King of Wall Street: a sexy, standalone, contemporary romance

by Louise Bay

  I glanced up from picking apart my sandwich. “I’m not saying I didn’t learn anything. I just thought he’d be nicer. I’ve wanted to work with him a long time. I just didn’t imagine I’d fantasize about punching him in the face quite so often.”

  Donna laughed. “That, Harper, is what having a boss means.”

  Okay, I could accept that Max was nice to Donna, and Joey, by the looks of things. But he wasn’t nice to me. Which only made everything worse. What had I ever done to him? Was I being singled out for special treatment? Yes, my report could be improved, but despite what Donna said, I hadn’t deserved the reaction I got. He could have thrown me a bone.

  Now that my expectations of working with Max were well and truly shattered, I had to concentrate on getting what I could from the experience and moving on. I’d go through my report and make it perfect. I’d take everything I could from working for King & Associates, make a ton of contacts, and then after two years I’d be well placed to set up on my own, or go and work directly for a bank.

  *

  How I’d talked my best friend, Grace, into moving me into my new apartment, I had no idea. Growing up on Park Avenue, she wasn’t raised for manual labor.

  “What’s in here, a dead body?” she asked, a sheen of sweat on her forehead catching the light in the elevator.

  “Yeah, my last best friend.” I tipped my head toward the old pine blanket box at our feet and the last thing in the truck. “There’s room for another.” I laughed.

  “There’d better be wine in the refrigerator.” Grace fanned her face. “I’m not used to being this physical with my clothes on.”

  “You see, then you should be grateful. I’m expanding your horizons,” I replied with a grin. “Showing you how us ordinary gals live.”

  I’d been staying with Grace since I got to New York from Berkeley almost three months ago. She’d been fantastically understanding when my mother shipped all my things to her apartment in Brooklyn, but now that I was making her help me move everything into my new place, her patience was running out. “And I’m too poor for a refrigerator. And wine.” The rent on my studio was horrific. But it was in Manhattan and that was all I cared about. I wasn’t about to be a New Yorker who lived in Brooklyn. I wanted to milk this experience for everything it was worth, so I’d sacrificed space for location—a small Victorian building on the corner of Rivington and Clinton in Lower Manhattan. The buildings on either side were covered with graffiti, but this place had been recently refurbished and I’d been assured it was full of young professionals, being so close to Wall Street. Professional what? Hitmen?

  “It’s going to be … cozy,” Grace said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to ask about the one bedroom across the hall from me?”

  My apartment at Berkeley had been at least twice the size of my new place. Grace’s place in Brooklyn was a palace in comparison, but I was okay with small. “I’m sure. It’s all part of the New York experience, isn’t it?”

  “So are roaches, but you don’t have to seek them out. The idea is to avoid them.” Grace was the person who tried to make everyone else’s lives a little bit better, and that was one of the reasons I loved her.

  “Yeah, but I want to be in the center of things. Besides, there’s a gym in the basement, so I’m saving money there. And on the commute. I can walk to work from here. Hell, I can practically see the office from my bedroom window.”

  “I thought you hated work. Wouldn’t it be better to be further away?” she asked as the elevator pinged open at my floor.

  I reached for the bottom of the wooden box. “I don’t hate work. I hate my boss.”

  “The hot one?” Grace asked.

  “Can you pick up your end?” I asked. I didn’t want to be reminded about my boss’s score on the hot-o-meter. I stuck out my leg to try to stop the closing elevator doors. “Crap. Have you got it?” We lurched forward, turning left toward my apartment door.

  “We need a man for this shit,” Grace said as I struggled with my keys.

  “We need men for sex and foot rubs,” I replied. “We can carry our own furniture.”

  “In the future, you can carry your furniture. I’ll find a man.”

  I opened the door and we slid the box into the living space. “Just leave it here until I decide whether or not it should go at the end of the bed.”

  “Where’s that wine you promised me?” Grace pushed past me and collapsed on my small two-seater couch.

  Despite my protestations, the only things my refrigerator did contain were two bottles of wine and a slab of parmesan cheese.

  “What were you saying about your hot boss? I thought you’d changed religion to the Church of King while you were at Berkeley. What’s changed?”

  I handed Grace a glass of wine, sat down, and kicked off my sneakers. I didn’t want to think about Max or the way he made me feel so inadequate, so out of place and uncomfortable. “I think I need to update my work wardrobe.” The more I thought about what I’d worn for my meeting with Max, the more I realized I must stick out like a sore thumb against all the Max Mara and Prada of Wall Street.

  “You look fine. You’re always super polished. Are you trying to impress your hot boss?”

  I rolled my eyes. “That would be impossible. He’s the most arrogant man you’ll ever meet. Nothing’s ever good enough.”

  My conversation with Donna at lunch yesterday had temporarily dampened my fury at Max, but it was back in full swing today. He might be the best at what he did and look so hot you’d get a tan if you stood too close, but that didn’t excuse his assholyness. But I wasn’t about to let him beat me. I hated him. Determined to show him he had me wrong, I’d brought home the Bangladesh report to work on over the weekend. A lot of the comments he’d made indicated he knew much more about the textile industry in Bangladesh than I did, even after my research. Had this whole project just been a test? Whether it was or not, I was going to spend the rest of the weekend making my work the best thing he’d ever seen.

  “Nothing’s ever good enough?” Grace asked. “Sounds familiar.”

  “I might be a bit of a perfectionist, but I’ve got nothing on this guy. Believe me. I worked my heart out on a piece of work he gave me, and then he just ripped it to shreds. He had nothing good to say about it at all.”

  “Why are you letting it bother you? Shrug it off.”

  Why wouldn’t I let it bother me? I wanted to be good at my job. I wanted Max to see I was good at my job.

  “But I worked really hard on it and it was a good piece of work. He’s an asshole.”

  “So? If he’s a total wanker then why does his opinion count for anything?” Grace had lived in the US since she was five, but she still retained some key Britishisms from her family. Her use of wanker was one of my favorites. Especially as it suited Max King perfectly.

  “I’m not saying it matters. Just that I’m pissed about it.” Except that it did matter, however much I denied it.

  “What did you expect? A man that rich and good looking is bound to have a downside.” She shrugged and took a sip of wine. “You can’t let it affect you so much. Your expectations of men are way too high. You’re going to spend your whole life disappointed.”

  My cell began to ring. “Speaking of being disappointed.” I showed the screen to Grace. It was my father’s lawyer.

  “Harper speaking,” I answered.

  “Ms. Jayne. It’s Kenneth Bray.” Why was he calling me at the weekend?

  “Yes, Mr. Bray. How can I help?” I rolled my eyes at Grace.

  Apparently my father had set me up a trust fund. The letters I’d received about it were stuffed into the chest that we’d just lugged up from the truck. I hadn’t answered any of them. I didn’t want my father’s money. I started accepting his money in college. I figured he owed me that much but after a year, I took a job and stopped cashing his checks. I couldn’t accept money from a stranger, even if he was genetically related to me.

  “I want to arrange for y
ou to come into the office so I can talk you through the details of the money your father has set aside for you.”

  “I appreciate your persistence, but I’m not interested in my father’s money.” All I’d ever wanted was a guy who showed up for birthdays and school plays or for anything as far as I was concerned. Grace was wrong; my expectations of men were at rock bottom. My father’s absence from my childhood had ensured that. I didn’t expect anything from men except disappointment.

  Mr. Bray tried to convince me to meet with him and I resisted. In the end I told him I’d read the paperwork and get back to him.

  I hung up and took a deep breath.

  “Are you okay?” Grace asked.

  I wiped the edge of my glass with my thumb. “Yeah,” I said. It was easier when I could pretend my father didn’t exist. When I heard from him, or even his lawyer, I felt like Sisyphus watching my boulder tumble back down the hill. It put me back at square one, and all the thoughts of how I should have had a different father, a different life, a different family that I normally managed to bury came rushing to the surface.

  My father had gotten my mother pregnant and then refused to do the right thing and marry her. He’d abandoned us both. He’d sent us money—so we were financially taken care of. But what I’d really wanted was a father. Eventually all the broken promises built up into a mountain I couldn’t see over. The birthday parties where I watched the door, hoping he’d show up, took their toll. There were one too many Christmases where the only thing I asked Santa for was my dad. It was his absence from my life that had been the real problem because it felt as if there was always someone else that came first, somewhere else he’d rather be. It left me with the feeling that I wasn’t worth anyone’s time.

  “You want to talk about it?” Grace asked.

  I smiled. “Absolutely not. I wanna get a little drunk in my new apartment with my best friend. Maybe gossip and eat some ice cream.”

  “That is our speciality,” Grace replied. “Can we talk about boys?”

  “We can talk about boys but I’m warning you, if you try to set me up I’m kicking your ass back to Brooklyn.”

  “But you haven’t even heard who it’s with yet.”

  I laughed. She was so easy to read. “I’m not interested in dating. I’m focusing on my career. That way I can’t be disappointed.” Max King’s words, results, not effort, get rewarded, rang in my ears. I would just have to do better, work harder. There wasn’t any time for dating or setups.

  “You’re so cynical. Not every man is like your father.”

  “I didn’t say they were. Don’t play amateur shrink on me. I just want to get established here in New York. Dating isn’t my priority. That’s all.” I took a sip of my wine and tucked my legs under me.

  I would win Max King around if it killed me. I’d followed his career so carefully it’d felt as if I knew him. But I’d imagined myself as his protégée. I’d start working for him and he’d tell me he’d never met anyone so talented. I’d assumed within a few days we’d be able to finish each other’s sentences and we’d high five each other after meetings. And I admit it, I may have had a sex dream about him. Or two.

  That had all been before I’d met him. I’d been an idiot.

  “Sex,” I blurted. “That’s what men are good for. Maybe I’ll take a lover.”

  “That’s all?” Grace asked.

  I traced the rim of my glass with my finger. “What else do we need them for?”

  “Friendship?”

  “I have you,” I replied.

  “Emotional support?”

  “Again, that’s your job. You share it with ice cream, wine, and the occasional retail overspend.”

  “And it’s a job the four of us take very seriously. But what about when you want babies?” Grace asked.

  Kids were the last thing on my mind. My mother had changed careers from working in finance to becoming a teacher so she could spend more time with me. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to make such a sacrifice. “If and when I ever get around to thinking about that stuff, I’ll go to a sperm bank. Worked for my mother.”

  “Your mom didn’t go to a sperm bank.”

  I took a gulp from my glass. “Might as well have.” I didn’t have a father as far as I was concerned.

  “Hand me your iPad. I want to see this hot boss of yours again.”

  I groaned. “Don’t.” I reached for the tablet on the table beside the couch and handed it over despite myself.

  “Max King, right?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “He really is ridiculously good looking.” Grace swiped and flicked at the screen. I deliberately didn’t look. He didn’t deserve my attention.

  “Put it away. It’s enough that I have to deal with him Monday through Friday. Let me enjoy my weekend without having to look at his arrogant face.” I glanced at the Forbes cover image Grace had brought up. Crossed arms, stern expression, full pouty lips.

  Asshole.

  A crash above me caught my attention and I looked up at my ceiling. The pretty glass light swayed from side to side. “Was that a bomb that just went off?” I asked.

  “Sounds like your upstairs neighbor just dropped an anvil on the roadrunner.”

  I placed my finger over my lips and listened intently. Grace’s eyes grew wide as what had started as incoherent mumbling morphed into the unmistakable sound of a woman having sex.

  Panting. Moaning. Begging.

  Then another crash. What the fuck was going on up there? Were there more than two people involved?

  Skin slapped against skin followed by the sound of a woman crying out. Heat crept up my neck and spread across my cheeks. Someone was having much more fun on a Saturday afternoon than we were.

  An unmistakably male voice shouted “fuck” and the woman’s cries tumbled out fast and desperate. The knock of a headboard against drywall thudded louder and louder. The woman’s breathless moaning almost sounded panicked. My chandelier started to sway more furiously, and I swear the vibrations from whatever furniture was knocking against whatever wall travelled down from the ceiling and straight to my groin. I squeezed my thighs together just as the man yelled out to God and she gave a final, sharp scream that echoed through my box-filled apartment.

  In the silence that followed, my heart thudded through my sweater. I was half exhilarated by what I’d heard; half embarrassed I’d consciously eavesdropped on something so personal.

  Someone less than three yards away from me had just come for America.

  “That might be a guy I have to get to know,” Grace said when it was clear the sexcapades had stopped. “He certainly sounded like he knew what he was doing.”

  “They seemed very … compatible.” Had I ever sounded that desperate during sex, that hungry for my orgasm? I knew the sounds of a woman who exaggerated in the bedroom. The woman upstairs hadn’t been faking. Like jumping at the scary bits of a horror movie, the sounds from her had been involuntary.

  “They sound like they have excellent sex. Maybe you should knock on their door and suggest a threesome.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, along with a cup of sugar.”

  Footsteps clipped along the ceiling. “She kept her heels on,” Grace said. “Nice.”

  The tapping wandered across my ceiling toward my blanket box. The upstairs front door creaked, then slammed. The sound of footsteps disappeared.

  “Well, she got what she wanted and split. You’re not going to need a TV in this place. You can just tune into the soap opera that is your neighbor.”

  “You think she was a prostitute?” I asked. A woman leaving less than five minutes after an orgasm like that wasn’t normal. Surely she’d stick around for oxygen or round two? Hell, I wasn’t sure I’d have made it to a vertical position, let alone in heels, within an hour of what she’d experienced.

  “A prostitute? She’s a lucky one if she is.” Grace giggled. “But I don’t think so. A guy who can make a woman sound like that doesn’t need to
pay for it.” She leaned forward and placed her empty glass on one of the dozens of boxes littered about the apartment. “Right, I’m going to get home to my vibrator.”

  “That’s really way too much information.”

  “But keep me posted on your neighbors. And if you run into them, try to get a picture.”

  “Yes, because if you’re going to masturbate over my neighbors, it would go better with pictures.” I nodded sarcastically. “You’re a pervert. You know that, right?”

  Grace shrugged and stood. “It was better than porn.”

  She was right. I just hoped it wasn’t a regular show I was going to get. If nothing else, I felt plenty inadequate at work. I didn’t need to have the same feeling at home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Max

  Harper Jayne was really pissing me off.

  She’d irritated me from the moment she’d started work almost two months ago. Up until now I’d managed to keep my distance.

  She was smart. That wasn’t a problem.

  And she got on with her co-workers well enough. I couldn’t complain.

  She didn’t seem to mind helping Donna with the photocopier. There were no delusions of grandeur for me to moan about.

  She was eager to learn. That had been one of the first things that grated on me. She was too eager. The way she looked at me with those big brown eyes as if she’d be willing to do just about anything I suggested was maddening. Every time I glanced at her, even if it was a glimpse of her in the kitchen as I came into the office, I imagined her sliding to her knees in my office, opening her red, wet mouth, and begging for my cock.

  And that was a problem.

  I always had a strict divide between my business life and my personal life, and there’d never been any exception. I was the boss, with a reputation to protect. I didn’t want my personal life to ever be more interesting that my business life.

  I tapped my pen against my desk. I needed to figure this out. Either fire her or forget about her. But I needed to do something.