by Amelia Wilde
Jax
I have to get through this meeting—it’s the only reason I came here, and the editor-in-chief is already sitting behind her desk. The last thing I’d do on earth is turn around and walk out. The news would break that I crumbled under Sarzó’s intimidating stare before I reached the front door.
But how can I concentrate on her middle-aged, suspiciously unlined face when my cock is about to burst out of my pants?
Holy hell, that woman was something else. I wanted her the instant she walked into the room, and everything in my body screamed for release from this suit, from this godforsaken meeting.
I can’t remember the last time a woman had that kind of effect on me.
I don’t think a woman ever has.
My mind is completely wiped except for an unrelenting need. I could step back into that lobby right now. Catherine Schaffer’s lithe frame would hardly be able to resist me.
No.
No.
I can’t get caught up like this.
None of it shows on my face, even while my mind races and kicks and screams at having to take the seat across from Sandra Sarzó. She’s top of the food chain in her industry, but fuck if I care. I’d never even heard of her before today, and I certainly didn’t come here to kiss her ass. I came here to tell her that they have one issue to impress me, otherwise I’m shutting down the entire operation.
She sizes me up, her fingers steepled in front of her on the desk. “It seems you’ve bought the controlling majority of Williams-Martin, Mr. Hunter. Have you given any thought to what you might do with its properties?”
Close all of them. Including this one.
I give her half a smile, a breath that could be a laugh. “You know as well as I do that Williams-Martin is exceptionally poor at management. All of its other publications are riding on Basiqué’s coattails.”
Sarzó leans back, crossing one leg neatly over the other. “I assumed as much. But my main concern is, of course, Basiqué’s standing.” She doesn’t have to say that this job is her life. It’s written all over her.
I’m having an out-of-body experience. Most of me is just outside the doors, bending that masterpiece over her sleek, modern desk, pushing the black pencil skirt up to her waist…
Snap the hell out of it, Hunter.
There is no reason for me to be this hung up on her. I saw her for what, a minute? Two? After this I’ll have no reason to come back to the office, and she’ll just become another piece of eye candy that flitted her way across my vision and back out again.
I lean forward just enough to seem like I’m pressing in on Sandra’s space without actually breaking the plane of her desk. “You tell me. What is this publication’s standing?”
Sarzó straightens her back. “We’re among the three most-circulated fashion publications in the country, with well over two million paid subscribers for the print edition alone. We have another million paying for premium online content, and that number is growing as we speak.”
“And you think that makes Basiqué a worthwhile investment?”
“Do you find fault with that level of circulation?”
“Come on now, Ms. Sarzó. You know as well as I do that those numbers don’t touch the top ten.”
She lets out a short burst of laughter. “If you’re looking for a publication venue for cutesy Americana and investment strategies for retirees, you’ve purchased the wrong publishing group.”
“Have I?”
I let the question hang in the air long enough for her to become uncomfortable. I’m already jumping out of my goddamn skin. This conversation is killing me. No—not having my hands on the exquisite creature fifteen feet away is slowly, inexplicably, driving me out of my mind.
Eyes narrowed, Sarzó juts her chin out. “Let’s be clear with one another. Are you telling me that you plan to shutter Basiqué? If you are, do me a professional courtesy.”
“Not immediately.”
“When?”
I stand up as calmly as I can. “You have two issues to prove to me that my money wouldn’t be better spent on publications that will compete with the top five.”
Sarzó doesn’t miss a beat, rising to her feet. “I have no doubt we’ll exceed your expectations.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
She raises both hands, waving me off. “Of course. A pleasure to meet with you, Mr. Hunter.”
“And you,” I say, then move toward the doors to her office at a purposeful pace. I will not be seen hurrying away as if this meeting has had any effect.
It’s not the meeting that has my heart pounding so hard I wonder if it’ll stop right now, before I can get back to the hall. This is going to be the last time I ever let myself look at this woman again but I have to see her.
The only problem?
She’s not here.
Sarzó’s office door closes with a whisper behind me, but I’m standing in an empty office. Her computer screen is still on, casting a glow down onto the glass surface of her desk, but the petite body with the gorgeous breasts, the shining dark hair, the hazel eyes that glowed when she saw me, despite her irritation, despite the nervous jitters that shook her body when she discovered that I had arrived while she was out—
She’s not fucking here.
My heart clenches with a disappointment so strong it embarrasses me. What the hell was I thinking?
I raise a hand to my tie in a nervous gesture that I hate and drop it back to my side like the fine silk is a hot coal.
There’s only one thing to do: find another fuckable woman and take her out. Tonight. Before I lose every scrap of my self-control to Catherine Schaffer.
Chapter Six
Cate
Sandra’s office doors are open when I step into the office.
He’s gone.
My heart sinks right into my shoes, which is so goddamn stupid.
Why do I care that some arrogant rich asshole has left the building?
I don’t, I tell myself sternly, knowing even as I think it that it’s a lie.
I lasted for two minutes after the doors to Sandra’s office closed behind him before I stood up and bolted for the bathroom. Leaning against the faux-marble wall in the largest stall I struggled to catch my breath.
And—shit. I left my phone at my desk, so I can’t search for him on the Internet.
Hunter.
Hunter.
I’ve heard the name, but he has nothing to do with the fashion industry, and that’s the only thing I’ve allowed myself to think of for over a year now.
I waited until the buzzing had mellowed in my veins enough for me to walk out of the bathroom with confidence, my back straight and my chin up. My plan was to go back to my desk, and when he left the meeting with Sandra, I’d show him. I’m not some flighty bitch who gets bowled over by some jerk in a fancy business suit. I don’t need him.
I need my job.
But as I get closer to the office doors and my heart speeds up, a little voice in the back of my mind whispers: Don’t you need him? Don’t you?
No. If anything, I want him. What woman wouldn’t be attracted to someone that unbelievably sexy? Wanting isn’t the same as needing.
The voice whispers again: Oh, yes, it is.
I’m three steps away from the office when it hits me.
What if he’s the solution to Williams-Martin’s bankruptcy issue?
I brush the thought aside. If he is, I’ll know in a matter of minutes—that is, if Sandra decides to throw me a goddamn bone.
She’s calling my name the moment I step through the doors, and a rush of relief washes over me. That stupid little trip to the bathroom could have cost me the relative peace of the afternoon. It’s almost enough to mask how my heart is crushed when I register the open doors.
I pick up my notepad on the way in, and before I’ve even fully approached Sandra’s desk she’s listing off things that must be accomplished before the hour is out.
“Push all the meetings from this morning to the afternoon. You can inform anyone who wants to reschedule that I’ll cut them from the issue. I want eleven or twelve different tops from Calvin Klein by three. Cut three of the models from the businesswear lineup and send me the top four.”
My furious scribbling pauses almost as soon as she finishes speaking. When she turns her attention back toward her screen, I take that as my queue to leave, but Sandra isn’t done.
“You should know that Mr. Hunter has bought a controlling share of Williams-Martin, and he’s elected not to close Basiqué—for the time being. We have two issues to prove our worth to him. You know what that means, Catherine.”
“I do.” It means that there is no room for error. No room to let up. No room to slow down.
Then Sandra pulls off her reading glasses and turns back to me, looking me straight in the eye, her expression thoughtful, as if she’s considering some deep truth about me that even I have yet to learn.
“Your work here so far has been very satisfactory.” My heart leaps in my chest. This is the first time Sandra has ever given me such high praise, and I feel an intense burst of loyalty, strong and pure. I nod, forcing myself not to smile. Sandra disapproves of giddiness. She speaks again. “As long as you continue to perform, and as long as he leaves us to our own devices, we should be successful.”
For a moment I think she might say more, but she just dismisses me with a curt nod.
My heart flutters as I make my way back to my chest. There are too many emotions to sort through right now. God, I want him so much, but Sandra has just made it crystal clear: he’s the adversary now.
It’s him or my work, and I know which one has to come first.
I pull up my email and start firing off messages even while I place phone call after phone call to everyone I cancelled on this morning, summoning them back to Sandra’s office—yes, now, as fast as you can—and though I try to ignore the clock in the upper corner of my screen, I can’t help but watch it as the minutes tick by.
When the emails are finished, I risk it: I pull open a private browser window and type in a search. All I know is his last name, but I add keywords until…there he is, giving the camera a steely look for a promotional photo that looks to be a couple of years ago.
Three clicks later, I’m reading his biography on a Fortune list of New York City’s wealthiest residents. And he’s damn near the top.
I close the window and lean back in my seat, considering what I’ve just learned.
It doesn’t make much of a difference.
I wanted him on sight, and it had nothing to do with what he could buy.
Just what he could do with those hands, that body…
There will be no work at the office tomorrow. I’ll finally get at least half a chance to catch my breath.
By Wednesday I’ll be back in my desk, my focus where it needs to be.
Not on the slick wetness between my legs. Not on the heat rising to my cheeks.
Not on the cocky, mysterious Mr. Hunter.
Chapter Seven
Jax
This has got to be the most boring sex I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something.
I should be enjoying this on some level. Christian, who is arguably my best friend in the city—and also happens to frequent the same dining club I go to when I want to give my personal chef a night off—set me up with a blonde who puts Aleah from last night to shame. Jessica is witty and bright and half-decent in bed. Her body is unreal.
But nothing can break the hold Catherine Schaffer has on my mind.
Even as I go through the motions of fucking Jessica, it’s Catherine’s face I see. The deep hazel eyes that locked onto mine and didn’t look away. The full lips that I know would feel like heaven wrapped around my cock. And an absolutely luscious ass. A woman like Catherine—independent and fiery—will love some of the things I’d like to do to that ass.
Even if she’d never admit it.
“Fuck,” I grunt out loud, picking up the pace. Judging by her face, Jessica is having a good time, but she’s got to go.
I need space to think this over. The palate-cleanser was a bad idea.
I play it up a little for Jessica, finishing things up neatly. I do her the courtesy of making sure she’s at least come once. Jessica means about as much to me as Amber from last night, but she’s a friend of Christian’s, and I don’t need him giving me any shit about treating her badly.
Nobody on earth can argue that, anyway. I took her to Eleven Madison Park and we had some pleasant back-and-forth.
The entire time, my heart beat Catherine, Catherine, Catherine like I’m some lovesick teenager. I disgust myself.
I thought maybe if we got physical my brain would reset, realize that Catherine is as dispensable as any other woman, and I could move on.
I’m a goddamn idiot.
My only saving grace is that Jessica doesn’t want to stay over. She’s already pulling her dress back over her head, slipping on her shoes, and picking up her purse. I lean back on my pillows and watch her, wishing I’d brought Catherine here instead, consequences be damned.
Jessica glides back over to the bed and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the date, Jax.”
“I’m glad you were available.” It’s not exactly a lie.
She leans back, cocks her head, and looks me up and down with her big blue eyes. “I hope you find her.”
“What?” I give her my most charming smile, but I don’t reach for her hand. I don’t pull her back in for another kiss.
“You’ve probably been with a lot of women who would never notice,” she says, a smile quirking the corner of her mouth. “But I know when a man is thinking about someone else. I’ll tell Christian you were a gentleman anyway.”
Now I do grab her hand, planting a kiss on the smooth skin of her knuckles. “You’re a goddamn peach.”
Jessica laughs. She’s the kind of woman I could be friends with, if I wasn’t so sure she’d eventually fall for me, and I can’t get involved in a disaster like that. And it’s always a disaster. Most men want gorgeous women to fall in love with them, but I’ve seen what happens when you allow yourself to give up self-control.
She pulls her hand back and heads for the door, looking over her shoulder one more time. “See you around the city.”
“Don’t worry about calling your driver. Peter is waiting downstairs to take you home.”
Jessica blows me a kiss and disappears into the hallway.
Alone at last, I roll out of the bed and head for the master bathroom. It’s a cavernous space—I could have an orgy in here, if I were so inclined—and every detail has been engineered to my exact specifications, from the Raindance Royal shower heads to the shade of the marble countertops. The condom is off my cock in a matter of seconds, and I turn the shower on full blast and step in.
I let the water run down over me, run my own hands through my hair.
Somehow, I’m going to have to get Catherine out of my head.
But if screwing women won’t work, what will?
Chapter Eight
Cate
In the night I dream about him. About the cut of his suit, the line of his waist, the muscles moving underneath the fabric. The scent of him.
His eyes, gray-blue and electric.
His hands on my breasts, sliding down my rib cage, pressing firmly against my hips. His mouth hot on the side of my neck, sending shivers to shake my entire body.
When I wake up at 6:00 on Tuesday morning, I’m completely disoriented from the strength of the dreams. The space between my legs is hot and slick, and between waking and sleeping I can’t resist it, don’t want to resist it, and I slide my fingers underneath the silky fabric of my pajamas, underneath the tight-fitting stretch of my panties, and over the smooth skin, fresh from a recent wax, until my fingertips make contact with the throbbing button.
I don’t have a lot of time for dating, so I’m very, very practiced at get
ting myself off.
Afterward, cheeks flushed in the cool of my apartment—thank god for central air—I curl around one of my pillows and squeeze my eyes shut.
Leave the phone, I tell myself. Don’t look. The office is closed today.
Every ounce of my energy goes into falling asleep, and for a while I doze, but each time I start to drift off my heart begins to pound.
I know exactly why.
The instant a thought of him crosses my mind, my mouth waters for a taste of his full lips. Then, cruelly, thinking of him makes me think of the office. Holiday’s aren’t sacred to Sandra.
It’s just past 7:00 when I toss back the covers and throw my hair up into a loose bun, the urge to check my phone finally mollified.
To my shock, there are no messages from Sandra. I have a few emails from people at Basiqué confirming appointments for tomorrow, but that’s it.
Aside from the hum of the air conditioner, my apartment is silent.
Manuel asked me what my plans were yesterday, and now that I’m here, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee on my couch, I wish I’d made some.
I while away the morning, eating breakfast at the cafe on the ground floor of my building and then standing in the shower for a full forty minutes.
For once, I linger over getting ready, straightening my long, dark hair until it falls shining over my back, then pulling back sections and holding them with strategic bobby pins. It feels good to have most of it loose. I leave my makeup simple and fresh, which still takes twenty minutes.
It’s best to be prepared.
By noon I’m ready for anything, my bright red sundress the perfect outfit for the holiday.
The only problem? I still have nowhere to go.
After another fifteen minutes flipping through the channels and trying to choose one of my New York acquaintances to text in hopes that they’ll be doing something I can attend, I can no longer stand to be in the suffocating emptiness of my apartment.
Up until yesterday, it seemed like a safe haven. Now it’s missing something.