His Secretary: Undone

by Melanie Marchande

  From: natalie@nataliemcbrideauthor.com

  To: megatron_unleashed@bmail.com

  lucky guess

  To: natalie@nataliemcbrideauthor.com

  From: megatron_unleashed@bmail.com

  You okay over there? Did your shift key fall off? ;)

  From: natalie@nataliemcbrideauthor.com

  To: megatron_unleashed@bmail.com

  One-handed typing. Not like that, you perv, I was just eating some Easy Mac.

  Sometimes I feel like Dirk and Amanda should've hooked up differently, you know? I'm sorry, I don't mean to get off track from your bad day, but this has been running through my head for a while and I'd like to bounce it off somebody if you feel like a distraction. I might use it in a new series or something. I don't know. The slow burn was nice, but I'd like something abrupt. It takes him forever to admit he has feelings for her. What if he just told her one day?

  I don't know. Just weird random thoughts. You're the only reader I've met who has some kind of real-life scenario that actually mirrors what I write about, so I'm curious. I guess what I'm asking is, how would you feel if your boss just called you into his office and told you he was in love with you?

  To: natalie@nataliemcbrideauthor.com

  From: megatron_unleashed@bmail.com

  I think you're the one who's been hitting the whiskey, hon.

  Serious answer? I'd probably just walk right on out of there and try to forget it ever happened. That's just too messed-up. Doesn't mean it won't work in fiction, of course, but I can't really wrap my head around it. lol. No offense, I'm sure you could make it seem hot.

  ***

  When I set the mail on Adrian's desk on Monday, he looks up at me.

  "Good morning," he says. "Thank you, Meghan."

  It sounds terribly forced, but I suppose I should be happy that he's trying.

  "Just doing my job," I tell him, as I breeze out the door. I'm hoping the crisp new envelope on the top of the pile intrigues him. I've written an eloquent, impassioned plea for the animal shelter - if I do say so myself. He won't be able to pass up the opportunity to feel like a hero.

  "Sit down for a minute," he says, just as I've got one foot in the hallway. "Please."

  Biting back a sigh, I do. I've got no idea what this conversation is going to be about, but I have a feeling I won't like it.

  "Remember we talked about that conference in Austin? It's in three weeks. Since the signing went so well, I'd like you to accompany me there." If he thinks his stilted words are hiding the fact that this is an order, not a request, he's very wrong. I can still see the imperative in his eyes.

  I fold my hands in my lap. "Please don't talk to me like I'm an idiot."

  His lips thin. "I'm trying to be nicer."

  "Well, don't."

  He sighs sharply. "What the hell am I supposed to do, Meghan? You tore me a new asshole in the bar, and now I can't be nice?"

  I snicker. "You can't be nice, no. Normal people can. But you don't actually mean it, so it's pretty hollow."

  Adrian's fingers are interlaced on the desk, and his knuckles are starting to go white. "Fine. Come to Austin with me. That's not a request."

  "That's more like it." I smile at him, hoping for something in return. "If I didn't like irritating men ordering me around, I wouldn't still be here. And I wouldn't like your books."

  Well, that just slipped out. His face actually softens a little. "You actually like them?"

  "Of course." I shrug. "I have a vagina, apparently that's the only prerequisite."

  He smirks. Finally. "Yes, I seem to recall that fact about you."

  There's a moment of silence, a very dangerous moment, where we just look at each other. I find myself wishing he'd keep giving me orders. I wonder, in the bedroom, is he anything like Dirk? Kinky and domineering? It's hard to judge, because at the pool, I was certainly the aggressor. Even if he did end up playing me like a virtuoso.

  "I don't really feel like I know Natalie McBride," I say, matter-of-factly. "But now I have to play her. Not just for a few hours, but for a week. How am I supposed to do that?"

  "Just make something up," he says. "She's a blank canvas, more or less."

  "But I have no idea what to say!" I insist. "I'm not the writer, you are. At least give me some idea of what was going through your head. I need a basis to work from."

  "I have actual work today," he says. "And so do you." He pauses, picking up a sheaf of papers and straightening them. "Tonight, if you want, we can talk. I'll come by. I'll bring something decent to drink, because I know you don't have anything but ghastly wine and diet soda." His face is still turned down towards the desk, but he eyes me from under his brows. "Just talk, you understand."

  "I don't know why you'd feel the need to underscore that," I mutter, shifting in my chair as I feel my face grow hot. "I told you, I'm not letting that happen again."

  Adrian grabs a pencil. "I don't think you did, actually."

  "Okay, well, I'm telling you now."

  "Duly noted." He smiles, full of mischief. "Tonight, Meghan. Eight o'clock. Make sure you've got pickles in the fridge."

  He waves me out, picking up the phone, before I can react to that.

  Three years ago, back when I still thought he might actually have something resembling a human conscience, we spent a late night working on some hideous proposal for the senior board members, which they'd only asked for after nearly everyone else in the office went home. I actually felt bad for him, and I knew he wouldn't be able to finish it by himself. Neither one of us could stand to spend another minute in the office, so I volunteered my place, since it was relatively close.

  We spent the night poring over paperwork with some of Adrian's beloved bourbon, and at one point he convinced me to try a shot that somehow involved salt and pickle juice - it actually wasn't bad.

  He used to smile a lot more, back then. I remember that.

  ***

  When I get home, I spend some time cleaning up the place so it's presentable for Adrian. I should've told him I'd rather meet in a restaurant or a coffee shop or something, but a) I was pretty sure he'd steamroll me as usual, and b) I actually liked the idea of him being here. It reminded me of the last time, which was actually bizarrely fun. I have a feeling the same guy who laughed with me that night is still buried in there, somewhere, underneath all the sneers and jeers and misplaced perfectionism.

  Once everything's in order, I make myself a quick dinner to eat in front of the TV. I'm certainly not drinking any of Adrian's bourbon on an empty stomach, even if I don't particularly have much of an appetite right now.

  My phone starts ringing when I'm halfway done, and the name on the screen gives me an instant sense of foreboding. I take a deep breath before answering.

  "Hi, Mom."

  "That was awfully quick," she says. "I hope you're not just sitting there on your phone all night."

  Right away with this shit. Dad must have pissed her off with his expert passive-aggression. "Nope, I'm actually crocheting a life sized replica of the Last Supper."

  She sighs. "I'm in no mood for your smart mouth."

  "Why'd you call then, Mom?" I'm feeling pretty low on patience myself.

  "Stop stuffing your face while I'm talking to you."

  My blood simmers as I set down my fork. "You called me right in the middle of dinner, Mom."

  "Well, then you shouldn't have answered," she sniffs. "It's rude."

  "If I don't answer, you just keep calling." My fist is clenched in my lap. "Over, and over, and over…"

  She sighs. "Then just stop eating. I doubt skipping a meal now and then would kill you."

  It takes all of my self-control not to throw the phone at the wall.

  "I have to go, Mom. I have a date."

  "I'm sure you do." She's smiling on the other end, and I can picture it perfectly. "Your father and I just wanted to know when you'll be getting off for Thanksgiving, so we can plan your tickets."

  "Actually, I'll
just take care of those myself this year," I tell her. "Mr. Risinger gave me a nice bonus."

  "Nonsense. You should put that money in a savings account."

  "It's my money, Mom. I'll tell you when I'm coming, but I'm getting my own tickets, and if you buy some for me you're just gonna be stuck with them."

  "When did you get like this?" she exclaims. "I swear, Meghan…"

  "Have to go. Mr. Risinger's calling me on the other line. Bye, Mom."

  I toss the phone down on the sofa with a groan. Now I'm definitely not finishing the rest of my dinner.

  ***

  I'm sitting across from Adrian, and he knows something's wrong.

  Watching him try to figure out whether or not he should say something, and if so, what, is almost funny enough to make me forget how much I hate my life.

  Not quite, though.

  "So," he says. "What do you want to know about Natalie?"

  It's bizarre, the way he talks about her like she's a real person. Like he's got a broom propped up in the corner of his kitchen wearing lipstick. "You really think of her as a separate person?"

  "Not really," he says. "But it's the easiest way to talk about it, without getting confused."

  My head's throbbing already, but to be fair, it probably doesn't have all that much to do with him.

  "So…she's you, but without a dick?"

  "She's no one," he says, only smirking a little at that. "Just a name I attached to my books. Really, you should be having this conversation with Kara."

  "Something tells me Kara wouldn't agree."

  He makes a little face. "She's very protective of my career. Doesn't like anything that she sees as potentially jeopardizing it."

  Right. His career. That must be it.

  "I can see you're skeptical," he says. "But trust me, not every woman who meets me is instantly overcome with seething jealousy."

  "Are you implying that I'm jealous?" I demand.

  "No, Meghan." This is accompanied by a slow smile. "Of course not."

  At any other time, in any other mood, this might have been a dangerous conversation. But I just grumble into my drink, and Adrian finally loses his internal battle not to mention anything.

  "You seem even pricklier than usual," he says, finally. "Who do I need to kill?"

  Taking a deep breath, I interlace my fingers. "What, no joke about how I must be having a fight with my coven?"

  "You're clearly not in a laughing mood," he says, taking another sip. "And I don't like that. Come on - I'm sure there's a few kneecaps I could break to make this better."

  Now I'm chuckling, a little. "What exactly makes you think violence could solve this?"

  "I don't, really," he says. "But at least it got you to smile."

  My cheeks are turning slightly pink. "I didn't know you cared."

  "Of course I care," he says. "Remember when I broke my arm, and you tied my ties for six weeks straight? A man doesn't forget a thing like that."

  I do remember that, and I remember thinking it was the closest I'd ever gotten to him. There's something about standing so close to a man like that, close to his scent, the heat of his body. It felt like an oddly intimate task, something his wife should be doing, if he had one. Which of course he doesn't.

  I suppose I'm the next best thing.

  He's poking fun at me a little, I think, but maybe not. His smile is hard to read.

  "It's my mom," I tell him, finally. "She just called a little while before you got here."

  Adrian's face changes slightly. "Ah," he says. "I can see the complication. If my father were still alive, I'd suggest we put them into the Thunderdome together."

  I smirk. "Whoever wins, we lose?"

  "Exactly." He's chuckling. "I keep telling you to stop taking her calls."

  "And I keep telling you, not everyone in the world just wants to cut and run from every inconvenient person in their lives." I give him a pointed look. "And it's a good thing, too."

  He shoots me a wicked grin as he leans forward to pick up his drink. "At least I pay you to put up with me."

  "I don't feel like I understand Natalie McBride any better than I did before," I tell him, letting out a long breath. "But I do feel better."

  "And I didn't even have to hurt anyone." He tilts his glass towards me. "Cheers. Why don't you tell me what you think of Natalie, and I can tell you if you're wrong?"

  "Oh, good, your favorite pastime." I take a deep breath. "Well, I think she's a kinky broad who likes to get spanked. Her husband's learned to enjoy it, but secretly she wishes he was the aggressor, more like Dirk. He won't do any of the bondage stuff and he lacks the patience to be a proper Dom. But she's happy. She loves her readers, they give her validation that he can't, because he doesn't really understand what she writes."

  Adrian pours himself another glass. "Spanking, huh?"

  I shrug. "You wrote it."

  "All women love spankings," he says, matter-of-factly.

  "That cannot possibly be true." I'm laughing at him, but I'm blushing too, because of course I've read those parts over and over again. Of course I've imagined what it would be like to have a man in my life who'd just drag me over his lap and smack my ass.

  "Disprove it," he says, aiming his index finger at me. "You can't, can you?"

  "No one can prove a negative," I tell him.

  He's chuckling now. "But it's not a negative, is it? 'There is a woman somewhere in the world who doesn't like spanking.' That's all you need to prove. Just one woman. Find me one. There's a woman in this room right now, in fact. It would be so easy, and yet…"

  Damn it. "I've never been spanked."

  "Oh." His face softens. "I'm sorry."

  "Shut up," I mutter, picking up my drink. "I don't need your sympathy."

  His laugh is warm, and deep, and it speaks of something I'd like to know much much better. But I can't. He's my boss, and he's made it very clear he thinks it's a bad idea for us to continue what we started in the pool.

  We talk for a while that night, before he leaves, taking his bourbon with him - and hesitating on the threshold like he wants to do something, or say something, but he doesn't quite know what.

  I can't possibly sleep. The alcohol's warmed my blood, and I crank up the music instead, mouthing along with the words as I sway around the room by myself.

  I've been a bad, bad girl…

  Chapter Seven

  I've never taken a luxury town car to La Guardia before. It doesn't actually make the traffic move faster, but the back seat is big enough to lie down and take a nap. Or it would be, if that didn't mean putting my head in Adrian's lap.

  This is weird. I've gone across town with him for meetings before, but never on a long trip. Never anything like this. He's never asked me to go away with him on business, presumably because someone still needs to manage his incoming mail and phone calls while he's gone. I don't know if that's abnormal or not, but I'm always grateful for the respite.

  Now, I'm about to spend a week with the guy, pretending to be someone I'm not. But at least I also get to pretend that we're equals. That'll be a laugh.

  The driver bypasses the roads that lead into the pickup/drop-off area completely instead heading up to a gated road and slowing down to swipe a card that swings the massive barricades open. Just a few hundred yards away, I can see a few small, sleek planes sitting on the tarmac. And we're driving right up to them.

  I'm staring, and I'm too damn tired to pretend I'm not.

  I am not impressed. I am not impressed. I am not impressed.

  If Adrian's head gets any bigger, it'll explode. I can't afford to leave him with the idea that anything about him, or his lifestyle, impresses me.

  But holy fuck, I'm about to get on a private jet.

  Two men in sharp suits come jogging over to grab our luggage out of the trunk, before I've even unbuckled my seat belt. Adrian comes over to my door and gives me his hand, and I guess it would be excessively rude to ignore it. So I let him hold me steady as
I climb out of the car. His grasp is warm, and firm, and confident. For a moment, I just look at him.

  I have no idea why this didn't occur to me. Of course a man like him doesn't take commercial flights. Why would he, when you can charter a private jet for a mere…

  Yeah, I have no idea what private jets cost. And I'm not about to ask him.

  "Mr. Risinger, Ms. Burns." The captain tips his hat as we board. It's roomier inside than it looks, with huge, cream-colored leather chairs and a wine-red carpet that seems like it would feel heavenly under my toes. But if I take my nice heels off before the flight, I'll never get them back on.

  Our luggage is stowed in the corner, and I belatedly realize we didn't even have to go through a perfunctory security screening.

  I did not know the meaning of "privilege" until this moment.

  "You could've told me," I say to Adrian, as he sits down across from me, unbuttoning his jacket. "I actually spent time trying to fit my toiletries into a quart-sized baggie."

  "Oh, right." Adrian chuckles. "Sorry. I forgot that's still a thing."

  I could kill him.

  "Laugh it up," I grumble. "You know, the TSA is talking about starting security screenings for private jet passengers."

  I only know this because the article popped up in search on my phone for "how much does a private jet cost." Because I have to know.

  He gives me some flippant answer, but I don't really hear it, because I just saw the number.

  Eight thousand dollars an hour.

  Eight. Thousand. Dollars.

  An hour.

  I'm not prone to airsickness, but I feel like I might end up puking all over him.

  "Question," I say, as a woman dressed like a goddamn '70s Pan Am stewardess brings us some champagne. "Does money actually have any meaning to you at all, or is it basically just like this weird confetti that you throw around more or less at random, and never seems to run out for some reason?"