Rannigan's Redemption: Complete Collection

by Pandora Spocks

  Maggie looked at the gift bags she’d set down just inside the doorway. Sighing, she decided to organize them tomorrow. She quickly showered and put on her bedtime uniform, cheeky panties and a black tank top, before slipping into her bed. She discovered that she wasn’t sleepy, though, and found herself staring at the ceiling and replaying the day.

  The interview, the way they’d snickered at her. He hadn’t snickered. He’d taken her very seriously and she’d had the feeling that one of the other asswipes at the table was now in dutch. Good! she thought.

  She found it unimaginable that he’d come waltzing into the club that night. Seeing, no, talking to, Michael Rannigan twice in the same day. And he’d remembered her name. But he was clearly there with a gorgeous blonde. Sigh. Then of course, Casey had spilled about it being her birthday. She’d been so embarrassed; she hoped she’d said something remotely articulate, though, truthfully she couldn’t recall exactly what she’d said. And he’d sent champagne in honor of her birthday. Bollinger, for fuck’s sake.

  Suddenly, she remembered the card she’d stuck in her purse and she got out of bed to retrieve it. Sitting cross legged back on the bed, she read and reread the card, front and back. We’d like you offer you a job at Murphy, Rannigan. Call my assistant tomorrow to set up a meeting next week. Happy Birthday, Maggie. M.R.

  She lightly stroked her fingers over the words he’d written, then felt silly for doing it. She knew she had a serious crush on him. It was ridiculous, really. More out of her league he could not be. And there were rumors about his being a player. She wondered about the woman with him at the club. Flavor of the month? Flavor of the night? She didn’t care. He was interested in her, Maggie Flynn, in having her work at Murphy, Rannigan. It’s a start, she thought.

  It had been disappointing not being able to thank him for the wine. She looked at the front of the card again. Michael’s email was there just below the firm’s phone number. Her digital alarm clock blinked 1:43. She could email him a thank you. He’d see it in the morning. She felt her heart pound. Was that pushing it a little? After all, he gave her the card. Wouldn’t he expect her to use it?

  She moved to her desk and fired up her laptop. After composing a message and editing it five times, her finger wavered over the Send button. She glanced at the clock again. It was now 2:15. Nothing ventured, she thought, and she sent the message.

  * * *

  “Let’s go,” Gwen said, when the band finished playing. Michael mentally rolled his eyes. She was being a pain tonight. Next time she was in town, he would probably have other plans. He’d thought to stop by Maggie’s table again to say goodbye but by then she was busy opening gifts so he’d just followed Gwen out the door. It occurred to him that it was odd that he’d even thought about speaking to her again. Probably too much bourbon, he thought, shaking his head.

  They caught a cab back to the Upper East Side where he lived. “I want to go to Bemelmans,” Gwen said as the cab neared his neighborhood. Of course you do, he thought. All he wanted to do was go home and get laid.

  “Drop us at the Carlyle, please,” he said to the driver. By the time he’d paid for the cab, Gwen was already inside the bar. When he caught up with her he realized why they’d had to stop here. A group of her friends was ensconced in a corner banquette. She’d wanted to show him off.

  There is definitely no next time with Gwen, he thought to himself, but he plastered on his PR smile. “Hello, ladies,” he charmed, “apparently we’re late.” Gwen beamed as her friends gave her envious looks. He ordered a round for the table and chatted amiably with everyone for a while. During a lull in the conversation while the pianist played a song the table had requested, he leaned into Gwen. “Are you ready to go now?”

  “Yes, we can go,” she said, running her hand up the inside of his leg and giving him a coy look.

  They quickly said their goodbyes and left, walking the three blocks to his apartment building on 79th. As they rode the elevator to the 21st floor, Gwen kept her eyes on the numbers over the door, but she reached over to stroke the front of his pants where his erection was growing harder.

  Michael unlocked the door to his apartment and let her in, stopping to drop his keys in the bowl on the foyer table. He took off his jacket and untied his tie. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked on his way to get his own. He paused to put the television on a sports channel.

  “I’ll have champagne,” she said, with a trace of pout in her voice.

  He rolled his eyes. “No champagne, can I get you some chardonnay instead?”

  “I suppose,” she simpered. He grabbed a Heineken for himself.

  When he returned to the living room she had kicked off her shoes and was relaxing on the tan oversized leather sectional that faced the television and the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows beyond, opening to his solarium on the terrace. The city lights twinkled like a sparkling carpet below them. This was why he, a happily single man, had bought a four-bedroom apartment. It had the best view in the entire building. He handed Gwen her wine and sank down beside her to sip his beer and watch tv, picking up the remote to turn up the volume.

  “Oh, baby, are you sure you want to watch silly old sports?” she asked him. “I had something else in mind.” She moved to kneel in front of him and undid his belt and then his fly.

  He smiled down at her. “Are they mutually exclusive?” he asked, grinning and arching his eyebrow. She winked up at him and pulled back the waistband of his boxer briefs, freeing his impressive erection. He groaned and rested his head against the back of the sofa with his eyes closed as she took him in her mouth. In spite of being a demanding princess, Gwen was great at giving head. She worked him with her tongue and slid her lips up and down his shaft, sucking like a Dyson.

  He was considering trying to hold off coming, make it last longer, when he heard his phone blip, indicating an email. Glancing down beside him on the sofa, he saw that the message was from Maggie. Michael picked up the phone and keyed in his pass code. Gwen immediately stopped what she was doing.

  “Oh, hell no, you are not answering a message in the middle of a blowjob!” she exclaimed.

  “I’m just holding off, baby, we don’t want this over so fast,” he said. “I want to fuck you. Go to the bedroom and get ready. I’ll be right there.” He gave her a quick kiss, and she headed to the bedroom, slightly mollified.

  Checking the time he saw that it was 2:16. Maggie sent him a message after two in the morning? He was definitely intrigued.

  Dear Mr. Rannigan, I wanted to say thank you for the champagne you sent to my friends and me last night. It was completely unnecessary and extremely thoughtful. I’m excited about your job offer. I will definitely call your office tomorrow to set up an appointment. Again, thank you so much. I look forward to working with you. Sincerely, Maggie Flynn

  A smile curled his lips as he reread the message. So formal and professional. Nothing at all to indicate what her eyes completely gave away. She probably assumed he’d read it in the morning. He wanted to respond now.

  Dear Ms. Flynn, you are most welcome for the champagne. I felt badly that I crashed your birthday celebration with all your friends. Champagne seemed the least I could do. I am excited at the prospect of having a brilliant young legal mind working on our team. So please do call and schedule that appointment. And, if we’re to be working together, I’ll have to insist that we drop the formalities. We’ll be just Michael and Maggie. It will be simpler that way, don’t you think? And now that it’s actually tomorrow, I’ll wish you a very Happy Birthday. Go to sleep, Maggie. I’ll see you next week. Sincerely, just Michael

  Chapter 6

  In spite of having been wide awake until the wee hours of the morning, Maggie’s eyes popped open immediately as her alarm sounded at 6:15 am. Classes were over but there were still finals, one of which she had this afternoon. Besides, she liked the routine of getting up at the same time every day. She couldn’t call Murphy, Rannigan until nine, so she threw on workout clothes an
d left the apartment for a quick run.

  More than two hours later, freshly showered following her workout, she sat watching her clock until it blinked from 8:59 to 9:00 before she dialed the number on the business card. The woman who answered was friendly and efficient. Yes, Mr. Rannigan had said to expect her call. Yes, the firm was scheduling follow-up interviews for candidate finalists. Maggie should report to the Murphy, Rannigan offices at nine o’clock sharp on Tuesday morning.

  She hung up the phone feeling bewildered. Follow-up interviews? I thought I had a job. She didn’t know whether to call Rance as she’d planned or if it would be wiser to wait. She put off making a decision, opting to study for the day’s exam.

  Every time Maggie thought about Tuesday’s appointment, she felt her stomach drop so she busied herself with various projects over the weekend. While she would be staying in her apartment whether she worked for Rance or for Michael, most everyone in their group had to think about moving after next week’s graduation. Maggie spent Saturday helping Casey pack all her things in preparation for the move back to Rhode Island.

  Tossing aside packing for a few hours, they joined some of the others that night to celebrate Ben’s new job with a firm practicing real estate law. “I knew I aced that interview,” he told them confidently over pints at Paddy Reilly’s.

  Tuesday morning finally rolled around and Maggie left her apartment wearing a tan skirt suit paired with a crisp white blouse, low-heeled nude pumps clicking along the pavement as she walked, and she carried with her the worn leather satchel that had once been her father’s, her trusty folio tucked safely inside. Worried that transportation issues might cause her to be late, she left for her appointment two hours early. She’d spent time figuring the best combination of trains that would take her to Park Avenue and the highrise that housed the offices of Murphy, Rannigan, and Metheny.

  I am such a dork, she thought, rolling her eyes as she realized that she’d arrived at the office building exactly an hour before her appointment. Rather than entering the building so early, she ducked into a coffee shop across the street for a cup of tea, hoping to soothe her nerves. Sipping hot Darjeeling, she stared across the street and up the front of the building that was her destination. The law offices of Murphy, Rannigan, and Metheny occupied the top six floors of the building, or so she’d read online. The swirling in her stomach returned with a vengeance.

  At 8:55 she pushed her way through the revolving door and into the lobby and she rode the elevator up to the 45th floor, approaching the reception desk at the stroke of 9:00. “I’m Maggie Flynn,” she said. “I have a nine o’clock appointment.”

  The attractive woman at the desk smiled warmly. “Yes, Ms. Flynn, you’re expected. If you’ll return to the elevators, you can go up two floors to the conference room on the 47th floor. They’re waiting for you there.”

  Maggie watched the receptionist vanish as the elevator doors closed. They? Watching the numbers move from 45 to 46 then 47, she realized her palms were sweating and she wiped them hurriedly on her skirt as the doors slid open. She stepped out into a marble reception area where another friendly woman greeted her. “Ms. Flynn,” she said, walking around the desk, “if you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to the conference room.” Maggie followed the woman down the hallway to a set of double doors, which she opened. “Maggie Flynn,” she said into the room before stepping back and holding out her hand in a sweeping gesture, indicating that Maggie should step inside.

  The first thing she noticed was the scent of wood polish. The long room was dominated by a huge mahogany conference table and the walls were paneled wood as well. The table was surrounded by dark brown leather chairs. Seated in the center on the far side of the table were three men. Maggie was immensely relieved to see that one was Michael.

  He smiled kindly at her. “Hello, Mary Margaret Flynn,” he greeted her, chuckling. “Come in, sit down. Gents, this is Maggie Flynn,” he said to the other two men. Maggie forced her feet to take her to the table where she selected a leather chair opposite the men. “We met Maggie at NYU the other day. Very impressive resume and recommendations as you can see. She also knocked the interview out of the park.”

  He paused, smiling at her again. “Maggie, these guys are my partners Brian Murphy and James Metheny. Murph was on vacation last week,” he continued, indicating the man to his immediate left. He was blond and slightly balding and he seemed to Maggie to be a little older than Michael.

  “And Jimbo is just getting back on his feet from surgery.” The man to Murphy’s left seemed about fifteen years older than Michael, thin grey hair crowning a face that was pale, but that might have been the result of being ill.

  “So tell us about Maggie,” Brian Murphy said. The men looked at her expectantly. Michael leaned back from the table resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, fingertips pressed together forming a steeple in front of him.

  Maggie opened her mouth. “I, um, well,” she began uncertainly, “I graduate on Sunday. You see my resume with my curriculum vitae, so...”

  James Metheny stepped in. “We see all that. We’d like to know about who you are,” he said kindly. “Where you’re from, for starters.”

  Maggie glanced at Michael who was watching her intently. “Oh, I’m from North Carolina originally,” she said. “Charlotte, to be specific.”

  Murphy smiled. “I don’t hear an accent,” he observed.

  “No, you don’t,” Maggie agreed. “I realized early on that people mentally deduct about twenty IQ points when they hear a Southern accent.” The men chuckled appreciatively.

  “So your family is back in North Carolina?” Metheny probed.

  A slight frown crossed her face. “No, actually,” she answered truthfully. “I was raised by my father. My mother left us when I was little. She wasn’t into raising a family, apparently.” She scanned their faces for signs of skepticism or mockery but found only sympathetic looks. “Anyway, my dad did the best he could. He was an architect. We spent weekends and summer vacations checking out old buildings. He passed on to me his love for old houses and buildings with character, with soul.”

  Murphy smirked. “So you’re not a fan of modern glass and steel?”

  “Oh, God, no!” Maggie exclaimed, shaking her head emphatically.

  “Sorry, Michael, your new protégé hates your house,” Murphy teased.

  Maggie felt her face redden. She’d said something dumb and she wasn’t quite sure what it was. Michael laughed gently. “And your dad is retired now?” he asked.

  “Uh, no. My father died during my freshman year at Duke. He was hit by a drunk driver, and...” she trailed off. “Well, it was rough, but he raised me to be independent. Afterward there was insurance money and a settlement which I invested. It wasn’t a lot but along with scholarships it helped pay for my undergraduate work and it’s paid for my apartment through law school.”

  The room was silent for a moment. Then Metheny asked, “Do you think your dad would be proud of you?”

  Maggie blinked and swiped at a lone tear. “Yeah,” she answered quietly. “I think he would be.”

  He smiled kindly at Maggie. “Michael is impressed with you,” he said. “We usually give each other a free pass for one candidate from our own alma maters, but I don’t think a free pass is necessary with you.”

  He stood and reached across the table, smiling. “Welcome to Murphy, Rannigan, and Metheny.”

  Chapter 7

  “Oh, God!” Maggie gasped, pulling against the restraints that kept her arms over her head. She looked down to see him working her left nipple with his tongue, taking the whole thing in his mouth, suckling sensuously.

  At her words, he looked up at her, tousled salt and pepper hair perfectly framing his chiseled face, heat radiating from his brown eyes, a smirk on his lips. “You like?” She nodded vigorously. “Because I was thinking about moving further down,” he said, lazily tracing a finger down the center of her body until he came to the mound between her thi
ghs. There he paused to stroke her moist pink folds, gently at first, then more intensely.

  Maggie writhed in pleasure but with her feet bound to the corners of the bed there was little she could do. “Oh, God, Michael,” she squeaked, on the edge of molten pleasure.

  He looked back up at her, his eyebrow crooked. “I’ve always wondered. Does a ginger taste like ginger?” With that he lowered his mouth to her sex and began lightly flicking her clit with his tongue.

  Maggie could feel her release building, with it a moan that started deep in her soul. “Oh...God!” she screamed.

  She jolted awake, breathless and covered in sweat. Holy shit! What the fuck was that?! Cuffs? She swiped her long red hair out of her eyes. Now I’m dreaming kinky shit.

  She got out of bed and went to the bathroom sink to splash water on her face. Dreaming about Michael now? She needed to get laid. Moving back to her bed she watched the display on her alarm clock blink to 5:17 am. Shit! The alarm would be going off in less than fifteen minutes. Which was probably too early, but she was anxious to be on time for her first real day of work. There would be no more sleep so she switched off the alarm.

  Maggie stood looking at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. She wasn’t a model, by any means. But she wasn’t bad looking. She touched her face, cocking her head to the side. She’d always loved her thick red hair. It made her different. If anything, she wished it had some curl to it, but it was always straight as a board.

  She had good bone structure, like her mother’s, her father had told her, but she had no way of knowing. Her gaze moved down her body and she wasn’t unhappy with what she saw. Vaguely regular workouts and good genes kept her waist small and her hips and thighs toned. Impulsively she pulled her black tank top off over her head, tossed it on the bed, and stood looking at her breasts. Slowly she brought her hands up to them, cupping them in her palms, hefting their weight.