by Amelia Wilde
Then she’ll know my secret.
And no one can know my secret.
A meeting reminder pops up in the corner of my computer screen, and I push my chair away from my desk with infinite care to keep from slamming my fists against it. It’s time to make my way to my father’s office. He has summoned me to a meeting, and by the terse tone of his message, it’ll be regarding the events of Friday night.
After Quinn and Carolyn took off, I sat next to a seething Melody for as long as I could stand it, trying to defuse the tension with a few well-placed one-liners. She was having none of it, and my patience grew thin pretty fucking quickly.
For the first time in a long time, I left the Swan before my friends.
It’s been months—years, maybe—since I’ve taken a risk like that. Christian Pierce never bails. He’s the goddamn life of the party. He’s the last one to leave.
Not Friday night.
I had put down my glass—by then, I was getting by on water, that’s how terrible the pain in my head was becoming—and stood up, waving away my friends’ expressions of concern and shocked looks.
“Where you going, buddy?” Todd said, his voice too loud. His date cuddled up into his shoulder, and I knew that it wouldn’t be long before he found his way to one of the Swan’s hotel rooms to spend the rest of the night undressed with her. I wished for one moment that I had been able to leave with Quinn, take her back to my place and undress her, but that ship had sailed.
“Calling it a night,” I said with a devilish smile that suggested I’d be doing otherwise, just not at the Swan. Let them think I was going to another exclusive club, or some dive bar or a hotel room somewhere.
I gracefully acknowledged their drunken chorus of goodbyes, then tried to fade away into the crowd.
Melody followed.
For the most part, the throbbing music drowned her out, but I could hardly interject over her hissed accusations. “What the fuck, Chris?” I heard as I passed between two tables on the way to the back exit. “Who the hell was that—?”
“I’m headed home, Melody,” I said loudly, my own voice ringing in my ears. “Do you want me to call a car for you?”
Her face turned an even darker shade of red at the suggestion that we wouldn’t be riding home together. “Fuck you,” she spat, her eyes narrowed, then whirled around and stalked off toward the restrooms.
I thought I was home free then, but Melody changed her mind. I was nearly to the curb when she burst out of the back exit of the Swan.
“You’re a fucking man slut,” she shouted, the slur in her words more obvious in the crystal silence of the side street. “Why the fuck did you bring me here?”
Too late, I noticed the paparazzi lurking ten feet away down the sidewalk. They make the rounds by the Swan in case anything sensational happens. Friday was their lucky night.
Melody was still trailing after me, stomping comically in a pair of stiletto heels that didn’t deserve the punishment. “You’re such a sick bastard!” she screamed.
I held both hands up, shaking my head. “Mel, you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” she shouted, and the paparazzi came toward us then, cameras flashing, shutters clicking.
Louis pulled the Town Car up to the curve and I dove in to the back seat, quickly shutting the door behind me, but not before they got a nice shot of Melody swinging her purse at me, her face contorted in rage.
I’m forcing myself not to roll my eyes at the memory when I breeze past my father’s secretary and pull open the doors to his office, striding in with my back straight and my chin up. He’s not a man who bestows pity points, so it’s best to act as though I’ve done nothing wrong.
He looks up from his leather-bound business diary, an artifact from the ancient days of his youth, I assume, and cocks one eyebrow at me. “Interesting night you had on Friday, son.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
The corners of his mouth turn up just slightly, and he lets out a half-hearted sigh. “I can’t say I haven’t been in that position once or twice.” He closes the diary and looks back up at me. “I’m not going to tell you how to spend your free time, Christian, but we need to make some changes when it comes to Pierce Industries.”
“What kinds of changes?” I drop into a seat across from him, doing my best to look comfortable, doing my best to look like my heart isn’t hammering against my rib cage.
“You have earned quite the reputation around the city as a man who enjoys the finer things in life. Food. Women. Drinks.” Now he’s openly smiling at me, and I smile back, even though it feels fucking unnatural. I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’ll always be waiting for that shoe to drop. “When it comes to your responsibilities here, we need to project an aura of…” His voice trails off as he searches for the appropriate word. “Respectability.”
“I see.”
“So I’ve hired a new PR firm to help you brush up on your image. It doesn’t mean you have to stop frequenting your club. Just work with them on creating some other opportunities to be photographed under other circumstances.”
“Not a problem,” I say with a smile, and my father nods.
I get up from my seat, torn in two. On the one hand, I’m relieved—my father actually approves of my choices and realizes that the thing with the paparazzi wasn’t entirely my fault. On the other hand, I’m sick at heart. Because if I had been anyone else…
“I’ve scheduled their first meeting with you just before lunch, at their offices,” my father says as I turn to leave. “Have your driver take you over.”
I give him a jaunty salute, then keep going.
“They’ve promised me they will assign you to the best reputation management expert they have on staff. Don’t give them too much trouble, son.”
Chapter 11
Quinn
I’m so amped up, my veins coursing with pure adrenaline, that it takes me a good five minutes to process what Walker is telling me about the company. Multibillion-dollar corporation. Privately owned by the father, who has the majority vote for any decision. Grooming his son to one day take the reins of leadership. Playboy. Partier. Womanizer. I’m listening so closely to every word that comes out of his mouth that they divide themselves up into unintelligible chunks that take a few moments to resolve in my mind.
Wait.
Playboy?
Womanizer?
This sounds awfully fucking familiar.
“Wait,” I say, cutting Walker off mid-sentence. We’re halfway down the hall leading to my brand new office. Normally, I would take a lot of delight in relishing this moment—the first walk to the space representing how far I’ve climbed since graduating college—but my mind roils with all the various pressures competing for my attention. The need to excel at this job, no matter what. The way my house is still hanging around my neck, a weight I need to cast off before it drowns me. And Christian Pierce’s eyes. “Did you tell me the name of the client? My mind is racing a little here.”
“Pierce Industries.”
My heart stops, then starts beating again.
“Pierce Industries,” I repeat after him, testing the name out on my tongue. There’s just no way it’s a coincidence.
“Yes,” Walker barrels on, not breaking his stride. “Harlan Pierce reached out to us personally. This is a bit of a special assignment.”
He stops in front of the doorway to my office and swings his arm out wide. It’s pretty huge, as far as offices go, and the view of the street below is stunning—but I barely notice. Special assignment. Jesus Christ. Where is he heading with this?
I step around Walker and into the office, heading straight for the desk. It’s a glass, modern creation set off by a futuristic-looking chair for me on one side of it and two comfortable seats for clients and anyone I’ll be managing. I assume I’ll be managing someone, since I oversaw a team of three people back in Colorado.
It’s like Walker hears my thoughts right through my skull.
“No
w, usually we’d spend the first few weeks building out a team for you to manage client accounts. But Pierce Industries is such a heavy hitter that senior management has decided to dedicate a full-time person to them. That’s just to begin with, of course. If they have other needs in the future, we can add more personnel, and you’ll direct all those activities.”
I keep my face perfectly composed when I reply, but my tongue feels unwieldy in my mouth. “What are their needs currently?”
Walker holds out the portfolio that he’s been carrying. I take it from him, the leather cool and smooth under my fingertips.
“Specialized reputation management,” he says, and all at one I realize that this is going to be a one-on-one job. I flip open the portfolio, and there on the cover page is a press photo of Christian, gazing into the camera with a cocky smile.
My stomach does a slow flip, and I have to swallow the sudden dryness that appears in my mouth.
It takes everything I have, but I force myself to scan the fact sheet. Right at the top, I find the reason why Pierce Industries is so interested in managing Christian’s reputation. His father has just put him in charge of their entertainment division, which is clearly a move made in advance of promoting him to CEO. One day, he’s going to direct Pierce Industries in entirety. I know better than anyone that a person that visible needs the kind of PR management I can offer.
If, that is, I can slow my heart down to a normal level.
“Are they sending a representative?”
Walker shakes his head. “As far as I can tell, he’s coming down personally to meet with you. Harlan Pierce was very explicit about his requirements—they want actionable items by the end of the week.”
I nod once.
“Hey,” Walker says in a comforting tone. “You can do this. You came highly recommended—I’m sure your old team wouldn’t put you up for something they didn’t think you could pull off.”
I flash him the biggest, most genuine smile I can possibly force onto my face. “I’m good, really. Just thinking strategy.”
Walker lets out a short burst of laughter. “Wow. They were right about you. You don’t waste a second, do you?”
Then he’s out the door, calling back over his shoulder: “I’m going to go find your new assistant. You two should meet before your client shows up.”
The next two hours pass by in a blur. I meet my new assistant, Adam, who will handle such tasks as calling for my car to be brought around and ordering my lunch.
“My car?” I say as Adam stands in front of my desk next to Walker, who is still rattling off a seemingly endless stream of information about both my job and Pierce Industries. I get it. Time is fucking short. Christian is going to be here any minute, and I have to steel myself. There’s no time for anything less than flawless professional behavior.
“You have company car privileges. Any time you need, you’re welcome to call down to the fleet. You’re welcome to take public transportation if you’d like, but a car is always available to you.”
I don’t have time to weigh the comfort of a company car against the extra time it will take to navigate through New York City traffic. “Excellent. Is there anything else I should know before this meeting?” I glance at the clock on my computer screen.
We have five minutes.
“I don’t think so,” Walker says. “Everything you need to get started should be in the portfolio. Don’t get too hung up on this meeting, though. It’s mainly to feel things out. We’ve got other meetings already scheduled.”
“Great,” I say with a smile. “Thanks for everything, Walker. When I’m finished, do I report back to you?”
“Indeed,” he replies. “Consider me your direct line to executive management.”
With that, he turns and heads out the door, Adam following closely behind him.
“If you need anything,” Adam says as he pauses in the doorway, “I’ll be at my desk, right outside.”
“Thanks, Adam,” I say, then turn my attention back to the portfolio. I need something, anything, about Pierce Industries that I can use to keep the conversation above board. I cannot mention his eyes. I cannot mention the dreams. I cannot mention how it felt to look at him across that table all evening…
There’s a light knock on the doorframe, and I look up expecting to see Adam or Walker, back with a last-minute addition to the portfolio.
Instead, I’m looking directly into Christian’s eyes.
Chapter 12
Christian
“No way,” I say quietly, under my breath. “No fucking way.”
I’m absolutely goddamn dumbfounded. Because standing behind the desk in a swanky corner office, waiting for me, is Quinn Campbell.
In the next instant, I register the heat coming off of her, the intensity with which she’s practically trembling, even though we’re here for a business meeting and nothing else, professional topics only. Her eyes are locked on mine, but I can see from here that her breathing is shallow, the cut of her jacket not disguising the rise and fall of her perfect, gorgeous breasts.
I want to give myself a stern shake for being such a fucking idiot. How could I not have gotten the name of the person I’d be meeting with? Maybe if I’d done my homework, I wouldn’t be standing here with a racing heart and a cock so hard that it’s painfully pressing against the fabric of my pants.
Jesus, she looks so fucking good. The clothes she’s wearing fit her so well that it’s like they were custom-made for her. The pencil skirt hugs her tight, lifted ass in a way that would be obscene if it wasn’t business casual.
But as much as her body is drawing me in, it’s not her curves that have me captivated. It’s the energy she’s radiating. The pure confidence with an undercurrent of something I can’t define, but I feel it reverberating through every cell in my body.
We stand facing each other for what seems like it must be the longest moment in history, and then she leaps into action. A practiced smile spreads across her face, and she moves toward me across the office with measured steps, her hand extended.
“I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” she says in an even tone. “I’m Quinn Campbell, and we’ll be working together to make some strategic adjustments to your public reputation.”
I take her hand and a jolt of hot lust spikes all the way up my arm, across my shoulders, and down my spine, followed quickly by the most intense need for another human being I’ve ever felt in my life. It’s not limited to lust, or sex. I need to know her. Everything about her. As quickly as possible.
“Christian Pierce,” I say with my signature cocky smile, shaking her hand.
I resolve right then to act like an adult. Despite our obvious and overwhelming attraction to one another, I’m not going to act on it. I’m going to keep this professional. She is a public relations expert who my father has retained on behalf of Pierce Industries. I’m one of Pierce Industries’ greatest assets. This is going to be no fucking problem.
Only I don’t want to let go of her hand.
That could be a problem.
It’s petite and soft in mine, and even though the handshake is well over, her hand rests in mine, holding on gently as if to feel my skin.
My charming instincts take over, and I turn her hand in mine so that the back of it is facing up, and then I bring it to my lips, a half smile on my face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, kissing the back of her hand like some French fucking troubadour.
No. Not the most professional thing to do, but it’s right in line with Christian Pierce’s usual playbook.
She blushes a deep red, then pulls her hand back as if I’ve given her an electric shock. “I’ve been giving some thought to a few strategies we could…” When she begins speaking, her voice is strong and clear, but I can’t look away from her, and I know she feels the same magnetic pull towards me because her eyes don’t leave mine. They can’t leave mine. Instead, they bore deeper into my soul, searching, searching.
The breat
h catches in my throat. I’m trying so hard, so fucking hard, not to step closer to her, to take her face in my hands, to put my mouth on hers…
She bites her lip. She actually bites her bottom lip. Her lipstick is the perfect shade for her skin, and her teeth stand out white against it. She bites her lip and she takes a smooth breath that hitches just at the end of the inhale, and I can’t take it anymore.
I step backward and turn, then reach out and tug at the door so it releases from its magnetic doorstop. With exaggerated patience, I lay my hands flat against the surface and press it closed until finally I hear the latch catch in the lock.
It takes me one second to scan around the door. The windows that surround it are indoor glass, completely opaque.
Then I spin on my heel and I go to her. I close the distance between us in three steps and I’m on her, so close to her that the fabric of my jacket brushes against hers, and I do what I’ve wanted to do since I saw her in the rain last week: I put my hands on either side of her jawline and pull her toward me, covering her mouth with mine, kissing her so hard and hot and deep that the rest of the world disappears entirely.
Quinn meets every movement I make with her own, her tongue dueling with mine. Her hands go to my wrists and she pulls down like she wants to pull both of us to the floor right here, right now, but instead she compromises and lifts up onto her toes so she can get more from this kiss, more of me.
A soft moan escapes her lips and I swallow it, moving one hand down and back so that I’m cupping her head, drawing her in, never fucking wanting this kiss to end, never wanting her to be any farther from me than she is right now.
In fact, I want her to be closer.
So much closer.
She’s like no other woman on earth. She doesn’t get smaller, more passive in my arms; she presses against me, she has her way with me, she’s a force to be reckoned with.
I have to get her in bed. I want to bend her over, give her a little taste of the power I could have over her, and then set her free again. The city might never recover from the fucking fireworks.