. I really dislike the thought of her fucking anyone…but me, that is. “Did you have a boyfriend at the time?”

  Her head cocks to the side. “How is that relevant?”

  “It speaks of your character.”

  That seems to satisfy her. “No, I didn’t. I’m not a cheater.”

  “Do you now?”

  “Have a boyfriend or cheat?” she asks, confused.

  Annoyance creeps up my chest. I want to know. “Do you have a boyfriend now?”

  “And how is that relevant to my position?”

  Picking up a pen, I tap it on the desk. “Relationships often get in the way of work, and the launch of Bombshell is going to require many late hours.”

  Again, she seems satisfied with the bullshit response I feed her and answers, “Oh, yes, I’m sure it will. Not to worry, it won’t be a problem. I’m single at the moment.”

  “Good.” I tap my pen again, grinning like a motherfucker on the inside. “So, tell me, why Bombshell?”

  Perking up, she seems to be able to answer this without issue. “That’s easy. I love fashion. I’ve read every fashion magazine ever published since I was twelve. And getting this job at Bombshell is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life.”

  “Yes, I can see you’re passionate about it. Now, back to the job, more specifically about the email you received. What did it say about Bombshell that you found appealing enough to want this particular job so badly?”

  She draws in a breath. “I can’t tell you how thankful I am to you for giving me another chance. You aren’t really a dick like I said—”

  Forcing myself not to laugh, I cut her off. It’s not that I’m immune to flattery, but I do have a finely tuned bullshit detector, and it’s going off right now. “I want to know why Bombshell in particular.”

  She says nothing.

  “Is it because it meant you got a job?”

  Her nod is hesitant.

  “That’s fine. I get it. And you didn’t read the entire email, did you?”

  Again, she says nothing.

  “Which means you didn’t read the pep talk, the mission statement, or even scroll to the bottom to sign the policy and the non-disclosure agreement.”

  It’s not a question.

  It’s a fact I know to be true since I couldn’t find her signed copy of anything in her employment file.

  And there’s the fact she’s in the dark about who I am.

  She flushes and drops her gaze briefly. “I’m sorry, no, I didn’t. It was really long and I didn’t have much time, so the only things I read were the items that Kendra mentioned that I knew might get me fired.”

  “The rules,” I offer.

  “Yes, the rules. But in my defense, Kendra told me I wouldn’t be able to meet with human resources until Monday, my official hire date, so I thought I had time.”

  She isn’t an employee yet.

  There is that fact.

  There’s also the fact that I’m not even sure I can say with a straight face I read the entire boring memo.

  However, come on, watching her squirm is way too much fun. “I want you to read it this weekend in its entirety, including the fine print. And we will discuss it Monday morning. In the meantime, you should know, I fired Kendra.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Not that I need to explain myself to you, but she wasn’t a right fit for the company. I’ve also reassigned Scarlett to head of digital content. With her marketing background, she’s better suited for that department, anyway.”

  Already peering at me with a measure of incredulity, her mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. Shuts again. For a moment she looks hurt before her face turns bitter. “You said you weren’t firing me!”

  I maintain my poker face for about ten seconds and then smile at her.

  Her gaze narrows on me. She’s a giant ball of pissed off and looks so delicious like this.

  As she shakes her head, soft tendrils of her hair float softly down her neck—a slender column just begging for my lips. I’m so damn tempted to lunge across the desk and cover her with my body.

  Jesus, what the fuck is she doing to me?

  Snapping out of my lustful daze, I refocus on the magazine and my reason for sending her to my office to begin with, and it’s not to fuck, I remind myself. “I’m not firing you,” I offer bluntly. “In fact, I’m promoting you. As of right this minute you’re Bombshell’s new Creative Director.”

  Her face lines with confusion. “Wait! What? Why?”

  A smirk crosses my lips when I say, “So I can fuck you whenever I want.”

  Now her gaze narrows and those delectable lips of hers thin. “What did you just say?”

  “I think you heard me.”

  “Well, you can go fuck yourself because I have no desire to be your sidepiece.”

  My brows dive together. “Sidepiece?”

  “Yes, sidepiece. I saw the lipstick on your collar. Just how many women do you have before lunch on a daily basis?”

  A burst of laughter rips from my mouth. “Not as many as you’d think,” I respond in jest. “But I really want you.”

  “Too bad we don’t always get what we want.”

  The wild woman that she is turns me on. Yet, I’m smart enough to know business has to come first—for both of us—so I stop laughing. “Hey, relax. I’m messing with you. Just kidding. Sort of, anyway,” I trail off with.

  “What part exactly were you joking about?”

  “The fucking you whenever I want. It wouldn’t be very business-like of me to have those thoughts. Now would it?”

  “But you did.”

  “Look, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m giving you this position because I believe Bombshell needs someone with a fresh take on style, and after I saw your yellow rubber duckie raincoat, I knew you had it in spades.”

  When her frown softens, I can clearly see this girl is gorgeous in the most imperfect way, and I fucking love it. “I told you that coat wasn’t mine.”

  “But you wore it without worry and that’s what I’m looking for here at Bombshell—someone who is fearless. Like sunshine in a bottle.”

  “I’m not fearless,” she openly admits.

  “I think you are, sunshine—you wore that coat, you accepted my dare, and sought me out to get your job back. In my book, those are traits of someone who is most definitely fearless.”

  Her brows pop as if this is news to her.

  Before I can go on to explain myself to her, the intercom buzzes. “Yes,” I answer.

  “I’m sorry to bother you sir, but the photographer is threatening to walk if you don’t get to the shoot now,” my assistant, Becky, notifies me.

>   “Tell him he is free to leave, and that you’ll be calling Vogue’s photographer to offer him double what he’s making now to take the job.”

  “Sir?”

  I look at Gigi, whose mouth is on the floor and tell Becky, “You heard me.”

  “And if he decides to stay?”

  “Then you can tell him we will double his pay for the time he’s wasted waiting for me, and that I’m on my way to the studio.”

  “Okay, sir.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

  I take my finger off the button and look over at Gigi. “Well?”

  That look of shock is back on her sweet face. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Getting to my feet, I glance out the window at the New York skyline. “Say you accept.”

  “I accept on one condition.”

  It’s hard to bite back my smile but I do. “And what might that be?”

  “That you take my position seriously.”

  “Believe it or not, I take everything I venture upon seriously.”

  “So does that mean you follow your own rules?”

  “Are you asking me if I’m going to fuck you even though you work for me and it’s against policy?”

  A hint of blush coats her cheeks. “Well, yes, I suppose I am.”

  My resolve is as lax as my cock is hard. I plunge my hands into my pockets and stride toward the door. “Let’s be clear. I’m the boss. I decide if I follow my own rules or not. And right now, I’m thinking, dear Gigi, that yes I’m going to break at least one. Hard and fast and soon.”

  The look of lust and embarrassment blend well across her beautiful features. I think she’s speechless once again, until she says, “You shouldn’t talk to me like that.”

  “Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?”

  She shakes her head, no.

  “Are you certain?” I ask.

  “Yes. It’s just not appropriate in the workplace because—”

  “I promise you, you’ll never be expected to do anything that you don’t want to. And as long as you’re not uncomfortable with what I have to say to you, I don’t see the problem,” I cut her off and pull open the door. “Now, I’m headed back to the studio. Are you coming?”