by May Sage
“Are you enjoying Mr. Clarke’s company, Kathryn?” he asked directly.
Desmond didn’t like the situation. A recently promoted subordinate, now at The Tower? That stank like rot.
She lifted her face to his again, and her mouth parted in surprise.
Her eyes were so very expressive. They spoke for her, said no, she fucking wasn't.
After a moment, Kathryn nodded.
If she'd said no, if she'd shaken her head, he would have pulled her to him, punched the bastard, and barred him from returning to The Tower.
But she'd said yes, of her own accord.
Desmond told himself to rein in the anger, curb the need to pull her to him, out of Wallace's reach. But doing so would go against everything he believed in. Who was he to deny an adult their right to choose their fate? She’d consented.
It wasn't the first time he'd seen this. A pretty twenty-something putting up with a rich old man she didn't fancy because he was rich, or powerful.
Desmond took a step back. “Well, then.”
Without another word, he headed to his office, closing the doors behind him.
The white walls and minimalistic decor were usually comforting, helping clear his mind. In his space, he could compartmentalize, focus on work, ignore everything else until he stepped out. In here, he was in control.
Not tonight. Not right away. For a long time, Kathryn remained in his thoughts. He practically saw her right in front of him.
Her features were a unique combination. The red curls seemed natural; she even had some freckles to match. Yet her skin was a warm dusky tone. He didn't think he'd ever seen anyone with traits originating from so many different ethnicities.
There. That was probably why she was stuck in his mind. Having decided that she was nothing more than a puzzle he couldn't manage to put together with so little information, he decided that he would simply ask her about her origins if they ever met again. Problem solved.
Desmond was a man of many talents, but what he truly excelled at was exercising control. He willed Kathryn away from his mind.
By the time he was done with the pile of admin on his desk, he didn't even recall her name.
At each subsequent instance when he crossed her path, a sharp jolt of lust, anger, and confusion never failed to take him by surprise. What the hell was it about the strange woman with warm eyes and wild hair?
Desmond only caught glimpses of Kathryn in passing in two years. Then one night, when he wasn't on duty—one of the rare times he'd joined a common party—he saw her on her knees, her mouth wrapped around Wallace's short limp dick.
One time. That was all it took.
“Lillie? Follow me.”
The Tower's CEO didn't question his order, trailing him back to his office.
“Close the door, if you please.”
She obeyed, moving cautiously, he noticed. Desmond's expression was carefully blank, but she'd seen some of what was boiling under the surface, or heard something in his tone perhaps.
“I didn't know you were working tonight.”
“I'm not. I have a project I'd like you to personally oversee.”
Lillie's confusion disappeared.
"Oh?" she asked eagerly.
He didn't often ask her to do anything these days, but the woman liked challenges. In the past, he’d had her oversee renovations, update their security system, revamp certain rooms. He winced, knowing she’d be disappointed by his request.
“Nothing exciting, I’m afraid. Wallace Clarke's sub. Monitor her. Please alert me the moment she steps in The Tower, until further notice. A simple text will do.”
Lillie paused, no doubt a little confused. “Right. Sure. Of course, I will.”
“Thank you.”
It had been a lifetime since Desmond had been that out of balance, that angry, that close to exploding.
He had thought he’d known how to appease his demons, his darker instincts, his baser needs. But the things he wanted to do right now scared him. He didn’t recognize himself. Even back when he was still fighting horrific memories, his darkest days, he’d been one to self-destruct, rather than taking it out on those around him. But as he stood in his bare, clinical office, he was still imagining himself punching the old man, kicking him until he couldn’t move, wanting to see him bleed….
What was wrong with him?
One thing was sure. He wasn't ever watching her touch Wallace again.
It wasn’t safe.
Not for him, and certainly not for Wallace’s little gold digger.
5
Picture Perfect
Now
How long had it been since he'd had the time for a breakfast here? Sarabeth's was too casual for most of his business partners, and he was generally content with a shake after his daily workout.
His father did enjoy a good Sarabeth’s breakfast. Desmond, his brothers, and his cousins had taken him sporadically, but it wasn't their first choice. So, years.
Yet it was the first restaurant that had popped into his mind when Ryn had told him she was available for breakfast. It suited her, somehow. He could tell that she'd enjoy it here.
The restaurant was just a couple of blocks away from Kings and Knights, so Desmond arrived early and secured a table overlooking the street. He watched passersby go about their business, walking at a fast pace, determined and focused, as befitted New Yorkers.
She'd practically dared him to accept seeing her now. Clever, contrary woman. She knew just what a pain in the ass rescheduling his morning was going to be. Given the fact that she’d had to move his schedule around on Monday and Tuesday, Hester wasn't happy with him right now. It didn't matter. Ryn was a priority. He needed to deal with her, make sure she was safe, taken care of, so he could stop obsessing over her. Replaying each of their interactions in his mind. Tormenting himself about the many occasions when he could have saved her from Clarke.
Ryn haunted his dreams. Sometimes, it was the lost, shy girl he'd met three years ago. The one who'd screamed for help in silence. The one he'd ignored.
Other times, he saw the woman he'd held in his arms less than a week ago.
The one who had clasped his shirt with her little fingers.
She'd been so fragile, vulnerable, opening herself up, if only for one moment.
She'd started this. She'd made him care the moment her hands had touched his damn shirt. Now, he had to control it.
Desmond had time to read three highlights from the Lloyds documents, and annotate his own observations, when a flash of copper curls caught his attention at the corner of his eye. He lifted his head and leaned back in his seat, doing his best not to laugh.
Ryn was grumpy, gloomy, and adorable. Funny how he would never have described her that way before today. Her deep whiskey eyes were too mesmerizing. She’d power-dressed, walking in four inches heels with the grace of a feline, her suits sharp and crisp. Until today, he’d considered her curly hair the only wild part of her; it had spilled out of a ponytail, going in every direction, but even that had seemed a fashionable, somewhat intentional style.
Today, the curls were exploding all around her heart-shaped face, vibrant and so incredibly frizzy. She hadn’t so much as attempted to gather them with an elastic band. The curls ran free. She'd put on a sundress, with green sandals. There wasn't a stitch of makeup on her.
She was a mess. The opposite of his type. Desmond admired poise and elegance. He had no idea why he wanted to touch her crazy hair, maybe even tug on a curl to see if it would bounce like he imagined it would. His impulse demanded he pull her to him and press his lips on her forehead. Pinch the bridge of her nose. He itched to show her affection, the way he did with his crabby little cat. He didn’t think a human being had ever incited that impulse.
Needless to say, any of that would have been extremely odd, and entirely unwelcome, so he just got up to pull her seat out.
“Morning,” she grumbled, sitting down.
“Good morning, Ryn. You look.
...”
She narrowed her eyes. “Not a word about my hair. I didn't have time to do anything with it.
He was too wise to comment one way or another. There were knives and forks on the table, and he wasn't suicidal.
“I was going to say charming. Do you always assume the worst?”
“Always,” she confirmed.
He returned to his seat and shoved the Lloyds file back in its folder.
“Do you know what you're having?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “I haven't even opened the menu.”
Right. Of course. Most people did that.
He smiled apologetically. “I typically come here with my family. We know the menu well. It changes, but not much.”
That seemed to surprise her.
“Really? This place doesn't seem quite grand enough for the Kings.”
He could have told her that while they'd never been poor, their business hadn't always been what it was now. When he’d started his business, their father, Damian King, didn’t act like most nouveau-riche. He had saved whatever he could on living expenses to make sure he could continue to grow the business even when the economy wasn’t on their side. They’d had a very strict budget that hadn’t allowed for many extravagances.
The Kings had been very comfortable by the time Desmond had been fifteen. Fifteen years later, he and his brothers had turned the multimillion-dollar company their father had started into a billion-dollar corporation. They’d bought businesses, invested in various ventures, diversified. First, as a natural extension to his father’s company, they opened sex therapy clinics, but King Industries had truly started after they’d bought a pharmaceutical company close to bankruptcy and turned things around.
Desmond could afford to buy whatever he wanted now, regardless of the price tag, but sometimes what he wanted was an affordable breakfast from one of the places where he'd eaten as a child, when his father had wanted to treat him, his brothers, and his cousins.
Ryn didn't need—or, indeed, want—to hear that, though. The “I’m also human” talk never went well. Besides, today wasn't about them getting to know each other. She was here because she was in trouble, and he'd proposed a solution. That was all.
He shrugged and just replied, "They do good omelets."
“So, you were talking about some sort of a miracle way to fix all my problems.”
“Impatient,” he noted. “I’ll let you choose your breakfast first. No sense in distracting you and delaying our food.”
She sighed, but did as she was told, directing her attention to the menu.
As she was looking down, Desmond was at leisure to observe her.
Even with the wild hair, anyone would have assumed she was a socialite. The sundress was a lot cheaper than anything he’d seen her wearing in the past—not the best quality, not quite fitted to her curves—but she held herself very well, the arc of her back perfect, her legs folded and tucked to one side.
Appearances really were deceiving. Ryn was a mess, and lived in a part of the city where stabbings were the norm.
He caught a glimpse of them in the window of the restaurant. Now that he thought about it, the simplicity of her attire actually made them look intimate. No one would have thought of her as an assistant today. This was too casual. He wondered if Hester would bring to his attention an article about his morning “date with a mystery woman” in some trashy magazine later that week. He could see the headlines. If they were spotted by the right people, it was unavoidable.
He frowned. Hopefully, they wouldn’t look into her in too much detail. He didn’t want her dirty laundry to surface because of him.
That she had some sort of a sordid secret was a fact.
She earned a decent salary, so what was her deal? Drugs? He didn’t see it, but some people hid it well. He doubted it, because all clues had pointed to the fact that she’d been an exemplary executive assistant. That sort of job was too demanding to do it well while addicted to a hard drug. Bad debts, perhaps?
He itched to ask her about the reason for her financial situation, but kept his mouth closed. That wasn’t his problem.
“You know I can feel you staring, right?”
A snort escaped him, surprising him. He wasn’t one to snort. That was Hester’s thing. “You can’t feel a stare.”
“Says who?”
“Says every scientist you’d ask.”
“It totally is a thing. I’m not looking at you, and yet I’d bet my right hand that you’re staring. That’s, by definition, me feeling it.”
“Nonsense.”
“So, you weren’t staring at me?” she pressed, finally lifting her eyes, to find him staring, of course.
“I was,” he admitted.
“And I felt it.”
“Or,” Desmond suggested, “you made an educated guess.”
She was the type of woman men did gawk at given half a chance, after all.
She rolled her eyes, and returned to the menu.
“How’s the cheese omelet?”
“Adequate.”
“Goldie Lox?”
“Suitable.”
“The kale salad and egg?”
“Just no, Ryn.”
Kale was one of Desmond’s hard limits.
“Everything sounds good,” she said, a little wrinkle of frustration between her shapely brows.
He lifted his hand, calling a server to his table.
“Two farmer’s omelets, an Earl Grey, and whatever the lady wants to drink.”
"A latte, please."
He expected her to be pissed that he ordered for her, and she was, he could tell; her eyes were sending laser beams.
“I’ve tried everything on this menu. That’s the best choice,” he told her, anticipating that she’d remark upon his controlling ways as soon as she found suitable words to insult him.
“What if I was a vegetarian?” she challenged.
“You asked about the Goldie Lox.”
“What if I was a pescatarian?” Ryn insisted.
“You ate your bacon at my place.”
The atmosphere changed now he’d mentioned that night, becoming heavier. A second passed.
“The farmer's omelet sounds good, and you're unbearably high-handed. Now, why am I here?”
“Because you said you were available this morning.”
He just had to push, get under her skin. He couldn't help it. Before she got to her feet and walked out, he finally gave in.
“Do you want to stay at King Construction?”
“Hell no.”
He nodded. He'd expected as much.
“I've started looking at jobs,” Ryn added. “Applied to a few since the weekend.”
He stiffened. That wouldn't do. Not if he could help it.
If she truly wanted a job outside of King Industries, he'd help, making sure that she was employed by one of his acquaintances, someone he could trust. Someone who wouldn’t mistreat her or take advantage of her in any way. But he didn't like that idea at all.
“You're a high-level executive assistant; not many roles like those open up in this economy, and most businesses prefer to promote from within their company. Finding a new job that pays as well as your position at K.C. won't be easy, and it won't happen right away. We both know you need something now.”
Her finances were too dire to wait.
For some reason.
She didn't deny it. Good.
“My brother, Callum, had to let his last assistant go recently. Your performance—forced misdemeanor notwithstanding—suggests that you may be up for the task.”
She lifted her gaze to meet his head on. Her eyes were so expressive when she looked right at him.
Ryn was visibly bewildered.
Desmond kept going. “I'll be honest: Cal is no middle-management exec, sticking to fifty hours per week tops. He, Maverick, and I are equal shareholders of King Enterprises. As well as weighing in on any important matter regarding the growth of our corporation
, he personally oversees our pharmaceutical company. And he's a workaholic. It's a very demanding job, one that I'll only give you if you're up to the task.”
Somewhere along the line, her mouth had fallen open and stayed that way. Eventually, she found her words.
“So...this is a job interview?”
He smirked.
“Exactly.”
6
The Beginning of the End?
Six days ago
She’d expected the usual. A ride in an expensive car with a driver, so that the guy could fondle her in the backseat to his heart's content, then a dinner somewhere expensive, followed by sex.
Sweet sex, dirty sex, sex on the kitchen counter, in a hotel, in the limo, at The Tower. It was details to her. Yet, she found herself feeling strange. Almost vulnerable.
Desmond King. He was a stranger. They'd never truly interacted—just once in passing—but she still remembered his eyes. His voice.
Ryn often replayed in her mind his words from the very first time they'd met.
"Are you enjoying Clarke’s company, Kathryn?"
What she would have given to be able to say that she wasn't. To tell the truth. What would have happened then if she’d dared to?
She’d never know.
Ryn’s eyes widened as they took in the car parked in Wallace’s spot, right in front of the COO’s extravagant townhouse. It was a sexy car, no doubt about that. A pristine dark beast, with elegant curves. It looked like it belonged to another era, a time when men were gallant and women still wore petticoats.
Somehow, she hadn't expected him to be a vintage kind of guy. She would have pegged him for a Lamborghini man: flashy, ostentatious.
“Like what you see?” he asked, opening the passenger door for her.
“I do,” she admitted. “What kind of car is this?”
“A Jaguar.”
“A very old Jaguar,” she noted.
Although ‘old’ wasn't the right word: it was shiny, with a perfectly even coat of paint, and the inside smelled like new leather.