by Marilyn Lee
While waiting in the reception area for her turn to be interviewed, she'd seen the two women he'd interviewed before her; both twenty-year-old beauties who could easily have graced the cover of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.
She was already mentally running down the list of other job prospects when the office door opened. She looked up and saw a man standing in the door, who, although a stranger, looked hauntingly familiar to her. He might have stepped off the cover of GQ. He was tall and well built with short dark hair graying at the temples. One look at him and she found herself thinking of his white penis plunging into what one lover had called her pretty, pink vagina. Again and again. Over and over until she came in a frenzy of lust and passion.
His voice had startled her out of her unexpected erotic thoughts. “Ms. Thompson?”
She looked up into his gray eyes and felt as if they were alone in the room...in the building...the galaxy...a dark, overgrown swamp. They'd been alone before. She could be quite happy to spend the rest of her life in the world with this man alone for company.
“Ms. Thompson?” he asked again.
“Oh!” She blinked and nodded, her face heating with embarrassment. Thank God he couldn't read her shameless thoughts. “Yes.”
“This way, please.” He pushed the door of his office open wider and stepped back. She was aware of the subtle cologne he wore as she moved passed him into a big office with cream-colored walls. He motioned to one of two dark red leather chairs in front of a large mahogany desk. “Please, sit down.”
When she had, he lowered himself into the chair behind the desk. “Miss Thompson.” He glanced down at an open folder on his desk. “Miss Cassy Thompson.” He looked up at her. “Or is it Ms?”
“Either one is fine.”
“But which do you prefer?”
“Miss is fine.”
He smiled, giving her a glimpse of even, white teeth. “Miss it is. So Miss Thompson. I'm Chandler Raven,” he told her.
She blinked at him. “You're Mr. Raven?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “I believe that's what I just said.”
She digested that news in silence. He was the head honcho. She wasn't used to presidents of companies who did their own initial interviewing. Now she was doubly nervous.
“So. Miss Thompson. Tell me about yourself,” he invited.
“What would you like to know, sir?”
“Everything,” he said, his voice cool and professional.
“Everything? You want to know my grade point average and where I went to school?”
“No.” He smiled briefly. “That's not what I meant.” He tapped a finger against an open folder on his desk. “Those details are in your application folder. I want to know about you, Miss Thompson. About your background. If you have a family. What your values are. If you're superstitious. What your goals—long and short term are, professionally and personally. Why you studied electronics. Why you want to work for Raven Electronics. What you expect to bring to our firm and what you expect from us.”
“Oh,” she said. “Everything.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Everything. We invest a lot of time, money, and resources in our employees. We like to know our investments aren't going to be wasted.”
After the interview, she couldn't remember what she'd said, but it must have been adequate because the next thing she knew, he was smiling at her and offering her the job.
“Really?” She blew out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. “The job is mine? You're offering me the job?”
He nodded. “Yes. It's yours if you want it, Miss Thompson.”
“Of course I do! Thank you, sir.”
He sat back in his chair, his gaze locked on her face. “You seem surprised.”
“Well...I am. A little.” She nodded toward the closed office door. “I saw the other two applicants and I really didn't think I stood much of a chance.”
His gaze flicked slowly over her face. “Why not? Your work history is impeccable and your resume is impressive.”
“Thank you.”
He looked at her with raised brows, clearly expecting an explanation.
“Well, the other two applicants were younger for one thing,” she began reluctantly. She didn't want to comment on her other concern.
“They were that, Miss Thompson, but your working your way through college at night while working full time impressed me. That couldn't have been easy.”
It had been difficult, but her goal on landing her first job at seventeen had always been to help her mother pay off the mortgage on the house where she and her younger siblings had been raised.
He studied her face for several moments in silence before speaking again. “But I think there's something else you'd like to say. Here at Raven Electronics, we take a very hands on approach to employee relations. That means we're all encouraged to speak our minds. Speak your mind, Miss Thompson.”
“Okay. As you said, I worked hard to earn my degree. And I do think I deserve this job.”
He shrugged. “Clearly, I agree with you. So why don't we cut to the chase. Say what's on your mind, Miss Thompson.”
She sucked in a breath. “I guess I'm a little afraid that my new coworkers will think I got the job as a result of some type of affirmative action.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why would you imagine that anyone would think that, Miss Thompson?”
She shifted in her seat and resisted the urge to look skyward. If he called her Miss Thompson one more time, she'd scream. “Well, you have a reputation as an employer who goes out of his way to hire minorities. And being a black female, I'm certainly a minority.”
His lips twitched and his eyes twinkled. “I guess you are at that. Nevertheless, I almost always say what I mean and mean what I say. Rest assured that I'm offering you the job because you have the qualifications and because you've demonstrated a willingness to work hard that I admire in and demand from my employees.
“I think you should understand that I do not hire unqualified people for any reason. If you were not amply qualified, I wouldn't have offered you the job. Now, would you, or would you not like the job, Miss Thompson?”
Feeling as if she'd been put firmly in her place, she nodded. “Yes. Yes, I would like the job. Thank you, sir.”
He rose, smiling again, his hand extended. “Welcome to Raven Electronics.”
She rose also. Her hand was engulfed in his and a tingle danced along her nerve endings. Confusion filled her. Never had the touch of a man's hand affected her this way. She pulled her hand away so quickly that he stared at her with his dark brows elevated.
“Is there something wrong, Miss Thompson?”
“No. No, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“It's really not necessary to call me sir with every other breath.” His smile turned into an engaging grin. “You make me feel like an old married grandfather.”
She stared at him in bewilderment. The gray at his temples notwithstanding, his face, with its slightly crooked nose and firm lips, was attractive without being handsome. It was also unlined. He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. And he did not look like anyone's grandfather. But was he anyone's husband or significant other?
For a moment, with him standing there grinning down at her, she felt the urge to ask him how old he was. And if they had ever met.
“Sorry,” she said instead, only just stopping herself from adding ‘sir’.
He nodded and moved across the room to the door.
She followed him slowly, her gaze locked on him. He had a long, graceful stride. She found herself wondering if he'd been an athlete in college. Under his pants, his thighs would be strong with well-developed muscles that rippled when he walked. His chest and shoulders would--
She became aware that he was standing at the door watching her with raised brows and a speculative look on his face. Oh, no! He'd caught her staring! Filled with embarrassment and shame, she averted her gaze and hurried across the room.
“If you'll call my
secretary tomorrow, she'll make all the necessary arrangements with personnel.”
“Thank you, s—”
“Mr. Raven will do.” He smiled briefly and opened the door.
“Mr. Raven,” she repeated and hurried from the office, her heart thumping with excitement, her nostrils filled with the faint scent of his cologne.
Remembering that day now, she sighed. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow. Soon, she would get up, but for now, she just wanted to lie there, thinking about Chandler Raven and wondering if he ever thought about their first meeting. It was strange but sometimes she felt as if their thoughts and feelings were intertwined.
Chapter Two
Chandler Raven came awake abruptly, his immediate thoughts centered on Cassy Thompson—again. He glanced at his beside clock. 6:20 am. Damn, he thought angrily. This was getting ridiculous. Instead of sleeping late on a Saturday morning before he spent the day with Julie, he woke early—horny and wanting one of his employees.
As happened with increasing frequency, once he thought of Cassy Thompson, he remembered their first meeting—still fresh in his mind after several weeks.
Yielding to the inevitable, he lay back, a slight smile forming on his lips as he recalled how shaken he'd been after his first meeting with Cassy Thompson...
After she'd left his office, he'd sat with his head back against his chair, his eyes closed. He'd told himself for the third time that he had made the right decision.
Cassy Thompson did have the right qualifications. She had demonstrated a willingness to work hard. She did deserve the job. His hiring her had nothing to do with the shock of desire he'd felt when he'd found himself staring down into her bottomless, liquid brown eyes. The fact that she bore a startling resemblance to the exquisitely sculptured ebony figurine that had haunted his dreams for years had not factored in his decision. Except for the fact that Cassy Thompson had short hair and the statuette had long, wavy hair, she might have modeled for it. Of course he was speculating. He had no way of knowing if her body was half as exquisite as the curves and lines of the foot high statuette his grandfather had given him on his thirtieth birthday.
He had not made a success of his company by hiring people who were not amply qualified. Okay, so maybe the other two applicants had slightly higher grade point averages. But neither of them had much work experience, he told himself. For all he knew one or both the other applicants might have proven to be lazy and unproductive.
The fact that he had not been physically aware of either of the other two applicants had not factored in his decision. Still, there was no denying the fact that the touch of Cassy Thompson's long fingered hand in his combined with her shy, but sweet smile had sent him straight to sexual fantasyland. Just as the nude ebony figurine on his desk at home did.
It had been a long time since he'd been so attracted to a woman. And, his appreciation for The Ebony Venus notwithstanding, he'd never been particularly attracted to black women, at least not consciously. Serge Dumont, his college roommate would have been quick to point out that Chandler was finally suffering from what Serge called his southern roots.
Serge was of the firm opinion that most southern white men harbored secret passions for black women. Chandler had learned that it was a waste of breath pointing out that both he and his father had been born and raised in the north.
“Ah, yes, but you've got that hot Cajun blood running through your veins,” Serge would retort. “And one day it'll stir you toward one of the many lovely ebony beauties you've spent years dissing.”
Serge's theory notwithstanding, Chandler preferred slender, blue-eyed blondes. Like Jane Gardner, a petite blonde beauty he'd met a year earlier at a party given by his sister-in-law, Ellen.
His relationship with Jane had progressed slowly. He'd wined and dined her for three months before they slept together. Once they had, his interest had quickly waned. She hadn't been very responsive to him physically and they'd drifted into a casual friendship. He still saw her and when his body dictated, occasionally slept with her.
Their relationship held very little physical challenge or excitement for him. He had to work hard to arouse her and harder still to maintain control long enough to satisfy her. He got the feeling she found their sex life as unrewarding as he did. But they'd grown used to each other and had learned to settle for less than they both wanted or needed sexually. And there was the comfort of knowing she wouldn't demand more of him than he wanted to give.
Jane was his ‘type’. So why did just the thought of seeing the statuesque, brown-skinned and brown-eyed Cassy Thompson again make him so damn hard?
Remembering his last conversation with his nephew, Steve, he frowned. Steve was his late brother's oldest child. At nineteen, Steve's hormones were in full bloom and he couldn't seem to keep his pants up. Within the last five months, his mother, Chandler's sister-in-law, Ellen, had caught Steve sleeping with three different girls.
Just three weeks earlier, Ellen had called Chandler in hysterics, screaming that she'd caught Steve with yet another girl—this one eighteen and black.
He'd promised to talk to Steve and he had. He and Steve had met for lunch at a downtown sports cafe, where Steve had sat sipping a cola. He had listened in silence to Chandler's spill about how going to school full time and dating was traumatic enough without the added burden of crossing the racial dating line.
“I guess you're right, Uncle Chandler,” he said when Chandler fell silent.
He'd been surprised at how easy it had been to reason with Steve. “So you'll stay away from her?”
Steve had looked at him with gray eyes very like his own and shook his head decisively. “Not only am I going to go on seeing her, but I'm going to fuck her as often as she'll let me,” he'd said.
Chandler had stared at him in silence, wondering how to make him understand how messy dating the girl could get.
“Have you ever fucked a black woman, Uncle Chandler?”
The abruptness and the crudeness of the question had rattled him. He'd answered cautiously, uncertain where Steve was headed.
“No.”
“Have you ever wanted to?”
At the time he hadn't found that question hard to answer. “Not particularly.”
Steve stared at him, a skeptical look on his face. “Are you telling me you've never seen a black woman you found attractive, Uncle Chandler?”
He'd thought briefly of the many black Greek frat parties Serge had dragged him to. “That's not what I said,” he pointed out. “As a matter of fact, I've seen many black women I found attractive...breathtaking even.”
“Then?” Steve challenged.
“Then what?”
“Then why haven't you ever dated one?”
“Because there's an equal number of white women that I find just as attractive and breathtaking, so why give myself the grief still associated with interracial dating?”
“Because the woman in question was worth any amount of grief,” Steve said promptly. “Like Tia.” Steve had leaned across the small table then, his eyes gleaming. “They're incredible!”
“They're? You mean you've dated black girls before her?” He'd asked, surprised, not only because Steve was sleeping with a black girl, but because he'd had so many lovers. At his age, Chandler had only had one lover. That had quickly changed once he met Serge. It had been difficult not to be horny as hell sharing an apartment with Serge who ate, drank, and lived to have sex. He'd spent many sleepless nights in the room next to Serge's listening as Serge satisfied his rapacious sexual appetite, sometimes with more than one woman at a time.
“No, but I've fucked five other girls. But Uncle Chandler, Tia is fantastic. She has the best pussy I've ever had. It's tight and hot and she has a nice round ass that jiggles like crazy when we fuck each other. I'm telling you, Uncle Chandler, you don't know what you're missing!”
Chandler had realized that trying to talk Steve out of seeing this Tia would only make him more determi
ned to see her. So, instead he'd talked to him about protection.
“Steve, I hope you're taking the proper precautions. If she ends of pregnant, we'll see how good you think her pussy is then,” he said wearily.
Steve had just grinned at him. “It's more than good! It's fantastic. And we do use protection—both of us. She's on the pill and I use condoms. We're horny, Uncle Chandler, not stupid! Don't worry. I won't give mom a heart attack by bringing her a half black grandchild.”
Chandler frowned. “Steve, I hope you're not misunderstanding,” he said slowly. “We are not a prejudiced family. If you know our history, you know that.”
Steve had held up a hand. “If you're going to give me the my great, great grandfather fell in love with a black woman spiel, I've heard it a dozen times. That was a long time ago in the bayou and that didn't exactly work out well for the old man or his Creole lover, did it?”