I break free of the spell of his scent, remembering that I’m angry. I storm to his desk, my heels making a loud clack on the marble floor. I know he mother-loving hears me, but he doesn’t turn around.
I stop at the edge of his desk and set my left foot down extra hard so the echo clatters through the room.
“Mr. Masters, I’m Erica Lundgren.” Saying my name fills me with a sense of power. That girl he intimidated and kissed six years ago? She has a name and I want him to know it.
“I believe you’ve been fired, Ms. Lundgren.”
“So it seems.” Taking two controlled breaths, I clasp my hands in front of me and force myself to relax. His outline is dark against the bright glare of sunlight, and I’m struck again at his perfect silhouette. What is he hiding underneath beneath that silken skin?
A tingle shoots between my legs, catching me off guard. Quickly, I shift my weight from one foot to the other, but it doesn’t help. His hair looks thick and shiny, like dark chocolate, the back and sides undercut while the top falls back in glossy waves. Perfect for digging fingers into … for pulling hard.
“I—I know what this is about.” I burst. “And I want to assure you …”
“Is that right?” He cuts me off and turns to face me. His gaze spears my feet and then saunters up my body, making my skin flush hot.
Lifting my chin defiantly, I school my expression so he can’t see that he’s affecting me. I hope.
“Yes, that’s right.”
I’m not prepared as he comes toward me. Do I step back? Hold my ground? Damn it! He’s face-to-face with me before I get my nerves together. My brain screams to step away, pleasepleaseplease, but my body … my body betrays me by craving the warm melding of his skin against mine. My lips tingle again, flaming the lust unfolding through every inch of me.
I have to look up to hold the smoky denim of his gaze. I don’t like feeling small and vulnerable again. But at the same time, he could easily cradle me in his strength, keep me safe and protected.
Oh my God, what is wrong with me?
Shaking it off, I shuffle one step back, but it’s not enough to breathe. So I take another, then one more. I hate my weakness, but I can’t seem to stop myself. His hand shoots out and snags my wrist. I freeze in my tracks, every nerve on fire where his grip holds me firm.
“Wait.”
I don’t give him time to continue, nor do I brush his hand away. “I assure you that for every reason you don’t want disclosure, I have one plus more. As far as I’m concerned, today is the first day we ever met. Don’t you agree, Mr. Masters?”
He remains frustratingly silent.
I continue. “That night so many years ago? Well, it can hurt me, too. Greatly. I don’t know what you were doing, and as far as I’m concerned, the night never happened.”
Silence.
Ugh. What is with him?
“Look, I’m good at my job. I have what it takes to work here. I’ve proven that already and it’s only been a week. Besides, I can’t imagine our paths will have to cross often. I’ll be sure to stay out of your way if …”
His eyes narrow. “You don’t get to negotiate with me.”
“Fine!” I huff. “Then negotiate with me.”
A glimmer of a smile touches his lips and I’m satisfied that I’ve taken him by surprise. I’m used to hiding my natural outspokenness, but I don’t have to anymore. I don’t have to be afraid. Besides, I’m still far too turned on to feel much of anything else.
His hand glides away from my wrist. The fire remains. “I don’t have to, Ms. Lundgren. My staff does as I say. If I allow leeway, it’s always on my terms.”
Unless you’re Donetta, I think. Even if her fight for me hadn’t been successful. Even if he had backed down and allowed me to stay, it would have been on his terms, making him the clear winner. Men like him always win. They stack the decks to make sure of it.
He dropped the word, ‘terms,’ like the bait it is. He wants to lead me around like a little mouse with cheese. Like Georgios did when I was constantly trying to work off my debt with him. Just when I thought I was making progress, he always had just one more delivery.
The power in having a choice is amazing. I can just walk away, but I’m curious, so I won’t. Not yet. Just knowing that I can fills me with confidence.
“I’m listening.”
“Of course you are.”
Yep, he has a serious case of assholitis going on.
It doesn’t make my hyper-awareness of his body go away. His clean scent wraps around me. It’s laced with rich, masculine notes that create a delicious haze in my brain. I’m seriously confused by my continued reaction to him.
He doesn’t hold my life in his hands anymore, just my livelihood. Comparatively, this should be a walk in the park for me.
“Look, I just want to keep my job.”
“Fine.”
What, what? My mouth opens but I don’t know what to say. He’s surprised me speechless. It was too easy. Where’s the catch? With a deep breath, he turns toward his desk and slides into the chair behind it. Spreading his knees wide, his fingers steeple as he looks at me with cool eyes.
“Dinner tonight. A car will arrive for you at nine. Casual.”
There it is. His terms. The catch. My nostrils flare as I hold back angst at being toyed with. If dinner is the worst thing he’s offering up in negotiation for my job, I can hardly refuse. Still, I can’t help feeling offended. I’m not going to offer myself up as a woman who will do anything to keep her employment, either.
I am not a prostitute. Whatever he thought I did for Georgios, it wasn’t that. Never that.
I cross my arms. “I’m not trying to get a date with you. I don’t want to date you. I just want to keep my job.”
“This is a job.”
I recall my earlier conversation with Donetta. It fits right in. Is this what he does? Offers his female employees perk-filled careers if they sleep with him? Because I’m sure that’s where this is headed.
I’m furious now. “Fine, it’s a job, but not the kind I want. And if you think that I—”
“Will you just shut up?” He stands and puts his hands on the desk. I take a step back at his sharp tone. I know my mouth is open, but I can’t close it. He’s. A. Jerk.
“Why were you even involved that night? Why were you there?”
Memories start to surface, but I squish them. For Nathalie, for freedom, I think, but I don’t respond. It’s my turn to play the silence card. After a moment, he smiles and nods as if conceding to my stubbornness. I know how to play these games, too. His lips go into a grim line as he sits back down.
“I’m willing to consider today our first meeting, Ms. Lundgren. And I’m even willing to allow you to keep your position. But I need you tonight, and that’s final.”
I don’t know if I should feel victorious or stepped on. I choose the first.
“Fine.”
He takes out his cell and taps around on it. Looking up, he scowls at me and it’s both sexy and insulting.
“You’re dismissed.” He waves a hand at me and I leave.
I hate him. I want to kill him.
After I jump him.
3
Like a real life fairy tale, a limousine pulls up outside my apartment complex at exactly nine p.m. It feels a little silly watching out the window, but I do it anyway. Despite not having given Mr. Masters my address, I knew he’d find me.
It was a given. That’s how these things work, Hollywood taught me that much.
Curious what he’s driving, I take advantage of my perfect view of the carport below to find out.
He doesn’t get out of the limo. His driver does and disappears into the entrance. Rushing to the oval mirror in my short entry, I check my appearance for the hundredth time. The turquoise wrap dress I’m wearing hugs my breasts and my waist before it flares over my hips. The color is good with my warm blond hair and makes the green in my eyes pop. Nude heels and a simple heart-shaped p
endant necklace finish my outfit. Not too bad, I think, considering I wasn’t sure what to wear.
The intercom buzzer goes off, pulling me from the mirror. I rush to answer it, hating how my hands shake. It’s not a date. It’s just dinner, a condition of my continued employment. Part of the job. No matter how many times I tell myself this, I can’t stop trembling.
I answer the intercom, “Yes?”
“Your car is here Ms. Lundgren.”
A thrill goes through me. My car. It’s so glamorous—every girl’s dream, right? To be whisked away in a fancy car by a gorgeous man. Disgusted with myself, I reply that I’ll be right down, and grab my clutch off the kitchen counter.
There’s no room in my life for silliness. A man like Brent Masters is no Prince Charming.
There’s no such thing as Prince Charming. Hollywood couldn’t get that one by me.
I mull tonight over as I head downstairs. My nerves get worse as I leave the building and approach the car. The driver opens the door for me and I duck my head to slip in. My breath catches as I get a first glimpse of Mr. Masters, and I realize that I don’t want a prince when a devil would be so much more fun.
Settling into the seat next to him, I can’t quite even out my breathing. Devilish he is, decked out in a suit the color of coal with a white button-down beneath. Even sitting, I can tell his outfit is bespoke and my mind goes nuts with longing to see him unfold that tall, muscular body so I can devour the entire image.
His expression is impassive if not a little bored. His eyes flick over me and a smirk pulls one corner of his mouth. I let out my breath at the gesture. So he’s acknowledging me. Sort of.
“Hi,” I say when he remains silent.
“Good evening, Ms. Lundgren.” His tone is a little breathy. It raises gooseflesh on my skin and I find myself leaning into him, just to get closer to the source of my excitement.
But then I remember that this isn’t a date, and I have no damn good reason for snugging up to him like a desperate cat. I have no idea what he thinks this is. I’m here on his terms and I’m not supposed to question it.
“Erica,” I say quietly. “My first name is Erica.”
“I know.” He looks amused now.
“You wouldn’t call your date Ms. Lundgren. Unless, of course, this is completely business, in which case you would.”
He threads his long fingers together. “Correct.”
So it actually is a job? But what kind of job requires an employee and not an actual date? Frustrated by my lack of progress, I adjust my place on the seat to keep a good amount of distance between us. He’s watching me with a clear dose of heat in his eyes. A tiny shiver wrenches through me.
Determined to focus on the topic, I tip up my chin and slide my hair over my shoulder.
“How shall I address you tonight, then?”
“With respect.” His tone is tight, but his features are soft and I have the sudden impression that he’s playing with me. Time to get right to the point.
“I won’t date my boss.”
“This isn’t a date, Erica.” My name. He flicks up one eyebrow, challenging me … teasing me. The hunger in his eyes says there’s more to it as well. I want to find out, but first, I want to smack him upside the head for leading me down a rabbit hole.
“You’re accompanying me to a business function. That’s all. Dinner. Drinks. Socializing. And then you go home.”
Alone? The word almost falls out of my mouth, but I catch it at the last minute. For some reason, the play-out of this fairy tale in my mind includes Mr. Masters fucking me hard against a wall in his penthouse. My nipples perk at the image and I move my arms to cover them. It’s not graceful, but letting him see my peaked breasts through the thin satin of my dress is worse.
I can’t recall the last time a man affected me physically like this. Passion, I’ve experienced. But I swear the pulsing need between my legs hasn’t stopped since yesterday. My body feels almost feverish, my skin over-sensitive. I’m walking an edge that falls only one way. This isn’t passion. This is unadulterated lust.
And it’s getting stronger.
I tear my gaze from his to try and get control of my thoughts. Suddenly, he touches my arm, pulling it away from my chest … and then the other. His eyes drop to my breasts, his hands holding my arms away so I can’t cover myself again. Not that I want to. Satisfaction seeps through my nervousness as he wets his lips with his tongue and pulls in a tight breath.
He moves closer, his breath hot against my cleavage. I go completely still, my pulse beating in my ears as heat from his body electrifies my skin. I want him to kiss me, right between my breasts … run his tongue between the mounds of flesh, ripping my dress aside so he can take my nipples deep into his mouth.
I arch into him as a small whimper escapes me. He brings my arms above my head and holds my wrists in one hand. My breasts push together and I’m silently begging for him to run a finger down my chest, to cup my breast, to touch me any way at all just as long as he does it.
“Mr. Masters, we’ve arrived.”
I jerk at the unexpected voice through the intercom on the partition. He startles a bit too, pulling away from me like he’d been in a daze. With a small shake of his head, he releases me and rights himself against the seat. I scramble to get control of my breathing as the limo comes to a stop.
It’s wrong, what I’m doing—letting him touch me, wanting him to. I never wanted to be a pawn again after the last time, being manipulated again and again. Yet as the imprint of his touch pulses on my skin, I can’t bring myself to feel ashamed.
Determined to shake off this hold he has on me, I grip my clutch tightly and slide out of the limo. The driver takes my hand to help me out, and then promptly offers my hand to Mr. Masters. He looks away, clearly rejecting me. I pretend to fix my hair, recovering the best I can in front of the driver though humiliation heats my cheeks.
He was looking at my chest as if he was about to feast on my tits at a fucking buffet, but now he can’t take my hand like a gentleman? Conflicted by his changing moods, I paste a neutral smile on my lips and follow him inside. That’s when I realize where we are. Doing a double-take at the sign near the door, I momentarily forget that my date is a certified, bi-polar asshole.
Avra is an exclusive Greek restaurant, noted often for celebrity sightings and winning high-profile dining awards. I’ve always wanted to eat here, but of course, it’s been out of my reach.
He takes my hand and places it on his arm, surprising me, as a hostess greets us. My fingers curl into his sleeve instinctively as we’re led down a back hallway to a beautifully decorated private room. Tables and chairs are artfully arranged around the perimeter, leaving plenty of space for the crowd inside to mingle.
We’ve no sooner stepped inside the room when a sudden and noticeable hush takes over. He pauses, as if giving everyone a chance to look us over, before leading me forward. I hear people talking about us, their voices craftily low enough to be discreet, but loud enough to be heard. The guests, I realize with a chill, are mostly male. He takes me to the edge of the room where a splash of color dots the sea of black suits.
A small group of women mingle together, their eyes widening falsely as we approach. He smiles at them, but there’s no warmth in it as he slides my hand off his harm, nods at me, and walks away.
Dumbfounded … speechless, my mouth drops open as I watch him leave. Realizing I’m being stared at, I clamp my jaw and take a breath, willing a smile that waves this all off as typical.
If the group is shocked by his cold behavior, they don’t show it. Whatever chatter they’d been tossing around starts right back up again. The group widens a bit, enveloping me as if they’re used to accepting whatever tossed-off woman happens to be thrown into their midst.
Since I’m not sure if these women are actually wives, dates, or professional girlfriends, I have no idea what to say, think, or do.
“Dana, he bought you a Gucci?” A glossy-haired blond coos and s
wishes her hand at a petite brunette. I look at them, really, look at them all for the first time. Casual, my ass. Each of them is dressed to the hilt—designer dresses, spiked heels, jewelry that glitters dollar signs in the soft lighting.
Discreetly, I glance down at my no-name wrap dress and curse myself for not choosing something a little more expensive from the back of my closet. Apparently the word casual doesn’t mean ‘from Macy’s’ when you’re wealthy.
“Who are you wearing, darling?” The blond turns to me. “I don’t recognize the dress.”
Busted. “Oh … it’s…“ Quickly, I offer her my hand. “I’m Erica, by the way. Nice to meet you all.”
“You’re here with Brent Masters!” Blondie chirps, and the group seems to close in around me. “You must tell us how the two of you met.”
“Wasn’t he with that redhead not long ago?” The curvy girl next to me asks. “What was her name … Nora or something?”
They all toss around name suggestions and I can’t help but see this as the perfect opportunity to slink away. A waiter comes by with champagne and I snag a glass, and then a small plate of hors d’oeuvres from the second server that passes. The women go on talking, having moved on to some inane topic I could not care less about.
Taking a tiny bite of a fancy-looking wedge of cheese, my ears perk up as the clipped tones of Brent’s voice sound behind me.
“It’s not up for discussion.”
“Don’t be childish, Brent. Everything is up for discussion.”
Curious, I glance over my shoulder. My boss has his back to me as he converses with a small group. Their voices drop low and I turn back to the women, not wanting to be obvious as I quietly strain to hear. He never said what tonight’s gathering was for. Some business thing, apparently. And by the tone of their voices, it isn’t going well.
Boss: Complete Box Set: A Mob BDSM Romance Page 3