Positively Pricked
A Novel
By Sabrina Stark
USA Today Bestselling Author
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Copyright © 2018 by Sabrina Stark
Smashwords Edition
Chapter 1
The senator was screaming like a girl. Funny, I felt like screaming too, but for entirely different reasons.
On both sides of the long, carpeted corridor, doors swung open as hotel guests leaned their heads out to gawk at the commotion. I couldn't exactly blame them. After all, it wasn't every day you spotted a bare-chested billionaire dragging a senator by his ankle.
The senator was still screaming. "Help! Somebody!"
With my notebook in-hand, I scrambled to keep up. Desperately, I called out, "What are you doing?"
The senator stopped screaming only long enough to holler back, "I'm being assaulted! What the fuck does it look like?"
Dumb-ass. I wasn't talking to him. I was talking to my employer.
Yes. That would be the billionaire.
If I weren't so horrified, I might've noticed that his dark tailored slacks clung oh-so perfectly to his tight butt and trim waist. And while I was at it, I might've also noticed that his muscular back and shoulders looked annoyingly fine as he dragged Mister Grabby-Ass – a.k.a. the senator – down the long, ornate hall.
As they passed a random door on their left, a couple of teenage girls swiveled their heads to stare at the traveling spectacle.
They were still staring when I scrambled past their doorway. As I hurried forward, one of them called out after me, "Hey, was that–?"
"No comment!" I yelled, hoping to keep the publicity to a minimum.
Probably too late for that.
Already, the other girl was finishing the question. "Zane Bennington? Oh, my God. I think it was."
Damn it.
Unfortunately, the dragger was Zane Bennington, and he wasn't just my employer. He was the guy who'd been making my life miserable for weeks. He was a prick. An asshole. A stone-cold ruthless bastard with no redeeming qualities whatsoever – well, except for his face. And his body. And yeah, maybe his massive fortune.
But other than that, the guy had zero going for him.
Hustling away from the girls, I called out to Zane's receding back. "Where are you taking him?"
Zane – yes, we were on a first name basis, but that was another story – didn't answer. He didn't even pause. He just kept plowing forward, ignoring me and the guy twisting and screaming behind him.
By now, the friction had wreaked havoc on the senator's fancy suit jacket. Already, it was tangled up around his torso, like some sort of melted bobsled. He gave a particularly girlish scream. "Call security!"
Oh sure, like that would help.
Security here was top-notch, but Zane owned this hotel, so if security came running, it wouldn't be to rescue the senator, as much as he might need it.
I yelled, "Damn it, Zane! Will you please stop?"
Thanks to a whole series of implausible events, I was Zane's public relations manager, and it was proving to be more than a full-time job. The guy didn't care who he offended, or what anyone thought of him.
But even for Zane, this was a bit much. Until now, he'd confined most of his anti-social behavior to general assholery as opposed to outright assault.
How on Earth would I explain this?
They were moving so fast that I could barely keep up. But then again, I was wearing high heels and a long fitted skirt. Unless I wanted to grab the bottom of that skirt, and hike it up thigh-high, sprinting was out of the question.
So instead, I rushed along behind them – too slow to catch up, but too fast to pretend that I wasn't part of this impromptu parade.
Maybe I should've felt bad for the senator.
But I didn't.
I couldn’t.
I barely knew the guy. And yet, just yesterday evening, he'd gotten all grabby after a few cocktails too many. For all I knew, he didn't even remember.
But I did.
If I weren't so busy scurrying down the hall, I might've shuddered with revulsion. But instead, I kept on going, trying like hell to forget the feel of his hand squeezing my ass, and then worse, going in for the crack.
It was this particular recollection that led to a new discovery. Turns out, you could shudder and scurry at the same time. Go figure.
As I watched, Zane rounded the corner, still dragging the senator behind him. The way it looked, they were heading for the elevators – my steps faltered – or, oh crap, the stairwell.
I said a silent prayer. Please be the elevators. Please be the elevators…
I called out, "Don't you dare take the stairs!"
Whether Zane heard me or not, I had no idea. With a muttered curse, I kept on going, praying that the next sound from the corridor wouldn't be the bumpity bump of the senator getting tossed down the stairway.
A split second later, the screaming stopped, and I almost feared the worst. I rounded the corner just in time to see Zane yank the senator up by his jacket and shove him hard against the wall between the two nearest elevators.
Zane was tall and powerfully built. As for the senator, he'd been a pro football player back in the day. But those days were long gone, and the only thing he tackled now were women half his age.
Oh sure, he still looked imposing, but looks, I decided, could be deceiving. And besides, the guy holding him against the wall was pretty imposing himself. If I were a betting gal – which I wasn't – I'd have put all my money on Zane.
Now that I'd actually caught up to them, I wasn't quite sure what to do. After all, Zane wasn't dragging the guy anymore, so that was good, right? Silently, I edged forward, hoping to catch Zane's elbow and maybe gently ease him away from the senator.
I was halfway there when Zane finally spoke. In a voice filled with menace, he leaned closer to the senator and said, "If you ever touch her again, I'll break off those fucking fingers." His grip visibly tightened. "And then, I'll shove them down your fucking throat."
I froze. What?
Again, Zane shoved the senator against the wall. "Are we clear?"
I stood in stunned confusion. Who on Earth was he talking about?
He couldn’t mean me.
Could he?
No. He couldn’t. Definitely not.
If I weren’t so stressed, I might have laughed at the mere thought. After all, Zane hated me just as much as I hated him.
And seriously, wasn't I full of myself? Like Zane would go to any trouble on my behalf.
Probably, I decided, the senator had gotten grabby with someone else, like maybe an important guest or, heaven forbid, Zane's latest squeeze, whoever she was this time.
I tried to think. I'd ditched the senator just after midnight, which left plenty of time for another round of slurring and ass-grabbing with whatever random female happened to cross his path next.
Still, we had security for that sort of thing. So why would Zane Bennington – who owned not only this hotel but countless others worldwide – take such a personal interest?
Trying to make sense of it all, I studied Zane's face in profile. For as long as I'd known him – which, granted, wasn't forever – he'd been the epitome of control.
And yet, he didn't look in control now.
He looked ready to break the senator in two. When the senator offered no coherent response, Zane gave him another shove and repeated his question, more slowly this time. "Are. We. Clear?"
The senator swallowed. "I, uh, what?"
More confus
ed than ever, I stepped toward them.
Instantly, the senator's gaze snapped in my direction. He called out, "Jane! Go on! Tell him!"
My steps faltered, and I heard myself ask, "Tell him what?"
The senator gave me a pleading look. "Tell him that you liked it. You know, that it was voluntary."
My jaw dropped. Wait, what?
I gave a confused shake of my head. I didn't like it. The senator was a creep, and besides, until just last night, he'd been engaged to someone else – someone I might've called a friend. But that wasn't the thing that had me reeling.
It was the implication of what he'd just said.
My gaze shifted from the senator to the guy holding him against the wall. As if feeling my gaze, Zane slowly turned to look. And when he did, I saw something new in his eyes – a possessive spark that caught me totally off guard.
My breath caught. Oh, my God. This was about me.
But why?
Was it because I worked for him?
No. That couldn’t be it. Thousands of people worked for him, and I'd never seen him behave anything like this.
Still, it didn't make any sense.
I mean, he didn't even like me. Cripes, Zane Bennington didn't like anyone – as I'd learned so quickly on the night we'd met – when I'd been a lowly catering assistant and he'd been – well, Zane Bennington, the mystery man who had everyone talking.
Chapter 2
Three Months Earlier
My gaze drifted across the room. For a total prick, the guy sure had a lot of friends.
Naomi gripped my arm. "Don't."
Startled, I turned to face her. "Don’t what?"
She lowered her voice. "Don't look at him."
And just like that, my gaze snapped back in his direction, not that it did a lick of good. He was absolutely swarmed, leaving me nothing to see but the very top of his head, covered in thick, bronze hair that would've made a movie star weep with envy.
Surrounding him were men in designer suits, bejeweled women in sultry dresses, and, on the outskirts, a couple of random reporters trying to edge their way into the inner circle.
The way it looked, they weren't having much luck.
I almost sighed. I could so relate. My own luck? It was so deep in the toilet that I'd need a plunger just to say hello.
Naomi's grip on my arm tightened. "Hey, Jane."
I was still focused on the crowd. "Yeah?"
"You heard me, right?"
Absently, I felt myself nod. In truth, it was hard to hear much of anything over the sounds of live jazz and the hum of excited voices – rich voices with upper-crust accents and laughter that sounded almost rehearsed.
These were important people, and they darn well knew it.
As for me, I was just a catering assistant – in other words, a total nobody. But packed in the mansion's enormous living room were plenty of somebodies, including the biggest somebody of them all – Zane Bennington, who, if the rumors were true, was an absolute asshole.
I turned to Naomi. "Why shouldn't I look? I mean, it's not like he saw me or anything."
"It's not him I'm worried about." Naomi looked past me, and her mouth tightened. "It's her."
Reluctantly, I turned to look. Sure enough, Ms. Hedgwick – the sharp-faced woman who'd let us into the mansion a few hours earlier – was giving me the stink-eye again.
I felt warmth rise to my cheeks. Damn it. She had warned us, hadn't she?
Her instructions – delivered with such cold precision – still rang in my ears. "Don't talk to him. Don't smile at him. Don't look at him. And whatever you do, don't do anything to draw his attention. Is that clear?"
Of course, I'd nodded. I mean, what else could I do? It's not like I'd gain any brownie points by explaining that if Zane Bennington wandered over for a caviar canape – or whatever – that I couldn’t exactly fling it onto his plate with a grunt and a frown.
Besides, I smiled at practically everyone. Looking to prove it now, I summoned up a tentative smile for Ms. Hedgwick.
Her posture stiffened, and she didn't smile back.
Instead, she turned away, glowering as she headed toward the front entrance, probably to give the parking attendants another dose of holy hell for that incident with the catering van.
Next to me, Naomi murmured, "I told you so."
Again, I turned to face her. "Well, I wouldn’t have been looking if you hadn't just mentioned him."
Naomi flashed me a sudden grin. "Liar."
She was right, of course. Yes, I would've looked, but hey, I wasn't the only one. Even now, all eyes in the room kept drifting in his direction. I could practically hear their thoughts. They were wondering the same thing that I was wondering.
Were the stories true?
Obviously, some of them were. Yes, he was obnoxiously good-looking with a killer body. And yes, he'd arrived from nowhere to claim the vast family fortune that had fallen so violently into his lap. And yes, he'd been caught in some alcove with Senator Wilson's new fiancée, who'd tried to explain away their half-naked encounter by claiming it was some sort of wardrobe malfunction.
Wardrobe malfunction, my ass.
I knew the fiancée. We'd gone to the same university. But where she'd graduated straight into the arms of Senator Wilson, I'd graduated to the sad realization that the job market sucked, rent was expensive, and the clock was ticking.
Unless I wanted to move back to the family farm, I needed money like now. I loved the farm. And I loved my family. But skulking back like a runaway child was too humiliating to consider.
Besides, things weren't all bad. The catering gig paid a lot better than the job I'd just given up. Plus, I'd been officially converted to full time. That was something, right?
Naomi's voice interrupted my thoughts. "You know, he's only twenty-eight?"
I gave another nod. I did know, but it was still hard to fathom. Twenty-eight-years old. That was only five years older than I was.
I bit my lip. Where would I be in five years?
And then, there was the scarier question. Where would I be in five days? I gave an involuntary shiver. Headed for trouble, that's where, unless I could scrounge up enough money for this month's rent.
Sometimes it was hard to smile when the rent was due – no, overdue. Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, I looked toward the nearest window. Outside, it was dark, leaving me nothing to see but my own reflection.
Yup, there I was – Jane Compton.
A plain Jane? I wasn't quite sure.
I was no runway model, but I wasn't bad-looking in that girl-next-door sort of way. Of course, I'd look a lot better without the frilly white apron, and better still if my hair wasn't knotted up so tight that my scalp literally ached.
As for my feet, well, they ached, too, but that had nothing to do with my appearance. It was because I'd been on those feet since the crack of dawn, finishing up my other job.
Yeah, that was me, living the good life, all right.
In the background, I heard Naomi say, "Oh shoot, there goes another candle."
I turned to look. Sure enough, the chafing candle underneath the nearest stainless steel warmer had gone out, leaving the crab cakes in serious danger of growing cold.
Already, Naomi was rummaging around below the cloth-covered serving station, saying, "Good thing we brought extras."
Had we? I didn't remember, but then again, I wasn't the one who packed the supplies.
After five minutes of rummaging, Naomi looked up and frowned. "I must've left them in the van. You wanna run out and look?"
Did I ever.
I'd been surrounded by people for hours, and I was dying for a little peace and quiet.
Unfortunately, that's not what I found in the back parking area. I found him – Zane Bennington, who proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that at least one rumor was true.
He was an asshole.
Totally.
Chapter 3
I was still crawling around in the van's
cargo area when something thudded against the back bumper.
I froze, wondering what had just happened. I glanced toward the rear cargo doors, and was just about to fling them open, when something made me hesitate.
It was the sound of male voices. At least one of them was slurring. Drunk? It sure sounded like it. Determined to avoid them, I clamped my mouth shut and waited for them to pass.
But they didn't.
Instead, they stopped somewhere near the back of the van and kept on talking.
"Oh yeah?" the drunk guy slurred. "What? You think you're one of us? Well, lemme tell you something. You're not." He gave a derisive snort. "And you're never gonna be."
The other guy gave something like a laugh. It was a low, dangerous sound that made me shiver in the cold, dark van. "Got that right."
I felt my eyebrows furrow. Whoever the second guy was, he sounded stone-cold sober.
The drunk one demanded, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're smart enough. You'll figure it out."
"I don't wanna figure it out. I want you gone. We all do." His voice rose. "So why don't you get the fuck outta here?"
"I'll tell you why." An edge crept into the sober guy's voice. "Because it's my house."
My breath caught. Oh, crap. Now, I knew who the sober guy was. It was Zane Bennington. It had to be. Along with the massive fortune and business empire, he'd inherited several estates, including this one.
"Your house?" the drunk guy said with a nasty laugh. "Yeah, well, not for long."
Zane's voice remained cool. "We'll see about that."
"No! You'll see."
Holding myself very still, I glanced around the cluttered van. I so didn't want to eavesdrop, but it's not like I could jump out now. Not only would it be incredibly awkward, I'd probably get tossed out on my ass – if not by Zane Bennington, then definitely by Ms. Hedgwick.
And damn it. I needed this job, now more than ever, considering that I'd already quit my other one.
I said a silent prayer. Just go away.
But they didn't. Outside the van, they were still going back and forth, first about the estate, and then about the chain of luxury hotels that bore the Bennington name. The way it sounded, the drunk guy's dad was planning some sort of hostile takeover.
Positively Pricked Page 1
