We don’t want to talk about the press tour. We want to continue the conversation we started at lunch. We want to continue that tornado of chemistry, the one that came up so suddenly, and didn’t subside until we parted again, Reid going into another meeting and me taking over an empty office so I could get some work done.
Right, well I’m doing a perfectly shit job of keeping myself under control, here. I know exactly what I need to do, and that is to keep my eye on the prize and my mind on business. Instead, I’m sitting at the vanity in my hotel room staring at myself in the mirror and daydreaming about my boss. Remembering the feel of his hand on mine, the brilliance of his eyes as he stared at me, the chills that rushed over my skin at his touch.
The fact that those chills ran right over every inch of my body and ended between my legs, where they started a reaction that had absolutely nothing to do with lunch and everything to do with the man sitting across from me. The fact that they then ran up my belly and over my chest, bringing my nipples to peaks and making my back arch involuntarily.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, finally coming to terms with something I’d been tangoing with for at least a day now.
I want my boss. Want him in a way I’ve never wanted a man before. And it’s coloring everything I do, everything I think. Even now, sitting here thinking about it, I can feel myself starting to get wet, squirming a bit in my seat as I think about his hand on mine, extending that to—
I grab up my phone, my makeup still only half done, and hit the favorites button. Two seconds later, the phone is initiating a call to Lana. I’m in trouble, and I need some advice. The kind only a best friend can give.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working right now?” she asks the moment the connection opens. “Why are you calling me? Are you home already? Do you need a ride? Need salvation from that monster you call a boss?”
Oh, if only she knew.
“Well hello to you too,” I say, forcing my voice to be light. “No, I’m not home yet. As a matter of fact, Reid has extended our stay.”
“What are you doing, eloping?” she asks, laughing.
“Nothing like that. The meeting with the distributor didn’t go as well as Reid hoped, and they’ve scheduled two more meetings with him to finish up on some of the details.”
“So… it’s not going well, then?”
I sigh. “It’s going fine. The business part is going fine. It’s the… Lana, I need your advice,” I finish, giving in. This is the reason I called her. There’s really no point in delaying it any longer than I have to.
I can almost hear her straightening her shoulders, putting on her advice-giving face. Which probably includes those hot-librarian glasses of hers. “Advice, got it. Proceed. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I start. “Or at least I think I’m fine.” I give her the quick version of what’s been going on between Reid and me, starting with the video games on the plane and progressing through lunch this afternoon. The flirting, the touching, the shared secrets.
The fact that we almost kissed on the plane yesterday. And that I sort of wish we had.
“Lana, I’m afraid I’m falling for him,” I finish. “And I don’t think the feeling is only on my side. He’s asked me to dinner tonight and he started grinning like a lovesick schoolboy the moment I said yes. What do I do?”
“Aside from the obvious, which is jump into bed and fuck that hot billionaire until you can’t see straight?” she asks bluntly.
The problem is, I know she’s only half joking. It’s exactly what she would do. But Lana doesn’t have the loans I do. She’s freer to take risks than I am.
Besides, I’m not even sure yet if that’s a risk I want to take. Regardless of how good or not good it would be for my career.
“I can’t do that and you know it,” I say, skipping all the thoughts that led to that conclusion. “I need this job too badly to risk it.”
“I don’t see why it’s a risk,” she says with a long-distance shrug. “You want him. He obviously wants you. I’ve seen him around town and he seems like a pretty charming bloke. I bet he knows his way around a bedroom. Bet you’d enjoy it more than you realize.”
“Lana,” I say, frustration coloring my tone. “That’s not the point and you know it. Sure he’s got eyes the color of Caribbean oceans. Sure, his arms are incredibly toned and probably insanely strong. Yeah, those dimples drive me nuts. And okay, I’ve thought about it. That doesn’t mean that I… It doesn’t mean that we… Well, it doesn’t mean he wants to, and that’s all there is!”
Lana snorts.
“Let me see if I’ve got this right… He put his hand on yours and freaked out when you told him you might quit. Then he asked you to dinner and got all giddy about you saying yes. Believe me, Joey, he wants to. The only question is whether you’re going to be brave enough to take advantage of it or not.”
Her voice has changed enough that it tips me off, and I calm my raging hormones and try to focus on the idea that she might actually have good advice for me.
“Take advantage how?”
“So he wants to take you out. So he’s getting all hot and bothered for you. Personally I say he’s probably packing something bigger than your average bear down there and you should find out for yourself. But if you’re not going to do that, then at least use what he’s offering. He’s overworking you, taking you for granted. If he likes you enough to take you out to dinner, it means he’s listening. Tell him what you need. He’ll hear you, and I bet he’ll agree to everything you say.”
Oh. Oh.
“So you’re telling me I should…”
“Take what he’s offering and put it to good use,” Lana answers. “If nothing else, you get a free dinner out of it.”
“That’s so—”
“Joey, it’s how the world works,” she interrupts. “Everything is a trade, when it comes right down to it. Give him the pleasure of your company for dinner. But make sure you get something out of it, too. And Joey?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure you keep your feelings on lockdown. I’ve seen you with crushes before, and you’re not good at hiding it. If you’re not going to make a move on those feelings, then you have to protect yourself. Put them in a box, give that box the biggest padlock you can imagine, and then shove it into a deep, dark corner of your brain. A corner where you never go.”
“Right,” I say breathlessly, not sure I can come up with a real answer to that one. “Thanks, Lana. I mean it. I don’t know what I’d do without you. But I’ve really got to get ready to go or I’m going to be late.”
I hang up the phone and turn back to my reflection, staring into my own eyes, which are now muddy with confusion. Lana’s right. Maybe I can negotiate something with Reid, here. For the first time, I really have his attention. Maybe I can work out a deal with him where I can cut down to part time so I can focus on my artwork and pay my bills. He’s made it obvious that he wants me to keep working for him. Perhaps I can use that to get what I want.
I’ll just have to inject my veins with the ice water Lana is currently using. And make sure it stays that way.
Because this goes against everything I know I want, and if it’s going to work, I’m going to have to keep those feelings buried deeper than any secret I’ve ever kept before.
Reid tells me to meet him in the main dining room for dinner, and in the end, despite all my worrying and hemming and hawing, I end up getting there early. I look around the space, taking in the decor while subtly—I hope—looking to see whether he’s already arrived and taken a seat. This is the orange and red ballroom I noticed yesterday, and now that I’m actually in here, I can see that it’s even more impressive than I had realized.
Roughly the size of a basketball floor, the room is peppered with small tables perfect for two to three people, and no more. The centerpieces, groupings of roses and tiger lilies, with some greenery thrown in, are low to the table to avoid cutting off the diners’ views of each o
ther, and everything I can see is done in shades of orange, red, and bright fuchsia, increasing the feeling that we are in fact in the middle of a gorgeous sunrise or sunset. The napkins, the wall coverings, the tablecloths…
Everything makes me think of being in the sky at that moment of beautiful color explosion, and my mind flies back to the painting sitting in my living room right now—the one I did of the sunrise, the colors so much like these ones.
At the thought, my fingers start to itch for my paints and my brushes, and for a canvas to place in front of me. This room, with its bright hues and sparkling lights, would give me a perfect vision. I would do it impressionist-style, I think, focusing on small dots so that I could blur the outlines, make the colors run together, make the—
“Are you waiting for someone, miss?” a voice next to me suddenly asks.
I jump, nearly toppling off the incredibly high stilettos I bought earlier. Not having brought any clothes for this sort of dinner, I felt the need to go on a last-minute shopping trip—which Reid insisted on paying for. The result was a black dress that cost more than my monthly rent, and an eye-poppingly expensive pair of designer stilettos. I feel guilty at the amount of money I’m wearing, but the saleswoman had received her marching orders from Reid and I wasn’t able to talk her out of them.
And truthfully, I didn’t argue that long about it. If I was going to be homeless and potentially jobless when I got home, I might as well enjoy it. Hell, maybe I could sell the shoes and rent a hotel until I found a new apartment.
“Yes, actually,” I say, remembering abruptly that someone’s waiting for an answer. I turn to see the maître d’ of the restaurant, his eyebrows raised in question. “I’m having dinner with Reid Billington, though I’m not sure if we have a reservation.”
“Of course you do, miss, this way, please,” he says, turning smoothly on his heel and moving in the other direction.
Unsure of whether I’m supposed to actually wait for Reid or not, I follow, doing my best not to fall over in the extremely tall, extremely sharp heels that now seem like something only an idiot with a death wish would wear. Why, why didn’t I just wear some of my own shoes? No, they aren’t as fancy as these ones, but I would have at least been able to walk through the dining room without worrying that I was going to pitch right into someone’s lap.
Of course, I know why I didn’t wear my older, more comfortable, and safer shoes. It might have been the smarter move, but they’re… well, old and comfortable. Appropriate for the office, or for meetings. They are not meant for seducing a man.
The shoes I’m wearing now are pure sex, with their red soles and suggestive heels. And if I’m being honest with myself, that’s exactly what I want right now.
The maître d’ stops at a table and pulls out a seat, then, and I drop gratefully into it, thanking the master of the universe that I made it this far without embarrassing myself. When the server shows up a moment later I order a glass of red wine, glad for the additional distraction.
But then I’m left alone, waiting, and I have plenty of time to realize that the dress I’m wearing is short enough to ride all the way up when I sit—meaning that the only thing between me and the rough fabric of the chair below me is the thin scrap of lacy fabric that makes up my underwear. I’m both nervous and excited about the prospect of the dinner, and somewhere between leaving my room and sitting down, my body decided that a combination of nervous and excited meant that I should be ready for everything.
The space between my legs is wet and throbbing already. The roughness of the chair’s material rubbing against me makes me gasp slightly, and it’s only with superhuman effort that I stop myself from moving my hips.
This is going to be an extremely long dinner. And it hasn’t even started yet.
Chapter 15
Reid
I arrive just a moment after Josephine, but I hang back, watching—and appreciating. She’s taken my offer of going out for a dress and new shoes for the evening, and my jaw drops at the picture I see standing before me now. She’s left her hair down and it’s hanging over her shoulders in rich brown spirals, the curls rioting up around her face as if they aren’t going to be contained by anything tonight. I can’t see her face from where I’m standing, but I can see that the dress she’s wearing is tight enough to hug the swell of her breasts and hips, curving over her ass and caressing her in all the right ways. It ends above her mid-thigh, making it…
Well, exactly the right length for hiding nothing at all.
I flex my hands at my sides, wondering how it would feel to run my fingers up her leg from her knee, find the hem of the dress and drag it up higher until I found what I was looking for. A growl starts in the back of my throat, but I force it down.
And I send those thoughts right after it. This isn’t going to be one of those dinners. This is a respectful meeting between two work colleagues. A chance to get to know each other better.
A grin crosses my face, and I can feel the wrinkles at the sides of my eyes crinkle up. This is a date, and I’ll treat it as such. I want to get to know the woman better, maybe even start to build a relationship. Not ravage her like some guy off the street who doesn’t have any self-discipline.
We’ll never find our way back to the easy chemistry we had at lunch if I go over there with those sorts of thoughts in my head. I can hide a whole lot behind a mask of neutrality. But if I kept thinking about stripping that dress off her, my body is going to betray me. These slacks are far too tight for me to hide the erection I can already feel growing.
Which is why I start thinking about business instead. What can we talk about here that will break us into conversation? The option of giving her a promotion, to start, I think. The option of her perhaps going to other departments. Perhaps we could put her in the art and design department? I have a whole division that does just that, and it might be the perfect place for her. In fact, if I were a smart boss…
I set off after her, stifling a smile at the fact that she’s obviously having difficulty with the shoes she’s wearing. They’re quite high, making her legs look about a mile longer than they already are, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in anything so stimulating.
What can I say. I like shoes on women. Especially sexy shoes that make you think of nothing more than ripping off her dress and carrying her to bed.
And that’s another thought that I don’t let go any further. A date. This is only a date. Hell, I don’t even know how she feels about me yet.
Three steps later I arrive at the table and motion for the waiter.
“Scotch, neat. Three fingers,” I tell him with a smile.
He nods and moves off, leaving me to finally look Josephine in the face. She is… heart-meltingly beautiful. Softer than I’ve ever seen her before, though she’s wearing more makeup than usual. The curls down around her face made her look younger, take some of the stress out of her bearing.
Then she gives me a slow, beautiful smile, and I fall into my seat, my legs no longer capable of holding me up.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her honestly.
She lets her eyes run down over my chest, taking in the blue, pinstriped suit and matching tie, and then brings them back up to my face with her lips pressed out in a moue.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she replies with a lift of one brow.
Then she breaks down and grins. “I can’t walk in these shoes to save my life. And the dress is a lot shorter than I thought it would be. I feel like an imposter in these clothes.”
I lean forward a bit, allowing my gaze to intensify. “But you look absolutely lovely. No one would take you for an imposter. You’re a natural Louboutin-wearer.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “As if there is such a thing!”
“I guarantee you, there is,” I say, grinning back. “I’ve met women who spend their entire life searching for exactly the right pair—and then bragging about them to everyone who will listen, as soon as they find them
.”
Shaking her head, she takes a sip of her wine. The red, I notice. A woman who likes red wine and whiskey. Who takes mocha in her coffee, but not cream or sugar. Who paints in her free time and forgets to wash her hands afterward.
Everything about her intrigues me.
“Those women need to get a life,” she mutters, putting her head down. “But the fact that you even know people like that just shows how different your life is.”
The waiter arrives with my Scotch and I take it from him gratefully, needing what Josephine had earlier called liquid courage.
“Different how?” I ask.
A snort, and then: “Stupid question. Different how, are you kidding? You live on a completely different level than me! You know women who make a hobby out of buying the most expensive shoes on the planet. You own a company worth billions of dollars, and you have an apartment—which you paid extra to fix up—that overlooks Central Park! I live in an apartment that could probably fit into your bedroom. I walk to work because I can’t even afford public transportation. I eat ramen too many nights of the week to count. In fact, I’ve found a number of ways to cook it that can even give me some variety.”
“How do you know where my apartment is?” I ask, latching on to the part of her diatribe that catches my attention most.
She blushes and looks down. “That’s not the point.”
“I think it’s exactly the point,” I say, trying hard not to laugh at her expression. “I don’t know where you live.”
“And I’m not one of the most famous businessmen in New York,” she returns. “You’re practically a celebrity. Everyone knows who you are.”
“But not everyone knows where I live,” I joke.
Sure, that might not be true. People see me coming out of my building all the time—and those people include the press. My address has been published more times than I can count. I have the security bills to prove it. But I never in a million years thought that Josephine Evans would be paying attention to something like that. The fact that she is makes my blood sing.
How to Have Your Boss' Baby Page 8
