Play with Me is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept eBook Original
Copyright © 2013 by Lisa Renee Jones
All Rights Reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
LOVESWEPT and colophon are trademarks of Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN 978-0-8041-7839-6
www.ReadLoveSwept.com
Cover design: Susan Schultz
Cover photograph: © James McLoughlin
v3.1
To Louise, my fabulous agent, who I’ll gamble with any day of the week
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One: The First Meeting …
Part Two: I’ve Got Your Number …
Part Three: Where I Belong …
Part Four: What Just Happened?
Part Five: Business or Pleasure?
Part Six: A View from Inside …
Part Seven: The Contract …
Part Eight: Mr. Ward …
Part Nine: Running …
Part Ten: Sex Therapy …
Part Eleven: Home Is Where the Heart Is …
Part Twelve: The Truth Will Set You Free …
About the Author
Part One
The first meeting …
“Ms. Miller.”
At the sound of my name, I hop to my feet in the center of the Las Vegas temp service. Rushing forward, I stop in front of my interviewer, a forty-something woman in a navy suit not so unlike my own.
“Hi,” I say, sounding as awkward and nervous as I feel about being unemployed for the first time in my life.
My greeting earns me a quick up-and-down inspection that has my already rattled nerves swan-diving off an invisible cliff. She levels a stare at me and asks, “Can I help you?” And her prickly tone says I’ve failed her sixty-second assessment.
“I’m Ms. Miller,” I reply, and try to win her over. “But, please, you can call me Kali.”
Her lips twist and tell me she is clearly not charmed, as I had intended. Instead, she looks down her nose, which is as straight as the long brunette hair neatly tied at her nape, and repeats with formality, “Ms. Miller. I’m Ms. Williams, your job-placement counselor. Come with me.”
“Ms. Williams” charges down a narrow hallway and I chase after her, just as I did for the reporting job at the Vegas Heat that fell through before I ever started to work. She disappears into an office and I follow, swiping at a strand of my long blond hair, which suddenly feels as disheveled as the new life I’ve gambled on.
Ms. Williams settles behind a basic wooden desk and motions me to the burgundy cloth-covered visitor’s chair. Claiming the seat that might as well be labeled FOR DESPERATE, UNEMPLOYED FOLKS, I adjust my skirt to rest primly at my knees and watch Ms. Williams study my paperwork for what feels like an excruciatingly long amount of time.
She glances up at me, and the skeptical glint in her eyes—real or created by my insecurity—makes me wish she hadn’t. “Let me get right to the point,” she declares. “You were working as a reporter in college.”
“And for a year at the Texas Sun,” I quickly add, afraid she’s missed that line on my application. “I only left for a better offer, which was eliminated while I was en route.”
“I was getting there, Ms. Miller,” she reprimands sharply. “My point is that I do not have any reporting jobs. They’re hard to come by. In other words, no one has any reporting jobs. If you can return to Texas and get your job back, you should.”
The whiplash effect of her words has me slumping and then straightening in rebellion. Even though my savings are gone, I will not go back to covering watermelon festivals and, well, other … stuff I’d rather not think about now. Or ever. I’d rather not think about it ever. “I took your administrative tests,” I point out, “and, as you should be able to tell, I have excellent clerical skills. Additionally, I’m highly organized and I’m dedicated to whatever I do. I need work—therefore, I will be timely and productive while on the job.”
“I saw your testing. The question is, will you be reliable if I send you to a job that isn’t a reporting position?” It doesn’t come out as the question it claims to be but more as an accusation.
“My experience in journalism should assure an employer that I’m articulate and know how to censor when necessary. And I want to be an asset. I need a stable career.” Not a dream that can’t pay the bills, no matter how hard it is to let it go.
She purses her lips and stands up. “Give me a moment to look at our job board.”
Yes. Yes. Yes. She’s going to the job board, whatever that is. I track her departure, twisting in the chair and watching her from over my shoulder, then sinking down when she disappears from sight. Thrumming my nails on the arms of the chair, I anxiously feel every second Ms. Williams is gone. I used my savings to come here and start a new life. I couldn’t leave if I wanted to, which I don’t.
“Okay,” Ms. Williams announces, walking back into the office. “I have a secretarial job opening, but you have to start today.”
I sit up on the edge of the chair. “Now? It’s already two in the afternoon.”
“Now means now. The pay is exceptional and the opportunity amazing. You just happen to be at the right place at the right time. If you do well, I have no doubt you could go full-time. The CEO of the Vantage Hotel and Casino group has fired his assistant. Because he is in a highprofile position and fields a great deal of press, I think you hit the nail on the head in your earlier assessment of your journalism background as being useful. He oversees a three-property operation and is extremely powerful. That will make you extremely powerful if you do well. He’s leaving town in an hour. He needs you there for a briefing immediately. In or out, Ms. Miller?”
For a moment I am paralyzed by where this is taking me. How far from my dreams, and how close—even at a distance—to a home that is now hell. But stability is not overrated. Not when a girl is alone in a new city. Not even when a girl is near family who feel like strangers.
“How much is the pay?” I ask. Then, holding my breath, I wait for the answer and curse the part of me that wants it to be bad, the part of me that wants an excuse to turn this down and cling to my dreams, to my escape from greed, pain, and powerful people who will stomp on you for no reason other than that they can.
She grabs my application off her desk, studies it for a moment, and then flicks me a look. “Double the salary you made in Texas.”
The promise of stability wins over watermelon festivals and ramen noodles much easier than I’d expected. I stand up. “Where do I go?”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, I’ve parked the rental car and found the lot’s elevator when my cell phone rings. Quickly scooping it from my purse, I answer to hear Ms. Williams demand, “Why are you not there yet?”
Shifting my purse and briefcase on my shoulder, I straighten my navy-blue jacket and reply, “I’m headed into the casino now.”
“Make it snappy. Mr. Ward has to leave. He needs to meet you first.”
“I’m almost there,” I assure her, right before I enter the building and the phone thankfully goes dead. That woman is as rude as they come, but she will be my new best friend if I get this job.
Once inside the building, I walk through rows of clanging slot machines to yet another elevator. Twenty-five floors later, I exit to a lobby that screams of money and luxur
y, from the fine hardwoods beneath my feet to the gorgeous mahogany desk.
The pretty blond receptionist, who I guess to be twenty-three, or maybe twenty-four like me, stands up. She is strikingly similar to an older version of someone I’d rather forget, and I am angry with myself for how easily the confidence I’ve fought to recover slips away. Suddenly I am not blond enough, not tiny or pretty enough.
“Kali?” she asks hopefully.
“Yes, I’m Kali.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, pressing her hand to her chest, and her genuine friendliness begins to ease my tension. She waves me toward a hallway and I follow as she adds, “I’m Dana, and I’m so glad it’s you working for Mr. Ward instead of me. You just shout if you need anything, and I’ll help you.”
“Oh. Thanks. Why didn’t you want to work for him?”
She snorts. “Too good-looking and intense for me.” I barely have time to process that answer when we enter a second lobby, with leather chairs, fancy art on the walls, and a secretarial desk that looks as if six or seven files exploded on top of it.
“Good grief,” I whisper, but before I can ask what happened, Dana motions to the door directly behind the mess. “That’s his office,” she whispers, as if it’s a secret, then rushes forward and grabs the phone in the midst of the piles of papers. “Mr. Ward,” she says into the receiver, “your new secretary has arrived.” A brief pause, then, “I’ll send her right in.”
Dana hangs up and turns to me. “Good luck.”
“I’m supposed to just walk in?”
“Yes.”
“Knock first?”
She gives an uncertain shrug. “Whatever feels right.” She waggles her fingers at me and hightails it in the other direction.
I sigh and walk behind the desk, intending to take the liberty of placing my purse in the drawer of what I assume will be my work space, but I gape at how much worse the mess is from this angle. The papers that have erupted on the desk are scribbled on with a black marker, as if someone was being malicious. And childish.
I study them, and it appears many are financial reports. Reaching for one, I freeze when the door behind me creaks, followed by, “Ms. Miller?”
The deep, richly masculine voice has me whirling around and then freezing: My new boss is an early-thirties, clean-shaven version of Robert Downey, Jr., in a gray pin-striped suit perfect for the role of Tony Stark. And while I’d have sworn the past few years had left me immune to men like this one, the low thrum of awareness pulsing through my body says otherwise quite loudly.
“Ms. Miller?” he repeats, arching a brow at my silence, and I am appalled to realize I am gaping. At my new boss. Who clearly knows it. Brilliant. He now has an upper hand I shouldn’t have allowed. It’s not as if I’m an amateur with corporate wolves. I know how easily they will gobble you up if you let them. And that isn’t going to happen this time.
Straightening my spine, I attempt to reclaim the power I’ve given him and persuade us both that my gaping was in our imaginations. “I’m Ms. Miller, Mr. Ward,” I confirm. “I know you have a flight to catch. What can I do to help?”
The amusement in his unique pale-green eyes says he’s fully aware of the gift I gave him and he’s keeping it. “I need you in my office. We have to cover a few things before I leave.”
“Yes, of course,” I agree quickly, and, expecting him to turn and lead the way, I take a step closer. He doesn’t move. We end up almost toe-to-toe, with me staring at his chest. It’s safer than his eyes, which will see too much. It’s a nice chest. Broad and hard enough to flex beneath his shirt and suit jacket as he reaches for the ringing cell phone in his pocket.
I take a step backward. He turns and faces the other direction and answers the call: “Right. Yes. I’ll be on my way.” Short and sweet, and he ends the connection before facing me again. “Change of plans. You’re riding with me to the airport.” He doesn’t wait for my agreement, but, then, he didn’t really ask a question. He gives me his back and disappears into his office.
I blink after him, trying to process what has happened. Ride with him to the airport? I swallow the cotton forming in my throat. This is going to be him and me in a small space, playing with who gets what power, before I’ve even sat down at my desk.
“Ready?” he asks, reappearing with a briefcase on his shoulder and stopping only a few steps from me.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m ready.”
His eyes narrow ever so slightly, and suddenly we are standing here as if he doesn’t have a flight to catch, staring at each other, and I am drowning in the depths of his light-green eyes. He’s sizing me up in some way, and it’s unnerving. He’s unnerving. Seconds tick by, until his lips hint at a curve of a smile, as if he has seen something in me I did not intentionally mean to show him, and he says, “I guess we’ll find out just how ready you are, now, won’t we?”
I see the challenge in his eyes, read the undertone of his words, and this pleases me. There is a reason he didn’t pull Dana from the front desk despite her reservations. He doesn’t want the timidity of insecurity. And while I might have lost myself for a while, I am back, and Bambi I am not.
“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin. “We will.”
Part Two
I’ve got your number …
Approval flashes in those gorgeous eyes of my new boss, and he says, “I’m looking forward to it, Ms. Miller,” then motions me ahead of him. “Ladies first.”
Pleased with his reaction, and feeling better about this job by the moment, I shift my briefcase on my shoulder and head toward the main lobby. Tall and broad, he falls into step beside me, and I am still far too aware of him. It’s a problem I will need to fix, and quickly. Which is exactly why, when we enter the lobby, I do not look at Dana. I don’t need her, or anyone else, reading my attraction to Mr. Ward before I can get a grip on it. Both he and the staff need to trust that I’m competent and professional if I am going to be his right-hand person.
I punch the elevator button. While Mr. Ward lingers behind to instruct Dana to leave his messages on his voice mail, the scent of him seems to chase me. It’s spicy and wintery, stirring the oddest memory of a candle my mom used to burn during the holidays.
A second nervous jab of the elevator button and, with Mr. Ward on my heels, we step into the car, that cursed cologne of his suffocating me with its deliciousness. I face forward. He does not, and I’m quite aware of him leaning on the wall, inspecting me with more nerve-racking intensity. I think he’s doing this intentionally, playing a game, continuing to test me.
Steeling myself for the impact that is this man, I slowly turn to face him, and find that only a few steps separate us. Against my natural instinct, which tells me that we are too close, and my feminine instinct, which says we are not close enough, I settle on standing my ground. Besides, moving away would come with the risk of showing weakness.
He doesn’t speak, and I can’t fight the need to fill the empty space. “I have a good memory, so if you want to start running through important information, I’m all ears.”
His eyes light with more of that challenge I’d seen in his office. “Why do you want this job?”
My not-so-far-gone post-college interview speech flows automatically from my lips. “To be a valuable asset to your company and build a career.”
“I value honesty, not politically correct answers you think I want to hear. Why do you want this job?”
Honesty. There’s a unique concept, which I think is more myth than reality, but I cannot deny him what I so crave in my own life. “Security,” I say. “Stability. Pride in my success that lets me pay my bills.”
He does more of that intense staring of his, and several seconds tick by in which I do not dare breathe, before he approvingly says, “That’s more like it.” Then he tosses me another abrupt change of topic. This one more sensitive than the last. “I understand you moved here from Texas for a job that was eliminated.”
“That’s right.” W
hile I am pleased with my immediate response, I do not succeed at keeping the tightness from my voice.
“How do I know you won’t haul it back home while I’m gone?”
“I’m not going back.”
“Now or ever?”
Knots form in my stomach. “Ever.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“You can’t be sure,” I say precisely. “But I can and I am.”
His head tilts thoughtfully, my direct answer giving him pause. “Do you have family here?”
My reply is instant, my defenses impossible to shackle. “Is that a job requirement?”
Several beats tick by before he asks, “Are you alone?”
I’m not sure what he means by “alone,” but he’s on a roll that I don’t like. First he carved me up, and now he’s punched me in the gut. “What I am,” I say, a hint of tartness I do not intend slipping into my voice, “is here to stay. I’m also a damn good employee.” I don’t give him time to question my reply. “Where are you headed?”
I think he will push me harder, but he doesn’t. “New York.”
“When will you be back?”
“Monday.”
Relief washes over me, and his glower is instant. “Hoping for an easy first week?” he asks, his tone dry, hard.
“No.” I clearly need to work on my poker face. “That’s not the case.”
“Then what is the case, Ms. Miller?”
I hope he really does like honesty, because that’s what he’s getting. “Your absence gives me a week to organize whatever that explosion is on my new desk and to get a general footing in the office. That includes sizing up the staff to work with them most effectively, which is important since they appear quite intimidated by you.”
“The staff? You’ve only met Dana, who barely has contact with me and is so insecure that she was afraid to even fill in as my secretary.”
“Even the staffing agency seemed intimidated by you.”
“Do you find me intimidating, Ms. Miller?”
I consider that objectively. “No. You don’t intimidate me.” My attraction to him does, and so does the idea of losing this job, but he doesn’t.
Play With Me Page 1