Ruthless In A Suit (Book Three)

by Ivy Carter

  I smile because he’s being nice. That’s what Brent is, a nice guy. A nice smart guy. A nice smart guy who tucks his T-shirts into his pants. He’s totally inoffensive, void of controversy. Plus, he’s a good T.A. Professor Stanwick is a bit dry and clinical in his lectures but at least Brent brings some enthusiasm—as much as you can bring to a class like this.

  “I’ll have my head back in the game by next class. I promise.”

  “And what a pretty head it is,” he says, and I’m a little shocked. He quickly realizes the flattering statement because he turns red and say, “Geez, I’m so sorry. It just came out. I didn’t mean for it to.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. Poor guy is really squirming. “And, well, thank you.”

  Brent takes a deep breath and says, “Anyway, if you need any help just come see me in my office. Doesn’t have to be during regular hours. I’m locked in there most of the time anyway, working on my thesis or grading work for Professor Stanwick. You have my number right? Because you can call me any time.”

  “Yeah, I have it. It was on the syllabus.”

  “Here, let me give you my cell number too, just in case.” Before I can object—it’s really not necessary—he scribbles his number down and tears off the paper, handing me the scrap. “There you go. I look forward to seeing you—and your head—back in class next week.”

  I laugh. “Thanks, Brent.”

  He’s not wrong. My head has not been in the game. Ever since that dinner. I’m either totally focused and throwing myself into my work, or spacing out at odd moments, like during Brent’s lecture today which, on a normal day, I would have found interesting.

  Last week I was in a meeting at CEF, my mind drifting back to the dinner as it too often does, and Jules asked me a question. My response? “Prime & Tender.”

  “Um, what?” Jules had said. “I think that’s a little out of our price range.”

  “Wait. What?” I’d asked, confused and embarrassed.

  “I asked if you knew what menu Beatrice chose for the upcoming luncheon? I think the hotel caters it, right?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I’d said, then fumbled through my notes to fill Jules and the rest of the development staff in on what Beatrice, who was home with her sick daughter, had chosen for the menu.

  Damn that Jackson Croft. I mean, really. When I first met him, I had him pegged. Arrogant prick, those were the only words that came to my mind and God, I was right. First impressions are usually the right impressions. But then I let him pull me in with a fancy dinner and some serious tongue action to get me…

  Oh, God. I think of that tongue and I lose all other thought. I think of that tongue and what it did to me, and I just want to melt again. He was so beyond the realm of sexy, something completely foreign to my universe, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a complete jerk for dropping me like he did. He made a big deal about taking me out to dinner, that fancy, flashy, unnecessary dinner, and more, and then he drives me home and that’s it forever.

  Transaction complete.

  Which should be fine with me. I don’t want him, definitely don’t need him. I just feel like an idiot for sending him that text the next day. It was a brief moment of weakness. Not that I’ll ever see him again to tell him. I wrestled with the idea of sending it to him for a good twenty minutes.

  If I’d talked it over with someone, like my little sister Sabrina, I would have had some sense talked into me. Sabrina may only be twenty-one but she’s had more guy experience than I have. Although, to be fair, most high school freshman have more dating experience than I do…

  Which is all beside the point. The point is, I wish Jackson Croft would exit my brain immediately and never come back. Eviction notice posted.

  Finally it’s the weekend and I’m in my studio apartment working on the paper for Professor Stanwick. Trying to work. It’s due on Monday and I have a good ways to go. I’ll be here all weekend working—not that I have other plans to worry about.

  My parents have a standing Sunday brunch invitation for me, Sabrina, and our brother Dax but I won’t make it out to Lexington this weekend. Must stay chained to desk.

  As I shuffle through my notes on my desk, a scrap of paper flutters to the floor. I pick it up and see that it’s Brent’s cell number. Next to his name, which is written in airy cursive, is a little smiley face. I can’t imagine a moment in which Jackson Croft would ever draw a smiley face, for any reason at all. He’d rather be—

  I stop myself. Stop thinking about Jackson, I command myself. There is no more Jackson. There never was a Jackson. He was just a figment of my imagination—an amazing, gorgeous and mysterious figment that evaporated once night became day.

  Brent is definitely more my speed. I can totally picture him at Sunday brunch with my family, fitting right in with Mom and Dad.

  Sabrina might make fun of his tucked-in T-shirts, but she’d also give him props for his quick intelligence and Mom and Dad would love him for his vast knowledge of the workings of non-profits.

  He’s cute, in an every-man kind of way. He’s the kind of guy who sunburns easily and has never played a contact sport in his life—not that those are bad things. Brent’s goal in life is to make positive change to the world, not line the pockets of investors or build yet another luxury fill-in-the-blank for the superrich like someone I know. Brent is what most people, including my dad, would call a good guy.

  And what’s wrong with being a good guy?

  As I look at his cell phone number, I think about calling him. Should I invite him out for a drink? Or maybe something low pressure, like a coffee? As I’m considering what I should do—if anything—my phone rings.

  For the briefest of a millisecond, I think it might be Jackson and the feeling of my heartbeat speeding up and the butterflies in my stomach, hurts. Especially when I see that of course it’s not him. Will never be him.

  “Hi Ems,” Natalie from my School Law class says. “What are you up to?”

  “Working on a paper,” I say. I push Brent’s phone number across my desk.

  “On a Saturday night? Wow, you’re really living it up.”

  “Try not to be jealous,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “If you’re too busy working, I understand,” Natalie says. “But I’m headed to a party in Cambridge and my roommate just bailed on me. I wouldn’t mind going alone but I don’t know anyone and this guy I really like is going to be there so…”

  “So I’m your second choice?” I tease her. Natalie and I are more like campus friends. We’ve only hung out a couple of times outside of school, and even that has revolved around studying or school issues. But I like her. She doesn’t take things too seriously.

  “You’re my first choice wingman. What do you say? Can you break away for a couple of hours?”

  I look back to Brent’s phone number. It’s not Brent I want or need, just someone. I need a full body and mind rinse from you-know-who. So I agree to go. Because I’m due for a little breakaway.

  The party is fine. It’s a graduate party, so there’s more wine than beer, more political talk than Hollywood gossip. The food is better too. And there’s a guy. His name is Nick or Mick, I’m not sure.

  He tells me the party was a bore until I showed up and that I’m the prettiest one there.

  I feel nothing as he compliments me. He asks me to put my number in his phone, and I do…although I may have accidentally-on-purpose typed in the number wrong. Maybe that was mean but he’s so eager—maybe it’s that eagerness that turns me off. It smells of desperation. Jackson would never do that.

  He slips into my mind that quickly, without warning, and without any control. I tell Natalie I want to get another hour of work done tonight, and the disappointed look she gives me fills me with guilt.

  By Monday, I’m determined to truly make a change. Be bolder in my social life.

  Brent calls me to stay after class later that week.

  “Hey,” I say at the front of the class. “What’s up? You
got my paper, right?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” he says. He runs his palms down the front of his jeans like he’s drying them off. Wait, is he sweating? Does he have sweaty palms? He watches nervously as the students leave the room, waiting until the last one has gone.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, worried that I accidentally emailed the wrong document and Professor Stanwick got some random…I don’t know what. But Brent’s anxiety has me nervous.

  “Yeah, it’s great,” he says. Finally the door to the classroom shuts and he looks back to me. “I know you’ve been working on the CEF luncheon later this week.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’ve done some mailings and phone calls. Basic stuff.”

  “You know how the university has partnered with CEF for the mentoring program? Well, since I’m a T.A. I got two tickets. I guess they feel bad for paying me so little.” He laughs nervously. “How about if you go with me? You could give me the insider’s view of what CEF’s future programs look, especially in coordination with the graduate program.”

  I pause, surprised. I’m not sure if he’s asking me as his date or as a colleague. I suppose it doesn’t matter. This is what I need. I need to be social, and being social in a charitable way is right up my alley. It might be fun to have a good lunch with Brent, talk about our goals and the future of education. It might also help me finally dust off the last remnants of Jackson Croft.

  “Yeah, that’d be great,” I say. “I’d love to.”

  “Great,” he says, beaming. “Do you want me to pick you up, or…? I don’t have a car but I can get a cab—”

  “Let’s just meet in the lobby and we can walk in together. Sound good?”

  “Perfect,” he says. “Awesome, I’ll see you then. Can’t wait.”

  As I head home, I feel lighter. Finally, I’m getting my head on straight again.

  Jackson

  “So you grew up here in Boston?”

  “Yes, Louisburg Square,” she says. I think her name is…Gwyneth? Genevieve? Yes, Genevieve, that’s it. She is slim, blond, well spoken and well educated. She can taste the difference between the Malbec wine and the Carménère.

  She dresses with sophisticated ease and, since we’re on a date, only the most tasteful amount of cleavage is showing. In short, she’s exactly the kind of woman I need for my future. She looks the part and won’t distract me from my job.

  Unfortunately, I’m bored out of my mind. It’s no fault of Genevieve’s, sweet as she is. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought her to Prime & Tender.

  “The home has been in our family for generations,” she continues. “It’ll be passed to me once my children are of school age.”

  “But first you have to have those children,” I say.

  “Of course,” Genevieve says, blushing. “And the husband. It all has to line up.”

  “That’s something I can understand.” I’m trying so hard to make myself feel something. This woman is everything I need, and she’s practically telling me that I’m what she needs as well. An arrangement like this—both of us getting exactly what we require—is pretty common.

  Love isn’t what matters, it’s the union that counts. Our two families coming together would be the biggest thing to happen in New England society since my father married Sylvia Cornwell of the Connecticut Cornwells.

  But my eyes keep drifting over to the closed door that leads to the private room. I keep seeing Emily, her eyes looking into mine as she came on my mouth. I can feel her flesh beneath my hands, holding her tighter, my fingers digging into her skin as she muffled the cry she’d been desperate to release as her hips jerked. I tried to hold her down, riding out her orgasm and keeping my tongue working over her pumping clit until the very last drop. The way she said my name like a moan of desperation…

  “Jackson?”

  My eyes refocus, and I see Genevieve looking at me curiously. Without realizing it, I’m biting my knuckles.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say, placing my hand on the table.

  “I was just saying I have ballet tickets for the upcoming performance. I’d love for you to be my guest.”

  “Of course,” I say without thought. “Yes, I’d love to.” I shift in my chair, my dick hardening from the memory of Emily. I focus on the duck confit in front of me and listen to Genevieve talk about her winter ski trip to Klosters in Switzerland.

  The evening ends with a respectful kiss on Genevieve’s cheek, and I head back to the privacy of my brownstone.

  My hand is down my pants the second I’m in the bathroom, leaning on the marble countertop. With my eyes closed I pull on my dick, feeling Emily on me. I only had one evening with her and I wonder how long I’ll be able to sustain myself on that alone. The way her mouth opened to mine so readily, her tongue on mine in the same eager way I felt.

  I pump faster when I see her up on that table, her legs spread open to me, wanting me, her sweet pussy so wet from my kisses and my touch.

  In my mind I want to take my dick and slide it into her beautiful, eager body. Would I take her slowly or would I not be able to control myself?

  The thought of being inside her, becoming one with that perfect body, that beautiful woman, is almost too much. My hand moves faster and faster across my long cock, hardly able to take the fantasy anymore of Emily as I see her mouth open as she pants, her head falling back from desire, her hips pushing up as I take more of her, pushing deeper and harder into her, both of us moaning and panting as finally we come together. Or rather I come alone, leaning further onto the counter, jerking my dick. As Emily’s face slowly fades from my mind, I look at myself in the mirror.

  “That’s the last time,” I tell my reflection. I have to put her out of my mind, and concentrate on the business.

  A few days later I’m tossing through a pile of mail on my desk at the office. Sandra sorts it, opens everything and organizes it into piles so I can sift through it all quickly and hand back whatever she needs to deal with.

  I’m thinking about my upcoming meeting with the head of security for our hotels when something catches my eye. An invitation. Sandra has stuck on Post-It on it with the one word scrawled.

  Regrets?

  Because she knows I turn down most of the invitations I receive. Galas, dinners, all the bullshit that comes with being the face of a huge corporation.

  But this one catches my eye when I realize it’s from the Children’s Education Fund. They’d like to recognize me for my and few others for our contributions to the fund. Sounds like my hell, being publicly recognized for writing a check at a stuffy, boring luncheon. Still…

  If I am to take over Croft International, I suppose I need to do more things like this, get my face out there at charity events to show what a caring corporation we are. It certainly won’t hurt to have my picture snapped at an event for the children. It’d look great in our company newsletter.

  After all, I paid that money to them—the least I should do is make sure I get something out of it for myself.

  And then I think of Emily and I know deep inside that I got a hell of a lot more than I bargained for already…

  I have Sandra RSVP yes for me, and then get back to work. I have that meeting with our head of hotel security in fifteen minutes.

  As I walk through the lobby of the hotel I keep my eyes focused straight ahead. I don’t look into the faces of the people milling around the lobby or walking toward the ballroom with me. I don’t care who else is at the luncheon—I’m only here as the face of Croft International. This is purely work, and has nothing to do with a certain grad student and part-time employee of the fund. She’s probably in class…or out tutoring some kid in juvie.

  I shake my head and remind myself of my dinner with Genevieve this evening. We’ve kept in touch, and the coolness of her personality works for me. I don’t spend chunks of my day thinking about her, that’s for sure.

  “Mr. Croft?” a young man says as I walk into the ballroom.

 
“Yes?”

  “Hi, I’m Derek with the fund.” He offers his right hand, which I shake. He’s holding a binder that’s opened to a page I can clearly see.

  Donors is written at the top and the page is filled with color headshots and short descriptions. I catch sight of my photo from the company website. “I’m helping out with the development team today. We’re so happy you could join us. Would you like a drink? Glass of wine, water?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  He leads me into a smaller room that’s set up with banners of kids’ faces and the organization’s name and logo. There’s a bar on either side of the room and two waiters with trays of hors d’oeuvres circling the small group of people chatting in clusters. Must be the high-rollers room.

  “I’d like you to meet Jules, our head of development,” Derek says, presenting me to a woman who had been busy with two elderly women with no wrinkles or gray hairs.

  “Mr. Croft,” Jules says with a bright smile, offering her hand to shake. “We’re so glad you could join us this afternoon. I know how busy your schedule must be.”

  “It’s no problem,” I say, my eyes darting about the room. “Happy to be here.”

  “Can we get you something to drink?”

  “No thank you,” I say, annoyed to be asked twice. Annoyed to be here. Why did I agree to this? There is so much work to do back at the office. This is a complete waste of my time.

  “We so appreciate your donation,” Jules says. “And the fact that you donated it to unrestricted funds really gives us the opportunity to put the money where it’s most needed.”

  I try to force a pleasant smile on my face and concentrate on Jules’s words.

  “We’d love to see if you’re interested in working directly with some of the kids who will benefit from your donation,” she continues. “We’re doing some wonderful mentoring programs with Boston University’s graduate program. We’ve been talking about taking that a step further and starting mentorships with people like yourself in the corporate world, really show the kids how the tools they’re learning from our standard programs actually fit out in the broader context. It’s good to show them that what they’re learning is practical and not just a bunch of fluff. Don’t you think?”