How transparent can those two be? They wear building security uniforms, but the nepotism of that is abhorrent because they’re Daniel Stryker’s errand boys through and through. They might wander the whole building, but everyone knows where their priorities lie. Which is what makes them dangerous. They’re not the brightest, but they’re loyal to a fault.
It’s not the dog that you should watch but the dog keeper.
And I can read between the lines. Regardless of how professional Daniel might talk or act, this is a fight where only one of us is going to emerge the victor.
Getting back to my office, Helen’s waiting for me, her purse already over her shoulder as it’s time for her to head home for the evening. “Sir, unless there’s anything else?”
I shake my head, stopping. “No. I’m going to stay late. Think I’ll grab some coffee, but I’ll get it myself.”
“Coffee?” Helen asks, surprised. “Last time you did that, you gave me a ten-minute lecture on how it can’t compare to a ‘proper cuppa tea’.”
“It doesn’t, but I need the caffeine. Long night ahead. Please go home and enjoy your evening because we’ll have some work to do tomorrow.”
She smiles, looking excited, and though I don’t tell her how the meeting went, I know she can read me well enough to know that I’m happy with the outcome.
I escort her to the elevator and see her out for the evening as I head to the executive-level breakroom. It’s not my usual domain as Helen would typically get anything I need, but I can figure out the basics of the fancy machine.
A few minutes later, I have a cup of bitter bean brew that I’ve sweetened with a ridiculous amount of cream and sugar. It might as well be melted coffee ice cream in a mug, but the combination will hopefully serve me while I work.
I sip at the disgustingly sweet concoction as I walk down the hall back toward my office. I pause in my outer office, though. Helen is gone, her desk neat and tidy, but my door is cracked open. She would never leave my office unattended without closing the door.
From inside, I hear a murmuring voice. A feminine voice, and was that . . .
A giggle?
Chapter 4
Elle
It’s crazy. It’s stupid, and I know better.
But sure enough, that buzz is rushing through me. Anticipation, excitement, restlessness. And the whole elevator ride, I’m plotting. Make my mark, Tiffany said. But how?
That’s the million-dollar question.
I could do something silly and annoying, like jam his photocopy machine?
Or leave him a note?
Hey, Mr. Sexy Ass Wolfe, you ignored my trying to hit on you so I’m going bold and brazen. Call me sometime. Anytime.
Or maybe he’ll be in his office and I can accidentally knock something off his desk and try the swaying ass routine again? It’s never failed me before, and I refuse to believe the ass I work so hard for has lost its powers of flirtation.
I eye the camera in the corner of the elevator, wondering if I could get in a few extra squats between the ground floor and the fifth. Deciding that it’d be weird if security is watching, I clench my pelvic muscles and butt instead. Nobody even has to know when you’re doing Kegels. But all that serves to do is rush blood to my core, something I need no help with when the possibility of seeing Colton looms.
I have to corral an eye roll at how absurd this all sounds.
I mean, what chance does a nobody like me have with a hotshot like Colton?
He’s sex in a suit, cocky arrogance in a blue Lotus as he pulls into the parking lot each day, and he’s infuriatingly unaffected by me. Why the hell is that so sexy? It shouldn’t be. Asshole douche is so not my type.
But somehow, Colton Wolfe is.
Or I imagine him to be.
But who does something like this? Even on a dare, this is my job we’re talking about.
Tiffany’s voice echoes in my ear, the devil on my shoulder doing her job as my dealer of adrenalin and unexpected thrills.
“Don’t look nervous! You live for this shit. Walk right up there and tell that boy you think he is hotter than Carolina Reaper wing sauce and you want his bangers and mash.” She licks her fingers like she’s eating some especially messy wings, or maybe mashed potatoes. I’m not sure which is more worrisome.
“Ooh, I can’t wait to hear about what you do. Pictures or it didn’t happen. I trust you, but I need proof. Especially if you see his banger.”
Hearing the bell ding on the elevator, my blood becomes alive, tingling and pounding as it rushes through my ears.
The executive floor is quiet and deserted, surprisingly so for just after five o’clock. So much for the hard-working executives, I think wryly.
I hear a shuffle on the plush carpet and look down the empty hallway.
Oh shit, there’s Dad!
Before I can even decide to do so, I duck into a doorway and hide. I don’t even know why. It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. I’m delivering a file, just like my boss instructed me to do. But with all the weird thoughts running through my head, I reverted to the teenager who was constantly trying to pull one over on Dad.
I press a hand to my chest, feeling my heart race and my breath coming too fast.
From afar, I hear Dad say, “C’mon, Ricky! We’ve got five miles to get through before dinner.”
Dad’s a runner, much to Ricky’s not-delight. Ricky’s more linebacker than pacer, but he makes do, and according to his own brags, he’s getting better at keeping up with Dad.
Their footsteps get further away, and I chance a peek out of my hidey-hole. They’re heading down the stairs, probably as a warm-up. Tiffany will be overjoyed because the stairwell pops out into the ground floor lobby. I can hear her moaning and groaning about how hot Dad’s ass is already, which makes me dread the ride home.
Once I’m in the clear, I walk quickly into Colton’s office.
The outer office is empty, a single nice but pretty standard desk standing like a sentry to the left of his door, everything neatly in its place.
“Damn, his secretary must be a former drill sergeant,” I murmur as I look at the immaculate desk. The nameplate is polished gold and engraved in a fancy script. Helen Riggs.
With no one here to stop me, there’s no turning back now. One, two . . .
The door opens with a soft click, and I step inside to reveal a beautiful office. Everything’s classic, with three of the walls paneled in rich, dark wood, while the back wall’s a floor to ceiling window overlooking the canyon. Brass trimmings and accents are everywhere. One section of the wall is a bookshelf, and every book is leather bound, perfectly aligned and immaculate.
And his desk . . . my God, you could throw a dinner party on Colton’s desk and still have room for a huge platter of turkey in the middle. Even his chairs are exquisite, smelling of fine leather and gleaming arrogantly in the sunlight from the oil rubbed into each and every square inch of the material. On one corner is a rather modest-sized trophy, with a wide bowl that almost looks like a candy dish except for the wooden base and brass plate underneath. Moving closer, I can read the inscription. All-Britain University Boxing Champion, 78 kg.
Colton Wolfe really is a badass.
I can’t help myself. I pick up the trophy, hoisting it over my head like I just won a boxing match myself.
Fuck, this thing’s heavy.
I set it back down with a glance behind me. Still nobody around.
I should set the file folder down and get out of here, but I don’t. Instead, I walk behind the desk and sit in the luxurious chair, pretending something quite different for a moment.
After setting the file on the center of the desk, I lean back in the chair, feeling it tilt supportively under my weight. After a brief moment, I go even further, putting my heeled feet up on Colton’s desk.
I’m pushing it already. I know it, but fuck, it feels good. So much danger feels so good. I feel alive.
A frame on the desk catches my eye, and
I sit upright to get a better look. It’s a young girl, probably a teenager, and for a moment, I wonder if I somehow missed that Colton has a daughter. I search my brain for what I do know about him, which is admittedly a lot for someone who’s never so much as looked at me.
I’m not ashamed of it. Google and I have had more than one late night search on the name Colton Wolfe. Sometimes to read what public information is out there, which is surprisingly little, and sometimes for a little photographic inspiration for my solo hands-on maneuvers.
But I’ve never read about a daughter.
I make a mental note to add that to my search this evening, because there will definitely be some action after sitting in his seat, smelling the combination of his cologne and leather, and imagining him bending me over his desk.
I look around the room, seeing a brass plate on one wall, and I feel drawn to it. I walk across the thick carpet, my footsteps silent. Reaching out, I see it’s a hidden latch and pull it open to reveal a high-tech information center.
“Whoa.”
Miranda would have a shitfit for a setup like this in our office. We’ve got Big Bertha, and she’s a hell of a copy machine, but Colton’s private setup is sleek and obviously top-notch technology.
A devious thought comes to mind, courtesy of my own waywardness, but I mentally blame it on Tiffany.
I could copy my ass. And leave a rather direct image of what Colton’s missing on his desk. Anonymously, of course.
I’m not stupid. Well, at least not stupid enough to leave my name and number, as Tiffany suggested.
But the idea is gaining steam. One side of my brain’s trying vehemently to talk myself out of it, while the other side cheers loudly about what a great idea it is.
One extra copy for Tiffany would be all the proof I’d need. And Colton would never know who it was.
It’s very Cinderella-esque. Though my ass is better than any old glass slipper.
I eye the machine, which looks delicate, considering I’m thinking of sitting on it. With a thrill, I realize I’m wearing pretty scandalous underwear too. As if copying my ass isn’t scandalous enough already.
I’m getting fired. This is stupid . . . and crazy . . . and a myriad of other adjectives that all end the same way. I’m so getting fired.
But I hike my skirt up anyway, giggling as I stand on my tiptoes and just barely wedge myself into the gap created by the lid of the machine and the wall.
I fumble for the buttons, pressing twice so that I get one for Colton and one as proof for Tiffany. Then, before I can second guess myself, I hit the big green button.
To my right, paper spits out remarkably fast. “Aaaand, that’s my ass and a fair amount of hoo-ha too.”
I consider grabbing the papers and making a run for it. I can still pretend this never happened.
But fate conspires against me. Or maybe there’s some karmic bad luck to being a crazy bitch because the machine starts spitting out copies well beyond the two I requested.
“Oh, shit!” I exclaim. “No!”
But fate is a fickle bitch with an odd sense of humor because a slight breeze comes in through the window I hadn’t even realized was open, blowing the stack of copies all over the room.
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” I mutter, trying to snatch them all. Out of the air, off the floor, and even off the desk, where I accidentally knock the picture of Colton’s maybe-daughter to the floor.
I don’t even take the time to wiggle my skirt back down because being ass in the wind is the least of my problems as the machine continues to spit out copies. I press madly on the buttons and even reach behind it to shut it off, praying that if I can just cut the power, the copies will stop coming.
It’s then that I hear it.
With my naked ass up in the air as I bend over the copy machine that’s still spitting out the obscene image of my most private parts that wallpaper the fancy room of my boss.
“What the bloody hell are you doing?”
I freeze, stopping my wiggling reach for the off button at the voice from behind me. The very deep, sexy, British voice.
Looking over my shoulder toward the door, I go pale.
“Well?” Colton demands.
His bark breaks my paralysis, and I hop off the machine. Unfortunately, my lack of grace catches up to me once again, and I stumble over my own feet. I try to catch myself, but my legs are as useless as a newborn colt’s and I tumble to the ground in a half-naked heap.
Suddenly, there’s a pissed off handsome face standing over me.
How the fuck does he look so hot when he’s angry?
It’s my last semi-pleasant thought before another screams loudly through my mind . . .
I’m getting fired.
And then . . .
Dad’s going to be so pissed at me.
Chapter 5
Colton
The sight before me would be amusing, and perhaps a part of me is chuckling inside, if it wasn’t so utterly brazen . . . and bizarre.
I’m nearly a hair’s breadth from calling on security to have this woman promptly hauled off, but the ridiculous antics intrigue me enough to find out what prompted this outrageous venture.
Admittedly, her delectable ass might play a part in that decision to wait as well, I think as I pick up one of the dozens of copies of her round ass split down the middle by a shadow that appears to be a lace thong.
I shut the door behind me, closing us both into my private space. A threat to us both, but I’m decidedly in charge here.
“Holy shit,” the blonde whispers from the floor, her legs dangerously askew.
I silently walk over and shut off the copy machine, and the whirring noise quiets, tragically ending the additions to the stack of copies in the tray.
I continue my trek, first closing the window and then sitting at my desk. I sip at my too-sweet coffee as if I haven’t a care in the world. “Clean up your mess.”
The order is cold, and I swear I detect the slightest shiver through the woman’s body. I don’t dare get close enough to help her up, knowing that would be a fool’s errand and a sure-fire way to ‘have your hand caught in the cookie jar’. An American phrasing I find rather amusing.
She huffs haughtily as she flips over, much like a tortoise who’s stuck on its back. On all fours, it almost seems as though she sways her bare ass at me in one last attempt at . . . whatever game it is she’s playing.
Seduction? If so, she is woefully clumsy and dependent on her rather pleasing looks. Or perhaps she has been sent to trap me in an unseemly situation.
Sabotage? Though she wasn’t going through my desk or personal files as a corporate spy would do. I glance at the black screen of my computer.
Maybe there’s another angle I haven’t deduced yet. Best to stay wary.
I watch carefully as she stands, pointedly wiggling her skirt over her ass as she glares at me as though this whole thing is my fault. She scrambles around the room, picking up the copies.
Mindlessly, she stacks them neatly with every few additions, automatically facing them the same direction and aligning the edges as though they’re significant. The unintentional action tells me something important about her. An attention to detail her current predicament contradicts.
As she works, she mutters to herself. “So fucking stupid, Elle. You’re going to get fired, and for what?” She throws her voice high, obviously mimicking someone. “Make your mark.” In her own sultry voice, she sneers, “Whatever the hell that means.”
Her conversation of one only intrigues me more.
Having collected all the copies, save the one in my hand, she faces away from me, her back ramrod straight, and I know she’s staring at the door and considering making a run for it.
With her not looking at me, I take the opportunity to glance from the copy I possess to the ass before me. Round, full globes that I could dent with my fingertips as I squeeze her, ones that would look quite lovely with a pink tint from a smack.
I
clear my throat and my mind of inappropriate thoughts. “I could call security if you’d like. We have two officers on this floor at all times.” I sound as if I couldn’t care less. Truthfully, I’m much more interested in handling this . . . whatever this is . . . myself.
I notice her shoulders tense at the mention of security, climbing a half-inch before she drops them heavily and turns around.
“No, sir. That won’t be necessary. I apologize—”
I cut off her useless apology. “Sit,” I say, gesturing to the chairs in front of my desk.
She freezes, and after a split second where I wait for her find her courage, I slam my hand on my desk, making everything bounce. The framed photo she reset on the corner falls facedown.
Her jump is a small victory. Her sitting down as requested is a larger one.
I peruse the photo in my hand like it’s a work of art, letting her watch me visually critique her sexy buttocks.
She interrupts me, apologizing again, though this time I swear she’s batting her lashes. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wolfe. I got carried away. It won’t happen again.”
“Your name,” I bark sharply, cutting her off.
“Elle Stryker,” she says, just as sharp. She might as well be giving me her name, rank, and serial number.
My heart stops as the name rings a bell. I blink, noticing the faint resemblance. On the surface, they’re nothing alike, him dark haired and her blonde, but there’s something about the intelligence lurking in her blue eyes. “Stryker . . . Daniel is your father?”
“Yes,” she answers automatically, but I can see the fear the admission causes.
But why fear? Because she’s been captured being Daniel’s insider, like his so-called bodyguards? Or fear that word of her inappropriateness will reach her father’s ears? Or something else?
A hundred scenarios play through my head, one of which says that Daniel was in on this whole bizarre incident to cause some sort of scandal that’d weaken my position with the company and ruin my chances of heading HQ2.
The Dare Page 5