by Fiona Murphy
“You are?” Gravel hits me.
Holy fucking shit. He’s not even close to me, at least twenty feet away, yet I’m caught in a lethal gravitational pull. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. I now understand the solar system.
It isn’t fair, he’s all angles and blunt lines, his nose is too big, his brow too heavy, there’s a jagged two-inch scar on his right cheek. Yet he’s the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life.
Beautiful? What? I cannot take my eyes off his wide, sensually thick lips. I wonder what they would feel like against mine. Stop it, you freak.
Dropping my eyes doesn’t help, he’s so big he’s all I see. He is sheathed in a charcoal gray silk suit that without a doubt is cut to fit him, as there is no way in hell his dimensions would ever be off the shelf. Ivan Volkov is massive, at least six four. His chest is wide and even through the silk shirt and jacket, every time he breathes a wall of muscle ripples impressively. A different kind of heat is settling low, where no matter how much I wanted it to, it has never been before. The sensation shocks me out of my stupor.
I raise my chin. “Christina Connolly, Simon’s assistant. He has been involved in an accident and won’t be in. I’m here to submit a proposal on his behalf.”
The tiniest movement of an eyebrow is there and gone. His face doesn’t change, there is no frown, no smile, only the slightest of nods. “In that case, you are up first.”
His voice cannot be real; it’s as if he smoked a thousand cigarettes, gargled with rocks. Deep, dark smoke wraps around me. Topping off all of that, he has an English accent which I swear I never thought was sexy, but now I’m made very aware I was wrong. Oh god, please don’t let the small shiver running up my spine be visible.
“Thank you, sir.” I pass copies of the proposal to Martin to pass up to Volkov and the solar system, as I wonder vaguely where Connor is.
“The company I’m presenting is Hungry Harvest. This is a vegan food delivery service. Their options are wide-ranging. Not just pre-packaged and prepared items such as snacks, soups, and full meals, they also have a ready-to-prepare option with the ingredients and step-by-step recipes. Any number of these options are available for purchase weekly.
“This company is comprised of a family of farmers. They are uniquely positioned due to the relationship they’ve formed with other farmers, as well as small artisan food companies. It’s only been in operation for a little over thirteen months, and subscriptions have increased month after month.”
I don’t dare look up. His eyes are on me, I can feel them as heavy as a touch. My skin is hot and tight. The overload to my senses makes it hard to focus. If it weren’t for the fact I have the entire thing memorized, I’m positive I would be stumbling over myself.
“There is an issue though, which is where we come in. They have gotten too big too fast. They don’t have the money to expand to meet increased demand, causing anger among subscribers. With an injection of capital, of at least sixty thousand as well as diversifying their supply chain, we can be in place to recoup our investment four-fold in less than six months.”
“Another food subscription box, wait, are these numbers real?” Rebecca demands.
Her tone has me fighting back a snarky answer. I inhale slowly. “Yes, triple checked as of Friday. Their growth is almost entirely organic, they are not marketing savvy. There are a number of influencers who have touted them. They didn’t pay the influencers, simply sent them one box of their choice. From there they didn’t even give the influencers discounts, but the influencers are still buying them and plugging them.
“They played around with some small social media ads, spending less than ten thousand in the first six months. The composition of the company is a family of five who received their initial seed from an inheritance, and investment from one family friend. There is only one degree among them and it’s in literature. The whole thing was made up as they went along and it’s catching up with them. They have the right idea, they even are good for execution, but they are weak in structure, which is where we come in.”
I keep my attention on Rebecca, working to keep my voice level. “The number of vegans in the US is rising. Plant-based food product sales grew by thirty-one percent from 2017 to 2019 in the US alone. This is one of the few remaining sectors with exponential growth. Expectations are for the vegan ‘meat’ market to hit seven billion globally by 2025. We can either get in, make a large return and get out, or get in, stay in and ride the growth. If they figure out they have to go with venture capital investors or go IPO to get more money, there will be a line forming to give it to them.”
Rebecca looks to Ivan. I keep my eyes down. Seconds build to minutes, tension rising with every breath I take. Finally, I give in and look at Ivan.
He’s reading the proposal. Once again there is no indication of his thoughts on his disgustingly beautiful face. Silver glints through his thick black hair at the temples, of course it doesn’t detract from him, instead adding a regal quality he totally doesn’t need.
Against the crisp white of his shirt I’m caught wondering where he got his glowing golden skin from. I thought he was from Russia. My stomach twists with a deep need to know everything there is to know about him, right now.
In a flash his eyes meet mine. Oh fuck, oh fuck, I’m caught in a wildfire out of control. My stomach drops in fear. Then he blinks and it’s gone.
“It has merit. My office, one o’clock.”
He nods at the man across from me. “Michael, your proposal.”
Air rushes back into my burning lungs. Odd, my lips tingle; another shiver washes over me, and this one I can’t hide. What the hell? I look up but Ivan’s attention is on Michael. You’re losing it, Christina. Wait, his office at one? This is good, this is awesome. Holy shit, could Anna be right?
It's hard to focus on the other presentations as the meeting drones on. I’m wondering how the meeting will go with Ivan, a little scared. I don’t remember Simon ever meeting with Ivan after an acquisition being accepted. Usually there were follow-up emails from the solar system to Simon that I answered, no meetings.
I’m so lost in my thoughts the room is almost entirely empty before I realize the meeting is over. My hands are down, ready to push away from the table when I see Rebecca and Tim leave the room.
Ivan is still at the table. His attention on a proposal, the forefinger of his right hand is tapping the table in a slow steady beat. He has large, strong hands, and my mouth goes dry then uncomfortably wet at the idea of those hands running over my skin.
There is no warning; I would have sworn he wasn’t aware of me. I’m wrong. His eyes meet mine, heat flares inside me, all over, consuming me. What the hell is wrong with me? I want to flee. I even try to stand but he stops me.
“Stay. I have questions for you. Here is as good as my office.”
Seriously, what happened to him for his voice to be such a mix of gravel and smoke? I can’t stop my tongue from slipping out to wet my lips. The taste of watermelon reminds me of the lip oil and how shiny they are.
His jaw tightens, and my lips tingle again. Not just my lips but there. Not only is it tingling, there is a rush of wet heat I have never known in my life.
Oh god. This is not happening. I dip my head, blindly looking down. Praying he doesn’t see me blush, praying for this to be over, for this to be some weird dream I never thought I would have.
“Yes, of course.” I open my proposal. “What would you like to know?”
“Are you fucking Simon?”
My head snaps up. There is no expression on his face even though derision soaked every word. Shock doesn’t cover it. Out of anything in the world he could ask me, those were words I never thought I would hear. I had to have heard him wrong. “What did you just ask me?”
“Are you fucking Simon?” Slowly, stretching every syllable, the words rumble out of him. Something about his accent, so cultured and refined, makes the question even more obscene.
A very differ
ent fire flares hot and bright at those words, at his offensive question.
“How dare you ask me that. Do I look like a moron with no self-respect or a slut with a punch card on antibiotics?” I cannot fucking believe this. Believe him.
“Answer the question.” He raps out the demand, the words sting.
“No. I am NOT fucking Simon. Why the hell would you ask me such a disgusting question?”
The slightest rise and fall of one eyebrow is his response. I was right before: he is loathsome. So why the hell do I still want to find out what his mouth tastes like?
“I want to know. Are there rumors or something about me and Simon? Why did you ask me that?” I make my own demand.
“All of the proposals for the last three years have been yours. It is a reasonable question. There is little other explanation for a person as intelligent as you are to do someone else’s work without the recognition and financial reward you deserve. Yes, I noticed your salary is higher than your peers. It is a fraction of your worth. Reading through this it is your voice, exactly as I hear you speaking. So, if you are not fucking him, why are doing his work?”
It’s a compliment and insult at the same time. “Because I need a job and this was my job, as explained to me by Simon. I was under the impression you were intelligent enough to have figured out this was not his work. Why were you not able to do so when he was on the verge of being fired before I became his assistant?”
Zing—both eyebrows go up a fraction before falling again. “Touché. Martin was Simon’s entry to this company. Martin promised me when I gave Simon his warning he would work with him. Simon’s style is much like your own. Reviewing your file, I see you both attended the same university, and had the same professor. A professor who has sent me a number of his best students. Interesting that he did not send me Simon. It was Martin who did.”
He was reviewing my file?
“What do you want?”
He’s giving me whiplash. “I don’t understand.”
Amusement flashes in his eyes. Nowhere else though, just those black, bottomless eyes. “What do you want? In life? In working for me.” He speaks slowly again.
I wonder if he’s ever been slapped.
A flippant answer is on my lips, but I don’t dare. The air is pulsing, palpably alive with something I wish to hell I could define, understand. I’m trying to pull away from his gaze. I can’t.
“In life, I want to pay off the mortgage on my Abuelo’s home. The rate is insane, the debt crushing. It was taken out in a desperate bid to save my Abuela’s life when she was diagnosed with breast cancer.” I feel the need to defend Abuelo’s actions in taking out a loan he could not afford.
“I want to paint again.” I would never have admitted this to anyone else. I hate I’m telling him. Only his demand won’t allow me to be anything less than completely honest. I have the oddest feeling no matter how well I could lie, and I’m a shitty liar, he’d know I was doing it.
“I dropped out of art school to take care of my Abuela. I’m aware I’m long past making a living from it. I’m not interested in even trying; I simply haven’t had the time or money to spend on it.”
It’s the truth. I never had dreams of stardom; enough to support myself making a living doing what I loved would have made me happy. Now I just want the freedom I find in creating my own world on a canvas.
“In working for you, I want Simon’s job and the salary that goes with it. But I don’t want it for forever. All day, every day in an office is not my dream, it’s a means to an end.”
He leans back, the full weight of his gaze resting on me. His eyes roam over me. I hate the way every inch of me responds to him, my breasts grow heavy, goose bumps raise on my arms, my mouth waters—for what, I have no fucking idea. A savage longing builds until it scares me with the strength of it. I need to get away from him, now.
“Do you have a passport?”
My stomach drops at what the question means. I nod. Speech isn’t possible right now.
“Will you be able to have a nurse cover taking care of your grandfather for the next few weeks?”
I start to nod. Wait. “Few weeks?” How did he know Abuelo needed a nurse?
“Tomorrow, a car will pick you up at eight sharp. We will fly down to Hungry Harvest. There is no need to come to my office at one, this was the discussion I wanted us to have. Spend the day creating a plan to make sure they will be on their knees welcoming us as a partner.
“We go in and stay in. Investment of one hundred and fifty thousand, implementation of full structure as well as a marketing and technical support team. It should take two days max. As for the rest of the time, Connor is experiencing a personal issue. I may have need of you for some time.”
Some time... The way he said it has me squirming in my seat. Another nod. My skin is growing tighter. Away, I need to get away from him. It’s embarrassing the way I sway slightly as I push up from my chair. He doesn’t move.
“Anything else?” I mutter as I clutch my copy of the proposal across my chest like a shield I desperately need.
He’s laughing at me. I can feel it even if not a single flicker of it shows on his face. A small nod. “Connor’s issues are not up for discussion, to anyone. I look forward to your report in a few hours. Do not disappoint me.”
I don’t bother to respond, just turn and fight the urge to run from him.
3
Ivan
Unable to tear my eyes off her, I watch as Christina Connolly rounds a corner. At last I close my eyes, releasing a slow, measured breath. It does not work. My entire body is still hard with tension, aching with need as it has been for the last fucking hour.
I cannot comprehend the way my body has betrayed me. I have experienced nothing like this before. Never have I been so desperately hungry for a woman as I was the moment I saw Christina. I am master of my body, of my fucking world. Yet even now with her nowhere near me, I am unable to regain control of my body’s response to her.
Every inch of her is burned into my retinas. Her face is a classic oval highlighted by round cheekbones and intriguing hazel eyes framed by lashes that have to be fake. Her nose is adorable, there is no other word for it, small with a slight tip up at the end. I had the oddest desire to run a finger along.
There is nothing adorable about her lips, they are sin and sex. Those lips, fuck me—the small cupid’s bow screamed at me, begging to be tasted. I want to see those shiny lips around my cock. To wrap my hand in her long, silky hair and hold her in place as I ravage that pretty little mouth. My cock jumps at the fantasy.
Fuck. What the hell is this? Emotions flitted across her beautiful face as easy to read as if she spoke them, anger and confusion being the most expressive. The confusion should soothe me, she was as mystified as I am at our instant connection. It does not. Right now nothing could soothe me. Except possibly Christina under me.
Damn it. My cock is beginning to ache. This is bullshit. Getting involved with Christina Connolly is a bad idea. I do not have bad ideas. I certainly never act on them. Only even now I have set things in motion to get her close, keep her close.
Doubt fills me at my ability to not give in to this hunger for her. A whisper teases me: Just one taste. She will be like all the rest—once I have had her she will lose her appeal. No woman has held my interest for longer than a few weeks, ever.
None of this makes any sense. She is nothing like my normal type of woman. I keep to models, for the basic reason they were content with no more than a week or two at most of fucking. As long as I make it worth their while, which I was willing to do. I don’t do relationships. Emotions, obligations are not something I welcome in my life. Most models are of the same mind, as long as they were young and ambitious.
Christina is no model. She is only five foot five, maybe five foot six. Her makeup was minimal, the better to see her clear, glowing skin. She was no stick-thin hanger with a head. Christina’s curvy body called to mind old-fashioned pinup girls. Lush was
the word that hit me. Thick and full. I wanted to feel her against me, under me, above me, anyway I could get her.
My cell rings, yanking me out of my daydream. I should be grateful, I resent the fuck out of it. It is my other sister, Hannah. I am not in the mood. Hannah takes great joy in annoying me. Sending it to voice mail, I make my way back to my office. I will call her back after I listen to her message to find out what she wants. If she texts me it means her call is an emergency. There is no text. Whatever it is can wait.
Rebecca is waiting for me, her agitation clear.
“What?” I demand as I close the door to my office.
“Have I angered you? Why am I to stay in Chicago when the team goes to Jefferson City tomorrow? Why is Christina Connolly going?”
The way she says Christina’s name is charged with hostility.
“You have a problem with Christina Connolly.”
Her eyes drop from mine. “She got the job without being clear what she was.”
“And what is she?” I lean back as I study her. Rebecca has been at my side for almost five years, in all that time I have never seen her act this way.
“Do you not know?” Her surprise is clear.
“If you define what it is I could answer the question.”
“Her grandparents...”
Ice slides down my spine. I straighten, prepared yet unbelieving where she is going with this.
“They are black. That means she’s black. Just because she doesn’t look it doesn’t mean she isn’t. She never told anyone in her interviews. It’s dishonest not to warn people of what she is.”
I press a button on my phone, Denise answers instantly. “Call security, they will be escorting Rebecca out of the building and home to retrieve her laptop as well as any work documents she might have there. As of now she is terminated. Lock down her access. Her status is ineligible for rehire, no severance. She is paid to today, no further.”