Rich Man’s Deception
The Complete Boxed Set
Valerie S. Gibson
Contents
Copyright
1. The New Hire
2. Spy’s Burden
3. The Rogue Agent
4. A Betrayal Uncovered
5. The Spy’s Redemption
Copyright 2014 © Valerie S. Gibson
The New Hire
Entry #12
His footsteps echoed on the marble floor. I knew it was him, because I could see his reflection in the computer monitor. The image was vague, but there was no mistaking him. Ian Payne had a certain walk, a careless strut, as if he was privy to some secret that all us poor mortals would never truly be able to understand. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to say that every aspect of him made my skin crawl, my stomach nauseous. But it simply wasn't true. My skin did crawl around him, but only to form goose bumps. My stomach did throb, but only with a dull ache, a longing for his touch. I disgusted myself. My lack of focus had prevented me from doing any real sleuthing. A first for the infamous journalist Rachel Adams. No, I would not be beaten, not by this pretentious, plastic ken doll. He was so fake with his courteous manner and charming demeanor. It was all an act. The world was just one big theater for Ian Payne; I knew in my heart that it was. And I was going to figure out what he was hiding. This I swore on my career.
That's when he spoke. His velvet voice filled the room with a pleasant tone. It was a firm voice, powerful but not overwhelming, it smoothed out after the initial sound, like a shot of whiskey. It also sent chills down my back.
“Good morning Ms. Potters,” Ian said with a genial smile. Even though the name was only my alias, my heart sang when he said it. His teeth were a pearl white, and dimples formed on his square jaw. Day-old stubble clung to his face, a dark brown the same color as his well-groomed hair. He held me in his piercing gaze for a moment, those blue eyes making me squirm under their scrutiny. After all, Ian Payne's eyes were made for detecting imperfection, and suddenly I felt as though he could see through me. A new dread filled me like venom. He knew. Why else would he be in the office? He never had been before, not this early. He usually spent this time of the day tinkering with things in the laboratory. Suddenly I felt naked, cornered. I felt like a child, about to be scolded by my father. That's when I felt the wetness soaking through my panties. What was wrong with me?
“Good morning,” I finally responded, turning my chair towards him. My thigh quivered slightly. “Did you need help with something?” I asked, trying my best not to stare at his bulging crotch. He was wearing black basketball shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt that showed a pair of chiselled arms, glistening with sweat in the morning sun. “Why are you dressed like that?” I asked, failing to mask the irritation in my voice. It was very distracting, and not work appropriate.
Ian cocked his head in astonishment; I don't think he was used to being talked to that way. Then he just shrugged it off. “The mind and body share a powerful connection. Both need to be exercised regularly, so that they may operate optimally,” he said.
I cocked an eyebrow. “Right. That still doesn't explain why my boss is standing in my office, sweaty and half naked.” I pointed out. “What do you want?”
Ian's smile fell. Something in his eyes shifted, turning predatory; I saw his eyes fall to my breasts. They lingered there, and then he began to advance towards me, slowly. My heart quickened in my chest, fear flooding through me. I felt it trickle down my thigh. No, that was me, I was so wet.
“You,” Ian said. “I'm here because I want you.”
* * *
“So!” my interviewer said, clearing his throat and interrupting my reading. “This is the first time you and Ian...” He paused. “Got intimate.”
His words were so carefully chosen. He knew this interview would be broadcast all over the world when it was over. He was trying to keep it clean which, unfortunately for him, would leave quite a portion of my story out of his program.
“Yes,” I finally answered.
“I see,” the interviewer said, scribbling something on a notepad. “How long had you known Ian before this happened?”
'Known?’ I thought. I still wasn't sure who Ian Payne really was. He hid himself all too well behind that perfect smile. “Those events took place after my third week of employment,” I answered.
The interviewer nodded. “Good,” he said absently. “And how frequently did you two become intimate after the first encounter?”
'More than I could ever hope to count,’ I thought. The recollection still made me ache. “Regularly,” I said.
The interviewer nodded, his chubby cheeks, jiggling as he did so. “You're Rachel Adams, the famous journalist. Is that correct?”
He knew the answer to that question, to all of these questions. Now we were simply going through the motions. I didn't anticipate how empty it would make me feel. “Yes,” I said.
“Why then, did you seek employment from Mr. Payne, if you already had a successful career?”
he asked, sliding the tape recorder closer to me. His face was full of anticipation.
“The job I received through Infiniti Inc. was just a cover,” I said, and each word made the guilt weigh more heavily on my shoulders; but I had to continue.
“A cover?” the interviewer asked with feigned innocence. “What do you mean?”
I sighed deeply. Old memories of Ian kept flooding back. This was far more taxing than I had thought it would be. Perhaps it was too soon, the wounds were still too fresh. “I mean that I, Rachel Adams, under an assumed alias, Ms. Penelope Potters, was employed by Mr. Payne as his personal assistant,” I said. It felt like a confession. Why was I suddenly wracked with all this guilt? Had I forgotten what Ian had done? It was unforgivable. Wasn't it?
“I see,” the interviewer said in a flabbergasted tone. “But why? Why would one go through all that trouble?”
I sipped out of the flute in front of me; the crisp lemon water did nothing to dislodge the lump in my throat. “To get close to Ian Payne. To find a chink in his flawless white armor,” I said.
“Why?” the interviewer asked again.
I didn't really know anymore. I straightened my back and cleared my throat. “Because that's what a good journalist does. We find the truth. Because the public deserves to know it, needs to know it.” Which meant they should also know I was a schmuck. The afterthought lingered painfully, like a punch in the gut.
“I see, and was it in your intention to strike up an intimate relationship between Mr. Payne and Ms. Potters?” the interviewer asked, smiling darkly.
“No. That no one could have anticipated,” I said, holding back the tears threatening to burst forth. It was all over, I realized. Once this interview aired, my career, Ian, nothing would ever be the same. I would lose everything. But it was out of my hands now. I would tell my story, all of it. Until every dirty underbelly and skeleton was bared, for all to see.
“That is quite a fantastic tale Ms. Adams, do you have any proof that all of this occurred?” he asked.
The question was inevitable. But I was a journalist, of course I had proof; I would never have agreed to the interview if I didn't. “Yes,” I nodded, reaching in my handbag. I pulled out several notebooks, numerous bits of paper work, a tape recorder and a little black diary, with a small key hanging from a golden chain. Written across the diary, in whiteout, were the words, “The Desire Diaries”. The interviewer’s ey
es fell on the diary. They filled with intrigue. I had forgotten to mention the diary to him previously.
“Wh- what is that?” he asked, pointing to it with his pen, eyes wide and glazed.
I ran a finger down the diary's sleek spine. A naughty kind of nostalgia filled me as I did. Inside that little black book was every love affair I had had since my senior year of college. “This?” I asked innocently.
The interviewer nodded. “Yes, yes,” he urged.
“Well,” I explained. “It started out as a joke. My sorority sister and I were both in journalism. And we realized that no woman had ever documented their sex life before. Every sex memoir we had ever read were those of males. We didn't think that was fair. So we decided to make our own memoirs. And that's when the desire diaries were born,” I said with a grin, holding up the little book. “There is only one other book like this in the whole world. And that belongs to my sorority sister, wherever she may be.”
“You mean, you still write in it?” the interviewer asked.
I nodded. “Every lover I've had since my senior year. It's all in this booklet.”
The interviewer swallowed hard, “May I see it?”
“Sure,” I shrugged, handing him the booklet. “Some entries I remember better than others.” I said.
The interviewer took the booklet in hushed awe, as if he had just been given the original Bible. “What does this have to do with Ian Payne?” he asked suddenly.
I smirked. “Well, as you will soon come to find out, 90% of my interactions with Ian are in that book.”
The interviewer dabbed his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief that he pulled from his breast pocket. “I see,” he said, gulping. “Well then I have a feeling this is not going to be a made for TV broadcast.”
I grinned. “Probably not.”
He sighed. “So much for my viewership rating.”
I only smiled. We both knew this was the story of the decade. One way or another, he was going to find a way to get it out to the public. “Perhaps we should call the whole thing off?” I asked. Passive aggression was a skill any good journalist must master.
“No! No. That won't be necessary.,” he said hurriedly. “I think though, for the sake of sparing confusion, we should start at the beginning.”
“Of the diary?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow as he began thumbing through it absently.
My comment made him catch himself. Startled, he snapped the booklet shut. “No, of course not. I mean with Ian,” he cleared his throat again. “Describe your first meeting with Mr. Payne.”
I nodded. “I think I can do that...” It was a day that still stood out so vividly, so sharply that all the other memories seemed like blurred lines around that one. “The first time I ever physically saw Ian Payne, was at the interview.” I said as I became lost in memory.
* * *
“Ms. Potters,” someone said in the distance.
The office I was waiting in wasn't exactly impressive. Truly, it was disappointing. After all I had heard about Ian Payne's legendary company, Infiniti Inc., the pioneer of engineering, I had expected something a bit more, well, pioneering. Unfortunately, this office looked no different from any other one.
“Ms. Potters!”
Suddenly I realized that was me. I looked up. The secretary was scowling as she motioned for me to get up. I did so immediately. Embarrassment welled up inside; I had forgotten my own alias, one I had even made up myself. “Sorry,” I said with a flash of a smile. The secretary only rolled her eyes and pushed me through the door.
“Turn left, fourth door to your right.,” the secretary droned.
“Thank you,” I said as I collected my paperwork, but the secretary was already gone. 'She's certainly a class act,' I thought as I made my way down the hall. When I reached the office door it was labeled, 'Office Supplies.’ First I was confused, then angry. Had that rude secretary directed me to the wrong room? Or worse, was this their way of rejecting me? Had I lost before I even began? Could that be possible? With the fake credentials of Penelope Potters, who was the world's most perfect personal assistant, how could I have already been rejected? I spoke seven different languages for Christ’s sake. Just who did this guy think he was? Just then, at the height of my anger, someone bumped into me from behind. I swiveled on my heels, about to rip the head off of the poor, unfortunate soul with the really bad timing.
“Oh, sorry. I didn't see you there. I spend too much time with my head buried in this tablet,” a melodic voice said.
My heart began to hammer in my chest. All the rage inside me evaporated abruptly. There he was, right in front of me. I could hardly believe my eyes. THE Ian Payne, in the flesh. He was taller than he looked on camera, thicker too. I didn't remember him being so muscular. And his smile; it disarmed me so alarmingly fast I felt as though I might faint. “Oh, no worries,” I said.
He gave me a strange look. 'No worries?' I thought in horror. What am I? A surfer?
He pointed towards the door. “Is there a reason you're standing outside my storage closet?” he asked.
My face flushed red, half embarrassed, and half angry at his snide comment. “I-no. The secretary, she.” I was having trouble forming sentences, or even thoughts to construct them.
Ian laughed. “I'm just kidding. I know who you are Ms. Potters. My secretary messaged me the moment you arrived. Which you did quite punctually I might add.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that giddy, schoolgirl feeling would ebb. It did not. “Thank you Mr. Payne,” I said.
“Call me Ian.,” he said as he opened the closet door. Behind it however, was no closet, but a massive office, one that trumped even the oval one. It had leather couches running along the walls, sculptures of frosted glass, and a glossy marble floor. A massive, oak-stained desk sat in front of a bay window that overlooked the city below. The view was breathtaking.
“Welcome to my office,” Ian said, offering me a seat in a black, leather chair.
I obliged him. The seat was warm and soft, and I nearly jumped when it began to vibrate.
Ian laughed again. The sparkle in his eyes was almost child-like. “It's Tuscan leather. With a built-in temperature regulator. I developed them myself. When the surroundings are cold, the chair heats up, and vice versa. What do you think?” he asked.
“Very nice,” I said. “But how can I stop it?” The chair felt great, but my shields were back up. It all seemed too perfect, too well constructed. Why would Ian himself come to interview me? He was a very resourceful man, or so I had heard. Perhaps he had already caught wind of my intentions. I had once read an article in Esquire that claimed Ian had a pair of eyes and ears in every office worth having one in. Did that include my own?
“You just did,” Ian said. I noticed the chair stopped vibrating. “It's voice controlled.” he explained.
There was a brief silence as he sat down behind his desk. With the sun at his back, perched on his leathery throne, Ian Payne made an impressive sight. He seemed too young to be sitting in a position of such stature. At 29, he had barely even reached his prime. It was no wonder Time magazine called him ‘The Prodigious Prince’.
“You know. I really didn't expect you to be conducting the interview,” I admitted. “I figured a man like you would be...” I trailed off.
“Indisposed,” he said.
“Yes,” I agreed.
He sighed. “Actually Ms. Potters, everything has been running so smoothly lately, I've found myself with an irritating amount of free time. Besides, this isn't an interview.”
A twinge of panic welled in me at his words, like a rising ocean wave. “It's not?” I asked, hoping I had masked my fear adequately.
“No Ms. Potters, this is a briefing. You're already hired. I've seen your credentials, they’re impeccable. It says here you were also a yoga instructor in India, and that you also speak Hindi, the language where the art form originated. That's amazing.,” he said, his glacial eyes
examining me.
I smiled. I wished I could say the yoga thing had been my idea but my friend Marci had seen an article that had intimated that Ian Payne was big into Buddhism, so we just tacked it on to the end of my resume. It couldn't hurt right? Unless he actually needed some tutelage... then there might be a problem. “Thank you,” I said. “But what do you mean by briefing? I thought I would just be doing typical office work. Filing your paperwork, fetching you coffee, doing your laundry. That sort of thing,” I said.
Ian shook his head. “No Ms. Potters. This position requires a certain degree of... classification,” he hesitated, looking me over once more. My insides squirmed, but my exterior stayed steady. “You see, much of my work is, as you may have heard, innovative,” Ian's tone turned darker. “And as with all innovation, it is surrounded with those who would try to imitate it, to steal it. Do you understand what this means Ms. Potters?” he asked, his gaze piercing.
My stomach fluttered. “You screen your employees. To ensure complete confidentiality,” I said.
He looked surprised. “You're correct,” he finally said. “But I don't screen all of them. Only those who will be working closest to new projects. And as my personal assistant you, Ms. Potters, will be privy to everything I do. The bulk of all my work. In fact, there is not a single position here that offers a more candid look into our company's developments. Even my own scientists only get a small fraction of information, just enough to get the job done. I guess what I'm asking, Ms. Potters, is can I trust you?”
I opened my mouth to respond.
“Wait,” he cut me off, raising a finger. “Don't take this lightly Ms. Potters. Before you respond, I want to make something very clear to you.” He stood, casting a long shadow over the office. My leg began to tremble. “Make no mistake,” he said. “I am the most powerful man in this city, Ms. Potters. Not the mayor, not even the governor; me. If you ever reveal anything that you witness here to the public, or one of my competitors, I promise you Ms. Potters,” he walked over to me and whispered in my ear. “I will make you regret it.” The words were laced with venom. “Understood?”
Rich Man's Deception: Complete Boxed Set Bundle: Billionaire Boss / Corporate Espionage Romance Page 1
