HiddenDepths

by Angela Claire

  She went to the door and held it open pointedly.

  “I just wanted to get to know you better, Andrea. Not just for the sex.” He smiled. “Although that was better than I’ve had in a long time.”

  “And free,” she piped in and though she really was trying to get him out the door, she seemed to have accomplished the opposite effect with that crack, finally pissing him off. He left all right, but he grabbed her elbow and yanked her out the door with him into the hallway, backing her against the wall.

  “Is that what’s bothering you, Andrea? That it was free? Are you more kinky than I gave you credit for being? Maybe I don’t feel bad for not paying the check, but you feel bad you were stiffed. Is that it? Well, I’m more than willing to be fair.” Kicking her legs open, he stepped squarely between them. She was tall for a woman, but he was taller still and hunched down a little to press their bodies together at precisely the right point. “How much for a quickie?” he whispered.

  A glance up and down the hallway proved it empty, but who knew how long that would last. She didn’t have time for these games, especially now, and when he reached for the hem of her skirt, she slapped his hand away irritably, without thought. “Stop that. Someone could come by.”

  His green eyes, so warm and relaxed and friendly, suddenly looked…not. “Come on, then.”

  With an unyielding grip on her upper arm, he yanked her into an unoccupied office down the corridor, slamming the door shut behind them. He fiddled with the doorknob for a second, but realizing there was no lock on it abandoned the effort.

  “We removed the lock on this office door. Long story.”

  He didn’t ask as his hands went to his jeans. “Bend over the desk and pull your skirt up.”

  She folded her arms over her chest, and favored him with her most withering stare. “I’m not amused by this, Evan.”

  “Call me Mr. Reynolds. Maybe that’ll turn you on.” He unbuttoned his jeans as she looked around the darkened office and parked one hip on the desk. It was one of the smaller offices they used for visiting executives, although the last young up-and-comer to occupy it had given them more trouble than he was worth.

  “Funny you should duck in here,” she commented. “It must have a sense-impression that lures overconfident, oversexed males. Although I guess that’s a tautology. We had an executive trainee from Wharton in this office recently who used it as his own personal hook-up center. He made a pass at anything that moved.”

  “Including you?”

  “Oh my goodness, he wouldn’t dare. He tried to stay out of my way, but when I found one of our more promising securities lawyers, a Miss Randall, sobbing in the restroom one afternoon due to some Neanderthal comments he had made on her ‘inability to deal well with people’—by which he apparently meant talk sports and laugh at his stupid jokes with the best of them—I took care of him.”

  “Tattled to Michael, did you?”

  She scoffed. “As if I’d need Mr. Reynolds to take care of a lowlife like that guy. I fired him myself and thanks to Miss Randall, didn’t even have to pay him severance. Apparently she also didn’t deal well with people when they played with her hair during meetings and tried to inch her skirt up her knee while she was giving much-needed legal advice about the jurisdiction of the Securities and Exchange Commission.”

  “How very gender-friendly of you, Miss Prentiss. But I’m sure Miss Randall got an earful about unprofessional behavior like crying in the office as well.”

  “On the contrary, I complimented her on doing it in the bathroom. I did remove the lock on this particular office door, though, as a cautionary tale.”

  Evan closed the distance between them and with very little effort flipped her around and bent her over the desk, his hand flat on the small of her back as she felt the cool wood of the desktop against her cheek. The reminder of how strong he must be with all his manual labor troubled her in the context of the world Tottingham had so abruptly brought back to her.

  “Much as I’m enjoying your professional reminiscences, babe,” he whispered in her ear, “the truth is I just want my fuck, okay?”

  She let the statement hit her head-on. Hurt her. It was true in any case undoubtedly. Better this was how they ended it rather than with him waxing lyrical about building shelters for puppies with his own two hands and making his way in the world without relying on his family billions. “I never had a doubt, Evan.”

  He shoved her skirt up and prompted, “Mr. Reynolds.”

  Given her persona, most people assumed she was probably the opposite of a submissive. Indeed, she’d endured many a joke about how she must have a whip and a closet full of leather and stilettos and some secret website where she chided men about how very bad they’d been and how they needed a spanking. But that had never appealed to her any more than the part she had played in the past did either.

  She didn’t want to be a dominant or a submissive. All she wanted was—

  She cut the thought off as he slid her panties down her thighs, those callous-roughened hands still gentle for all the menace of his words. The probing of his fingers between her legs proved her dry.

  “Oh not good, Andrea,” he chided, massaging skillfully as her breath hitched. “Don’t girls like you have some secret tricks to bring you into the moment? Make an asshole like me think you’re dying for me to fuck you up against a desk?”

  She wished she did have some trick, not to get excited, but to stay dry. She was going to let him have his “last fuck” and she wanted it to be as cold-blooded as possible, painful even, not just emotionally but physically, so she could hoard the pain for some future night and use it to make her strong enough to resist the memory of Evan Reynolds because she herself hated to cry, bathroom or no bathroom.

  But as he’d proven every time he’d gotten his hands on her, remaining indifferent to this particular man was for some reason beyond her. The light manipulation of her clit with his middle finger, his lips against her ear, nipping at the lobe, the feel of his powerful erection against her bare bottom—all of them combined to bring a sudden rush of moisture between her legs, which he discovered with an approving croon when he slid one finger up her pussy. A second finger joined the first, pushing against the walls of her vagina, and the cool of the wood against her cheek felt hot now.

  “That’s better. And don’t worry, I’ll make it quick. I know you’ve got important work for the main Mr. Reynolds to get back to.”

  She should have stayed quiet, let him use her, but again, she’d never been much of a submissive. She used to be much better at playing one, though. Gripping the edges of the desk, she raised her head and said over her shoulder, “You sound like a spoiled little brat, jealous of his daddy or his big brother.”

  Evan withdrew his fingers swiftly from between her legs and she heard what she knew must be the inevitable condom coming out of his pocket or wallet or wherever, and his jeans being shoved down his thighs.

  “Do I?”

  The thrust of his hot cock inside her from behind a moment later shoved her forward and she didn’t try to stop the momentum, closing her eyes, balancing her palms on the desk top. All the way inside her, he gripped her hips to keep her in place and slid out only to ram inside again, eager but still not brutal or punishing. Indeed, it felt marvelous.

  It made her go for an even more shrewish tone. “Is that what this is all about, Mr. Reynolds? Trying to get my attention before your daddy does?”

  “I don’t know. Does he try to get your attention by shoving his cock in you? I wouldn’t think he’d have it in him anymore, but—”

  She rotated her ass deliberately and it shut him up except for a groan as he leaned over her fully, giving her his weight, tugging her back closer. God, he felt so good.

  He widened his thighs, forcing her to widen hers, to take more of him, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out with the pleasure of it.

  “Do you want me to feel sorry for you because you’re not the favored son?” she taunt
ed. It would’ve sounded appropriately scathing if she hadn’t ended it on a groan herself as he tugged her blouse out from her waistband and slid his warm hand against her stomach to then close over her breast through her bra, squeezing.

  “If you felt sorry for me now,” he muttered, “I wouldn’t quite be doing my job, would I, Andrea?”

  “You don’t have a job! You’re a—”

  He shoved his hand inside her bra cup and rubbed her nipple. Oh, this was not going how she had anticipated this final interlude going at all. If she didn’t concentrate, she’d be having the best orgasm of her life. And that was not—again, not—the aim here.

  She settled for “I have to go back to work.”

  “Think of it as being paid double.”

  “I’m not a prostitute, you condescending jerk,” she spat out, causing him to laugh, the shaky sound of which turned her on even more.

  “I was pretty sure on that point by now, but too bad. Because if you were, I’d pay you a fortune to come back to Maine with me and I’d really get my money’s worth out of you.”

  She tried to wriggle away then and he wouldn’t let her, continuing to thrust though she was causing him enough annoyance with her efforts that he paused and warned, “If you don’t stop that I’m going to drag you out into the hallway and fuck you up against the wall. Would you like that? Because Daddy might not. I’d hate to get you fired.”

  His lips were on her neck but made it up to the corner of her mouth and she tilted her face back to kiss him fully. His tongue in her mouth while his cock was between her legs was the most extraordinary sensation, though she supposed it was really only the most ordinary of ones. Men liked to kiss when they fucked, didn’t they? Big deal.

  After a minute of it, she pulled her mouth away. “Whether you think I’m a whore or not,” she panted, “you’re treating me like one.”

  “I thought it worked for you.”

  “No, you didn’t,” she whispered in a little voice.

  He stopped thrusting and there was only the sound of their mutual heavy breathing filling the office as they were joined, his front to her back, his hard incredible cock wedged into her drenched, tingling cunt. Trying to take a deep breath, she was horrified that it came out sounding like a little hiccup, the mere hint of, the mere beginning of, a sob, but still she was horrified.

  “You don’t play fair,” he said softly.

  “I’m not playing.”

  “What are you doing, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Miss Prentiss? Miss Prentiss?” It was out in the hallway, muffled, but getting closer.

  “Miss Prentiss Jr., I presume?”

  “Shh,” she warned him and he responded with a particularly wicked thrust that wrenched a moan out of her.

  “You shh,” he countered, but he stayed still as Miss Grady walked by the closed door, presumably back into her office.

  “Finish,” she whispered and with four more powerful strokes he did. She tried her very best to keep silent on the last one, seeing as how it wrenched an orgasm out of her after all. Pulling out, he left her to straighten her clothes as he did the same, dropping the spent condom casually in the waste basket she doubted got picked up anymore since the office was empty. She’d have to take care of that.

  Before she left.

  Once back in her office, she resumed her seat, ignoring Miss Grady’s curious look.

  “Goodbye,” she said definitively, eyes down on the translation left on her desk blotter, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

  He shook his head and exited. Unfortunately he exited right into his father’s office, slamming the door behind him.

  Resolutely, she retrieved her phone and with shaking fingers dialed.

  * * * * *

  Evan hadn’t been in his father’s office, the actual inner sanctum, since he was a kid. It hadn’t changed a bit from what he could see. The massive oak desk, the throne-like leather chair, and the fully stocked bar were just as he remembered them. At least now he was old enough to take advantage of the bar even if he wasn’t old enough, or something enough, to be invited into the office in the first place.

  He chose a fifty-year-old scotch as his poison—never mind it was barely noon—and poured a hearty amount into a glass while his father and whoever the hell the other guy was watched. “Don’t mind me,” he said casually. “I’m just waiting for my date to get off work.”

  “Jack, this is my youngest son, Evan. Evan, Jack Tottingham.”

  Tottingham rose from where he was being given an audience and held out his hand, but Evan just nodded and drank the scotch. In one gulp.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Tottingham said anyway, standing awkwardly while Evan went to assume a seat on the couch.

  “Join us, won’t you, Evan?” his father said drily. “We were just talking about a potential investment Jack’s hawking that I’m going to pass on.”

  “You’re not giving it a chance, Damien.”

  “What investment?” Evan asked. “Maybe I’d be interested.”

  “Don’t tease, Evan. Jack will think you’re serious.” He confided to Tottingham, “Evan’s the only one of my sons not interested in the business.”

  “I don’t need to be,” Evan said with more aggression than he probably had ever shown his father. “I have the Evans fortune to hold me over if the Reynoldses ever go belly up.”

  Tottingham laughed. “No chance of that, I’m sure.”

  “Don’t be so certain.”

  His father scowled at him as Tottingham asked, “Your mother was an Evans?”

  “Was. Is. But my grandfather is gone and passed almost his entire estate directly to me.”

  Tottingham began to show interest for the first time. “Really? Well, aren’t you a lucky young man. And dating that beauty out there as well. Ah to be young again, eh Damien?”

  “Speaking of which,” Evan asked, “who did you say Miss Prentiss looked like?”

  “Angelica Stavros. You remember her, don’t you, Damien?”

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  “Very tragic actually. She married the elder Stavros boy first, Paul I think his name was, not the unpleasant one.”

  “I don’t remember either,” Damien said flatly, never one to find time for gossip.

  “He was a diplomat of some kind. He never cared about the family business either,” Tottingham pointed out to Evan.

  “And that was what again?”

  “Shipping, of course.”

  “So what happened to her?”

  “Oh very sad actually. Her husband died in some kind of accident and she was forced to marry his brother.”

  “Forced?” Evan set down his scotch glass. “They allow that in Greece?” He wondered whether there was forced dating too. Might be something there.

  “Well, not forced exactly, I’m sure, but he wooed her and there was some talk, well, unpleasant talk, that he simply wanted the other half of the Stavros fortune. And then she died.”

  “And he got it, I presume.”

  “No, that was the odd part. Not until her daughter died too. Killed herself.”

  Evan sat up. “Really?” He dug in his pocket for his iPhone. “When was this?”

  “Angelica?” Tottingham asked as Evan fiddled with his phone.

  “No. The other one. The daughter.”

  “Athena? I don’t know. A decade or so ago, I guess.”

  Evan stared at the image brought up on the small screen in front of him. It was dated, black and white, but it was there. Angelica Stavros. And the resemblance to Miss Prentiss was startling. The only problem was if Miss Prentiss was Angelica Stavros, she was holding her age extremely well. Angelica had been thirty-five when she died sixteen years ago. That would make her over fifty, and unless Andrea had discovered the fountain of youth that didn’t fit.

  But the daughter…

  He fussed with Google on his phone, looking for a picture of the daughter, but came up empty-handed.r />
  “How did she kill herself?” he asked.

  “Just walked into the sea one day, they say. She drowned.”

  “And they never found the body?”

  “Oh no, they found the body all right. Otherwise, the brother Freddie wouldn’t have been able to inherit. No, he combed the area where she drowned and found her eventually, although of course there wasn’t much to find by that point.”

  “Why all this interest, Evan?” his father asked. “Are you thinking our Miss Prentiss is a long-lost Greek heiress? If so, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you, my boy. She grew up in Scarsdale, went to Wellesley. I think Michael may have even known her father.”

  “Oh.” He dropped his phone and went for another glass of scotch. He didn’t know why he was disappointed somehow. It was weird. But there was more to Miss Prentiss than most people saw. He was sure of that.

  “Still, maybe there’s something,” Tottingham persisted. “It’s quite a resemblance.”

  His father stood up. “Nice to see you, Jack. Let’s have a drink sometime.” He pressed the buzzer. “Please show Mr. Tottingham out, Miss Prentiss.”

  And efficiently, without even a glance at Evan, she came in and did so.

  “Sure you’re not related to the Stavros family somehow?” Tottingham was asking as the door closed behind them.

  “So to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Evan?” His father sat behind his desk again.

  Evan shrugged. “I told you. I came here to see Andrea.”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Prentiss. Shit, did you really not know her first name?”

  “My relations with my employees are none of your affair, Evan. Although I take it you have more than a passing interest in Michael’s assistant.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’m pleased to hear it. It’s good for a man to show an interest in a woman who’s not paid to be in bed with him. At least once in a while.”

  “How would you know?” Evan asked casually.

  His father looked shocked. “You’re in a mood. Is your mother feeling all right?”