Bared and Tamed
By
Kallista Dane
Copyright © 2014 by Stormy Night Publications and Kallista Dane
Copyright © 2014 by Stormy Night Publications and Kallista Dane
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Dane, Kallista
Bared and Tamed
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by Jimmy Thomas at RomanceNovelCovers.com and Bigstock/Rob Hainer
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Chapter One
“R. L. Duncan, please come to the conference room immediately.”
The faceless voice blaring over the private intercom broke her concentration. Rylie whirled, her leg shooting out from the hip, and missed her target. She landed hard on the mat, helped along by a combination of her own momentum and a wicked kick in the ass by her opponent.
She rose painfully, ignoring the helping hand stretched out to her. Her head was still pounding from the night before. Usually a sweaty early morning sparring session was enough to chase away the lingering aftereffects of an occasional evening spent in the company of her friend Gentleman Jack, but last night she’d really overindulged. She couldn’t even remember getting into bed.
“Thanks, Ethan. Gotta cut our session short—the gods on the 44th floor are summoning me and I must do their bidding.”
“Nice job today, Rylie. You could test for your next belt any time you want.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a little old to care about acing a test. Besides, I don’t think a mugger in the parking garage at midnight is going to drop his gun and run if I whip open my raincoat and show him a tattered brown strip of cotton tied around my waist.”
Ethan laughed. “Point taken. I’m used to teaching execs who want to earn belts to impress their old college buddies or the latest hot chick they’re dating who’s half their age.”
She laughed. “That sounds like most of my colleagues. I’ll see you again on Thursday.”
Rylie headed for the women’s locker room, nervous about the unexpected summons from her boss. The space was a tiny cubicle, squeezed out of a corner of the men’s luxurious quarters in the executive gym only after she’d waged a hard-fought battle with the board of directors. With the title of vice-president in charge of legal affairs, she was the only female in the company qualified to use the room.
In the world of commercial construction, a woman in upper management was still a rarity. Zenith Contractors had plenty of mid-level female employees in its ranks now, thanks to a bumper crop of young women coming out of college with math and engineering degrees. But the highest ranks of the construction business in Atlanta were still dominated by the ‘good ole boy’ network, men who believed deep down that in an office, Southern women were meant to take dictation while giving head under the desk.
Wincing at the bright fluorescent lights, Rylie swallowed a double dose of aspirin and splashed a handful of cold water on her face. She yanked off her dobok, the uniform of loose white cotton trousers and top she wore for martial arts lessons, and stood naked in front of the sink. Fortunately, they hadn’t been sparring long enough for her to break a sweat, so she was able to save time by skipping a shower. Loosening the ponytail she wore for class, she twisted her auburn hair into a thick French braid set off center to curve over her left shoulder. After a swipe of loose powder and a dab of copper red lipstick, she hurriedly donned a white silk blouse and her black suit with the narrow gray stripes. Slipping her feet into a pair of heels high enough to remind her—and every man she met—that she was very much a woman, she dashed for the elevator while texting Judson that she was on her way.
The boardroom was full—half a dozen expensive suits in varying shades of blue and gray, with one grizzled redneck in faded jeans and well-worn alligator boots seated at the helm. Judson could dress any way he wanted. He paid the salaries of all the well-dressed men around the table.
“Nice of you to finally join us, counselor,” Judson drawled.
Rylie nodded and slid into the chair he pointed out at the other end of the mahogany table. “Good morning, Mr. Judson, gentlemen. I apologize for the delay.”
Judson waved her remark away. “We can dispense with the pleasantries. I’m sure you’re well aware of why we called you here this morning.”
Head pounding, Rylie stared from one expressionless face to another. “No, sir, I’m afraid I’m not.”
“It’s bad enough that you blew the negotiations for the most important contract this company has competed for in years,” one of the suits began. Simmons, that was his name, Rylie told herself, trying desperately to concentrate despite the throbbing pain in her head. “We hired you because you convinced us that you could handle delicate, high-stakes transactions. Obviously, you were in way over your head. And then to behave in such an unprofessional manner afterwards—well, that is simply inexcusable.”
“If you’ll recall, Mr. Simmons, I explained to all of you that I did not ‘blow the negotiations.’ I think I laid out my position quite clearly in our meeting yesterday afternoon.” Rylie was angry at the unexpected attack but she fought to keep her voice even.
“It was this board’s insistence on adding expensive extras as part of our bid that lost Zenith Construction the contract for building Cobb County’s new municipal complex,” she countered. “In my meetings with the county administrator, he made it quite clear that the newly elected commissioners were determined to slash costs to a minimum. They’re afraid they’ll be accused of squandering the taxpayer’s money, like the group that was just voted out. I have my notes from the numerous board meetings where I tried to convince all of you that the contract needed drastic cuts in pricing to get it approved.”
“Zenith Construction has certain standards to uphold. We refuse to build a substandard facility,” Simmons retorted, his face growing red. “It’s your fault we lost that job. If you had presented the contract properly to the commissioners, you could have made them understand the upgrades were necessary.”
“The plans they approved were not ‘substandard,’” Rylie argued. “Sullivan and Sons pared expenses to the bone in their bid. That’s why they won the contract. They went with local suppliers, skipping the imported marble and high-end fixtures where we make huge profits on the mark-up.”
“You made libelous assertions about all of us,” Watson piped up, waving his cell phone. “As an attorney, you of all people should know better.”
Rylie blanched. She’d been furious when she left the office the day before. The board had called her into a meeting just like this one and informed her that the contract she’d been working on nonstop for nearly a year had been awarded to their biggest competitor. She did something she hardly ever allowed herself to do and stopped at a liquor store on the way home. Rylie vaguely remembered storming through her apartment after a couple of drinks, ranting and raving to herself about how Judson’s execs had gotten used to treating the county coffers like their own private slush fund.
Working on this deal had been Rylie’s first task at Zenith Contractors. Poring over previous bids as part of her research, Rylie discovered that for years, Zenith’s top brass had been grossly overcharging the taxpayers on every project they built, then voting themselves big bonuses after each job. And they got away with it because the company did plenty of ‘fav
ors’—unpaid work on the homes of nearly everyone who had a say in the awarding of the contracts. Rylie found out the last order of Italian marble the county paid for included enough to cover the floors in the brand new upscale condo of the mayor’s mistress.
The pounding in her head intensified, along with a sick feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. The battery on her cell phone was dead this morning and Rylie had a fleeting memory of making a call or two after her second—or maybe her third—shot of Jack. She rarely drank, knowing that a low tolerance for alcohol made her already sharp temper even harder to control. Had she been drunk enough and stupid enough to call Watson last night?
“Slanderous,” she finally retorted. Even under the circumstances, Rylie couldn’t keep the sarcastic tone out of her voice.
Watson looked surprised, then shook his head. “So you admit it.” He waved his cell phone again, this time in the direction of the company’s owner. “She certainly can’t deny what she did. We all have the voicemails she left us. She was stinking drunk. And now she doesn’t even have the decency to apologize.”
“I admit nothing,” Rylie replied. “I was simply pointing out your incorrect use of a word. ‘Libelous’ describes accusations made in print. If the remarks you object to were spoken, the word you want is ‘slanderous.’ And by the way, it is only slander if it isn’t true. I see no need to apologize to any of you for speaking the truth.”
Judson spoke up. “It’s too damn bad, Rylie. I always liked you, girl. You’re a spitfire. But you went too far this time. You made calls to every one ‘a these men—and to me too, callin’ me a ‘dumbass redneck’ for surroundin’ myself with these ‘stupid thievin’ assholes’ as my board of directors. Now I may agree with you about them bein’ assholes. Called a few of ‘em that myself on occasion. But I really would be a dumbass if I let you stay on here after pullin’ such an idiotic stunt.
“You’ve got a choice. Gimme your letter of resignation today and I’ll see to it you get a month’s pay as a severance package. If you don’t resign, you’ll be fired. And if you try any of your lawyer tricks and file some trumped-up wrongful termination lawsuit, I’ll see to it that every company you apply to from here on out gets a private phone call from me with comments every bit as nasty as the ones you made.”
A choice? Judson was wrong. She had no choice. Getting fired would look much worse on her resume than quitting. “You’ll have it on your desk in an hour,” she replied, her voice tight with rage. Rylie strode out of the room, head held high, stomach quaking.
Typing the letter of resignation took only a few minutes. Dealing with the memories surrounding the treasured mementos she’d brought in to give her sterile office a personal touch took much longer. She found an empty box in the supply closet and fought back tears as she packed the picture of her parents, taken just before Mom passed away. That was only a few months before she graduated from law school. Dad was lost without her, and as so often happens when couples are inseparable, he died barely a year later.
They were everything to each other—business partners and best friends as well as lovers. Rylie wanted desperately to have that kind of relationship, but so far the few men she’d dated fell short of her high expectations. Over the last few years, she devoted more and more time to her career, making a name for herself in the narrow field of commercial construction law. Now here she was, 38 years old, with no job, no family, a meager handful of friends, and a biological clock ticking so loud it often kept her up till 3 A.M.
The ringing of her office phone broke her concentration and she grabbed it. “R. L. Duncan,” she snapped.
“Rylie, this is Neill Sullivan.”
The deep voice on the other end of the phone brought a flush to her cheeks. He’d been the subject of more than a few hot fantasies of hers. Neill was head of Sullivan and Sons Construction. He was what her mother would have called Black Irish—gorgeous blue eyes peering out from under dark wavy hair worn a touch longer than what a no-nonsense businessman would tolerate. He had a devastating smile and the way he looked at her whenever they met made Rylie feel that she was the only person in the world who mattered to him at that moment. She was certain that every woman he knew felt the same way. It was hard to resist the full force of the Sullivan charm.
She’d run into him off and on over the past few years, most recently at a big charity gala. She noticed a sexy hint of stubble on his strong jaw that evening. Her mind immediately conjured up a vision of him ravishing his latest lover all night, then rushing straight to the black tie event after a long day on the job with no time to go home and shave. Although he spent most of his time nowadays behind a desk, Sullivan still had the hard, lean body of a construction worker under his fitted tux.
“Rylie?”
She blushed as though he could read her thoughts through the phone line. “Yes, I’m here,” she replied, keeping her tone businesslike.
“I want you to come to my office this evening—to discuss the phone message you left me last night.”
She stifled a groan. How many people had she called in her drunken ravings? “Mr. Sullivan, that message was…”
He didn’t give her the opportunity to finish. “That message was unlike anything I would have expected from you, to say the least. And frankly… well, that can wait. I’ll see you here in my office at 6 P.M.”
The last thing she needed today was a face-to-face meeting with another angry recipient of her inebriated tirades. “I… I can’t make it,” she stammered. “I have other plans.”
There was no hint of Irish charm in this conversation. His voice was cold. “Cancel them. Be here at six… or I’ll go public with that voicemail.”
She finished packing up her office, signed the letter of resignation, and dropped it off with Judson’s secretary on her way to the elevator. Zenith’s building had a fantastic view of the Atlanta skyline from the glass elevator on the outside of the building. As she headed down, Rylie couldn’t help wondering if the short ride was an omen of the direction her career would be taking from here on out—straight to the bottom. Although it was a major metropolitan area, Atlanta still operated like a small town, with a gossip network that could make or break a career. She’d been careful up till now, never even indulging in a tipsy one night stand that might leave her with the reputation of a slut. Image was everything for a woman in corporate law, especially if you wanted to be looked upon as a serious foe.
Now apparently she’d destroyed years of hard work with one night of reckless boozing. “What could I possibly have said to Neill Sullivan for him to sound so cold and forbidding?” she muttered aloud. She loaded her solitary box of personal belongings in the trunk of her car and headed for her Buckhead apartment.
The first thing Rylie saw when she opened the door was the empty bottle of Gentleman Jack lying on its side in the middle of the living room floor. Oh, God, I don’t remember drinking the entire bottle. No wonder I have such a headache. She headed for the bedroom, picking up stray pieces of yesterday’s clothing off the floor along the way.
The bed was still made, but the spread was crumpled as though she had passed out before getting under the covers. Rylie popped a couple more aspirin, downed most of a bottle of water and threw herself down on top of the bed again, hoping that when she awakened, she’d find that this was all a bad dream.
* * *
Neill put his cell phone back down on the desk, deep in thought. He had a sneaking suspicion that R. L. Duncan, attorney at law, didn’t remember most of the intoxicated rambling she’d done last night. The first time he played her voicemail through, he’d been furious. The uptight bitch didn’t even know him. Where did she get off saying such foul things? Sure, they’d met a few times at business events and casual greetings were exchanged. But although he had a sneaking suspicion that she was steaming hot under that stern façade she presented to the world, he’d never followed up with a date or even a phone call. Ever since Caroline died ten years ago, Neill had two priorities—ra
ising their son Adam and building the family business that his father left him.
Adam was studying engineering now, a freshman at MIT. And thanks to the big contract Sullivan and Sons just scored, the company had all the work it could handle for the near future. After years of putting his own needs last, Neill decided that now that he was in his forties, it was time to indulge himself a little. And if he played his cards right, Rylie Duncan’s phone call last night had just given him the perfect opportunity to do so.
For the first few years after Caroline’s death, Neill hadn’t dated at all. Mired in grief, he buried himself in his work and spent every minute of his free time with Adam. When his physical needs became overwhelming, he took care of his sexual urges with a series of discreet paid companions, no strings attached. Later, there had been occasional dates with women that the wives of his buddies fixed him up with. But he hadn’t found anyone who meshed with his somewhat unusual requirements for a life partner the way that his beloved Caroline did.
Neill was a dom at heart. Not the leather-clad, whip-toting dom from a porn flick, but a dom nonetheless. He wanted a woman who was prepared to have him take charge—a woman who accepted the idea that in their relationship, his word was law. Caroline knew from the time they became engaged while they were still in college that if she flatly disobeyed him, she was in for a long, hard spanking, no matter how much she protested.
There had been other spankings too, spankings that Caroline hadn’t minded at all. Those were always followed by the hottest sex they ever had. But Caroline wasn’t just some meek, subservient coed. Like Neill, she was Irish, with a temper that could get out of hand at times. It was her fiery spirit, her tendency to throw herself passionately into whatever cause she believed in, that drew him to her in the first place. Neill relished the challenge of taming that fiery spirit with the occasional lengthy session across his lap. After all, there was no thrill in dominating a woman who was totally compliant all the time.
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