What the hell was I thinking?
I spent all weekend on my own – pushing her as far from my thoughts as I could. Man, I was getting pretty soft back there. But the last thing I need is some goddamn girl clouding up my head. And not just any girl, either. Literally the one girl I should never get involved with.
Sure, it was amazing – just as good as I’d been imagining it might be. But now I need to focus. I need to stop thinking about her. I need to get her the fuck out of my head. Because if I don’t, it can only lead to trouble ...
As I turn the corner towards my office, there she is, sitting at the desk, even giving me a brief – if somewhat forced – smile, and saying, “Good morning, Mr Grayson,” in a measured, polite tone as I stride past.
I have to admit it. It throws me off a little. I really didn’t think she’d be here this morning. I was ready to think up some excuse, to tell my dad why I’d sent her home early. But seeing her sitting there, it’s kinda like she’s fucking with me – knowing that she’s managed to get under my skin.
Damnit.
This never happens. Normally I’m the one in complete and total control. But with this girl? With Stacey? Well, something else seems to be happening here, and I have to admit, it’s more than a little disconcerting.
I finally reach the sanctity of my office, letting those big wooden doors slam closed behind me, and then I sit at my desk and turn on my computer, swiveling in my chair to take in the dazzling London skyline on this bright crisp Autumn morning, the sun flashing out from behind the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, as I wait a few seconds for my iMac to spring into life.
As soon as it does, I check my emails, and sure enough – the one reply I was hoping for is sitting there in my inbox.
I reach out and push the intercom button, leaning forward as I speak.
“Stacey?” I say coldy. “In my office, now ...”
“Of course, Mr Grayson,” she replies, matching my businesslike tone with her own.
When she pushes open the doors to my office and struts into the room, I can’t help but be impressed. She’s really knocked it out of the park with today’s outfit: a black Diane Von Furstenberg wraparound dress that hugs her body tightly, every delicious curve. She obviously doesn’t want me to forget the flawless body that I ravished on Friday night, the very same body that a certain animal part of me wants to take again, right here in this fucking room – throwing her over the desk, tearing off her clothes, driving myself hard and deep inside her – but despite the pounding of my blood and the swelling of my cock, I just about manage to restrain myself, hiding behind my usual veneer of cold efficiency.
“I need to know about your plans for this evening,” I say in a totally measured tone, enjoying the small flutter of confusion that plays across her exquisite features; my question obviously throwing her into a spin.
“Oh, um, ah, nothing? Why?” she replies, her brow furrowing, a vein softly pulsing in her milk-white neck.
“Because I’m having a special dinner at my house in Chelsea and I’d like you to be there.”
“Okay,” she replies, somewhat hesitantly.
“Eight pm,” I announce. “I’ll have a driver waiting outside your hotel. Oh, and make sure to wear something smart.”
She nods, obviously speechless.
“That will be all, Miss Richardson,” I conclude, finally letting the smile flicker across my face as she turns and leaves the room.
As usual, I’m left in a complete and total whirl. Just like always. As I leave his office, I have to admit it: a part of me is jumping for joy with excitement. A special dinner at Colt’s house? I mean, that does sound pretty damn great. But then I think again about how fucking cold with me he was on Saturday morning – not to mention the fact that I didn’t hear from him at all, all weekend – and I wonder why I just didn’t tell him to go jump.
As I take my seat behind my desk again and try to concentrate on my latest report, I can’t help but get distracted by the more-than-occasional flutters of excitement as I think again about tonight. I already totally know what I’m gonna wear, too: this killer Preen red bandage dress. It’s so sexy, and it cost a thousand dollars (on his company credit card, of course). And it looks it, every damn cent.
I know, I know. I shouldn’t be getting too exciting now, should I?
Knowing Colt, I bet this won’t be quite the dinner I’m expecting. Maybe it’ll be some corporate black tie event – far from the intimate, romantic meal for two that I’ve been imagining.
But even so, just the idea of him actually inviting me to his house for something outside of work, after what happened between us on Friday night?
He obviously wants to apologize, make amends.
Baby steps, but maybe he really is changing ...
§
I stand back to take in my appearance in the full-length dress mirror in my room. Looking pretty good, if I do say so myself. Sure enough, tonight I’m wearing the tight red dress, and those skyscraper Louboutin heels that Colt bought me, too. It’s a pretty fierce look, even if I do say so myself, and I’m hoping that it will show him that I’m no push-over, either.
I am a strong, independent woman, I repeat to myself like a mantra.
Because tonight, I’m not planning on making things easy for him. Whether this is some intimate romantic meal, or a larger affair – either way, I’m gonna show him another side to me tonight. I’m gonna make him work for it.
I smile to myself, as I think about making him squirm – about taking control for once, really making him beg ...
But just then, my thoughts are interrupted by the beep of a car horn. I dash to the window and look down, and sure enough, there’s a gleaming vintage Bentley waiting for me, complete with driver.
I feel another flutter of excitement, as I gather my coat and clutch bag, then head towards the elevator.
As I step out of the hotel, the biting cold wind takes me by surprise and I draw my coat tight around myself as I approach the car.
“Good evening, Madam,” the driver says, in a crisp British accent, tipping his hat to me.
“Wow, cold night tonight, eh?” I smile back, wondering if I can engage him in a little conversation perhaps.
But as I suspected, he remains utterly professional, simply nodding then stepping aside to open the passenger door for me, obviously on strict orders – from Colt, no doubt – just to do his job and not step out of line, just like everyone else in his employment.
I slide into the plush interior of the car, sinking into the softness of the cream leather, and then a moment later the engine purrs into life and I’m flashing through the London night, on my way to Colt’s ...
§
I take a deep breath, then ring the doorbell to Colt’s house; a beautifully presented period townhouse in the bustling heart of Chelsea. There’s a moment’s pause, just long enough for me to become reacquainted with my booming heart and the fact that every damn nerve in my body feels like it’s sizzling with anticipation, before all of a sudden the door swings open and there he is; blue eyes blazing as his face breaks into a welcoming smile.
“Stacey! So glad you’re here! And I do appreciate how punctual you are, for once ...” he says with a wink. Then there’s a pause, as he obviously looks me up and down, before adding, “You look really great, too.”
“Why thank you,” I say, feeling myself blush just a little.
Of course, Colt looks great too – just as hot as ever, dressed tonight in a casual pale blue shirt and navy blue chinos, his thick hair swept back in a glossy swoop, his tanned jaw flecked with just the sexiest hint of stubble.
But then something seems to change in his features – a flicker of that cruel coldness that can rise up at any time in him.
“Now, Casey is going to be here any minute,” he says, looking at his Rolex, “so if you trot along through to the kitchen, Alfonse is the chef you’ll be working with tonight. He’ll have an apron for you, and let you know what you have to
do.”
Wait just one god-damn second ...
The WTF look on my face must communicate my total and utter confusion, because a moment later he adds, “Your last job was waitressing, wasn’t it?”
I’m shocked. Like totally struck dumb. And maybe that’s the reason I don’t just slap him in the face or get the hell out of his house, right there and then.
Nope, instead, for some unknown reason, I actually find myself following him through to the kitchen, which is full of the delicious aromas of bubbling sauces and sizzling meats. Sure enough, I see that a real professional chef is cooking away in the far corner of the large room.
“Stacey, this is Alfonse,” Colt says, indicating the chef. “You’ll be under his instructions tonight.”
Is this really happening? Or is this just some crazy bad dream that I’m about to wake up from, any second?
“Here, put this on,” Colt says, thrusting a neatly folded white apron into my hands.
I start to shake my head.
“Just wait one minute,” I start, about to give him a piece of my mind.
But before I can, he’s held up his hand to silence me.
“You’re my fucking PA, Stacey,” he growls beneath his breath. “You know what those letters stand for, right?”
I don’t say a word, just nod.
“Well, in that case get to work,” he snarls. “Your job is to make sure this meal goes without a hitch. You know that a good reference from me is your ticket out of the life of dead end jobs you’re facing right now. And if you don’t do as you’re told, that reference is not gonna be yours, and you’re gonna be back waiting tables full time. Understand?”
Once again, I’m too shocked to speak. And this time, all I can do is nod, as I watch him turn and stride out of the kitchen, leaving me there, totally confused, my head spinning, hot tears brimming in the corners of my eyes. Still on autopilot, I slip the apron over my head and head meekly over to Alfonse in the far corner.
He’s got me.
The only good thing that can come out of this whole dreadful experience with Colt is my CV. And that’s what I need to focus on right now.
“Alfonse, I’m Stacey and I’m ready to work,” I say.
“Just in time, those two are ready to go out,” he replies me in a European accent, nodding down at two dishes, each containing a beautifully delicate-looking seafood starter, plated with all the elegance and sophistication of a Michelin-starred restaurant. Wordlessly, I pick them up and carry them towards where I’m guessing is the dining room.
As I approach it, I can hear music. Soft, sexy music. In fact, exactly the kind of music you might play on a date.
Oh, this is just too fucking much ...
I turn the corner and step into the dining room, and sure enough, sitting there at the dining table are Colt and some beautiful girl, tall and elegant as a model, her blonde hair shining, her cartoon-sized Bambi eyes glinting with excitement as she smiles at him across the large dining table, laughing at whatever crappy joke he’s just made.
I remember the name he mentioned as he greeted me at the door. Casey. No doubt another one of those Top 100 Sexiest girls, he’s just waiting to tick off his list.
“I’m so glad you blew off Leo for me, Casey,” he grins at her. “And I promise I’ll make it worth your while ...”
As I approach the table, I keep my eyes on Colt, willing him with every fiber of my being to look up at me. But to my frustration and horror, he doesn’t even acknowledge me with a single solitary glance.
Asshole.
I place down the plates carefully on the table, barely resisting the urge to throw them square at the fucking wall, and all the while waiting for him to say something, anything to me.
But instead he simply fixes his burning blue eyes on Casey and says, “You look wonderful tonight, by the way ...”
§
Somehow, I manage to keep it together through all three courses of the meal. Mostly I’m just hid away in the kitchen, wearing this stupid, humiliating apron, imagining Colt and Casey’s phony date going on back there in the dining room, wondering why the hell I’m still even here.
I mean, why haven’t I just walked out by now?
Even without all the stuff that’s gone on between us, this is still pretty humiliating, right?
Who the fuck asks their PA to do this?!
Only someone as sadistic as Colt Grayson, and I’m forced to continue serving them, until finally, with a sigh of relief, I’m carrying their coffees through, by now not expecting any acknowledgement from either of them as I place the delicate bone-china cups and saucers on the table. As I’m turning to leave, relieved to finally be getting the hell out of there, I just can’t seem to hold my tongue any longer. I’ve just got to say something.
“If that will be all, Mr Grayson,” I say coldly, “I think I’ll be leaving now ...”
I turn to go, my whole body trembling with anger and indignity as I march quickly out of the dining room and towards the front door.
To my surprise I hear a voice behind me, calling out.
“Stacey, wait.”
I spin around to face him.
“Wait for what, Colt?” I spit back, trembling with rage. “Do you need me to stay here until I’ve watched you seal the deal, too? Come on. It’s totally obvious. I’ve seen the way she’s looking at you back there. I know you’re gonna fuck her tonight. But why the hell are you fucking with my head, too? Why am I even here?”
He takes a few steps towards me, until he’s only inches away, close enough for me to smell the spicy musk of his cologne.
“What do you even think is going on between us, Stacey?” he growls, his so voice low and intense it sends a shiver right through me.
“I- I don’t know,” I stammer back, my head spinning.
“You know just as well as I do that what went on between us was wrong,” he whispers. “It just can’t go any further. And you know I’m gonna see other people, too. So right now I need you to remain professional. You’re my PA, remember? Not my fucking girlfriend.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” I snap back.
“What?” he says confused.
“I’m not your PA, Colt. Not any more.”
And with this, I yank off the apron and drop it on the floor between us.
“Oh and one more thing? Go fuck yourself,” I add, before turning and storming out of the house, managing somehow to hold off the floods of tears that are just waiting to erupt until I finally hear the door slam closed behind me.
“You okay there, love?” a British voice calls out to me, and as I look up through a blur of tears, I see that a black cab has pulled right up curb, just a few meters from me, the window wound down and the friendly ruddy face of the driver smiling out at me.
I don’t hesitate to jump inside, and in the few remaining moments before I tell him where I’d like to go, I make a quick cursory search of my clutch bag just to make sure that I have my bank card with me. Thank god, I think when I find it. For a moment my mind turns to all those clothes back in my hotel room – both the few crappy rags I brought with me, and of course the many fancy outfits I’ve since bought with that asshole’s money, and none of which I’ll miss.
“To Heathrow Airport, please,” I say decisively.
§
I board the only American-bound flight I can afford – an overnight that seems to make about a million and one stops on its way – and the whole thing lurches by in a blur of fitful sleep and crying. Right now I don’t even care that I’ve maxed out my credit card, buying this last-minute ticket home. I’m just glad that I’m away – final away from England, finally away from him.
Every time my mind flashes back to that horrible final scene in his house, I’m filled with an almost uncontrollable rage, and I start thinking again about all the things I should have done: like thrown his food in his fucking face.
A few times, I manage to grab some sleep, but for the most part I’m left awak
e and sobbing, and by the time the flight pulls in at its final destination and I stumble, bleary-eyed out into SFO airport and head towards the taxi rank, I’m pretty much dead on my feet.
But even so, even in my current state, it feels so good to be home; to hear American accents once again, and to think that that bastard is now safely on the other side of the fucking planet.
By the time the airport taxi pulls up outside Mom and Alexander’s place, it’s a bright sunny day outside, and I have no idea what time it even is anymore. My whole body feels leaden with tiredness, and I’m already rehearsing the excuse I’m gonna tell Mom – how I’m going to carefully manage her surprise at seeing me here, then simply tell her that I’ll explain everything tomorrow, and as I trudge towards the familiar front door, I’m already looking forward to the delicious moment when I can just fall back into my own bed again, pull the sheets right up over my head and drift away to sleep ...
I unlock the door and step inside, and the first thing I notice is that the house feels strangely quiet and empty – eerily so. For a moment I wonder if I’m alone, if perhaps Mom and Alexander have gone out somewhere, but then I hear the sound of soft murmured voices, coming from the living room.
I assume they must be having some kind of private talk, but even so, I decide to let them know I’m here.
“Hello?” I call. “It’s me, Stacey! Surprise!”
But there’s no answer. And as I approach the door to the living room, I get this weird, uneasy feeling in my stomach – like something isn’t quite right.
I open the door, and the first thing I see isn’t my mom but Colt, dressed in a black suit, sitting slumped in the corner, his head in his hands.
What the fuck is he doing here?
I look over at my mom and her face is all blotchy and red; it’s obvious she’s been crying.
“Mom? Are you okay?” I blurt out, confused. “What’s happened? What’s going on?”
But she doesn’t answer me, instead just starting to sob again, her whole body shuddering with the force of her emotion.
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