"Kitten, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind about that. I'm not all that easy to get along with, and you're going to get frustrated with me from time to time, but I want you to be as honest and open with me as you can, while remembering that I also need you to be respectful."
"Other than Krista, will anyone else know what we're doing?"
"Due to the highly personal and politically incorrect nature of the agreement, few are privy to the arrangements I have with my admins. My partner, Adam, also knows, but others on this floor only suspect, and unless our relationship changes to a more openly romantic one, that's all they will do. Gossip will happen, despite the tight lid I try to keep on it. People will talk, but if anything hurtful is ever said to you, I expect you to seek me out and tell me, and I'm serious about that. If I discover you're upset over something said to you, and you didn't tell me about it first, you will be in a great deal of trouble, Miss Weston."
Though he said the words with a smile, Pam never thought for a minute he was kidding, but talk of their relationship wasn't the only gossip that worried her. "What about my past? Who else knows I spent time in prison?"
"No one, outside HR and me, unless you tell them yourself."
"I'm hardly likely to do that, sir, as the topic rarely arises in casual conversation."
"That's your decision, pet. However, speaking of conversations, I should also mention that both of us are getting new cell phones. Yours will already be loaded with my office, cell, and home number as well as Paul and David's numbers in case you need to reach them. If you start staying at my place, I'll give you the personal number for my housekeeper as well. I realize you feel a bit like I'm plunking you down in a glass house with very little privacy, but I intend to open up my life as well for you. No topic is forbidden; all questions will be answered as honestly as I am able, unless I believe the knowledge will hurt someone. All right?"
What he suggested was a little overwhelming, but not alarming. He intended to make sure she was taken care of to the best of his ability, and that wasn't an entirely bad thing. "Yes, sir."
He smiled back and gave her another kiss as a knock sounded at the door. "I suspect that's our lunch."
CHAPTER SIX
Once again, Mr. Peterson outdid himself by offering Pam a varied selection of luncheon meats, breads, and condiments from which to make her sandwich. Once she took enough food to satisfy him, he selected what he wanted then had the rest set out for the other office workers to help themselves. They did not fall under their bosses' dietary regime. They could eat, or not eat, as they pleased. He regulated only her diet. In a way that bothered her, and yet she found it oddly reassuring, too.
While they ate, their cell phones arrived, and he took time to explain some of the gadgets he had installed, since he doubted she would be familiar with them. He was right, of course. The devices came preloaded with GPS, a camera, and several apps she hadn't realized even existed. Basically, what she held in her hand equaled an electronic monitoring device.
When he finished his demonstration, Pam suggested she return to her desk.
"Why?" he inquired with one raised eyebrow.
"To do some actual work, perhaps? Isn't that why you hired me, sir?"
He smiled. "No. I hired you for reasons other than your ability to file and answer phones. Are you uncomfortable being here with me?"
She considered that for a moment. "No." His brow arched a little higher. "Well, maybe. A little. You are a rather intimidating figure, sir."
He gave a single nod. "Would you object to my suggestion that we begin purchasing your new wardrobe today?"
Her jaw dropped a fraction. "You’re intending to go with me when I try on clothes?"
"I was considering it. Why? Would you prefer I did not?"
"Yes! I mean, having you there would only make me more nervous."
"Can I trust you to call me if you run into trouble?"
She lifted up her phone. "Since you put all your numbers on speed dial, that shouldn't be an issue. But, why do you think I’ll have any problems? I have shopped for clothes before."
"True. But not at Executive Fashions, where I'm going to send you. They can be a little daunting to a newcomer."
She barely caught herself before she scoffed aloud again. How daunting could a woman's fashion store be? She was the customer, after all, wasn't she? All right, he was the customer, but still. They were supposed to serve her, weren't they? "I doubt I will need your assistance, sir. But if I should require a big, strong man to help me, I'll be sure to phone."
He leaned back and regarded her for a moment. "Lower those defenses a notch, Miss Weston, or I will lower them for you."
Pam took a deep breath. Okay, maybe she'd sounded a bit snarky. But, honestly…. "Sorry."
His gaze remained fixed on her face, but he said nothing more.
Though she wasn't sure what he sought, Pam suspected he wouldn't let her leave until she gave it to him. She glanced down at her fingers. Yeah, her nails really were a mess. She dug her fingers into her palms and gazed out the window to avoid his all-too-perceptive stare. Her clothes were tidy. Not fashionable, perhaps, but she wasn't a slob, and she tied her hair back because she found it easier to maintain that way. But he wanted to change her into something classier because her current looks didn't meet his preferred image. She half expected him to cut into her thoughts at this point, but he maintained his silence and unswerving gaze.
"I understand I may not be your ideal assistant—"
"Stop right there. I will not have this discussion with you again. I explained what I wanted, and why, and none of it had anything to do with you not measuring up to my standards or preferences. Did it?"
She shrugged, "Saying you're sending me to get new clothes because I don't present the impression you seek does indicate a certain lack on my part."
"Professionally speaking, only. On a personal basis, I have no complaints. Do you believe me?"
"I guess so. Although I also think there's more to your grand design than you're telling."
"You suspect me of entertaining a hidden agenda as far as you're concerned?"
"Don't you?" She met his gaze without blinking. "Aren't you seeing me as Galatea to your Pygmalion?"
He smiled. "Pygmalion carved Galatea out of marble. You may be composed of complex material, Miss Weston, but there is nothing marble-like about you."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant, and my response is no. I possess no desire to mold you into something you are not. I only want to enhance who and what you already are. Can’t you see the difference?"
"No. But does the way I view your remodeling project matter?"
"I'll let you answer that question, since what I say clearly holds little sway over your opinion."
"You think I'm being ungrateful again, don't you?"
"I think you're scared I'll discover I've made a mistake when your makeover does not produce the results I’m after."
Boy, didn't that just hit the nail on the head. "Well? Won't you?"
"No. I've known my own mind since I attended grade school, Pam. I have not made a mistake with you. Nor will I. Even so, I'm beginning to think I need to go with you."
"No! Please. This will be difficult enough. With you there watching, I won't stop second-guessing myself."
He nodded. "All right, I'll let you go alone. However, I first need you to understand that the primary individual interested in your thoughts and perceptions is the person standing before you. These people are professionals. They will advise, not ask. There won't be any second-guessing on your part, since all the decisions will be theirs. Will that be a problem for you?"
"No, sir. I'll simply keep my mouth shut and do as they tell me. Is that what you want?"
"It's what they'll expect. I want you to be satisfied, which is why I want to go along. Last chance. Would you permit me to accompany you?"
"I'd rather you didn't, sir."
"Fine." He checked
his watch, rose from his chair, walked to his phone, and pressed a button. "Yes. Miss Weston will be there in fifteen minutes. Is everything ready?" He listened. "No, I will not be accompanying her, but she is to be given the full executive treatment. Understand?" Another pause. "Ice water and juice are allowable. No champagne." Another pause. "That would be acceptable. Thank you." He hung up.
"Call Paul and tell him to meet you out front. He knows where to go. And, Pam?"
"Yes, sir?"
"If you do run into difficulty and fail to phone me, you will find yourself in a position you won't like at all. Clear?"
She nodded. If she started to hyperventilate or suffer another meltdown, she needed to be the one to tell him. Not the store.
"Good. Paul will pick you up when you're done, and we'll meet for dinner."
When Pam rose, he reached for her hand. "This is meant to be a treat, not torture. Remember that."
If she had to be reminded, then this wasn't going to be pleasant. A little more uncertain, but refusing to knuckle under, she said, "I'll try, sir."
Pam really wished Krista was still there so they could talk before she left, but, holding her chin high, she strode from his office, picked up her purse, and headed for the hated elevators. She would not fall apart like a silly, mindless girl. And she refused to call him for any reason.
* * *
Dressed in a perky new bra, intended to enhance her negligible assets, and a sexy pair of underwear that fleshed out her bony hips, Pam stood with her arms as close to her sides as possible while two women clucked and sighed over her as if she was a cheap cut of meat they'd been ordered to magically transform into a filet mignon. They weren't cruel or mean in their comments, just honest, and they weren't saying anything Pam didn't already know.
What bothered her most was their softly spoken comparisons to the other women Mr. Peterson sent them. As she listened, Pam concluded she came in unreasonably low on their acceptability scale. From one to ten, she ranged in the minus category for everything except her blue eyes and the natural color of her coffee brown hair. They said none of this directly to her, naturally, but Pam could read between the lines. She wasn't stupid, even if she was somewhat naïve.
Since they weren’t miracle workers, the two fashionistas were convinced Mr. Peterson would be disappointed with his new assistant. Yeah, she understood he claimed to feel differently, but even she knew better. No matter how you sliced the pie, she was an ex-con with no viable future outside of what he offered her.
After the ladies recorded her measurements, they went off to collect some clothes they hoped would mask her shortcomings while she sat wearing a soft, white robe drinking ice water from a crystal goblet. She checked her phone. No messages. Of course not. Who would want to call her? She flipped through her address book to see if Krista's home number might have been programmed into it, but, as her luck was running, it wasn't. Just as well. Krista was probably still upset. Restless and on edge, Pam scanned the rules for a game titled Big Boss, but decided her nerves were already strung too tight to attempt corporate mergers—even fantasy ones.
When the saleswomen returned, they politely asked Pam to try on a navy-blue A-line dress. Earlier, she'd requested privacy in which to change, which they'd granted without argument, probably because they had no wish to spend any more time in her company than she wished to spend in theirs. So she stood alone in the pastel-colored changing room complete with two full-length mirrors, both of which she'd like to smash into tiny pieces, a pitcher of ice water, glasses, a velvet-covered loveseat with embroidered pillows and two chairs. Far more than a single, scared woman would ever need. The new dress fit her fine and did look professional. After giving a small twirl, Pam stepped out of the room to stand before the women while they openly shared their thoughts with each other. Navy, they determined, made her already sallow complexion appear jaundiced.
Pam's only request was that none of the outfits have short sleeves, but she might as well have been talking out her butt for all the attention they gave her. Though she made no comment or complaint throughout the session, by the thirtieth outfit they'd rejected because of one or more of her numerous faults, she started to shake. She scolded herself for being ridiculous. She'd eaten a substantial lunch, so her blood sugar shouldn’t be low. And though trying on clothes was a bit fatiguing, she hadn't done anything strenuous. But when the trembling got so bad even the women noticed, they suggested she put on her robe and sit down for a few minutes.
Pam didn't argue, except, the moment she sat down, her stomach revolted. What did it have to complain about? Afraid she would be ill, she asked where the restrooms were and ran in the direction they pointed. Not wanting to be disturbed, she locked the door and lost all the lunch her bossy boss had insisted she eat. With her stomach heaving and her head spinning in dizzying circles, Pam’s legs and arms started shaking so hard, she crumpled to the floor as tears ran down her cheeks. She was a hopeless case. They should lock her up and throw away the key.
The yelling and pounding at the door barely registered in her soggy brain as she discounted the sound as merely additional noise she needed to tune out. She felt sick, empty, and useless. So she bit back a cry of dismay when a strong pair of arms picked her up as if she was a four-year-old child, instead of a grown woman.
Despite knowing who held her, Pam struggled for fear over what would come next.
"No," she cried as she squirmed and kicked her feet. "I'm fine. I don't need you. Put me down!"
"Quiet, Pam." Though the words emerged barely above a whisper, the steel in them caused Pam a frisson of alarm.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't think—"
"No. You didn't. Actually, I take that back. The problem is you did way too much thinking, none of which was productive or useful."
Swallowing, she made no further protest when he rose with her in his arms and requested a private room. Yeah, they no doubt had lots of those here, too.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Once they were alone, Peterson sat down with Pam on his lap. She started to rise, but the long, lean fingers clamped on her thigh stilled her movements.
"Don't even think about it," he growled.
Yup, he was angry, but resting beneath the anger lay a deep concern. She didn't know how she realized that, but the knowledge had her pressing her face to his chest in surrender. His firm grasp tightened briefly then eased as he stroked her hair.
She wasn't crying, since she'd shed enough tears in the ladies’ room, but hiccups continued to jolt through her diaphragm as remnants from her bathroom breakdown. Peterson merely held her in his arms, saying nothing, while he rubbed her terry cloth-covered back until the spasms ceased.
Not raising her head, she said, "I got sick earlier. Do you think I could freshen up a bit before you start my scolding?
"Do you feel up to it?
"I think a splash of cool water and a mouth rinse will make me feel fresher, if not better."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out two cellophane-wrapped mints. "Suck on these after you rinse out your mouth. They'll help." When she hesitated, he gave her a nudge. "You've got five minutes, then I'll expect you back in here. Go on."
Pam didn't rush, but she didn't dawdle either. Recognizing he was angry with her for not calling when she first started to get upset, she needed to find a way to explain her reasons. When she returned, Peterson patted his lap to indicate where he wanted her.
Slowly retaking her place, she asked, "Am I in trouble?"
"What do you think?" His voice was quiet, firm, and in total control.
"I think you believe I should have called you."
"So, why didn't you?"
She shrugged and toyed with the buttons on his shirt. When had she grown so comfortable with this man that fingering his shirt buttons seemed like a natural way to pass the time? "I thought I could handle it."
"Handle what?"
"My emotions."
"Care to sit up and tell me what happened
?"
"No, thank you."
His chest gave a slight jerk as if he wanted to laugh but refused to give in to the urge. He no longer held himself quite so tensely, but Pam suspected she still lurked in the danger zone.
"Fine. Then we'll remain here until you're ready."
"Yeah. Like you have nothing better to do than babysit a basket case. Right?"
The sharp smack she received on her naked thigh wasn’t unexpected, but its strength still surprised a yelp out of her.
"No more warnings on that one, kitten. You’ve exhausted them."
"Will you strike me again if I maintain I'm simply telling the truth?"
"The way I'm feeling at the moment, you should thank your lucky stars I'm not giving you a full-fledged, palm to bare butt paddling. God knows you deserve one."
She drew back a little to gaze at him. His expression appeared cold and resolute, but his eyes held a heat that was not the least bit objective. "I'm afraid anything I say in my defense might be used against me later."
"You have no defense. Shall I tick off the reasons why you need a good thrashing?"
"No, thank you. I don't believe I would handle it very well."
"You're not meant to handle it. You're meant to let all that bottled-up emotion out."
"That could get really ugly."
He gave his head a shake, then holding her face in his hands he kissed her. "You truly are a brat, you know that?"
"I don't mean to be."
"Yes, you do. You want me to laugh and forget how angry I am with you, and that's being a brat."
"Okay. If that's your definition of a brat, I guess I am one. But it’s my own hide I am protecting."
"I could argue the point with you, but I won't. So, tell me, why didn’t you contact me when you first started shaking? Didn't you believe I meant it when I told you to call?"
"I believed you, I just didn't believe me."
"Riddles. Speak English."
"You know what I mean. I realize you were trying to protect me, but I didn't think I needed protection. Not from those women."
"So, what happened?"
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