by Cat Kelly
All these years she'd waited for uncomplicated desire—for a man to come along and sweep her off her feet so that she forgot everything and just let go. The only place she'd ever found it was at The Club in the hands of her boss, Jack Marchetti. As usual, there was nothing simple for her, nothing straightforward.
She definitely could not afford to fall head over heels for Mr. Marchetti. But boy did "Sir" know how to pleasure her pink.
* * * *
On Monday she met with the notorious Mrs. Bracknell. Chattering Christie had warned, "She's a sly old goat who knows everything about everyone. You'll remember her - she probably handed you your security pass when you started and made you fill out some forms, which are, by the way, obsolete. My theory is she does some sort of handwriting analysis on them for Marchetti. I'm surprised she doesn't ask for hair samples. She was old man Marchetti's personal secretary. Rumor has it she had a crush on him, carried a torch for thirty something years while he made his way through a procession of trophy brides. She's loyal to a fault. Make sure you don't say anything bad about the store or the brothers Marchetti. She'll turn your ass in to the big boss before the elevator makes it back to our floor."
Marianne assured her that she wasn't afraid of Mr. Marchetti.
"Well, you should be," came the anxiously whispered reply. "I've heard he only bothers to learn your name if he's planning to fire you."
She thought of his threat in the coffee shop. "He wouldn't dare."
"He wouldn't blink an eye. Everyone's terrified of that man. Why do you think Bob Dickwad Rawlings keeps his office door closed at the moment, even if it means he's missing whatever goes on out front? Just in case Marchetti comes down to the 16th and catches him chatting to teenagers on Zoosk." Christie shook her head. "Just be careful. Give him whatever he wants and mind your ps and qs as my granny used to say."
She supposed that was the way everyone treated Jack Marchetti. Again, she thought, must be nice.
Duly prepared, Marianne entered the sanctity of the 27th floor and looked for the skull and crossbones she fully expected to find pointing to Mrs. Bracknell's office. Instead she found a petite, smartly-dressed, elderly lady with sharp eyes and a tightly puckered mouth, waiting for her in the reception area.
"Miss Miller. There you are at last. Do come with me and we'll get started."
Marianne checked her watch three times, not aware that she was late. Nope, she was punctual.
They passed through the main floor and into what appeared to be nothing more than a filing room with a skylight.
"Please do sit." The other woman gestured to a chair beside a dusty potted plant that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be faux. "Mr. Marchetti tells me you require my assistance with this party planning committee."
"Yes, that would be great."
Mrs. Bracknell adjusted the dimpled cushion in her chair and sat. "I don't generally approve of office parties. Too much giddiness and license for bad behavior."
"Oh, I agree."
The woman looked at her sternly. "You do?"
"Definitely. Mixing work and play is a recipe for trouble."
"Well...since this is something Mr. Marchetti wants.... He always gets what he wants, of course."
"No doubt, that's what usually happens," Marianne replied crisply, already sick of hearing how Jack Marchetti got his own way and scared the pants off everyone else in the process.
"He's given you quite a task to pull it all together. I daresay you're feeling overwhelmed. I wonder how you happened to get the short straw."
"I think I was merely sitting in his line of sight. I learned my lesson." She gave a dry laugh. "It won't happen again."
"Most would envy you for being noticed, Miss Miller."
"Sure. Now I'm even more of an outsider, when I was just the new girl trying to fit in and keep her head down. I don't find it flattering that he delegated this to me."
Mrs. Bracknell shuffled papers on her desk. The angles of her face seemed to have lost some of their sharpness. Marianne had evidently surprised her. "Certainly got your work cut out for you. Can't please everyone, of course and anything goes wrong it will all be your fault."
"Exactly. But when it goes right Mr. Marchetti gets the credit." She smiled to take some of the sting out of her comment.
"Haven't been in the city long have you?"
"Since September."
The elderly secretary nodded, her eyes shrewdly observing Marianne through the top half of her bifocals. "Finding your way around?"
"Slowly. My brothers live in Queens."
"Queens?" The old lady turned her nose up. "Never mind."
"You live in Manhattan, Mrs. Bracknell?"
"I inherited a lovely old brownstone with three sub-tenants from Mr. Giacomo Marchetti senior. I have a full set of rooms on the ground floor."
Must have been more than a torch she carried, Marianne thought wryly.
"Now, let's see," Mrs. Bracknell flipped open a thick binder. "You'll need caterers and a location."
"Yes, but I'm supposed to put together a party planning committee. I don't know what the budget is yet."
"Trust me, you'll be better off making most of the major decisions before you put a committee together. Committees only gum up the works and delay everything. You tell them what you want, divide them up and assign them the legwork. That's the best use for a committee. Never let them actually make decisions or you won't have a party ready by next July." The elderly woman whirled around in her chair, picked up her phone and dialed one number. "Mr. Marchetti, what do we have to spend on this shebang of yours?" She listened, shaking her head. "Fine, if you think that. Yes. Yes she is."
Mrs. Bracknell stared at her with those small, beady eyes and Marianne clasped her fingers over her knee.
"Yes. I'll do what I can...Now why on earth would you ask me that?"
Marianne tucked her feet under her chair and pretended to find the dusty, plastic plant interesting. Her fingers curled around the narrow metal arms of the chair as she knew she was being discussed.
"I have nothing to say to that Mr. Marchetti. No, I will not. You'll have to find out for yourself."
It was suddenly very hot and close in that small office.
"I can't imagine, Mr. Marchetti. But I'm sure she'll manage. She seems capable," the other woman snapped sharply into the phone and hung up. She looked at Marianne. "He says you can spend whatever you want. Use your judgment. I have no idea what he's thinking, but there we are. It seems you have carte blanche. That's men for you." She sighed heartily. "Marchetti men in particular."
"He's here today?" Marianne asked, pulse beating like a pastry chef's egg whisk.
"Yes." Head jerk toward the wall. "In his office."
Shit. He was on the other side of those filing cabinets?
She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs.
"Everything alright?" Mrs. Bracknell demanded, peering over her lenses.
"Yep. Fine." She cleared her throat. "So...lets take a look at all those files and see what we can come up with. I'm really going to need your help to get through this. If you can spare some time to work with me, of course. I'd appreciate it very much."
The old lady looked surprised again. Then her lips—formerly pressed tight, ready to disapprove—reluctantly eased apart into the beginnings of a smile. "I'm sure I have the time. Don't worry. We'll manage. Women like us always do, don't they?"
Chapter Seven
The Proposition
He was waiting outside the room as she made her exit from Mrs. Bracknell's.
"Could I have a word?"
She shot him a sideways look that glanced off his cheek like a red-hot bullet. "Sure."
He signaled toward his office door and she walked through it, notebook held close to her chest, one hand flicking a pen nib in and out at staccato speed. Before Mrs. Bracknell could follow her inside, he shut the door. He'd asked the secretary what Marianne was wearing today and since she wouldn't tell him he had to find out fo
r himself.
"I've been thinking about what you said about the staff holiday party and I hope I haven't put too much into your lap, Ms. Miller."
There again, another of those shifty-eyed glances. "No. It's fine. I can manage. Mrs. Bracknell has been great."
"Good." He strode around his desk. Suddenly he wished he had more papers on there to fidget with, but it was cleaned off, polished. The desk of a man who didn't really need a desk but had one to look important behind. He caught her looking at it and saw the hint of a smirk, as if she shared the same thought. "I understand you're something of a whiz kid in Interior Design." Naturally he'd called Bob Rawlings earlier to get his take on the new hire.
"I wouldn't say I'm a whiz kid at anything." She flushed. Clearly she hadn't yet got the fever for banging her own drum. It was a welcome change to meet someone modest about her talents, but that would change eventually after a few years in the city. It would have to. He looked at her thoughtfully, reminded again of her youth and inexperience. She was smart yes, but not street smart. What she needed was someone to look out for her, guide her through the shark tank. He could actually be useful to her not just the pain-in-the-ass, old man she seemed to have labeled him.
"Bob Rawlings is very impressed with you. Says he's getting excellent feedback from clients."
"That's great." She managed a stiff, half smile. Anyone would think it cost her money. She was all closed up, knotted tight. On her guard.
Jack felt the urge to walk over to her and untie that tight ponytail. Then unbutton her blouse. Slowly. Licking each inch of skin as it was bared. Tasting her scent again. Nibbling on her silky lusciousness, making her moan again and come undone. All over his cleaned off desk. He'd spent his entire weekend missing her, he realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. How could that be when he'd only met her on Thursday evening and spoken briefly to her on Friday? How could he miss her already?
"It's nice to be appreciated," she added, very prim, very professional.
Another clear vision of the two of them together on his desk suddenly flashed through his mind. He saw himself covering her like a stallion over a mare, nipping her neck gently as he mounted her and his cock pushed slickly into her tight, hot, wet pussy.
He scratched his ear. Rather than sit, he'd walked behind his leather chair so that she wouldn't see his massive hard on. "Truth is, I thought I'd ask you to do something for me." Looking up he caught a sudden flare of panic cross her face. It was gone as quickly as it came. "To redecorate my apartment."
She stared at him. Aha. Eye contact at last. "Oh."
"Think you can fit me in?"
Her cheeks sucked inward slightly. "Fit you in?"
"If you're not too busy." He coughed, glanced down at his desk and then back at her again. "It's in the Park V Building, Fifth Avenue. I bought it a few years ago and the decor is probably out of date already." He smiled slowly. "I like to keep on top of... things."
Her eyes were sharp now. "I'm sure you do."
"Keep abreast..." he stared at the notebook she held to her chest and remembered the taste of her puckered nipples, the way she writhed and arched under him, "of the trends, etc. For resale, of course. I don't need you to touch the bones of the place, just the surface."
She finally stopped clicking that goddamn pen nib in and out. "Are you planning to sell soon?"
"Not yet. But you never know. It's time for a change. I figured you could look it over with a fresh pair of... eyes, a head full of new ideas. Lots of energy."
"I see." She paused, licked her lips. "And will Mr. Rawlings be working with me?"
"No. Just you. I only want you."
Ah, thus resumed the pen nib clicking.
"Thing is," he added, "I'm on a tight schedule and need it done by the end of the month. I know it's a tall order, but —"
"Will there be a fee, or am I doing this as part of my job? That will weigh heavily on whether or not I have the time, Mr. Marchetti. I'm sure you can understand that."
Jack leaned his forearms on the back headrest of his chair. "Why don't you go up there, take a look, get back to me with an estimate. If I like your figures, we'll take the other arrangements from there."
"Other arrangements?"
"The ins and outs. The up and downs. Of your schedule. There are other things I might need from you."
"Other things?"
"Well...as they...come up."
She approached his desk. "Fine. I'll go there on my lunch break and look around. How do I get in?"
Jack reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a small silver card. He handed it across the desk. "This is a key to the elevator that takes you up there. You'll have to sign in first with the concierge in the lobby and he'll show you where to go. I'll call him so he knows to expect you."
"What floor is the apartment?"
"Seventeenth." He smiled, holding onto one corner of the card key while she grabbed another. "And the eighteenth."
Finally she tugged the card out of his fingers. "Great." She turned away, but only walked a step before she turned back, "And Mr. Marchetti, you're lucky I have a sense of humor about these things or I could have taken offense at the half dozen innuendos with which you just amused yourself. I can see your apartment isn't the only thing that needs updating."
Having delivered that verbal slap, she walked out of his office with no further comment, her ponytail, and her ass, swaying with smug confidence.
Damn.
As his Grandma Boudreaux used to say, she'd left him hot and muggy as a July evening on the Louisiana bayou, with no air conditioning and no fans. He didn't even mind that she'd just accused his flirting skills of needing an update. She was right about that.
He laughed softly. At least she hadn't turned his apartment down. It was a start. But a start to what exactly he had no idea.
* * * *
Bob Rawlings saw her putting on her coat to leave at lunch and he stood in her door, hands in his pockets. "What did Marchetti want with you upstairs? I hear he called you in his office."
She carefully considered her response, knowing his nose would be pushed out of joint if he knew about the offer she'd just been made. Since she didn't even know yet if she would accept the job—or could accept it with a tight time line— she decided it was safer not to mention it. "He had a few ideas about the Centennial party and wanted to know how the plan was coming along."
Bob leaned against the doorjamb. "Wanna watch yourself there, Miller."
"Oh? Why?"
"The boss has his eye on you." He leered. "Tread with caution."
She briskly knotted her belt. "I don't know what you mean."
"You may not have learned this yet, my prim little lady, but favor can be taken away just as quickly as it's given out. Wouldn't want you to get on his bad side. The drop is just as steep as the sudden rise."
Marianne wondered if he got his sayings from a wall calendar. "Thanks. I'll bear it in mind."
"But of course, if you subjugate yourself to his every need you could last for years. Like Bracknell and Old Marchetti. She devoted her life to the old scoundrel. Gave up her own happiness and danced to Marchetti's tune."
"Right."
"So make sure you don't neglect your own needs. Even a starchy, somber girl like you has needs."
She walked to the door and waited for him to let her through, but he remained in her way. His eyes gleamed hotly down at her and she could smell whiskey.
"You need to get out more, Miller. You're working too many late hours here in the office. First one in, last to leave." He laughed unpleasantly. "I'd hate to see you becoming a dried up, frosty old spinster like Bracknell."
"Excuse me."
"You know," he leaned closer, grinning. "I can give you what you need, Miller, and I won't demand a lifetime of servitude in payment. All you need do is ask."
"I'll let you know if I ever need your help," she muttered. "Excuse me. I have an appointment to get some genital warts remo
ved."
He squinted, clearly not knowing whether to believe her for a second. Then he snorted, swayed and stepped out of her way. She left her office, staring grimly ahead. Why the hell had Bob Rawlings hired her when he evidently wanted to hold her back and was nervous about competition? In her corner vision she saw him slouch back into his own office and shut the door. Back to his online porn, probably. She knew he'd bribed one of the IT guys into removing his security firewall—heard him doing it one night when she happened to be working late in her office and he didn't know she was around.
David joined her as she was stepping into the elevator. "Don't worry about Dickwad Rawlings," he exclaimed. "Everyone knows what he is, honey. We all just ignore him and get on with it."
"Why doesn't anyone complain to Marchetti?"
The little man shrank back, dramatically holding his throat. "Who complains to Marchetti about anything? You want to keep your job, you keep smiling and act like everything's just fine. Listen, I've put up with that jerk Rawlings for ten years. Picked up his messes, smoothed out his mistakes. I'm just waiting for the day his liver gives out or his wife puts a knife in his back. Whichever happens first."
"But in the meantime he harasses people and doesn't do his job."
David widened his eyes. "Welcome to the real world, honey-buns."
* * * *
The concierge was an eager, upbeat fellow who clearly took pride in his job in one of the most luxurious apartment buildings in the city.
"Mr. Marchetti's place covers twelve thousand square feet over two entire floors," he said, marching her to the private elevator.
"A lot of space for one man." Even if he does have a big head and a big—
"Can't argue with you there, lady. I keep telling him he needs company."
"I suppose he can always talk to himself. That way he's always got someone to agree with him."
The man looked puzzled and then, evidently deciding to simply ignore her comment, he continued with his tour guide spiel. "He's got five thousand square feet of terraces and roof deck. Five bedrooms and seven full baths." He nodded briskly. "'Bout time he had someone in to renovate. I've been telling him for years." He showed her how to use the card key in a slot by the elevator doors and they slid open almost silently. "You make sure he doesn't distract you. I know how he is with the ladies." He gave her a jaunty grin and a wink.