by ANDREA SMITH
I sat down next to him on the couch turned sideways, drying my wet hair off with the towel. “Easton, I think there’s been some miscommunication. See…I haven’t heard from you, and then on the day that I find out you’re my boss, I get flowers and a signed note that says, ‘Let’s have dinner and pack some nightwear.’?”
His eyes danced with amusement, as if he couldn’t possibly fathom anyone not doing his bidding. “What’s not clear to you? I believe I mentioned I wanted to see you again. To my knowledge, I didn’t confirm the date.”
“Nooo, you’re right, you didn’t. But I mean, what are we talking about here? Is this my night to entertain you? And I also have to tell you, I’m not pulling one of those on a work night, anymore. Because the bigger issue is: I’m not going to be banging my boss’s, boss’s boss. Despite what you think, I do have some limitations.”
Dear God—I’m rambling.
He smiled genuinely, once again flashing the dimple I hadn’t seen in a while.
“I know about your limitations.” The gunmetal in his eyes triggered. “I can assure you that you’re not the only one I have available for entertainment purposes. However, tonight’s intentions weren’t entirely about that, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t open to it.”
The genuine smile from before was gone, replaced by something far more professional. “Of course, I respect your position, now that the situation has changed with the company. I suppose that’s problematic.”
“You betcha,” I said. “I heard the whispers and murmurs behind me at the meeting today.”
“About you?” he asked, now frowning.
“No, about Lacee. To put it more delicately, the consensus is that she got her position, or now what sounds like a promotion, by way of doing her boss.”
“I see,” he replied. “Well those employees know nothing about Lacee, so I’d say that’s not a fair assessment. Lacee’s very good at what she does in the office,” he clarified. “Her promotion was earned and had nothing to do with anything else. I’m not a fool,” he stated very matter-of-factly.
“I’m glad to hear that because neither am I. I plan to work hard at Baronton-Sheridan, despite the fact my father totally blew me out of the water with that announcement today. But I’ve thought about it. And as my good friend Eli pointed out, sometimes you just do the best you can with the hand you’re dealt. I intend to make it on my own; I want no one’s help. At the same time, I have to respect your authority at work and maintain my professionalism. I don’t intend to be on the receiving end of gossip, snickers or horrible sexual innuendos. I hope you understand. If I succeed at Baronton-Sheridan, it’ll be because of my own efforts, achievements and performance at the office.”
“I see,” he replied, calmly, considering me. His face was a blank slate. “Well, though I’m disappointed we won’t be playing any longer, I respect your position and determination to succeed. I must tell you, my invitation for dinner this evening had a dual purpose. There was some business I wished to discuss with you as well.”
Huh?
“I’m listening,” I replied, starting to become distracted by his five o’clock shadow, his full, sensual lips, and scent of his cologne that drifted subtly over to me. I squirmed while waiting for him to elaborate. And trying to quickly reassemble my personal wall of defense against my now very off-limits boss.
“I made a commitment to your father pre-merger that I’d groom and mentor the management trainees. It’s of particular importance to your father that you learn skill sets you don’t currently possess.”
“Like what?” I interrupted, getting my attitude.
“I’ll explain, Ms. Sheridan, if allowed to do so without interruption.” He quirked one of those beautiful eyebrows at me. What could I do? I nodded.
“As it happens,” he continued, “Lacee assumed the Team Leader position, so I’m left with a vacancy for an executive assistant at Baronton-Sheridan. I think you might fit the bill.”
“Oh, I just bet you do,” I chuckled. “I’m well aware of the duties Lacee performed in her role as your executive assistant. As I just explained, I have—”
“I heard you initially, Ms. Sheridan,” he interrupted briskly. “Trust me, I won’t be lonely without you or Lacee in my bed. This is strictly business. It’ll give you an opportunity to learn about operations, negotiating, contractual agreements, bid proposals and presentations, a very diverse background.”
I flushed with embarrassment, as he was quick to put me in my place. He certainly was acting as if it was no big deal about the other. He was still going on, but my mind was wondering whether I’d cut off my nose to spite my face.
“And of course, should you accept this opportunity, there’s a significant wage increase involved, with periodic performance appraisals every six months to make sure you’re keeping with your growth plan.”
He caught my attention with that one. My annual salary of $40,000 was not cutting it with my spending habits.
“How significant?” I asked.
“First lesson, Ms. Sheridan: it’s prudent to not focus on the salary when interviewing or with being offered promotional opportunities. Your main focus should be asking about your responsibilities, level of authority, accounts, and upward movement—things of that nature to show your boss or potential employer that it’s more about the job challenge and career path than the money.”
“Hmm, well I guess when I reach your level of income, I’ll do just that Easton, but for now, the brass tacks please?”
“The what?”
“The numbers love,” I said, imitating his accent. His smile was back, going clear to his eyes this time.
“Your annual pay will be increased to $60K per year. You’ll have a company credit card, and do some traveling.”
“Traveling?”
“Yes, traveling with me to visit key customers. Is that a problem?”
“Uhh, well, no.”
“Splendid,” he said, his palms slapping his thighs as he stood up to depart. I didn’t want him to go. I wanted to hear about my new job—and to continue to look at him.
“What about dinner?” I asked timidly. Funny, wasn’t it? Earlier, I was saying how ridiculous it was for him to invite me to dinner. And now, here I was, stumbling over myself in an attempt to have him stay.
Funny? Friggin’ hilarious.
He glanced at his Rolex, “I’m afraid we’ve missed our reservation.”
“Well we could order a pizza and just kind of veg out here—talk about my job and watch some television.”
He considered it momentarily and then smiled. “I guess that’s something I’m not real familiar with, but it sounds like a plan to me.”
“Great,” I said smiling. “My treat, too.”
I called and ordered the pizza. Eli made himself scarce, going out to meet some friends, as if anything was going to happen between Easton and me. It was actually enjoyable sitting on the couch, eating pizza, drinking wine and listening to Easton fill me in on some of the particulars of the accounts I’d work with under his tutelage. It gave me chills a couple of times.
“Hey are you up for not talking any more business this evening and catching a classic horror flick? Eli and I have the Chiller channel,” I said, smiling. The wine was giving me a warm, fuzzy feeling. Perfect for an evening with Lon Chaney, Boris Karloff or Bela Lugosi.
“I’m not familiar with the Chiller channel,” Easton replied, his smile including his dimple as he scarfed up the last slice of pizza.
“Seriously?” I asked, grabbing the remote from the coffee table. “Then you’re in for a real treat. These are classic black and white movies from the thirties, forties and fifties, mainly. I’m a big fan of Frankenstein and Dracula flicks—anything with Bela Lugosi in it is pure awesomeness. You’ve never seen any of these?”
He shook his head. “Never watched much television,” he replied with a shrug. “I grew up mostly going to live theatre, operas, conce
rts—that sort of thing.”
“Well dahling,” I said in my faux British voice, “Tonight Chiller Theatre is presenting Boris Karloff in Bride of Frankenstein for your viewing pleasure,” I teased, turning the volume up as the movie started.
“And you’ve seen this movie before?” Easton asked.
“Oh yeah. Lots of times. That’s why they’re classics. I love that you’re a trash T.V. virgin,” I giggled.
Easton cocked an eyebrow at me, and then settled back on the couch, propping his legs up on the coffee table the same way Eli did when we watched horror flicks together.
Easton seemed to enjoy the movie, commenting when Elsa Lanchester wakes up and meets her fiancé, Frankenstein’s monster and hisses like a cat at him, following it up with a blood-curdling scream.
“I mean, really,” he said, chuckling. “Has she looked in the mirror lately?”
This brought a fit of giggles from me because I’d always thought that exact same thing when I watched that scene.
“Ignorance is bliss, I guess,” I replied, polishing off my third glass of wine.
“Do they end up together?” he asked.
“I’m not telling,” I replied, laughing. “You’ll have to see for yourself.”
This is nice. This is normal…
Somehow I must have fallen asleep during the movie. When I woke up much later I was upstairs in my bed. Alone. I glanced over at the clock on the night stand. It was after two a.m. My alarm had been set. Eli must’ve carried me up.
chapter 18
~ Easton ~
I drove my company SUV back to the St. Regis where I was once again staying, trying to convince my cock to get over it. Damn! The minute Darcy’s soft body had encroached upon mine, my dick stood at attention immediately. I ended up watching her instead of the movie when she fell asleep next to me, unknowingly, and finally resting her head on my lap (which was a mistake). Very carefully, I found myself running my fingers softly through her long, dark hair that was so much like Bianca’s. I was surprised my hard-on hadn’t awakened her.
When the movie ended, I had two options: I could easily slip out from beneath her and let myself out of the apartment, or I could do something that I knew she probably wouldn’t agree to. I went with the latter, taking that soft body of hers and carrying it to her bedroom. It wasn’t the simple action of carrying her that bothered me. It was the fact that I wanted to. I was bothered by the fact that she might wake up with a stiff neck, and be uncomfortable. I knew that she’d sleep better in her room and in her bed. It also supremely bothered me that I just liked the way she felt snuggled up against me.
I admit, I was a bit taken by surprise when I showed up and her roommate indicated she was declining my invitation. That was a first. I debated whether to simply blow it off and find other company for the evening, but something inside was unsettled. I insisted on waiting for her as we had business to discuss, clearly making Eli uncomfortable. It didn’t matter. I would see her one way or another. I wasn’t one to be so easily dissuaded on these matters.
It was three weeks after my ninth birthday. My mother had not yet returned from her trip, but was expected in the following day. I was anxious to let her know the evil things Miss Gennifer had done. I was relieved I had only one night left without my mother’s protection. That was the night Miss Gennifer, in one of her drunken stupors, climbed into my bed.
“Let’s see what we have here,” she whispered, the smell of rum heavy on her breath. I was groggy and confused until I felt her hand slip beneath the waistband of my boxers and grasp hold of my cock, playing and pulling it until it stood erect.
“Stop,” I said to her, pushing her away.
“Now you don’t really want me to stop, do you lad?” she crooned, “You know this feels good, doesn’t it?”
I squirmed from her, but she was relentless. “I’ve got you nice and hard, Easton; let Miss Gennifer finish you off. I want to see if you can squirt yet. Otherwise, I suppose another flogging is in order.”
My child’s mind went blank; I played possum, hoping she’d just stop what she was doing and leave me alone. A therapist years later said I’d gone into survival mode, a human defense mechanism and a perfectly natural thing for a 9-year old to do. It was the smart thing to do, he’d told me. It wasn’t a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength borne of the will to survive. I blocked everything out until I heard Gennifer’s voice again.
“Guess your spunk’s not in yet, laddie…maybe when you’re ten.” She laughed harshly, staggering out of my room and back to hers.
The next morning, my mother had arrived, her arms full of packages for me.
“Come kiss Mummy, Easton. I’ve missed you so much.”
I ran to her, clutching her arms, begging her to come to the study so I could tell her what had happened. Once I’d told her everything in 9 year-old terms, I saw the anger spread throughout her entire body. Relief flooded over me. She’d banish the governess; I was sure. I was totally unprepared for the anger she directed towards me.
“You must never tell anyone what you’ve just told me, Easton! Do you understand me?”
I nodded, confused and upset.
“I will not have the people in my social circle thinking I’m not a good judge of character or that I’m negligent in parenting. I especially forbid you to ever breathe a word of this to your father!”
“I won’t, Mum, I promise.”
“You damn well better not, because if you do, I’ll find out and you’ll never see me, Grammy or Papa, again! It’ll be as if you’ve killed us all by spreading such a scandalous story around about me!”
I started crying, promising her I wouldn’t tell anyone.
“You see there, Easton? That’s exactly the reason Miss Gennifer took advantage of you! You’re weak just as your father is weak! You’d better learn how to control women, Easton. If you don’t take charge, they will, and then you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. Now, stop your mewling; that only proves how weak you are,” she’d hissed. “I’ll tend to Miss Gennifer, explaining that you’ll be attending boarding school as soon as possible. I will, of course, give her a sterling recommendation along with severance pay to ensure she doesn’t spread any nasty gossip around London. I swear, Easton, I can’t believe I came home from a wonderful holiday only to be greeted with this!”
It was only a matter of days before I was sent off to a private boarding school in Switzerland, not seeing my mother until the following spring. My father had sent letters every week, telling me all about his work, about Trace and the activities they were doing, and how much they all were looking forward to my spending the summer with them. Those letters were my lifeline at the time.
I ran my hand through my hair, wondering what the hell had made me think about that particular memory. Maybe it was because Darcy had been surprised this evening when she learned I was a “trash T.V.” virgin. I’m sure our childhoods were worlds apart. I’d bet my younger brother Trace knew all about growing up normal.
I was restless when I arrived back at the St. Regis. It was nearly midnight, but I didn’t need a lot of sleep to be on my game. I didn’t feel like being alone and my cock was still twitching because the other half of my plan for this evening hadn’t come to fruition. There was a trendy night club located just around the corner from the hotel. I decided to stop in for a nightcap or two.
It was fairly crowded and a bit noisy, as I expected. I took a seat at the bar, ordering a bourbon and branch. There were a few single women at the bar. A dark redhead caught my attention immediately as she gazed over at me over the rim of her wine glass. Her skin was ivory, her eyes—even from this distance—were extraordinarily large and luminous. I decided they were probably green or blue. Her lips were full and pouty—the kind I liked gliding my cock past. She was dressed expensively, certainly not in the usual chic-but-cheap garb of a hooker. I instructed the bartender to send her a drink. Several minutes later, she carried her d
rink down to my end of the bar.
“Thanks for the drink,” she said, with a glowing smile. “I’m in town on business and I just hate going to a bar alone, but the thought of staying in my hotel suite tonight didn’t appeal to me either. I’m sorry I’m rambling, my name’s Tiffany.”
“It’s lovely to meet you Tiffany. My name’s Easton. Would you care to join me?”
“I’d be delighted to, Easton. Next round’s on me,” she replied, tossing me a sexy smile.
“Where are you staying?” I inquired.
“St. Regis,” she replied with a shrug. “It’s where I usually stay when I travel to D.C. Sort of feels like a second home.”
“I know what you mean,” I said, “It’s the same for me. What type of business are you in, Tiffany, if I may ask?”
She seemed to like the sound of her name on my lips. “Of course, you may,” she cooed, pulling one of her business cards from her handbag to give me.
“Let’s see,” I said, smiling, “Tiffany Brandt, Executive V.P., Winfield Executive Resources, Boston, Massachusetts. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you,” she replied, softly. “I love what I do, how about you?”
“Oh I don’t think I can top that,” I lied, gracing her with a wink. “I’d love to hear more about your recruitment firm. Perhaps we can have our nightcap back at the hotel?”
“I’m game for that,” she said. “The noise level in here seems to be escalating. Your suite or mine?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I replied, signaling for the bar tender to bring my tab. “Wherever you feel more comfortable, Tiffany.”
“How about you come to my suite—it’s 602 in about twenty minutes?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I replied, taking a final swig of my cocktail.
She pulled a pen out of her handbag and wrote “6-0-2” on the back of the business card she’d given me, fearful I might have problems remembering a three-digit number.
“I’ll have a cocktail waiting for you, bourbon, correct?”
