by Amelia Wilde
Everything came up empty.
A little after six-thirty, I burst into one meeting between a marketing consultant and a representative from one of the Midwestern states, only realizing too late that my behavior looked desperate and strange, exactly the opposite of how a competent undercover FBI agent should appear.
My only saving grace was that most of the floors have the same layout—the only three that are different are the ones housing Dominic’s private office, his penthouse on the top floor, and the executive level, which is configured so that each executive has the maximum amount of space possible for their glassed-in offices.
I had put a hand to my forehead, the blush in my cheeks entirely unmanufactured. “I’m so sorry, uh—” I took a quick glance at his nameplate. “Charles. I got off on the wrong floor.”
He was a handsome gentleman, the marketing consultant, with blonde hair that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a beach in the Hamptons. He’d laughed indulgently, looking me up and down appreciatively. “You can make that mistake any time.”
I’d nodded, pretending to be in on the joke, and backed out of the room.
I left the building and called Milton from down the block. “I’m not seeing anything.”
“Nothing?”
“There are—” I swallowed my frustration. “There are way more people still here than you’d think for after hours, and there’s nothing drawing my attention. I’ve been all over the building.” I took a deep breath. “It must have been via email, Milton, or somebody got it past me while my back was turned.” I could feel his level of confidence in me fading by the moment.
“We’ll watch everything outgoing from here,” Milton had replied with a sigh. “Keep looking. Anything new on your guy?”
“Not a thing.” I wasn’t proud to admit it, and even less proud to say the next thing that had to be said. “I might have been wrong about him.”
“We’re all wrong at one point or another, Viv. Keep your nose to the grindstone.”
I’ve been keeping my nose to the grindstone every day since then, and there’s not a single crack I can exploit at Wilder Enterprises. I thought Overhiser was my big break, but now he’s an irritation I have to deal with—cheerfully and professionally every single moment—while I try to find some other way to solve this case.
“Vivienne.”
His quiet voice from the doorway of Overhiser’s office sends a thrill of pleasure down my spine. It doesn’t matter that I have been sifting through emails for the last hour, gritting my teeth and willing one of them to contain something that’s worth forwarding on to the team.
“Mr. Wilder.” I stand up smoothly. “What can I do for you?” Things might be going to shit as far as the case is going, but seeing him makes my heart sing. I wish I could cross the room right now and kiss him like there’s no tomorrow, but it’s only five-thirty. There are enough people lingering around still to make that a very bad idea.
“Were you on your way out? I have a few things I’d like to discuss with you.” He speaks in an even tone, loudly enough for anyone passing by to hear. He’s covering, getting me out of here, and there’s a glint in his eye that tells me the first stop on his agenda is his penthouse.
“I was,” I say with a smile. “Let me finish up one thing.” I take thirty full seconds to sign out of my computer, clicking back out of the list of emails I’ve been sorting through. “I’m happy to walk out with you.”
“That would be excellent.”
Nothing in his voice betrays us to anyone else—anyone except me. I can see the pent-up energy he’s carrying in the line of his shoulders, and I feel it in that instant—I’m wound up tight, too.
I gather my purse. I can’t stay at Dominic’s all night. I need to stay focused, keep working, keep fighting this. But I can lose myself in him for an hour or two first.
Outside, in the car, he waits until we’re a block down from Wilder Enterprises, then takes me into his arms, kissing me hard, kissing me hot, kissing me like he loves me, and as if there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing in the world.
30
Dominic
On Wednesday afternoon, the note arrives.
I think it’s from Vivienne at first, and my heart leaps in my chest. It would be a clever answer to the white envelopes I like to send to her desk, either alone or with gifts—although I should probably be more discreet about the gifts, now that we’ve reached another level in our relationship. Even if that level is still hidden from prying eyes at the moment.
This envelope doesn’t have anything on it except my name in a neat print, which should be the first hint that it’s not from her. Vivienne always writes in cursive, and her penmanship is distinctive.
I tear open the envelope and a notecard falls out. Now I recognize the block print. It’s from Chris.
Things are ramping up at the Department, it reads. We’re seeing an uptick of activity—info moving from place to place. Not much longer.
—CO
I shred the note into fifty tiny pieces and tip them all into the trash bin next to my desk. I was knee-deep in contract negotiations with a potential partner in London, but I stopped everything when the note arrived. Now I wish I hadn’t.
I’m sick to death of this business with the FBI, and my jaw has clenched tight at the thought of it. I need to maintain some semblance of control over my company, and I can’t do it while there’s someone working for me who’s stealing. I don’t know what Chris thinks he’s playing at.
If I hadn’t promised him that I’d let them do their work, this could be resolved by now.
Well—resolved in that I’d fire anyone who came under even a hint of suspicion and move on. That would narrow the field for the FBI.
I swivel around in my chair and look out over the five o’clock skyline of New York City. Vivienne has plans with a friend tonight, so she’s ducking out as soon as she can, and I won’t see her until tomorrow.
The investigation nags at my mind.
How long has this been going on? What was it that Chris said at that first meeting?
This has been going on a few weeks…
I had met him at the bar right around the time I met Vivienne.
The two thoughts collide and then repel off one another in my mind. Vivienne arrived entirely by chance. People come in and out of the Executive Support Department all the time as executives choose new staff, people move up or out, or they take their skills and transfer to other departments. It can’t possibly be that—
It’s hard to even formulate the thought.
It can’t possibly be that Vivienne is involved with this.
If she was involved in this, it could only be in one of two ways, and I don’t know which would be a bigger blow to me.
She could be the inside person. She could be the person who’s handing off company secrets to the Chinese contact. But no—that wouldn’t make any sense. According to Chris, the investigation started, and it wasn’t long after that they put someone undercover on the case, someone inside the company.
But Vivienne couldn’t be working undercover for the FBI. She’d have told me. She wouldn’t upend what we have on a lie like that.
I pick up a pen to keep marking up a contract, turning back to my desk, but I can’t seem to formulate the letters on the page into anything readable.
The timing was very close. Too close. But it couldn’t be. Could it?
I tap my fingers against the surface of my desk. I’ve never looked up Vivienne’s personnel file, but I could, and it might put my mind at ease about this whole thing if I do. Because as long as Vivienne’s not involved in it, this whole thing is an inconvenience that will fix itself in time—whether I have to be the one to do it, or the FBI finally makes a move.
I jiggle the mouse next to my keyboard, waking up the computer. My login allows me access to everything there is to access on the Wilder Enterprises server. I rarely do this, so at first the filing system seems like a maze. I need to have som
eone from tech support come up here and refresh my memory. I don’t like having a weakness like that.
A few frustrating minutes later, I’ve finally located the personnel files for employees who hired on in the last three months. I scroll down, down…and there she is.
I hesitate, my mouse poised to click on the file to open it.
We might have an unspoken agreement that Vivienne likes some kink in the bedroom, that sometimes she wants to lose herself in a little bit of submission, but I have no doubt that this would be crossing the line in her mind. Not that the lines aren’t already blurred. They are. She works here and I own the company. What we’ve been doing already puts us in uncertain territory.
This is about protecting yourself. Once I have the thought, I can’t push it away. Have I really spent all these years building incredible wealth only to jeopardize it by falling for someone who’s playing a role?
My father comes to mind, living on a decent property in upstate New York, largely because of my own generosity. Even so, I don’t see him. We don’t speak. He’s not proud of what he did, and neither am I. It’s the elephant in the room any time we’re together, so we avoid that by never being together.
I don’t want that type of life for myself.
I open the file.
It starts with all the standard information—her staff ID picture, her name, her birthdate, her current address. The address matches up with the place I’ve dropped her off. No red flags there, and the sight of her face smiling out at me from the computer makes my heart thump hard against my ribs.
I scroll down through the file. She interviewed with someone in Human Resources—I don’t recognize the name—and they left glowing notes about how her personality is an excellent fit for the open position in Executive Support. Even her resume seems to be neatly in order, if a little sparse. I’d have expected someone like Vivienne to have more meat there, and I narrow my eyes at the document. This got through the HR system when she applied? I wonder if she knows someone in that department. She’s never mentioned it, but…
I scroll down again. Recommended for this position by Georgina Lillianfield.
Now that—that seems out of character. From what I’ve heard from the executives, Ms. Lillianfield is wickedly efficient, but not the kind to gush.
How does Vivienne know her?
My stomach lurches, and I abruptly click out of the file.
What the hell am I doing?
I trust Vivienne. I love her. If she knows Lillianfield, then she knows her. This isn’t the kind of thing to throw everything we have away over.
I push all of it out of my mind, pull out my phone, and send her a message.
Tell me I can see you tonight.
A few minutes later, she replies.
Only if I can see you first. :)
My heart settles down.
If only I could say the same for the creeping doubt in the back of my mind.
31
Vivienne
This investigation is getting into my head, under my skin, something has to be done about it. I need to release some of the tension before I grind my teeth into oblivion all night.
Dominic wants to see me, and it’s a good thing, because I need him.
I need him to take control for an hour or two. I need him to reduce me to a bundle of lust-soaked nerves, because when I come out on the other side, my mind will be settled, my mind will be at ease, and then maybe I can figure out what the hell is knotted at the center of this theft. It should be easy. It should be open and shut. This was going to be my big moment of triumph, my big break, but—
I follow Dominic into the lobby of his penthouse. The moment I cross the threshold, my shoulders relax in spite of the thoughts rattling around in my brain, and I hear him let out a big breath like he’s been holding it in all afternoon. We were both quiet in the car, watching the blocks roll by, but now we’re here, and I’m so, so ready.
He wraps his arms around me from behind, pulling me in close, nuzzling his chin into the side of my neck, and all of me melts into him.
“It’s been a long day,” he murmurs in my ear.
I twist in his grasp, putting my arms around his neck. “Are you too tired? Do you want to lie down for a while?”
A wicked look comes into his eyes. “Lie down with you?” He drops his voice a touch, and I know there’s going to be no rest until he’s thoroughly finished with me.
Which is how I want it.
He leans down slowly, edging toward me, his hands tightening around my waist, and I breathe in his clean, manly scent. The core of me goes hot, my pussy is wet already, and I wonder why we didn’t get started in the car.
It doesn’t matter. We’re here now.
His lips make the softest, gentlest contact, like we’re kissing for the very first time, and it makes me tilt back in his arms, groaning out loud. “Dominic—”
“What?” He pulls back, eyes dancing.
“Don’t tease me.” I meant to say it in a haughty tone, but instead it comes out as more of a plea. “I’m—”
He pulls me back into him, and I feel his erection pressing against my hips. “You need something more.”
“Yes…”
“You need something harder.”
“I—” My throat goes tight with how much I need it. I’ve never thought of myself as the kind of woman who needs a man to take her in hand in the bedroom, but right now, with the pressure of my job bearing down on me, the fact that I can’t share it all with Dominic, I have to have it. I have to have him.
He turns me in his arms, pinning my hands behind my back with one of his, and he reaches around, roughly taking my breast in his other. I arch back against him, my head thrown back against his shoulder. Through the fabric of my dress, he pinches at my nipple, sending a spike of pain and pleasure down the line from my navel to my pussy.
He doesn’t ask me what I want another time. He doesn’t ask me what I need. He growls into my ear, “Be a good girl.” The part of my mind that’s obsessed with the investigation shuts down, and all I can do is hear his voice, respond to his orders with an increasingly wet pussy and a trembling core. “Bedroom. Now.”
He releases me, and I lead him to the bedroom. “Strip.”
I do.
Then he gestures toward a large ottoman in front of his fireplace. “All fours, ass high.” The air is cool between my legs, and a trickle of wetness runs down the inside of my thighs. While Dominic strips off his jacket, shirt, and tie, I go to the ottoman, only hesitating a fraction of an instant before I kneel on it, bending down into exactly the position he’s asking for, private spaces exposed, breasts down on the smooth fabric, holding tight to the edges.
He runs a hand down my back, the other gliding between my spread legs, and I open up for him a little more as his fingers dance on my wet folds and slide inside.
“Mhmm,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You’re ready.” He dips three fingers in and I take in a breath, sighing it out. Oh, God, I need this.
Dominic strokes and rubs, circling my clit with his fingertips, until I’m a trembling puddle on the ottoman. Then, a gentle pressure on the small of my back, and his other hand slides up, spreading my ass.
My entire body tenses. “Dominic—”
“Are you mine?”
My heart is pounding. “Yes…”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes…” This second one comes out as a whisper.
“Then relax for me, sweet thing.”
I force myself to relax as he spreads me again, slowly, taking his time, and then drags the pad of one finger down from the cleft in my cheeks, down one agonizing inch at a time, down and down, until he presses it firmly against my crinkled hole. I’m flooded with shame, but more than that, I’m swimming in desire.
“Relax.”
Dominic removes the finger and sucks it into his mouth, then replaces it against my hole. “Relax…” He repeats, and then he increases the pressure, working his finger
against my resistance until finally it pops in.
I cry out, and he presses his hand against my lower back again. “How does it feel, sweet thing?”
“It—I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.” He works his finger in and out, pressing it a little deeper with every movement. It feels thick, it feels big, but it doesn’t necessarily feel bad, even though my face is scarlet and my knuckles are white where they’re clenching the sides of the ottoman. Dominic works until it’s all the way in. “Good girl.”
A gush of wetness gives me away, and he lets out a short laugh.
“Don’t move.”
I hold as still as I can while he crosses the room. A drawer opens, then closes, and the next sensation to wash over me is a cool liquid against my hole.
“Oh—”
“Relax.” This time, his voice is as commanding as it’s ever been, and I press my lips together and obey.
Then there’s something thicker than his fingers at my hole, and his hand is on my back.
“You’re mine,” he says, and then he presses it in, presses it slowly, presses it absolutely relentlessly. I have no choice but to open for it, to let it in, and I don’t recognize the sounds I’m making. “Good girl,” he says, pushing it in a final inch, and I feel my asshole close around a narrower section of it.
“Oh, God, it’s huge.”
He leans down, threading his fingers through my hair, and turns my face to him. His eyes are fiery, piercing, and then his mouth is on mine, he’s pulling me up and away from the ottoman, carrying me to the bed. Spreading me out. Thrusting inside me. I suck in a breath of him, bite down on his shoulder, wrap my legs around him—and I’m gone, lost in a crashing wave of desire and release, all the worry erased from my mind.