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

by Melanie Marchande

  “You’ll figure it out,” I assure him. “Maybe you just need to give yourself a break.”

  Adrian just laughs. “What the hell would I do with myself?”

  Well, that’s a question I’ve never been able to answer.

  For as long as I’ve known Adrian, he’s never been able to stop working. Though he claims it was pure inspiration, I’m sure at least part of the reason he started writing books is because he needed to fill those sparse hours between work and sleep with a different kind of work.

  “I think you need structure,” I tell him.

  He winces slightly. “That’s what Dad always used to say,” he says, in his classic I’m totally joking except I’m not really joking at all tone. “I’d say I avoided bootcamp by the skin of my teeth, but I think he was just bluffing.”

  “Well, maybe something between military training, and the complete anarchy you’ve got going on now,” I suggest, still moving my fingers soothingly through his hair. It always feels so lovely and silky, nothing like mine. “Have the senior partners been dropping any more hints?”

  A few months after he abruptly quit, the “old fucks” on the board at Risinger Industries - not their official job title - suddenly started prodding at him again. I think he expected to be blacklisted for life from all professional circles, so it was somewhat of a surprise. It’s pretty obvious they’re trying to groom him for some kind of return, or at least a consultancy, but he’s been playing coy.

  “I hated that job,” he mutters.

  “Liar.” I grip a handful of his hair and tug gently. “You practically came into work with an erection every day.”

  “Yeah, because of my hot secretary.” He looks up at me, finally, smiling a little. “I mean, as far as soul-sucking jobs go, it was pretty gratifying. But I don’t need that kind of stress in my life.”

  “I think maybe you do,” I tell him. “Don’t you ever miss it?”

  He sighs. “I didn’t really hate the job, Megs. I hated the person it turned me into. That’s what I don’t miss.” For a moment he’s quiet, thoughtful. “But you’re right,” he says, after a pause. “They do want me. They’re not tipping their hand, but I know how to read the signs. Numbers are down. They want me back so I can sprinkle whatever magic pixie dust they think I have. But I don’t care anymore. It’s not my company. It never was, really. The only difference is that now, I’ve learned to let it go. It’s all-or-nothing for me there. I don’t want to go back.”

  In spite of his words, he doesn’t sound quite convinced.

  Risinger Industries was his life. He practically grew up there, with Cora as his reluctant babysitter on long weekends when his father couldn’t get away, and his mother “wasn’t feeling well.” He doesn’t talk much about her, but I’ve gotten the impression that her sickness came from a bottle. He keeps flasks stashed in odd places around the house, and that’s not a habit you pick up just anywhere.

  Before he came of age, the majority share of the company was handed to a board of directors. Adrian’s always taken this as a personal slight, although he retained his share of forty-nine percent, even when he chose to step down as CEO. Given what I know of his father, this has always struck me as a surprisingly generous move. Even without the company, Adrian still has the rest of the family fortune to his name. He’s never needed his stake to live on.

  “Just think about it,” I urge him. “Even consulting part-time, it could be really good for you. Give you something else to focus on. And then, once you’re busy with something else, inspiration will come.”

  He sneaks an arm around my waist. “Will you come back too? Fetch my coffee, sort the mail, eat lunch together?”

  I laugh softly. “Isn’t there something missing from that list?”

  “Sorry.” He lifts his other hand and makes air quotes for emphasis as he speaks. “Eat ‘lunch’ together.”

  “Oh, that’s very tempting, but…not in a million years, babe. Not in a million years.” I stroke his hair again. “I love you more than anything, but after you fired me, I promised myself I’d never work for you again. And I don’t like to break my promises.”

  Five Years Ago

  “Ms. Burns, care to tell me what the fuck I’m looking at?”

  So it begins.

  My first week at Risinger Industries was remarkably calm and quiet, so I should’ve known the other shoe was about to drop. Still, I’d almost allowed myself to believe that Mr. Risinger and I legitimately got along so well that I wasn’t going to see a hint of the behavior that sent so many other candidates running for the hills.

  How stupid could I possibly be?

  “Um…a purchase order?” That’s obviously not the answer he’s looking for, but I’m scanning it for errors and I don’t see a damn thing. When I filled it out last Tuesday, I quadruple-checked everything until my eyes glazed over.

  His nostrils flare. “Can you tell me what’s wrong with it?”

  I want to say something biting in return, but he’s sapped all my defiance with the force of his simmering anger. It sucks every other emotion out of the room, leaving room for absolutely nothing and no one else. And he hasn’t even raised his voice yet.

  “Here,” he hisses, at last, slamming his hand down on the bottom of the paper.

  SIGNATURE:

  Followed by a blank line.

  Well, shit.

  “This was sent halfway across the goddamn state before they bounced it back as invalid,” he growls. “How’d you manage to fuck this up?”

  There’s absolutely no blood left in my face. My lips feel cold as I try to form words. My mind’s racing, I know I did exactly what he told me to do…but maybe it’s better to pretend. But no. I can’t. “You said…” I clear my throat, and he just keeps glaring at me. “You said to leave it in my outbox and you’d…”

  “My outbox,” he cuts me off, almost, but not quite, shouting. I force myself not to flinch, though my hands clench into fists in my lap. “This.” He picks up the item in question and shakes it in my general direction. “This fucking outbox. The one on my fucking desk. Why the fuck would I be rifling through your outbox for paperwork to sign, Ms. Burns? Use your brain. I’m sure you’ve got one in there somewhere.”

  Shit.

  “I’m sure I can…” I swallow hard, and his eyes go even darker somehow. “…fix it.”

  He shakes his head. “I already fixed it, as much as it can be fixed. But we’ve already lost time. We’ve already lost money. That’s why we cross our Is and dot our Ts here, Ms. Burns, because it actually matters. This isn’t amateur hour. You’re not playing office at take-your-daughter-to-work-day.”

  My face must betray some momentary confusion at his jab, because something sparks in his eyes, momentarily derailing his rant.

  “That’s a joke, Ms. Burns, based on a popular office activity here in the civilized world. I suppose every day is take-your-daughter-to-work-day down on the peanut farm.” He picks up the paper and crumples it in his fist. “Now, do you understand the importance of what I’m telling you?”

  “Yes,” I reply, quietly. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Apologies are meaningless. Just understand what I’m telling you, and understand that I can’t tolerate these kinds of mistakes if I want to run a successful company. Everything you do reflects on me. I bear the ultimate responsibility for it. You can work anywhere, but I’m stuck with this company for the rest of my life. It’s my family’s legacy, you see. So I’m not allowed to take it out back and shoot it, and neither are you. You’re new here, so I can tolerate the stupid questions, getting lost on your way to the copy room, the way you stumble in here dressed like a clearance sale at Goodwill - but you do have to put in an effort, Ms. Burns.”

  I just stare at him, in shock.

  He waves his hand. “You can go,” he says, sounding more annoyed than angry now. “Get back to work. And don’t forget my lunch order.”

  Fuck your lunch order.

  Fu
ck your company.

  Fuck you.

  I stand up and walk out into the hallway. I pick up a random file folder off my desk so it looks like I have a reason to be going somewhere, hugging it against me like a shield, until I reach a secluded corner of the endless halls where I can lean against the wall and let the tears come.

  Of course, at that exact moment, I can hear footsteps coming up the hall. I turn away, but whoever-it-is comes a little closer and stops, noticing me. I can tell from the sound of his stride it’s not Adrian; he doesn’t walk like he owns the world.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  I take in a deep, shaky breath. “Yeah,” I lie.

  “You’re Mr. Risinger’s new admin assistant, right?” says the voice.

  I nod, and consider turning around, but I suspect I look like a raccoon.

  “I’m Steve, from Engineering,” he says. There’s a pause. “Okay, we can shake hands later.”

  “Sorry,” I mutter, resigning myself to humiliation as I turn around to face him. “I was hoping to keep this under the radar.”

  “I won’t tell a soul,” says Steve, laying his hand on his chest. “Promise. Especially not the boss man. He’s got his own obsessions with perfection and he doesn’t ever think he’s good enough, so he takes it out on everybody else. You can’t let him get to you. Just stay the course. Don’t get sucked into his drama tornado. If you can do that, you’ll be the most successful person that’s ever taken the role.”

  I sniffle a little. “Thanks, Steve. I’m Meg.”

  “Pleased to meet you. Ever need to vent, come down and see me in the social reject’s corner on the tenth floor. We throw pretty good parties for a pack of introverts.”

  “Thanks.” I’m smiling now, legitimately grateful for the offer of friendship from a stranger. I don’t know how long I can really last here, but maybe if I can ally myself with the rest of the staff, it won’t be so bad.

  Right there, right then, I decide I’m not going to let Mr. Risinger get the best of me. I’m going to stick with his job for as long as it takes to pay off my debt, and get a better apartment, and get some savings in the bank. Then, I can do whatever I want. Just a few years. I won’t let myself take his actions personally.

  I will not let Mr. Risinger win.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ADRIAN

  What would Cora say?

  The thought runs through my mind more often than it probably should. She was, after all, just a receptionist at my father’s company. When I was five, I played with my trucks under her desk, and she never complained when I inevitably ran them into her ankles. When I was ten, she shared her ice cream sandwiches with me, and on more than one occasion, lied to my father about my whereabouts when he was on the warpath. When I was thirteen, she intercepted a call from the school about an unfortunate recess incident, and managed to convince them she was my mother, and she’d take care of it. And she did - I got quite the earful about making sure there were no teachers present before I hit the bully back.

  But she was just the receptionist.

  When I was sixteen, I caught my father shouting at Cora in his office - close, too close, looming over her small frame with his overgrown bulk. I realized then that I didn’t have to let it happen anymore. I was almost eye-to-eye with him and at least as strong. She was weathering the storm, the way only experienced sailors can, but my father wasn’t blessed with the ability to recognize how strong she was. Intimidation was the only language he spoke.

  I shoved him away from her, and he stumbled back - drunk - big fucking surprise. The look in his eyes was the most gratifying thing I had ever seen in my life.

  I told him if he ever pissed me off like that again, I’d make sure he landed in the hospital.

  As it turned out, cirrhosis got him first. It was three weeks after my eighteenth birthday. Of everybody at the funeral, Cora was the only one who cried.

  I never understood it, and I still don’t understand it now. That a smart, no-bullshit woman like her would stay working for a tyrant like that. And caring for him, no less - more than his own family did, more than his wife. My mother managed to sober up for the occasion, but she didn’t seem to really comprehend what was happening. She’d found the best way to escape from him, and a part of me could hardly blame her. When she was constantly either stupid-drunk or too hungover to move, she was uninteresting. I’ve read something about that phenomenon since. Some people call it gray rock. Of course, you’re not supposed to do it with copious amounts of gin, but she had her own methods. The idea is to be as boring as possible when you’re dealing with that kind of person. A raging narcissist like my father needed something to feed on. If you gave him nothing, eventually, he would move on.

  But I was never very good at being boring.

  I bore the brunt of my father’s anger for most of my life, so when he was gone, I didn’t miss him. But his voice still lives in my head, because that’s the legacy our parents always leave us. For better or for worse.

  Leaving his company behind was like cutting out an old, festering wound. I didn’t realize how much, until I did it. Even though I had the whole place gutted and redone from its horrific late-80s design, the memories were still just as sharp. His ghost followed me through those halls, a constant reminder that I’d never live up to him. I drank to forget him, a pretty absurd decision, indulging in the same poison that killed both of my parents in the end. (Technically, my mother crashed her car. But I blame the bottle, more than the electrical pole she hit in the middle of the day, going eighty miles per hour on a residential street. I was just grateful she didn’t hurt anyone else.)

  For a while, I considered that I might have an actual substance problem, but I quickly realized that wasn’t the issue. And there’s no rehab for being an asshole.

  And now, Meg wants me to go back.

  An angry headache throbs behind my eyes. She doesn’t get it. It’s not as simple as just putting on a suit and walking back through those doors, and doing my nine-to-five. That place will keep on consuming my soul, if I let it.

  But I can’t possibly explain that to her. I’m already exasperated at myself for being so melodramatic, she’s certainly not going to take it well.

  Three Years Ago

  You have to understand, I wasn’t looking for a soulmate.

  Until she came along, I’d assumed the whole concept was invented by the Hallmark corporation to dupe the sorts of couples who end up owning thirty cats, and wearing matching sweaters. I never asked for somebody I’d want to share my life with. I never wanted to marry my best friend. I would’ve rather cut off my right arm than hear someone refer to me as hubby.

  Well, the last one hasn’t changed. Much.

  The realization first starts to solidify on a really awful Monday morning. I’ve been out of sorts the whole weekend, and my return to the office hasn’t eased any of it. Usually, getting back to work at least distracts me from my problems, but not today. I’m still feeling anxious and unsettled, like I just got some bad news.

  Wait - when was the last time I ate?

  It’s still early, nobody’s here except security, because of course I couldn’t sleep last night. Did I have dinner? I’m not quite sure, so I walk down to the convenience store a few blocks away in search of something that will settle my nerves.

  But nothing looks good - my stomach feels like an old knotted-up gym sock, and I feel like corn nuts aren’t going to improve the situation. A harried mother pushes past me with a screaming baby in her arms, and even as I glare at the back of her head, I envy that child.

  He’s upset, too. And just like me, he apparently lacks the vocabulary and the advanced thought processes to figure out what the hell is wrong. But at least he’s allowed to scream about it.

  Me, I’m pretty sure I’d get arrested.

  Fuck. Where’s Meghan?

  She’s not due in for another two hours, of course. But I can change that.

  As I scroll down my contact list, something re
laxes a little in my chest. Yes. Whatever’s wrong, she can fix it. That much I know. If I have to send her halfway around the city collecting different flavors of muffins and vintages of scotch until something soothes my inner screaming child, I’ll do it.

  I buy a small, allegedly cola-flavored slushie, since that somehow seems less strange than buying nothing at all. As I walk back to the office, I tap out my message to Meghan.

  I know she doesn’t live far, but I’m still surprised when she bursts through the door just a few minutes after I’ve gotten back to my desk. Eyes darting over her shoulder, she clicks the door shut behind her.

  “What’s going on?” she half-whispers, like she expects the senior partners to step out of the wall in elaborate camouflage.

  “Nothing,” I tell her, looking up, mildly. She folds her arms across her chest, letting out a sigh that seems like it’s been lodged in her chest for a while.

  “So I rushed over here for…what, exactly?” she demands, already knowing the answer is going to be something ridiculous.

  Honestly, I don’t know what she wants from me anymore. I’ve never tried to be anything other than exactly who I am, but she persists in having these expectations of me. It’s obnoxious.

  For a moment, I just look at her, and words die in my throat. Her cheeks are flushed from rushing over here, her hair flying wild, and of course she’s royally pissed off. That last part shouldn’t be so appealing, but living in a world where very few people dare to show me their anger, it’s sort of intoxicating.

  I know all this, of course. I’ve known all this for a long time. The moment she first walked into my office, I knew I wanted her, but this is something different. This is about more than just sex.