His Secretary: Undone and Unveiled (The Complete Series Collection)

by Melanie Marchande

  Mr. Risinger shakes his head. “You of all people should know, the only proper way to deal with double standards is a roundhouse kick, right to the face.” He makes a demonstrative gesture.

  “Yes, good. Solving every problem with violence. Did you learn that in your Women’s Studies workshop, too?”

  He sprawls back down in his chair. “Have it your way. You think Miss Emma Peel worried about the glass ceiling? Not on your life. Kicked right through it.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to avoid taking my life advice from people who fight crime in S&M outfits and four-inch heels.” I stand up. “Good talk, though.”

  He tuts softly. “So judgmental. I’m sending you to that workshop, Ms. Burns. You could learn a thing or two.”

  It’s after hours, and I’m in the zone. As much as I hated the idea of staying late to work on it, a mindless spreadsheet is exactly what I need right now. As I tab my way along the rows, with Nicki Minaj blasting in my earbuds, I’m actually starting to relax a little bit.

  Until someone reaches over my shoulder, and like a completely normal and mature adult human, yanks the plug of my headphones out.

  MY ANACONDA DON’T - MY ANACONDA DON’T -

  I slam the screen shut, silencing the music.

  “I thought you went home.” I’m playing it cool, even though I already visibly jumped out of my skin. Mr. Risinger leans up against my desk, casual as you please, so his hip is about three millimeters from my shoulder. I’m trying not to look at him, but there’s nothing on my desk to stare at, except my name plate. If I open my computer again it’ll be to the dulcet tones of Sir Mix-a-Lot. I’m already fucked, the next thing out of Mr. Risinger’s mouth is almost certainly going to include the phrase baby got back, but I have to at least try controlling the damage.

  “I would’ve taken you for more of a Taylor Swift girl,” he says, grabbing into the edges of my desk and smiling down at me. “It’s nice to know you can still surprise me.”

  “I have layers,” I tell him, still staring at nothing. “Not everyone is as one-dimensional as you.”

  He grins. “It’s after-hours, so I’m going to overlook the policy violation, but don’t let the interns see you with headphones. You know how they are.”

  “Fallible human beings?” I look up at him, smiling coolly. “Disgusting, isn’t it?”

  “All I know is, I wouldn’t have been able to get away with half the shit they pull. Not when I was their age.” He shakes his head. “This generation thinks everybody owes them something.”

  “You know the Boomers think the same thing about us.” I pick up my stapler, then put it back down. “And the Greatest Generation thought the same thing about the Baby Boomers. And…”

  “Yes, yes, everyone’s terrible,” he says, impatiently. “Do you have anything to wear for the signing?”

  It takes me a second to catch up. “Uh…I’m not really sure what’s expected.”

  “Well, you need to look successful.” His eyes drift over my body, and my breath catches in my throat in spite of myself. “So…you know, not that.”

  He digs into his pocket and produces a wallet that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Making a quiet, thoughtful noise, he pulls out a card and drops it on the desk in front of me. I swear it almost makes an audible thunk. It looks like it’s made of obsidian.

  “Get yourself a few nice outfits,” he says. “Five or six, at least, because if this goes well, there’s a conference coming up in Austin that I can get a last-minute registration to.”

  “Um.” I pick it up, feeling like there’s a punchline coming. “Okay. I don’t really…”

  “Money’s no object,” he says, with a dismissive gesture. “Obviously.”

  I look up at him. He’s smiling, like he knows exactly how obnoxious he’s being.

  “Obviously,” I echo. And then I smile back, because sometimes I just can’t help it.

  He holds my gaze for a moment, and I realize I’m opening my mouth to speak.

  “Thank you, Adrian.”

  At first, there’s no reaction. Then his eyes open a fraction wider, I’m sure I’m not imagining it - his face softening slightly in confusion and genuine surprise. I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know why I called him Adrian. I don’t think of him that way, except now apparently I do.

  “Right, well,” he says, suddenly, pushing off my desk and disappearing down the hallway. “No problem. It’s a business expense.”

  I don’t actually think it is, but that’s between him and his accountant. It’s funny, though, how he almost seems to be deflecting it. Normally he absorbs any positive attention like a sponge. Or any negative attention, for that matter.

  Who the hell is this man, and what did he do with my boss?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ARCHIVED ITEMS: MORE THAN ONE MONTH OLD

  To: natalie@nataliemcbrideauthor.com

  From: megatron_unleashed@bmail.com

  BTW, I loved that scene when the lingerie just showed up at her doorstep. I was laughing so hard when she just set it down on the floor stared at it from across the room before she could even open it. I can just imagine doing the same thing. And it was super hot how he never even asked to see her in it, he just wanted her to feel sexy at work. I can’t imagine wearing stockings and garters and a lace thong would really be all that practical for a minimum ten-hour day, but hell, with a guy like Dirk I’d be happy to find out.

  From: natalie@nataliemcbrideauthor.com

  To: megatron_unleashed@bmail.com

  You’ve never worn lingerie under your work clothes before? You really should try it out. I bet your boss would treat you differently.

  To: natalie@nataliemcbrideauthor.com

  From: megatron_unleashed@bmail.com

  lol. If I flashed him, maybe. Otherwise he’d never notice. Trust me, he only looks for things to criticize.

  SAVED DRAFTS: UNSENT

  Account: natalie@nataliemcbrideauthor.com

  I dare you to wear thigh-highs and a skirt short enough to show off the tops of them when you sit down. I guarantee you’ll get a reaction out of him.

  “What are you up to later, doll?”

  Ugh ugh ugh ugh.

  Mike from the legal department is slimy. And not like, Mr. Risinger slimy. That’s not even a good word to describe Adrian. On the surface it seems to fit, but it doesn’t. Mike is slimy slimy, like he practically leaves a trail behind him. He definitely thinks he’s better than everyone, and he especially thinks he is entitled to treat this company as his own personal harem, willing or not.

  “Watching Mr. Risinger put his fist through your sternum later, if you keep talking to me that way,” I tell him, calmly. I don’t know if it’s true, but it works as an intimidation technique. Yet he keeps coming back, like a dog getting sprayed by a skunk.

  “Keep playing hard to get, it only makes me…well, you know,” is Mike’s parting shot, as he saunters out of the room.

  If he keeps up with this shit, I’m going to need an airsickness bag for my desk. It seems to get worse every day.

  Putting the incident out of my mind, I start clicking through my inbox and planning for my shopping trip later. I know there’s a plus-size boutique not too far away, so I should be able to hit it on my lunch without losing too much time. I’m still completely swamped, but at least I have a plan of action, and that makes me feel slightly calmer.

  Now, if everything can just go according to plan.

  After grabbing a protein bar from the vending machine, I stop by Adrian’s office to let him know I’m going shopping. He hasn’t told me about any meetings and his phone line’s not lit up, so I don’t bother to knock, as I often don’t.

  But he’s not alone. One of the interns, from Accounting, I think, is sitting across from his desk, curled up in a posture that reminds me of a soda can that’s been stepped on. Her face is streaked with tears. Oh, shit. I completely forgot about the coffee incident. He must’ve picked someone at random to unleash his
wrath on.

  Anger is bubbling up inside me, but I can’t make this situation any better by jumping into the middle of it - at least, not until I’m sure what’s going on. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out, taking a step back. “I didn’t…”

  “It’s all right,” says Adrian. His voice is low and serious, and he doesn’t have that glint in his eye like when he’s just told somebody off. Maybe I’m wrong, after all. “She’s just leaving. Thank you for coming to me, Ashley. You can go home for the rest of the day.”

  She nods, sniffling, and makes herself scarce.

  I spend a few seconds in silence, trying to figure out what the hell I just missed.

  “Sit down, Meghan.” He’s tapping his fingers on the desk in a very particular way, and it’s something I’ve grown to associate with an executioner’s drum call. “Do you know Mike Morgan, from legal?”

  I’m chewing on my lower lip without meaning to. “You could say that. Sometimes he stops by when you’re not around.”

  Adrian interlaces his fingers, elbows resting on his desk. “Impressions?”

  “Creepy,” I say, without hesitating. “High octane creepy. Why?”

  “Did he ever touch you?” It’s a matter-of-fact question, and I’m not used to Adrian not having a tone of some sort.

  “God, no.” I’m horrified. “I’d twist his arm off. Did he…”

  Adrian’s face tells me everything I need to know. My stomach sinks.

  “I’m…shit, I should’ve said something.” I hug myself tightly. “I figured he was just…I don’t know what I figured.” I figured you’d tell me to laugh it off. “That poor girl.”

  “Not your fault,” says Adrian, shortly. “He’s counting on nobody wanting to make a scene. He knows exactly how far he can push someone before they’ll talk. It’s like a sixth sense.” He picks up a pen uncaps it firmly. “But this time he misjudged.”

  I’ve never seen him like this. As insufferable as he is, he’s never said the kinds of things Mike says, or made me feel the way Mike did. And he’s never given me any reason to assume that he doesn’t take it seriously. I just did. And I was wrong.

  “Shouldn’t H.R. be handling this?” I’m not really sure what else to say.

  He smiles, thinly. “Ask me again tomorrow when I’m interviewing for a new head of department.”

  Jesus. “Did they blow her off?”

  “Well, it seems Kelly is good friends the Mr. Morgan’s sister. Their kids have soccer together. And people ask me why my ultimate dream is to staff a company entirely with robots.”

  “If I was his sister, I’d throw him under the bus so fucking fast…” I’m scowling. “But, who knows if his family even has a clue.”

  Adrian’s smile grows a tiny bit warmer. “I know you would,” he says. “That’s one of the main reasons why I keep you around here. Can you sit in in on the bloodbath?”

  What he’s really asking me is if I’ll be comfortable. Which is a strange question, coming from him, even hidden between the lines. “It would be my pleasure,” I tell him. H.R. regulations insist on a witness for firing meetings, and I’ve done it before in a pinch, but this one should be particularly satisfying.

  I take a deep, calming breath while he buzzes for Mr. Morgan to please come to his office. Adrian sits down, cracks his knuckles, and rolls his neck.

  Showtime.

  “Jeeze, it’s like a funeral in here.” Mike looks around the room, and I can practically hear the crickets in his head. “Am I in trouble, or something?”

  A beat.

  “Sit down, please.” Adrian’s voice is as cold as a marble floor. “I heard a disturbing story about you this morning. I think you know the incident I’m referring to.”

  Mike goes white as a sheet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Let me refresh your memory. It involved an intern named Ashley, and your hand.” He folds his arms across his chest, and it’s probably the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen in my life. “Ringing any bells yet?”

  “No,” Mike insists, his voice getting quieter every time.

  Adrian sighs, crisply. “I saw it on camera, Mike. Let’s stop with this.”

  “What exactly did you see?” He swallows hard.

  “Your hand grabbing her ass, mostly.” Adrian fiddles with a pen between his fingers. “And you whispering some very sweet endearments in her ear, I’m sure. Does that jog your memory?”

  Mike swallows again. “It was an accident.”

  Adrian gives him a look that could curdle milk.

  “I was just joking around,” Mike tries, his hands shaking now. “It was…just a little…”

  Adrian’s fingers are beating out that snare on the desk again. Somewhere, the hangman ties his noose.

  “You know how they are!” Mike finally bursts out, angrily. “Always playing coy and acting like they don’t want the attention, but they…”

  I’m swallowing down a mouthful of bile. Adrian stands up, abruptly. His nostrils flare.

  “Security will escort you to your car, Mr. Morgan,” he says, softly. “And if you so much as speak to Ashley again, or make eye contact with her on the street, or get on the same subway car, I will fucking find you.” He tilts his head slightly closer to the still-seated, nearly-hyperventilating man. “Don’t give me a reason to remember your name.”

  My head is still swimming as I walk through the boutique. I’m picking things up without even looking at the price tags, which I didn’t think I’d be able to do, but I’m so distracted it’s actually not difficult at all.

  This is a side to Adrian I’ve never seen before. I can’t stop picturing the look on his face, even as I try on a few outfits, including a few that would probably impress even him.

  Righteously angry. Fiercely protective. Two concepts I had never associated with my boss, until now.

  I’m halfway to the checkout when a display catches my eye.

  Silky underwear.

  I’m pretty sure I’ve never owned silky underwear. Cotton - preferably whichever brand is on sale - has always served me just fine. But now that I’m clutching Adrian Risinger’s black Amex in my hot little hand, it almost seems sinful not to buy some silky underwear.

  I mean, how would these outfits feel with my old, worn-out Hanes underneath? Nah, that’s no good. Silky underwear it is.

  After picking out a handful of pairs, in red, black, and a very girly pink, I head to the register. The cashier is both gorgeous and curvy herself, which I appreciate. She compliments me on my purchases, and when I hand her Mr. Risinger’s card to swipe, she glances up at me with a secretive smile.

  “So…you must have liked it, huh?” she asks.

  “Um.” I glance at my new purchases, then back up at her. “…it?”

  “The…the nightie…” Her eyes widen. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I just assumed - he bought it right before Valentine’s day, I figured he must’ve given it to you already. I hope I didn’t ruin the surprise.”

  My brain stutters a few times. “…he?”

  “Mr. Risinger,” she says, nodding at the card she’s just handed back to me. “Your, uh…your boyfriend, I assume. Or, you know, whatever. I don’t judge.”

  I make an effort to swallow, although my throat suddenly feels very dry. “He bought ah, uh, nightie here?” I manage to ask.

  She nods, biting her lip nervously. “If you could call it that. I mean, it’s very cute, but not exactly practical.” A nervous giggle escapes her. “Jeeze, I’m really - I’m really sorry. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Please don’t say anything to him - my boss will kill me if she thinks I scared him off.”

  “It’s fine, really. He must’ve decided to save it for another special occasion. I won’t say a word.” I give her a brave smile, so she relaxes a little, because she’s clearly afraid that she’s stumbled into some big old dramatic mess.

  It’s only reasonable that she should assume this credit card belongs to either my boyfriend or my sugar daddy. A
fter all, I’m not wearing a ring. But there’s the question of why Mr. Risinger was here before Valentine’s day, buying a nightie.

  Not a real question, actually. In fact, it’s exactly none of my business. I have no idea what his love life consists of, and I greatly prefer it that way. But it never occurred to me that he’d be spending his time with, well…

  Women who look like me. Buying lingerie for them, no less.

  I try to hide my troubled expression until I walk out the door, because I don’t want the cashier to think she’s accidentally let on that he’s cheating on me, or something.

  So, Mr. Risinger likes them curvy.

  That’s…that’s sure something.

  Except it doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant. Who cares what his sexual preferences are? It’s not like I’m going to sleep with him. In all these years, he’s never made a pass at me - if he wanted me, surely I’d know by now. And anyway, I would never do it. It’s a terrible idea. He’s so toxic, I’m pretty sure his dick probably contains some kind of Indiana Jones face-melting curse. Just being in the same room with him is bad enough.

  But now, it’s just one of those things. Like “don’t think about pink elephants.” The harder I try to forget, the harder it is to shake.

  When I get back, Adrian’s not in his office. I’m momentarily stumped. Normally, if someone needs to know where he is, I’m the one they ask. I try calling the main floor receptionist, and while she’s not sure, she thinks he might be in the gym.

  Well, that makes sense.

  I haven’t set foot in there since I was hired. I prefer to work out at home, away from judgmental eyes, especially if those eyes might belong to a coworker. Or my boss. I don’t know what Adrian would say to me if he saw my routine, but I’m sure I’m doing it all wrong.