Hawkeye: Stargazer Alien Mail Order Brides #9 (Intergalactic Dating Agency)

by Tasha Black

“Hmm,” he paused, and turned to her, considering. “Nice touch, Cord.”

  His teasing smile had tickled her insides, even though she knew he would have given the exact same smile to any woman he met without a thought.

  Westley Worthington didn’t have to think about much.

  But Cordelia had spent enough time around him to know he was very, very smart, all the same.

  “Thank you,” she said, and looked down at her feet.

  The less she said to West, the less likely he was to fire her. He fired plenty of people - many of them for good reason. But some just because he didn’t like them. It seemed that he liked Cordelia, or at least he respected her. And in his world that was probably more important than liking.

  She certainly didn’t want to rock the boat. However hard it might be to work for him, she would never find another job in this economy at even half the salary he provided.

  Since the zoo went under, there weren’t exactly a ton of job openings for someone with her qualifications. And her sister’s situation made the idea of relocating unthinkable. At least she could type, and didn’t mind the crazy hours.

  The elevator dinged, snapping her out of her reverie. Cordelia plastered on her most professional smile as the doors slid open.

  “Welcome, ladies,” she said as the six dancers stepped out. “Mr. Worthington is so glad that you could make it. He’s on an important call at the moment, but I’m here to show you around and explain a few ground rules for your visit.”

  Mr. Worthington was always on an important call at the beginning of these things.

  The girls looked back at her in stunned silence. With their hair down and street clothes on, they somehow looked even younger and thinner than they had on stage.

  Cordelia wanted nothing more than to pack them up some dinner and send them on their way. But she knew the women who came to the penthouse were always here of their own free will and she certainly hadn’t seen anyone freak out and leave in the middle of a party.

  Though crying on the way out wasn’t unheard of.

  “Of course the penthouse is full of priceless artwork and important artifacts. It goes without saying that visitors are not to touch the displays.”

  She pointed to an incredible fossil that occupied a huge chunk of the wall opposite the elevator. Captured forever in stone, it showed two dinosaurs, locked in mortal combat.

  In Cordelia’s opinion, the fossil ought to have gone straight to a museum. But the ranch owner who had found it on his land decided to auction it off. Mr. Worthington had been quite taken with it, and had outbid all the museums to buy it for his private collection.

  Before the auction there had been whispers that some wealthy philanthropist might buy the fossil and donate it to a museum. But when West Worthington won the auction no one even imagined that he would do anything but lock up his prize in luxury storage.

  Somehow, he had managed to make things even worse by leaving it out on display in the foyer of his opulent penthouse. Once a day, a maid dusted its glass case. Otherwise it lay ignored and vulnerable to Mr. Worthington’s fits of rage and his guests’ drunken debauchery.

  The ballerinas didn’t seem impressed.

  “The penthouse is quite spacious. However, your invitation extends only to the main floor,” Cordelia continued. “Under no circumstances may you go up or down any staircases during your visit unless you are accompanied by Mr. Worthington.”

  The ballerinas giggled nervously. They probably expected he would pick the prettiest one and take her upstairs. Boy, were they in for a surprise.

  By now, they had stepped out of the foyer and into the expansive living room. The ceiling, which was ample enough in the entry, soared up to a twenty foot height, and three massive walls of glass exposed the twinkling lights of the stars above and Glacier City below.

  Cordelia heard the expected gasps and sighs behind her. Giving the guests a chance to take in the view, she scanned the room to be sure everything was in order.

  The center of the room held a sunken conversation pit, lined with dozens of satiny pillows and encircled by an elaborately carved handrail.

  The mahogany tables along the back wall were covered in platters of vegetables and fruit. Miniature cut glass bowls surrounded gorgeous trifles of yogurt and colorful berries.

  Mr. Worthington’s childhood friend, Peter Watson, stood behind the fully stocked bar. He wore a well-tailored tuxedo and stared straight ahead in a very professional manner.

  Cordelia was pretty sure he was up to no good. She tried to convince herself this wasn’t another one of their juvenile wagers.

  But she knew better.

  Cordelia cleared her throat and the dancers turned back to her. The way they clustered together and moved as one reminded her of a herd of gazelle: lithe, graceful, and totally unaware of the lion that waited in the next room.

  “Our final ground rule is that no guest is to contact Mr. Worthington after this evening. As you may imagine, he is a very busy man. Our head of security, Mr. Dalton, has your information and photographs on file in the lobby for security purposes. We do keep this information indefinitely. So, if Mr. Worthington wishes to contact you for any reason, you may rest assured that he has the means to do so.”

  There’s a first time for everything, Cordelia supposed.

  “Speaking of Mr. Worthington, I’m sure he’ll be here any moment. In the meantime, please help yourselves to the refreshments and I do hope you enjoy your evening.”

  She flashed them a smile once more before turning on her heel and heading for the foyer. She was paid, and handsomely, for all manner of nonsense. But there were still one or two things she would not bear witness to.

  2

  Westley Worthington strode in to the penthouse just as Cordelia was marching out.

  Her straw-colored hair brushed her shoulders in time with the disapproving rhythm of her walk. Her long tweed skirt swished and her ample breasts bounced almost hypnotically under her sweater. But the expression on her face made him feel like he’d just taken the ice bucket challenge.

  “Did you warm them up for me?” he joked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Her unbreakable restraint never failed to amuse him. West had gone through a personal assistant a month for years - even a couple of mad streaks where he ran one off every other day. But this one was different.

  She was smart.

  And she was clearly resolved to keep her cool at all costs.

  Which of course, made him all the more determined to get under her skin.

  “Hey, do you want to join in this time?” West offered with a suggestive wink.

  He waited for her inevitable No, thank you, sir. But it didn’t come.

  Instead, she blushed deeply and kept walking.

  West was surprised to momentarily feel like an asshole for embarrassing her.

  But it was amazing how quickly those kinds of feelings passed if you pushed them aside. And West was very good at pushing them aside.

  When he’d found out his family’s money came from selling bad mortgages, he’d managed to get over that.

  And now that his dad was in jail, the money belonged to West. He could have used it to try and do some good but what was the use? Everyone knew the Worthingtons were a bunch of thieves -probably no one would have taken his dirty money anyway.

  Instead, he had settled into a life of excess, punctuated by work benders in which he would disappear into the office and not emerge for days.

  He had a serious talent for finance, as it turned out.

  And a voracious appetite for ballerinas.

  He took a deep breath and turned the corner from the foyer into the living room.

  The dancers were exclaiming over the yogurt. Each clutched a tiny crystal bowl of yogurt with fruit and a miniature silver spoon.

  With their hair down over their flat chests and the tiny utensils in their hands, they looked sort of like kids having a tea party. West got his second surprise pang of conscience
of the evening.

  Before he could examine his feelings, one of them spotted him and squealed.

  “Hi, Mr. Worthington.”

  The tallest of the group approached him with a confidence the others seemed to lack.

  “I’m Alais. Thank you for the party.”

  Her French accent was exquisite.

  “Hello, Alais. You’re a beautiful dancer.”

  He didn’t actually know which fucking one she was. They all looked the same onstage and the whole thing had been boring as hell - one emaciated woman after another being tossed around by bored-looking guys in tights all set to classical music.

  But fucking a ballet company was on his bucket list, and they certainly looked athletic enough to make it worth his while.

  Peter stood in the corner behind the bar, clearly making an effort to look indifferent and professional. These dancers were totally Peter’s type. Peter had asked him like it would be a favor - if West would “let” him watch. But of course West knew Peter would be tormented having to watch without participating. Knowing that ought to have been part of the pleasure for West.

  But tonight he just couldn’t get into it. Maybe he had finally become so depraved that he couldn’t find a bright enough spark to ignite himself.

  His mind crept back to Cordelia. Was he feeling like this just because of her thinly veiled disapproval? That seemed unlikely, she never approved of any of his escapades. Still, it was probably better to fire her, just in case.

  Strangely, the thought brought him no joy. Maybe he was coming down with something.

  The dancers were all abandoning the tables and padding over to him. The smallest one couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old. She peeked at him from behind her colleagues, her blue eyes twinkling with fear and excitement.

  “Come closer girls,” West heard himself say. “There’s a secret that no one knows about me. But I know ballerinas are very disciplined. Can you keep my secret?”

  They murmured softly and nodded their heads eagerly.

  “Do you see that man over there?” West pointed to Peter.

  West didn’t like to play with his food, but there was no sense in letting a buffet like this go to waste just because he wasn’t hungry.

  “That’s the real Mr. Worthington,” he whispered conspiratorially.

  Gasps and smiles.

  Peter’s jaw clenched at the lie, but he kept looking stoically forward.

  “You see,” West explained, “Mr. Worthington is very wealthy. It’s not safe for him to reveal his face to the public, so ever since he was a boy I have been his stand-in.”

  Alais nodded sagely.

  “He’s even more handsome than I am, don’t you think?”

  They all giggled.

  “I’m going to go over there and make you all some drinks.” He turned to address Peter. “Mr. Worthington, the ladies understand now. I’m ready to take your place.”

  Peter looked at him in wonder.

  Then he dashed out from behind the bar before West could change his mind.

  West had a momentary feeling of benevolence followed by the dark certainty that he’d just thrown these girls out of the frying pan and into the fire. Also, he had tricked them into star-fucking the wrong guy.

  He reached under the bar and retrieved the bottle of good scotch he’d stashed there earlier. It would have been wasted on the present company. He poured himself two fingers and leaned casually on the bar.

  Peter was already in the pit. He fumbled with his bow tie, until one of the dancers offered to do it for him. He grinned, as another practically shoved the first one off.

  “Easy girls, there’s enough wild West for everyone,” he joked.

  They all giggled generously at his dumb joke and the two girls removed his tie together.

  West could almost feel their little fingers on his own chest, like spiders.

  The buzz of his phone distracted him and he slipped it out of his pocket.

  There were about four hundred messages in his inbox but he didn’t feel like thinking about work this week.

  There were also a couple of texts. Cordelia had texted him earlier, but he had ignored it. Something about plans for a meeting tomorrow that he had no intention of attending.

  Thinking of Cordelia and her blushing was weirdly compelling.

  Instead of listening to Peter try to convince the two girls to kiss each other to “make up” for their tussle, he found himself replaying the scene with Cordelia in slow motion - her lips parting slightly and the blood staining her cheeks.

  Impulsively, he texted her.

  Sure you don’t want to join me? ;)

  There was no reply, though he could see the message had been read almost instantly. He couldn’t deny that she was a model employee.

  In the pit, the two girls were actually kissing each other now for his friend’s amusement. Peter tentatively stroked their hair, his face slack with wonder.

  Lame.

  As if sensing his gaze, Peter looked up at West helplessly.

  It was probably uncomfortable for him to have this experience in front of his friend. But West didn’t really give a fuck. Peter was lucky West was amused - he could still put a stop to it at any moment. The rich guy giveth, the rich guy taketh away.

  The buzz of his phone drew his attention away again.

  No, thank you, sir.

  Christ.

  Get in here NOW.

  He idly wondered if he’d finally found the button to push that would send her out the door. Despite his earlier thoughts about firing her, he had to admit, she ran things really well. It would suck to watch Dalton try to train the next one. Dalton always got really pissy when he had to do most of the PA’s work.

  A slight movement in the doorway caught his eye.

  Cordelia stepped into the room, her face beet red, her eyes glued to the floor.

  “Cord.”

  She turned and seemed surprised to see him behind the bar.

  “You know how to make girly drinks, right?”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  She looked up at him in confusion.

  “What did you do at night while you were in college, study?”

  “My degree is in Wildlife Biology and Conservation, with a specialization in Applied Animal Behavior and Cognitive Studies. I was part of a work study program to pay my tuition, and I volunteered every weekend at a local wildlife refuge.”

  Jesus, what a mouthful. Her voice was ice.

  “So not a lot of time mixing drinks?” he teased.

  “Not unless you count mixing formula for abandoned gray wolf pups after their mother got caught in a poacher’s snare. Or mixing the proper dose of tranquilizer to take down a full grown grizzly bear.”

  West didn’t count either of those things.

  “Well, today you’re going to learn,” he said.

  “Not unless it’s Shirley Temples I’m not.”

  Wow, she was pushing the envelope tonight.

  West looked at her. She glanced down at her hands in a respectful posture, but her lips pressed together in a straight line.

  “Some of them have to be twenty-one,” he reasoned.

  “Would you like me to text Dalton for their passport info?”

  “Sure,” he sighed, already exasperated.

  She slipped her phone out and began sliding her thumbs over it effortlessly. Her texting was so fast, it was mesmerizing.

  “Four Shirley Temples, two…girly drinks. All of them are at least eighteen.”

  He nodded and looked over at the pit again. Peter was finally making his move, kissing one of the two trouble-makers while the other stroked his chest. They were all so thin they almost looked like boys.

  West figured he’d thrown Peter the right bone. He preferred his starlets to these starved creatures - at least they looked like women.

  “Are amaretto sours okay, sir?”

  “Hmm?�
��

  “For the two girly drinks?”

  “Nah, White Russians.”

  “What about the calories?”

  “They could use the calories.”

  She smiled.

  The dancer who had introduced herself as Alais approached, a suspicious look clouding her delicate features.

  “That’s not Mr. Worthington.”

  ***

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  Tasha Black lives in a big old Victorian in a tiny college town. She loves reading anything she can get her hands on, writing paranormal romance, and sipping pumpkin spice lattes.

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