Falling for Sir

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Falling for Sir Page 12

by Cat Kelly


  She saw his phone and slowed up, but didn't leave.

  Ms. Miller was in a bad mood it seemed. Arms folded, foot tapping, she waited for him to get done with his call. He wondered vaguely where Mrs. Bracknell might be as she usually headed off anyone who tried entering his office unannounced. She was very effective security and had been known to utilize a flying tackle.

  But today Mrs. Bracknell's concern for his privacy was curiously absent.

  "Ok, Leo. That sounds great. I think so too. We'll talk further, but I have someone waiting for me right now and I—ok. Thanks for returning the call. You too. Bye." He ended his call and tossed his phone onto the desk. "Ms. Miller, I'm tempted to ask, in my sternest tones, what can be the meaning of this?" He smiled.

  She looked incredibly hot when she was angry. But then she always looked hot.

  "Why are you staking out my apartment?"

  Wow. Cut to the chase again. She really did not waste time getting to the point. "Staking out your apartment?" Jack's mind scrambled for any possible excuse.

  "I've seen your car twice now. For all I know you could have been out there more often. Why?"

  He said nothing, lost for words and excuses.

  "We talked about the rules already," she added. "Remember?"

  Jack leaned back in his chair, one ankle resting across his knee, feigning a casual pose. He realized he was beginning to like the way she chastised him, like a schoolmistress. He rubbed his chin with two fingers, considering her carefully. He suspected she had no idea how sexy she looked in those blouses. If she meant the sheer number of buttons to be a warning, she made a mistake. For him it was merely enticement—a challenge. Same with her long skirts and her stern pout.

  "We did talk about the rules," he admitted finally. Still he didn't know if she referred to The Club's rules of no contact outside, or of her rules about not dating from work. "I just wanted to make sure you got home alright last night. But I guess you're going to say you can look after yourself and I'm an old man who should butt out."

  She was breathing hard. He could see her fingers digging into her folded arms. "I did get home alright. No thanks to Mr. Rawlings. Frankly he's a menace. I didn't want to file an official complaint, because I haven't been here very long and I've been advised against wasting my time, but he's making my life impossible." Abruptly she stopped and swallowed, her eyelashes lowered. He got the sense that she hadn't meant to say that much.

  "Do you want me to fire him?"

  Up flicked her lashes and her eyes widened. "I don't think that's necessary, but he could benefit from some sort of reprimand. I'm sure I'm not the first woman he's pestered."

  "No." He groaned, linking his hands behind his head. "I'm sure."

  "I don't want him to lose his job, but I don't want to lose mine either."

  Jack nodded slowly. "You like it here at Marchetti's?"

  She took a breath. "Yes." Again with the eyelids lowered, pensive, hiding. "I do."

  He had to do something about Rawlings, he realized. No putting it off any longer. No more hoping it would resolve itself somehow, or just stop. Rawlings may have worked under his father for years and done great things once in his life. But he was a shadow of the man he used to be. Ignoring that fact wasn't helping Bob, or any of his employees. Or, ultimately, the store.

  She was biting her lip. "You were just on the phone with Leo Peterson, weren't you? My old boss."

  "Yes. Great guy."

  "Why?"

  "Checking up on your references," he admitted. "Actually I wondered if you might want to go back to Grant Peterson. If they offered you a better position and a higher salary. I understand we stole you away. Leo would love to have you back."

  Her eyes were bright, wondering. Her mouth twitched. "Why would I want to go back there? You just asked me if I liked it here."

  Jack got out of his chair and walked around the desk, unable to keep his distance from her. "But if you don't work for me anymore I don't have to abide by your damn rules do I?"

  She colored, licked her lips, took a step back. "What?"

  "If I send you back to Grant Peterson, I can take you out to dinner. Can’t I?"

  For a long moment she was silent, just staring at him. Then she muttered, "They don't even have a branch in New York city. I'd have to go to Boston or Philadelphia."

  As if distance mattered to him. He laughed softly. "I'd go anywhere you needed me to be, if you said yes."

  * * * *

  She'd lost the feeling in her arms and hands because they were folded so tightly, her fingers gripping too hard, like claws. "Yes to what?"

  "A date. Dinner. A movie. Theater. Boat ride, petting zoo, apple picking. Rollerblading. Heck, even a pottery class." He gave her a rueful smile that made him look boyish. "Anything."

  At first she'd thought he meant to get rid of her, chase her out of New York. Now she understood what he was trying to do. But she wasn't leaving the city. It wasn't going to beat her into submission.

  Although he just might. She felt a shy smile tugging on her lips, but she struggled, fighting it back. "I like New York. I'm staying."

  A low moan rolled out of him and he swept one hand back through his hair, long fingers splayed. "Fine. Make it harder on me."

  "Oh, I don't mean to cause you any trouble, Mr. Marchetti," she replied innocently. "Sir."

  His eyes narrowed. "If you stay in New York I can't possibly let anyone else here hire you, but if you work for me I can't ask you out. That's not fair. It's a Catch 22."

  "True. It must be very trying to find you can't have everything you want. Welcome to how the other half lives."

  Shaking his head he laughed again, bewildered. "So..." He cleared his throat. "I'm seeing my new apartment take shape. You do good work, Ms. Miller."

  "Thanks. As soon as I tell vendors and craftsmen who I'm working for they're pretty quick to get back to me." In fact she was expecting to be finished much sooner than expected. It was a thought that didn't make her very happy, although it should, of course. "It's just down to a few finishing touches."

  Her voice was calm now, betraying nothing of the turmoil inside, where a feeling of panic and yet, at the same time, a childish sort of excitement soared through her. It almost lifted her off her feet. She wanted to lean over, reach up and kiss him. Then she wanted to ask him why he went to The Club, but of course she couldn't. That was another rule. By raising the subject now she would shatter that make believe world. They'd never be able to play those roles again if she brought Claudia out of that fantasy realm and into this real one.

  There was also the not-so little matter of Alana Shepherd. While he spent time with Alana as his official, photo-ready date, did he expect her to be his plaything on the side, hidden in the shadows? He'd met her at a sex club, she thought grimly. What else did she expect him to think of her?

  She almost wished she'd never gone to The Club. Almost.

  He was too handsome standing there before her in rolled up shirt sleeves, with his tie loose, collar open. She swallowed hard. Why were so many people scared of him? He was just a pussycat. Well, maybe a tiger.

  "I'm going out of town tomorrow morning," he said suddenly, walking back to his desk. "So you'll have the run of the place to finish while I'm gone. I'll be back on Thursday next week. I'd like to meet with you then and take a walk through of the place before I give you the final payment. Is that possible?"

  This was the moment when Marianne discovered if Jack Marchetti asked whether something was possible in that deep, all-business voice, you simply said 'yes'. You didn't think about it. So she said, "Yes" and she didn't think. For one of the view times in her life she didn't let her thoughts complicate her words. His dark blue eyes surveyed her with enough warmth to melt the lace on her panties.

  "Good. Can you make it to my apartment by nine in the morning?"

  "Sure."

  He smiled wide. "Perfect. I'll see you when I get back on Thursday. Ms. Miller."

  She backed up tow
ard his door.

  "By the way, your little blonde friend on the sixteenth has been singing your praises to me."

  "Really?"

  "She thinks you're great. Likes you a lot."

  "Well, I like her too." When was Christie talking to Jack Marchetti?

  It wasn't until she'd walked out of his office and back into the elevator that she realized next Thursday was Thanksgiving.

  She paused, holding the door with her hand, much to the annoyance of everyone behind her. Should she go back and remind him it was a Holiday? Maybe he didn't care. The store would still be open even if the administrative offices were closed. A man like Jack Marchetti wouldn't stop for a public holiday. He had a tough schedule and if she wanted to get on in this business—play with the big boys and girls— she'd have to be the same.

  Holiday? What Holiday?

  So Marianne stepped back and let the door slide shut.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Temptation

  Since he was leaving town tomorrow he'd agreed to meet Alana for dinner before he realized they were precisely one week from Thanksgiving. A very dangerous time.

  "You have to come, darling. My parents are expecting us. You know they adore you. When they asked if I was bringing you for dinner next week, I had to say yes. It would break their hearts if you don't come out to Long Island on Thursday."

  Jack checked over his shoulder to make sure they were no cameras following them into the restaurant. One could never be sure with Alana. "But I may not even be in the country next week. I wish you wouldn't make plans for me without my input." They'd had this discussion before, but she never listened.

  "What on earth could you have to do on a Holiday?"

  "The rest of the world doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving, Alana. Business doesn't stop."

  She waved her fingers through the air by her face, dismissing that fact. "You must come. How can you be so mean?"

  Suddenly he caught sight of two women seated at the bar across the restaurant. Usually he wouldn't even look twice, but this time something trapped his attention. Dark, curly hair and soft laughter. Was it...? Yes. She'd just turned her head slightly and he saw her profile as she laughed again at something the bartender told her. His heart slowed. Marianne. With that frazzled woman—Christie— from her department. Drinking a martini.

  He quickly looked back at his plate. "I'm sorry, Alana. I can't make plans for next week. Not yet." It was the best he could do to keep her in a civil mood for the rest of the meal. If he told her it was absolutely out of the question, she would sulk. Trouble was, he didn't like upsetting Alana. She was irritating occasionally and could be downright pushy, but she was an old friend and he did care about her. If only she'd get over this fantasy of them being a romantic couple, it would make their friendship much easier on the both of them.

  Her eyes narrowed. She sipped her chilled grapefruit juice. Apparently she was on a new diet that consisted solely of grapefruits in one form or another. Except deep-fried. "I met your interior decorator the other day."

  The knife slipped in his fingers and chimed against his plate. "You did?"

  "Nice girl. Bit on the chunky side."

  "Is she?"

  "You didn't notice?"

  "No."

  "She's very young."

  He didn't respond.

  "She's over there at the bar, behind me. I don't suppose you noticed that either."

  Christ, she must have eyes in the back of her head. He coughed and wiped his mouth on a napkin, pretending he'd found a fishbone. "She's talented. One of Rawlings' discoveries. I agreed to give her a chance to show me what she can do." Aware of Alana's intense gaze studying his face, he added, "How's the fruit salad?"

  She picked up her fork and pushed a wedge of grapefruit around her plate. "Fine."

  "Maybe you need a steak."

  "Very funny."

  Jack placed his napkin back in his lap and tried not to glance over her head at the bar again. "Your TV show going well?"

  Alana shrugged. "I'm sure my story arc is the most boring. They tell me I'm starting to look desperate." She toyed with the stem of her glass. "Am I?"

  "Who's they?" Marianne must have gone home to change after work, he thought. That outfit was slinkier than her usual office attire. Low cut, drawing the eye to her bountiful breasts. Her hair was half up, half down, in a tousled, sexy style that looked as if she didn't put much effort into it. Gone was the tight ponytail.

  "Viewers, fans. You know, people who blog about the show."

  He forced himself to pay attention. "Why do you care what they think? They obviously have no lives of their own or they wouldn't be watching that—" He cut himself off, realizing his mistake.

  She arched an eyebrow. "That tripe? Is that what you were about to say?"

  He shook his head. "Alana it's pulp TV. You know that. It's nothing to do with who you really are. It's fodder for the masses. The producers throw you to the wolves, the way the Romans threw slaves to the lions in the coliseum. Surely you didn't think they really cared about the real you." Jack offered her some wine, but she shook her head and flopped back in her chair, her eyes dimmed.

  "You should go along with it. Play the part," he added. Over at the bar Marianne had just crossed her legs and leaned closer to the bartender. She rested her elbow on the bar, her hand on the back of her neck, under her hair. Where he liked to kiss her, lick her, whisper into her skin. He swallowed. "It's not real. Don't be fooled into thinking it is and you'll be fine. Don't take it so seriously."

  Alana watched as he refilled his own wine glass. "You make everything sound so easy. Maybe you can separate your life into different compartments, but I can't." Afraid he'd just seen tears forming, he quickly got on with his dinner. The last thing he needed was Alana breaking down in a restaurant. The sooner they finished and he took her home the better. "You don't realize how much it hurts," she muttered.

  "What hurts? That stupid show?" He knew he was starting to sound angry. Couldn't help it. The bartender was paying Marianne a lot of attention and she was enjoying it, her foot swinging. "Stop doing the show then."

  "Not the show. You." Alana caught her breath and briefly covered her face with one hand, before shaking it off, her black hair gleaming as if it was wet. "I look desperate because of you."

  "Me?" What had he done now?

  "Oh Jack, how can you be so blind. I've made myself look a fool on that show because you and I are supposed to be a couple but you never want to be filmed with me. I'm starting to think they only signed me because they were hoping to get you too. The fabulous, enigmatic Jack Marchetti. Instead they've got me, desperate divorcee and daddy's girl."

  "Alana," he lowered his voice, "we're friends. We always will be. But we're not a couple."

  "Why not?" she choked out. "We should be. Everyone says how good we look together. We're right for each other."

  He set down his knife and fork, done with his meal.

  "I've been in love with you for four years," she snapped. "And now this little chunky thing comes out of the blue."

  Jack stared across the table. "What?"

  "You can pretend to be blind, Jack. I can't. You've barely taken your eyes off her."

  "Alana, I don't know what you—"

  "I saw her when we came in and I waited to see if she caught your eye. I didn't even have to turn around to know who you were looking at, Jack. I just saw your face, looked into your eyes and knew it was her." She sat up straight in the chair. "Were you with her on Monday night?"

  He felt the blood drain from his face. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  She raised her chin, her expression one of martyrdom. "I called your office after you cancelled our dinner date. You weren't there—"

  "I don't do all my work in the office. You know that."

  "—so I called your chauffeur and asked if he was with you. He said he'd taken you out but he was very cagey about where."

  Now he was furious. "You called my chauffe
ur?" He didn't even know she had the number.

  "And now you won't come to my parents’ house for Thanksgiving. It's not like you to cancel a dinner date and I knew something was up. There haven't been any other women since Laura died. I'd know if there were. Suddenly you're acting totally different. Hiring an inexperienced girl to decorate an apartment that you would never let anyone touch since you bought it four years ago. Letting her organize the Marchetti Holiday party, when I could have done it for you—offered to do it for you last year and you blew me off. Oh, yes, Jack, I've heard all about her from Bracknell. That old hag never liked me, of course, and couldn't wait to tell me about the new girl when I called on Monday and she said you were already gone. Gone home...to change. I know you keep clean shirts in your office, so why would you go home to change if it was just work?"

  So that was what prompted it. Mrs. B and her penchant for damn details. It wasn't always so useful, after all, to have her knowing everything.

  "What's going on, Jack?"

  Apparently Alana really had lost herself in a world of unreality if she thought he owed her any explanation about another woman in his life. But he stayed calm. Somehow. A few faces had turned their way as she raised her voice for the unpleasant, breathless tirade. But now she sat back again and drained her glass of grapefruit juice.

  "There's no need to get upset," he said quietly. "Ms. Miller is an employee of mine. She's not interested in dating me." The damned woman across the restaurant was enjoying the bartender's company and hadn't even noticed him. No, but she liked his cock well enough. Correction: "Claudia" liked his cock. Liked his cock pounding into her and coming hard.

  It was the one and only time he'd ever not used a condom. Even with Laura he'd used protection. His wife had been paranoid about getting pregnant because she was focused on her career. They'd had a plan laid out. No children, they'd agreed, for the first seven years of marriage. Then Laura got sick after five years and that was that.

  But with Claudia he'd lost control and there was no plan. She'd wrapped her legs around him so tightly, arched her body against him and he'd thrust again and again. The feel of her, and the soft whispers against his skin, were too luxurious to resist

 

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