Play With Me

by Lisa Renee Jones

  With him. Relief washes over me. “Thank you.”

  “See if you still feel that way in a few days from now. I’ll let Maggie know about the changes.”

  “Why is she Maggie and I’m Ms. Miller?”

  “Because she’s expressed a dislike for formality, and she and I are not you and me. If we are going to work this closely together, we have to go back to formality and stay there.”

  “Translation,” I say. “No …”

  “Licking, touching, or fucking,” he supplies. “Nor will we talk about it again. You have my word. Everything from this point forward is about the job.”

  A pang of disappointment fills me and I shove it aside. “Thank you, Mr. Ward, for the clarification.” And the promise of many thigh-squeezing, miserable moments. But I will prevail. My gut tells me this is where I belong.

  “Just making sure we both know the rules,” he replies.

  “I guess now we’re clear.”

  “I guess we are,” he murmurs softly, and there is an undercurrent to his words, a heat to his eyes that holds me captive. The air is suddenly crackling with the possibilities we never explored. With the desire we still share for each other. I want to press myself to him and beg him to fuck me and get it out of our systems.

  Abruptly, it seems, his phone rings, a magnified sound that nearly makes me jump. Damion shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “That’s our time-out buzzer. Let’s hope we don’t need it often.” He rolls to the desk and his shoulder brushes my leg, and it is like an electric shock wave shooting straight to my sex.

  His gaze lifts to mine, barely banked passion in its depths. “Correction,” he says softly. “We most definitely are going to need a lot of time-outs.” He answers the call.

  I start to leave, but he motions me to stay.

  “Yes, I have a new assistant handling the coordination,” Damion replies to something his caller has said. “We’re getting things together. I’ll have my new assistant, Ms. Miller, call you back with the confirmation.” He hangs up the phone and reaches for the offer letter and a pen, scribbling something on it. “This will make things easy.” He turns the paper around for me to see. “Sign it and initial by my changes. Call Maggie and tell her you need her to pick it up and get you online officially this time.”

  I glance at the paperwork and see that the title has changed but nothing else. “My pay—”

  “You can keep the raise.”

  “No, I—”

  “Yes. Don’t argue. I’m the boss. Remember?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Boss, Ms. Miller,” he says, tapping the pen to his chest. “That’s me. You do what I say. And I have a feeling I’m going to have to remind you often.” He glances at the silver watch on his wrist. “I have a Skype call in five minutes. Text me your business email when you get it live.” He opens a drawer and pulls out a folder, offering it to me. “This is the information on my pet project, a charity poker tournament here at the casino the weekend after next, benefiting a local shelter. Supposedly it’s completely in order. At this point, I do not want to trust that anything that was supposed to be done is really done. When you have your email, I’ll get you the spreadsheet to go with the file.”

  His phone rings again and he reaches for it. Our conversation is over, but I don’t feel dismissed. I feel as if I’ve just arrived, and I’m not sure if it’s about the job or the man, or both. I have a feeling I’ll be finding out sooner rather than later.

  Part Eight

  Mr. Ward …

  Maggie shows up at my desk as I hang up with my cell provider, and I take the opportunity to give her my new local number for the files. After jotting it down in a file she’s holding, she gives me a keen inspection. “So you’re staying in this job?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “You didn’t want the other job?”

  “No.”

  She frowns. “You do know I’m being nosy and you aren’t cooperating, don’t you?”

  I laugh. “Yes.”

  She looks aghast. “Give me a pebble.”

  “He thought I wanted to be in the press department. He was wrong, and now all is well.”

  She lets out a blast of air. “Well, at least I don’t have to find a new secretary for him. He’s not easy to please.”

  I grin. “That’s nice to hear.”

  “You’re officially perfect for him,” she declares. “Most people would freak out when I said that and get nervous about pleasing him.”

  “But not Ms. Miller,” Damion says, appearing behind us.

  We both turn and I barely contain an intake of breath at just how tall, dark, and hot he looks standing there. I swallow hard. “That’s because I’m used to men like you.”

  Maggie chokes out laughter she tried to contain.

  “Men like me,” he says. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Powerful, career-oriented men, with big personalities and lots of demands.”

  “That’s how you see me?” he asks.

  “That’s how I see you,” Maggie inserts. “Add good-looking and that all the girls around here melt when he walks in to the room.”

  Damion shoots her a hard look. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  She smirks. “Yes, sir. I sure do.” She winks at me and heads toward the lobby.

  “She isn’t afraid of you at all,” I comment.

  “No. You two should get along well.”

  “Considering we started out rocky yesterday, I’m pleased to agree.” I hold up my phone. “Let me text you my new phone number and my email.” I push send.

  His phone beeps and he looks at it. “Got it.”

  “I thought you had a Skype call?”

  “Delayed another ten minutes.”

  “Do I have a schedule for you I’m supposed to keep?”

  “I’ll email it to you.”

  My phone buzzes. “Kali?”

  I answer on the speakerphone, and it’s Dana, sounding flustered.

  “Yes?”

  “Help. I’ve had twenty media calls inquiring about yesterday, and I don’t know what to do with them. My phone is going constantly.”

  “Why are they coming to you, not to the press department?” Damion asks.

  “Oh,” Dana says, sounding dumbstruck. “Mr. Ward. They say the press department isn’t taking the calls.”

  “We’ll handle it,” Damion instructs, and glances at me. “Get with Jessica Michaels and find out what the hell is going on.”

  “What’s the official statement?”

  “A power surge and we shut down to prevent a breach. All is normal now.”

  “Got it. I’ll handle it.”

  “Like you handle me,” he says softly.

  “I’m not sure that’s a true statement.”

  His lips quirk. “Well, you’re all mine now, so I guess we’ll see soon.” He heads back into his office.

  * * *

  The press department swears to me they are taking the calls, but after I answer another ten calls, I’m at my wit’s end. When I discover we haven’t even sent out a press release, I think Damion has some issues in his PR department—namely the manager. I’m never going to get to the charity event if I’m taking these calls, so I decide to take action. I type up a press release.

  For immediate release:

  Due to a power surge, all three of the Vantage properties were shut down temporarily on November 5, 2013 to avoid vulnerability to security breaches. All operations are functioning as normal. No further statements will be given.

  The minute I see Damion’s line blink, I know he’s off his call. When I knock on his door, he calls out for me to enter and turns from where he’s standing at the window.

  “Can I get you to sign off on something?”

  “Of course,” he agrees, and meets me in front of his desk, grabbing a pen and accepting the release from me. He glances up after reading it. “Is this from the PR department?”

  “No. They haven’t
sent one out, and we are still getting pounded, despite their claim that they’re taking the calls. I’d like permission to send this in a press wire myself, so I know it’s done and we can get on to other business.”

  “Yes. Send it, and John Alexander is the VP over that division. Tell him he’s got a problem. Fix it or I will.”

  “Gladly,” I say, and I can smell his cologne. He’s too close. I could reach out and touch him, and I want to. “I’ll get on this.”

  His eyes glow with warmth … approval? Heat? “Thank you, Ms. Miller.”

  “Just trying to please the boss.” It’s out before I can stop it, and blood rushes to my cheeks. Quickly, I turn away and head for the door.

  “Ms. Miller,” he calls out before I escape.

  “Yes?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.

  “Are you running now?”

  “Is that what you want me to do?”

  “No. I do not want you to run.”

  “I’m not,” I say, and, damn it, my voice cracks. So much for handling my boss well. I swallow hard and exit the office, certain of only one thing: We are on time-out number two and it’s not even lunchtime.

  * * *

  Damion leaves for a meeting at noon, and I take the opportunity to run down the road to grab a take-out sandwich and go to the bank. When I return, Dana is still on her break, with the switchboard forwarding to the front desk. Or so I think.

  I round my corner to find her at my desk, digging in my drawer. “What are you doing?”

  She jerks her head up and turns redder than I did over my “please the boss” slip. “I needed a message pad. I’m sorry. I should have waited for you.”

  A message pad? Unease roars through me. I walk toward her. “Did you find it?”

  “No. No. I’ll go to the supply room downstairs. If you want, I can show you where it is?”

  “No thanks. I want to eat and get to work.”

  Still looking nervous, Dana rushes away and I settle at my desk. I decide to inhale my sandwich before I start calling the hundred or so names I need to confirm for the charity list, including a few from Hollywood. Any doubts I had that this job will help me grow to the next level are fading fast.

  I haven’t even unwrapped my food yet when Damion walks back in. “Get Frank Meir from Chase Bank on the line. I’ll send you a virtual address book.” He’s past me and in his office that quickly.

  I pull up my computer screen and find the number. Frank isn’t in. I punch the intercom. “He’s not in.”

  “Tell them to get him on the damn phone.”

  “Yes. Okay.” I redial and I am as insistent as Damion. Three minutes later, I hit the intercom again. “He’s on the line.”

  He doesn’t answer me. The line lights up in his office and I know he has the call. From there, a whirlwind of calls erupts and one thing after another has to be juggled, but I like it. It’s high energy and kind of fun.

  At about three o’clock, an FBI agent shows up, and he, Damion, and Terrance go behind closed doors. I give up on eating my lunch and start making my calls. The news is not good: Half the people have not truly been contacted, and a few say they sent in donations that I don’t see a record of and need accounting to research.

  When Terrance and the detective finally exit the office, it’s after six and Dana has been gone an hour. I’m working through my list. “Still here?” Terrance asks, stopping at my desk as the FBI agent heads past.

  “The charity event is coming up fast. I’m trying to make sure it goes well.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s Damion’s pet project.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Once you get the players’ list confirmed, I’ll need a copy.”

  “Yeah, well, that may be a few days. It’s not exactly been handled as we thought.”

  He cringes and lowers his voice. “Does he know? Because tonight isn’t the night to tell him.”

  “Does he know what?” Damion asks, appearing in the doorway, his hair a rumpled mess, his tie loose.

  “I’ll leave this to you,” Terrance says, giving me a sympathetic look.

  I roll around in my chair. “You look like shit.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Miller. Now, what don’t I know?”

  “I have it under control.”

  “Kali,” he says softly. “Just tell me so I can get it the hell over with in one day.”

  Kali. My heart squeezes. “The charity list you gave me—most weren’t scheduled at all.” I leave out the missing donations. No need to stress him more than he obviously is until I know there’s a real problem.

  “Fuck.” He shoves his arm on the doorjamb over his head. “How many are confirmed?”

  “Maybe twenty percent of the ones I called, but most of those I convinced to get involved. They hadn’t been contacted or they were told details would follow that never did.”

  “How far into the list are you?”

  “Halfway.”

  “I’ll call the heavy hitters and then split the rest with you. If there is one thing I do today that matters,” he says, “it’s this. If you get someone on the fence about their involvement, put them on with me.”

  After three calls that require his assistance—one of which is an arrogant jerk of a Hollywood star—Damion suggests I just pull up a chair at his desk and use his second line. I grab my sandwich and my work and head into his office.

  “Have you eaten?” I ask.

  “Not since breakfast.”

  “Me, either. I picked up lunch but never ate.” I open the container. “It’s ham and cheese. You want half?”

  He stares at me for a moment, and I wish I could read him but I can’t. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I’ll take half.” He stands up and walks to the fridge in the corner of the room and brings back two sodas. “I don’t have diet.”

  “I looked over the press for the event last year,” I say as we dig into our halves of the sandwich. “It’s very generic. Can I write a piece about your personal attachment to this project, which I assume exists or it wouldn’t be your pet project?”

  “Nothing personal about me ever. I don’t do press.”

  “Oh. Okay. Because you got burned when you took over the casino?”

  “Because I don’t. Talk to Dehlia at the shelter. She runs it. Find an angle with her. We funded five college scholarships for kids living in the shelter last year. Profile the program, though, not the kids. I don’t want them labeled homeless sympathy cases.”

  There is something in the way he says this that has me narrowing my gaze on him, and the minute he realizes it, he reaches for the phone and punches in a number. Conversation over. I’ve hit a nerve. I don’t know which nerve, but I’m certain there are many reasons we are drawn to each other, one of which I’ve now confirmed in my mind: namely, that we are both bruised but not broken.

  Another hour passes and Damion leans back in his chair. “That’s it for the night. Go home, Ms. Miller.”

  I’m Ms. Miller again. The name is a wall, a way to put distance between us. “What about you? You’re exhausted.”

  His lips quirk up. “And I look like shit, right?”

  I don’t laugh. “You look tired. Let’s both leave.”

  “No.” His expression darkens. “You should go up before me.”

  I swallow hard. “Oh.” I push to my feet.

  He stands, too. “If I ride up with you, everything we tried to achieve will be destroyed.”

  A wave of unexpected emotion rushes over me and I lower my head, letting my eyes shut. I want him to come upstairs with me. I want to know him, to understand what his bruises are.

  “Kali,” he murmurs softly.

  I inhale and force my gaze to his. “Good night, Mr. Ward.” And I turn and head out of the office, wishing he’d stop me. But he doesn’t.

  Part Nine

  Running …

  On Friday, feeling confident in a fitted emerald-green dress that contrasts with my long blond hair, I head into Mr. Ward’s office. Glan
cing up from his desk, he gives me a hot, heavy inspection and scowls.

  I back-step, all too aware of why he’s cranky. I have, after all, been living the problem with him all week. “I’ll be right back,” I say, and head to the kitchen to pour him a cup of coffee. We’re both going crazy. Every accidental touch of bodies seems more energized, every brush of our eyes more electric. It doesn’t help that neither of us has slept, spending our days working on the regular needs of the properties and staying late to work on the charity event that he clearly cares about deeply.

  Coffee in hand, I walk back in to his office, only to be reprimanded. “You do know I was about to say something to you and that most people don’t walk out on their bosses like you just did.”

  “Sorry, Grumpy.” I set the coffee in front of him. “Please drink it so I can survive the morning.”

  He stares at me, and I’m not sure if his steely look means he wants to fuck me or throttle me. I think maybe both. He scrubs his jaw and reaches for the coffee. I notice it has spilled over the edge to pool on the desk, and I reach for it. “Wait.” It’s too late. Our hands collide.

  Our gazes lift and do the same and we both freeze, the turbulence and heat between us damn near combustible. I start to yank my hand back. He grabs my wrist and looks first at the “V” of my dress, which at this angle has to be revealing, and then at the sticky wetness on my hand. “Do you know how bad I want to lick that off?”

  I have a memory of his tongue in certain places, and my nipples tighten. “I, uh … should I say please, Mr. Ward?”

  He grimaces. “You’re fucking killing me.”

  “Back at ya.”

  “Hello, hello.”

  We jerk apart at the sound of Maggie’s voice. Damion inhales sharply, and I turn away. “Morning, Maggie,” I say.

  “Morning.” She walks toward Damion, and I head out of his office and try to get to work, which requires that I first squeeze my thighs together and count to sixty.

  At sixty-one, I attempt to check my email. The first thing I pull up is a message from the accounting manager, and the heat lingering from my interaction with Damion is quickly chilled. It seems that several accounting clerks have looked high and low for the missing donations I’ve claimed exist. They need proof of deposits. Not good. I decide to go through every file in the desk, piece by piece, and pray I find the evidence I need. Asking donors for proof of payment is a scandal waiting to happen. I grab my files and open them to check my work first.