by Paige North
“There’s coffee in the thermos,” the driver says. The corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement. “Mr. Wood asked me to tell you that he’s out of IVs.”
My cheeks go flush. A wry joke about my caffeine addiction is the only personal touch listed on my resume. Is it possible Mason read it after all? I use the thermos to refill my empty cup, and breathe in the scent of roasted hazelnuts. My mouth begins to water before I take my first sip. The hot liquid glides down my throat, smooth and rich. Sweet Jesus. It’s practically nectar from the gods themselves.
I settle into the seat and study the unmarked folders on my lap. Am I supposed to look at them? I flip open the top file and skim through the paperwork. I recognize a more recent series of trades that earned Daylight Holdings close to fifty million dollars and a front-page story in the New York Times. I squint at the notes scrawled on a slip of paper, trying to decipher the messy penmanship. I’ve only made out a couple of words when the driver announces that we are approaching the airstrip.
We taxi up the long runway to a small jet, where Mason waits at the base of a three-step staircase that leads into the plane. A heavy wind whips his tousled hair in front of his face, but I don’t need a view of his whole face to ascertain his mood. He stands rigid, stoic, a pillar of professionalism—and annoyance.
Anxiety nips at the nape of my neck. Will he come to the car to retrieve the files, or should I run them over to him?
He glances at his watch and I catch the flicker of impatience in his eyes. Okay. Take the folders to him it is. The jet plane’s engine roars at me in welcome as I step out of the car. My heels bite at the asphalt, still wet from the overnight dew. I balance the folders in my arms and focus on walking, on not tripping, on not making a fool of myself. Anything to not further cement his harsh opinion of me—to think of me as something more than a klutz. That wasn’t on my resume.
“You’re late,” he says, by way of greeting.
A snarky response crawls up my throat but I tamp it back. “My apologies, Mr. Wood. I wasn’t aware you were going out of town. I got here as fast as I could.”
His jaw tenses. “If you had been early, you’d have seen my note.”
Again, I squelch my inner voice. I had arrived early, and Gertrude didn’t even give me the option of setting my things down in an office before handing me my orders. What else was on Mason’s note?
His Adam’s apple bobs. “Based on your lack of luggage, I can assume you haven’t packed adequate clothing.”
My throat closes in. “Luggage?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Unless you plan on wearing the same skirt for the next three days,” he says. A mischievous grin curls his lip up. “I already know you don’t require underwear.”
That was a one time thing!
My whole face goes hot with shame, and in an instant, my resolve to keep things professional begins to erode. Damn him. I open my mouth to protest—I can’t be gone three days. Renee will be at my apartment tonight and I haven’t even taken down the picture of me and Mom—but he cuts me off with a dismissive flick of his hand. “A bag has been packed for you. I’m sure you’ll find it more than adequate.”
Despite my surprise, a thrill runs up my spine. “How can you be sure the clothes will fit?”
Mason’s gaze runs up and down my body, devouring me with a hungry stare that serves as a stark reminder of yesterday’s encounter. My ass clenches as if replaying the scene, and the tingle between my thighs is instant. “Your first lesson today, Miss Landers—don’t ever question me.”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip. I nod, precariously close to shrinking under the weight of his stare. He gestures toward the staircase and I tentatively climb aboard the small plane.
Five years after my father abandoned us, Mom dated a firefighter. He wasn’t particularly good looking, and he certainly didn’t model the stereotypical characteristics of the position, but I liked him well enough. One day, he took Mom and I in his small water bomber. The interior was just a shell—four seats, a smattering of equipment tucked into a small closet, a few odds and ends of safety equipment.
Mason’s plane is not that plane.
A massive leather sofa curves around a fireplace. To the left, four stools line up in front of a bar. Soft lights pulse against the mirrored backsplash, where my pale face reflects back at me. I twirl a strand of wind-tousled hair around my finger. “Jesus,” I whisper. “Is that a gas fireplace?”
“It’s just an illusion. The fire isn’t real but you can still turn up the heat with a remote control.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling naïve for thinking the fireplace wasn’t some sort of optical trick.
Mason clears his throat and gestures to the couch. He takes the seat across from me, a high-backed throne chair befitting royalty. For one fleeting second, I pretend I’m a princess and that this kingdom—and this king—will soon be mine. Reality slaps me across the face. How ridiculous.
I close my eyes and inhale the woodsy aroma of earth and musk. Mason. It’s the same scent that still clings to my skin, even after scrubbing myself in the shower. I’d fallen asleep to that smell, and awoken with the faint scent of him in my hair.
The plane begins to crawl along the runway. Through the window, the asphalt becomes a blur and my pulse picks up speed. My fingers dig into the leather cushions. I take small, calming breaths, but a bead of sweat still trickles down between my shoulder blades.
“I gather you haven’t flown much,” Mason says.
My skin goose pimples under his scrutiny. “My mom didn’t like to travel.”
“And you?” Mason levels me with an intense stare.
The plane lifts off the ground and I press the back of my head into the couch. “I prefer to have travelled,” I say, breathing out a sigh of relief when the plane starts to level out. “In other words, I’m nervous to fly.”
Mason nods. “You will soon get used to that among other things.”
I swallow, wondering what he means.
But soon enough, he clears it up.
Chapter 8
“What happened in my office yesterday must not happen again,” Mason says.
My mind had begun wandering, imagining exotic adventures in foreign countries. Rock climbing in Bangladesh. Scuba diving among the sharks in Australia. Kayaking through the canals in Venice. His words yank me out of my fantasy world, leaving me with an inexplicable sense of yearning.
“That kind of impulsiveness is inexcusable,” he continues. “And I’ve determined that it was a one-time event and served its purpose.” Our eyes meet, and in his, I find determination. My stomach twists with unexpected disappointment.
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to remind him that it was his loss of control, not mine, that sparked the incident. So maybe an apology from him is in order. But I’m not so stupid as to demand one. Instead, I just nod and try to smile. “Yes, Mr. Wood, I understand.”
He slugs back a finger of whiskey and sets the tumbler on the coffee table with a heavy thud. What’s left of his ice tinkles against the glass. “Going forward, I expect complete professionalism. Clear?”
Not exactly, but I don’t give voice to the response. I keep telling myself that I’ve done nothing wrong—I didn’t throw myself at Mason, certainly didn’t ask to be—
My mouth goes dry.
—spanked.
I should be relieved that Mason doesn’t expect that kind of behavior, that our encounter was nothing more than a mutual indiscretion. But my over active imagination has already begun to imagine other indiscretions. Some of them taking place on this very plane.
My clit throbs.
It’s utterly ridiculous, because I should be relieved by his announcement. Instead, I find myself tremendously disappointed.
I cross my legs, aware of Mason’s eyes on me, and avert my gaze. In my peripheral vision, I can see his jaw clench, and I wonder if he’s remembering what it felt like to tan my ass. Whether he’s wishing he could do it again.
And again.
A sour laugh bubbles at the back of my throat.
My schoolgirl fantasies are yet another indication of my inexperience, another mark on my naivety. A man like Mason Wood isn’t attracted to girls like me. Spanking me was just a demonstration of his control, punishment for—
For what, exactly?
I shake my head and try to let it go. “Can you at least tell me where we’re headed?”
The muscles on Mason’s neck tighten into thick cords. “The location isn’t important,” he says. “You’ll need to memorize the information in those files before the retreat begins.”
“Retreat?”
Mason leans back in his chair. “A business retreat,” he says. “My partners and I take a three-day working vacation each year at this time.”
I knew that, of course, from my research. But he’s got me thrown off my game and my thoughts are totally scattered. I glance around the plane, expecting to find Lucas and Holden sprawled out on one of the leather couches. Rumor has it that Holden’s a pilot—could the two of them be in the cockpit?
A tremor of nervous energy shakes through me. For three days, I’ll be stranded with the three savvy businessmen responsible for the groundbreaking success of Daylight Holdings. A company forged in friendship, and bonded by tragedy.
Be the sponge, Olivia.
Mason pours another shot of whiskey and slugs it back. He points to the bottle with question, and I shake my head. My stomach is already twisted in knots. Adding alcohol is a sure-fire way to induce vomit, and retching all over my new boss won’t earn me any additional points in professionalism.
“What would you like me to do for you these next few days?” I ask. And then to clarify further, I say, “Once I memorize all of the information you’ve given me, that is.”
Mason stares at me a long beat, expression unreadable. He leans forward and taps the stack of folders piled neatly on the table between us. “This is a year’s worth of transactions,” he says. “Read them very carefully.” He takes another pull of whiskey. “By morning, you’ll be expected to provide a broad overview of the company’s performance over the past twelve months.”
My chest tightens. “What specifically am I looking for?”
“Anything. And everything,” Mason says, his blue eyes turning to ice. “Market patterns. Indicators we may have missed that gave our competitors an advantage, however subtle.”
My lips part. “But that kind of analysis could take forever.”
Mason glances at his watch. “You’ve got seven hours.”
It’s not enough time. My eyes flit to the stack of folders, at least a foot high, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles. There must be a thousand pages of paper or more. “You’ve asked the impossible.”
Annoyance flashes in Mason’s eyes and I recoil. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you, then.”
I bite my lip.
“You demanded an opportunity to prove to me that you have what it takes to make it as a day trader,” he says. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable under pressure. “Memorize the files, Miss Landers.” He leans in close, his breath warm across my cheek. “Impress me.”
Chapter 9
With the gauntlet now thrown, I forge my plan. First, I will arrange the folders by date, creating a visual timeline. I like structure. Organization.
Mason’s files are anything but organized.
On a separate note pad, I jot down terms with which I’m not familiar. On another piece of paper, I write questions, the bulk of which I hope to answer by reading the files rather than asking Mason for help or waiting for access to Wi-Fi.
I glance up and find Mason engrossed in the latest issue of the Wall Street Journal. He peeks over the top of the newspaper and lifts an eyebrow. Quickly, I look down. It’s been like this for the past hour, a frustrating game of cat and mouse. I’ll feel the weight of his stare on me, but when I try to meet his gaze, he pretends not to be paying attention.
It’s getting harder to pretend to ignore him, though.
I set my working file on the coffee table and stand, stretching my arms up over my head to ease the ball of tension knotted behind my shoulder blades. My blouse untucks and slides up my stomach to reveal my belly button. Mason’s eyes lock on it.
“Are you hungry?” I say, prepared to launch into my role as personal assistant. No time like the present.
His lips twist into a smirk. “Famished.” His eyes seem to be devouring me.
My knees buckle a little, and I’m grateful to be sitting. Rattled, I turn away to mask how the effect of his voice and that one gloriously sexy word.
“Can I get you anything?”
“My chef has prepared a light lunch,” he says. “You’ll find it in the fridge.”
In the three-hour flight so far, I haven’t caught so much as a glimpse of another human. If not for the clouds floating past the windows, it would be easy to forget that we’re even on a plane. It strikes me that I’ve already become too comfortable here, the novelty of a private jet fading under the expectation of my monumental task.
A generous spread of meats, bit-sized sandwiches, and various cheeses layers a platter tucked in the back of a full-size stainless steel fridge. I remove it, along with a bowl of fruit salad, and carry them back to a gleaming table, along with two small plates, napkins, and cutlery.
Mason plucks a grape out of the bowl and pops it into his mouth. I’m strangely mesmerized by the way he chews, watching, breathless, as it slides down his throat. A half-day worth of stubble peppers his neck and chin, giving him a ruggedness that wars with the crisp business persona portrayed in the magazines and newspapers.
I stab at a chunk of orange fruit with my fork and hold it up for inspection. Then draw it close to my nose and take a sniff.
Mason regards me with cool amusement.
A ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “What kind of fruit is this?”
“Passion,” he says.
My mouth goes dry and my nipples stiffen. “Oh.”
After a few moments of silence, Mason dabs his mouth with a crisp white linen napkin. “Did you enjoy it?”
I tilt my head in confusion.
“The passion,” he says.
Not for the first time, I find myself speechless, and my thoughts turn to my sister for distraction. Renee would know how to handle this situation. She’d have a flippant reply, some kind of clever response. Her flirtatious instinct is clearly a characteristic she picked up from Dad, while I’m more like my mother—awkward, shy, reserved. Dad was her first boyfriend, and there’s been only a few men around since their divorce.
I shift in my seat, igniting the stinging sensation in my buttocks, still feeling the lingering effects of Mason’s palm on my ass. “I did. But I suppose I’ll only get to have it this one time.”
Mason’s eyes flash. “Then again, life always takes unexpected twists and turns.”
The dual meaning of our conversation doesn’t go unnoticed, but rather than engage in further verbal innuendo, I choose to quit while I’m ahead. This conversation has already jarred me out of my comfort zone and I’m apt to blow it.
Besides, Mason was so clear that we are to remain professional from now on. Whatever it was that happened between us, the man didn’t want anymore of it.
Not from me, anyway.
I finish eating and return to my notes, focusing on the numbers and statistics that will form distinct patterns and help to predict trends. Renee always says I have a knack for making numbers dance. Fitting, since my heart feels like its trapped in an endless pirouette.
Push aside my conflicting feelings about Mason, and I can dig down to the root of my fluttering nerves. I’m doing this—learning how to be a day trader with one of the world’s most successful hedge funds and the hottest trader on the planet. It’s hard not to get excited.
No, the circumstances aren’t perfect. Mason is intimidating and relentless.
But at least I’m here.
I glance up and study Mason’s chiseled jaw. The way it tenses and relaxes as he scrolls through his phone, flicking his thumb across the small keyboard with lightening precision. Is he completing a transaction right now? As the ocean sprawls out beneath us, has Mason just completed a multi-million-dollar trade?
My chest tightens with excitement.
But then the plane takes a sharp nosedive and my stomach flips. As we begin our descent, it strikes me that I still have absolutely no idea where we’ll land—and for the first time in my life, I’m actually thrilled to not know what’s going to happen next.
Chapter 10
Lucas and Holden are not what I expect. And it’s clear from their terse handshakes and tight-lipped fake smiles that they aren’t expecting me at all.
Lucas barely looks at me, which allows me to stare brazenly at the black t-shirt not quite hidden by his suit jacket. An odd pairing, perhaps, but it certainly works for him. He runs his hand through his hair, as if to remove any of my germs transferred in our brief exchange. “This is unexpected, Mason.”
By this, I think he means me, and while there’s obviously something attractive about Lucas, I form an instant opinion of distaste. It’s easy to see how the three have remained friends—a cool, impersonal aura threads through them like antifreeze—but while Lucas and Holden are gorgeous in their own right, neither of them makes my stomach flutter with anticipation. I don’t long for them to smack my ass until I writhe under an orgasm that makes my knees go weak.
Still, it’s clear why they’ve earned their Playboy reputations.
Within a few minutes of entering the hotel lobby, several women have cast lustful glances their way—and daggers of jealousy at me.
“Staff are not generally permitted on this particular retreat,” Holden says, by way of explanation. The words are aimed at me, but he looks at Mason instead, his eyes reflecting a quiet challenge I suspect has been the foundation for a friendship marked with a constant battle of the wits. As much as they are the same, their differences begin to seep through. I catalogue them for future reference, pegging Lucas as a hothead and Holden the brooding macho man.