Rescued & Ravished: An Alpha's Conquest (A Paranormal Ménage Romance)

by Sophie Chevalier

  The receptionist on the ground floor had told her the other candidates had already gone up: she was just—just—on the right side of late. Another two minutes and she would have been out of the running. As it was, she’d had to splurge on a cab to get here in time; parking around Pioneer Square was a fucking nightmare, and she knew she wouldn’t have the thirty-five spare minutes to deal with it.

  She willed herself not to sweat through her deodorant as she studied her face in the brassily reflective doors. Men told her it was an attractive face; to her, it just looked like her face.

  Laila had ended up wiping off and redoing her makeup—lining the hazel eyes in soft, natural brown, brushing the lightest bronzer imaginable onto the pale cheekbones, thickening the brows ever so slightly with a pencil. She’d also redone Ginger’s hair. Ginger’s instinct had been to go severe, so she’d clipped it into a low, tight ponytail, but Laila had insisted she should keep it feminine and pretty instead. So Laila had taken out the clip—freeing all those orange-gold waves—and left Ginger’s hair down, adding only a Dutch waterfall braid to the back.

  “Trust me,” she’d said, smiling cattishly. “It will go over well.”

  Ginger hoped so.

  There was a ding, and the elevator opened.

  Cautiously, she stepped out. To her right was a sort of waiting room, outside what was obviously an office, but all the waiting chairs looked like they were made of Italian leather. She swallowed.

  Trying not to wobble on her borrowed heels, and trying not to look too nervous, she went to one of the chairs and sat down.

  The other candidates were young men, both of them. She glanced at them; they looked like typical rich-kid pukes, social climbers. One of them smirked at her.

  She looked away, ignoring him.

  It was very quiet. There was nothing for Ginger to do but consider her surroundings surreptitiously. The walls were mahogany-paneled, the carpets expensive orientals; the magazines on the side table next to her chair were Forbes, Jurist, the Wall Street Journal, and Businessweek.

  Everything was so upscale. She’d worked at fancy businesses before, but not like this. This was a multibillion-dollar firm, and it showed. Shaken, Ginger crossed and recrossed her legs; she heard a snide chuckle from one of the boys seated across from her. As far as they were concerned, they were only competing with each other.

  And maybe that was true. She certainly felt out of her depth.

  In her head, she ran through everything Laila had told her about the man needing an assistant. She knew he was successful, almost the most successful attorney at the firm; that he was young, just thirty-four; that he had degrees from Harvard and Berkeley; that some people found him intimidating, even difficult; and that Laila, for whatever reason, was dead certain Ginger was perfect for his needs.

  But was she? Her pulse throbbed with anxiety.

  There was a smooth click; the door to the office had opened. Instinctively, Ginger jumped to her feet—as did the two young men.

  She heard a snatch of conversation—a rich voice saying, “Let’s keep on top of it. Now, I’ve got to review these applicants”—and saw two men step out of the office, one of them striding off to other work.

  And the other man—the other man.

  She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a more attractive man.

  He was tall, taller than her: just over six feet, the perfect height. He was broad-shouldered, too, and she could tell—even wearing a suit, a suit even she could tell was Armani—that he was muscular, hard-bodied, strong. Proud nose. Impeccable, commanding posture. Strong-jawed, with light brown hair and designer stubble. A Rolex flashed on his wrist.

  But it was his eyes that fascinated her the most. Their inner ring was hot gold, their outer ring bright, piercing hickory-brown. She’d never seen eyes like that.

  Obscenely, irrepressibly, she was turned on.

  He came closer to the candidates—he had a firm, authoritative way of moving—and let his eyes sweep briefly, almost dismissively over the men. They settled, with interest, on Ginger.

  She gazed at him, as coolly as she could. He gazed back.

  “You’re Laila Majumdar’s friend, are you?” he asked, his voice deliciously masculine. It was deep, confident—alpha.

  Yes, that was what he was: alpha.

  “I am,” Ginger heard herself say, with surprisingly calm considering how gorgeous he was.

  “I’m—”

  “Dane MacAlister, I know,” she cut him off impulsively. Instinct was telling her to show a little moxie, so she listened. Not too much moxie—just enough to hook him, to convince him she could handle his undoubtedly complicated affairs. She wanted this job.

  He smiled; her stomach flipped. “Yes. Come in, why don’t you?”

  She followed him into his office, noting with satisfaction the thunderstruck faces of the two young men who had been waiting to interview. Suck it, losers! Suck it hard!

  Dane closed the office door behind her politely—and she was hard put not to gape at his amazing space.

  Both walls were lined in beautiful cherry-oak bookcases full of legal tomes, and she was standing on a tapestry carpet over treated wood flooring. The back wall of the office had an expensive aquarium full of luminous tropical fish, diaphanous-finned, with his collection of diplomas hanging overhead. The “wall” behind his desk was pure glass, showcasing a view of the Seattle skyline with the Olympic range in the distance, half-obscured by clouds.

  “Have a seat,” he said smoothly. If he noticed that she was gobsmacked, he ignored it.

  Recomposing herself, she slid into one of the fancy chairs in front of his desk, while he sat behind it. She scanned the desk for family photos—Wife? Girlfriend? KIDS?!—but there was nothing.

  She was glad there was nothing.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Ginger,” he said, snapping her back to the present. “Or should I call you Miss Graham?”

  Hell, he could call her Melvin von Helperdink III if he really wanted. But he expected a serious answer.

  “Call me Ginger.” Her own boldness surprised her a little.

  “Ginger.” He smiled slightly; a flawless smile. His teeth were white and even. “Alright.”

  She held his gaze. Instinct, again, told her what to do: Don’t blink. Be confident.

  “Hm.” He made a satisfied sound, staring at her. “Let me be direct, Ginger. Miss Majumdar recommends you very highly, and I respect her opinion. She is an asset to this firm. She is convinced you would be of use to me.”

  “I would be.” Damn! Where’s this nerve coming from? Not that it mattered—she needed the work. Needed it. She’d impress anyone to get a crack at twenty-five dollars an hour.

  “I see you have had some experience as an assistant.” His gold-and-brown eyes bored into hers, almost unbearably penetrating. “Tell me about it.”

  “I was the personal assistant to the senior designer of a Seattle-based fashion house,” she said cleanly. Keep it together. “In that position, I scheduled her consultations, screened and returned her calls, took dictation at her meetings, managed her working time, helped her plan presentations, and—got her coffee.” She smiled, as charmingly as she could.

  He chuckled. “I see. You listed her as a reference. When I call her, what will she tell me? Will she tell me that you, Ginger, did this job well?”

  Ginger held his eyes. “Yes.” It was the truth. She had been very good at that job.

  “Why should I hire you, Ginger?” His voice sharpened; little shivers ran up her back.

  What should she say? Because I need the work? Because I’m competent and organized? Because I look cute in a sheath dress? Because I want to stare at you every day? Because… you should?

  “Why should I hire you,” he added slowly, “and not them?”

  Them. The two young men waiting outside. Her neck prickled. Why should he hire her and not…

  The right answer came to her suddenly, i
n a cold, crisp flash. Of course.

  “Because you don’t want to hire them.” Her voice was level.

  That pleased him, she could tell. His eyes narrowed, and he made a satisfied sound low in his throat.

  “You’re right. I don’t.” He tapped the desk expressively. “I’m drowning in silver-spoon idiots. I don’t need more.”

  Should she drive home her ordinariness, then? Tell him about the Barnes and Noble gift certificate and the charm bracelet? Family vacations in Spokane? How she’d never been abroad until high school, when the French club went to Provence? That she’d been called Graham cracker as a kid, because kids think food names are funny? The biting part hadn’t been funny, though. She hoped no one tried to eat her ever again.

  “I don’t need you to manage my business affairs,” he said, reclining into his executive’s chair. “I need you to manage my personal affairs. Do you understand?”

  I was a nanny, she almost said, so yes. Dry cleaning. Groceries.

  But she held it in, let him finish. What she’d done before was small fry stuff, she knew. This would be harder. If he gave her the chance to try, though, she’d do it—she’d do just about anything for solvency.

  “I need you to organize my home, my incidentals. I need you to deal with the domestics, the deliveries, the upkeep. I need you to safeguard my free time. I need you to make my phone calls, write my congratulations and condolences and invitations, schedule my nonprofessional appointments. I need you to do anything I might need you to do.”

  “So—nothing to do with the firm?” she asked, a little surprised and a little relieved. “Just—your life?”

  He laughed—a wonderful baritone sound. She ached to hear more of it. “You have no interest in law, do you, Ginger? Laila neglected to mention that. It’s fine. In fact, it’s better,” he reassured her placidly. “Anyway, I won’t say ‘nothing.’ I’m sure you’ll get to know some very important people through me.” He gestured to the closed door. “That’s why those morons want this job.”

  The leather of the chair rasped as he leaned forward again.

  “But I want you,” he said with finality, his voice low.

  The look he gave her went right between her legs.

  “Me?” she breathed, stupidly. He wants me?

  “Yes. For this position.” He stood abruptly; she stood too, flustered. Oh. Right. “You’ll hear from me.”

  “Alright.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say; casting around, she came up with “Thank you.”

  He gestured her out. “Tell the others I won’t need to speak with them. Good day, Ginger.”

  She turned to go, shrugging the strap of her borrowed Michael Kors bag over her shoulder and crossing the office. Then, when she was almost at the door:

  “Ginger.”

  She turned. How do I address him? Mister… Dane? Mister MacAlister? Oh, hell. “Yes?”

  “What are you wearing?” There was an intent look on his face.

  Wearing? Oh—does he mean a scent? “Nothing.”

  He didn’t answer; instead, his look of concentration deepened slightly.

  “Should I? In future?” she asked, one hand on the doorknob. “Wear something?”

  “No.” He straightened. “That will be all.”

  Chapter 3

  Her scent lingered even after she’d gone. She wasn’t wearing perfume? That amazed him. She smelled as sweet as hyacinth, and there was a lick of vanilla about her, too.

  She was a beautiful girl—the kind who wasn’t fully aware of it. Pale, porcelain-pale, with big hazel eyes and long, thick apricot-blond lashes. A couple of freckles on her cheek, like beauty marks. A plush, feminine mouth. A slender hourglass figure, with a swan’s neck.

  And her hair—! All that thick, wavy, gingery hair. He had a mortal weakness for redheads.

  If he was honest with himself, he had wanted to skip the interview altogether. Instead, he’d wanted to bend her over his desk, yank up her silk skirt (which was obviously Mujamdar’s, the whole suit was: he could smell her trademark balsam-and-juniper shampoo on it. He’d have to make some kind of provision for Ginger’s wardrobe, if she was going to be in his employ), peel aside her underwear, and—

  No. He didn’t have time to fantasize right now—and anyway, desire brought the animal too close to the surface. Half-hard, he adjusted himself and reached for the phone.

  Ginger needed a contract.

  “Laila! I’m home!” Ginger closed the front door with her foot, wriggling out of the fawn-colored jacket Laila had lent her.

  “I’m in the living room! Lunch’s cooking!”

  Ginger locked the door, hung up the jacket, kicked off her heels, and headed for the TV room. Laila was lying on the couch, watching one of her favorite Bollywood movies: Amrita Rao was prancing around in a hot pink sari, precursor to a musical number.

  “How’d it go?” Laila asked, turning down the TV.

  Ginger shrugged, noncommittal.

  “What? You aren’t sure?” Laila frowned. “I was certain… you don’t think it went well?”

  Ginger shrugged again, enjoying the misdirection.

  “Aha re, honey, I thought you’d be a shoe-in. I… wait.” She caught the gleam in Ginger’s eye. “Are you lying to me? Did it—it did go well! Ginger!”

  “I was the only one he interviewed,” Ginger burst out, grinning. “I think he liked me. I think he’s going to—”

  Laila shrieked, “The only one? Oh, honey, you’ve got it. It’s yours! Yes! The pay’s going to be amazing, and I know you can handle the work. Even if it’s a little—overwhelming, at first. I’ll help if I can.”

  “You’ve helped enough, Lai,” Ginger said seriously. “I’ll sink or swim honestly.”

  Laila stood up on the couch cushions, mimicking Amrita’s theatrical dancing. “We should celebraaaate. I made your favorite lunch, ’cause I knew!”

  “We celebrated last night!”

  “Dil mera paagal hai jaana, isko tum behlaaaaaaado,” Laila sang, in time with the film. “Dil mein kyun halchal hai jaana, mujhko tum samjhaaaaaaado! Ginger has a jooooob nooooowww!”

  “Laila, stop it! Get down!”

  But Laila grabbed Ginger’s hands and pulled her up on the couch, and they giggled and shrieked and jumped on the cushions like kids.

  “Park in the garage,” Dane’s voice instructed her, on speakerphone from her iPhone.

  “Okay.” She spun the wheel, turning into his building’s attached parking garage. The security porters waved her through, to the valet terminal.

  “They’re expecting you.”

  “Yeah, they let me in, no problem.”

  “You’re about to lose service. Come up as soon as your car’s taken care of.”

  The line cut, the signal blocked by the tons of concrete above her. A valet came running to the driver’s side window; she rolled down the glass.

  “Hi. I’m here to see Dane MacAlister.” She flashed her brand new firm ID—Dane had insisted she have one, even though she’d hardly ever be at the downtown office. “I’m his personal assistant.”

  “Oh, the new one?” the valet asked, mildly interested. “Yes, that’s right. Miss Rebecca moved off to Phoenix, I think it was. Marriage. Alright, Miss”—he squinted at her ID—“Graham. I’ll park it. Just give your name at the booth when you come back.”

  She got out of the car—carrying another loaned bag and dressed in another loaned outfit—and was escorted (!) to an elevator. There she punched in the right number—32; he owned the entire floor—and ascended.

  Nervously, she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

  You can do this, Laila had said before she’d left. Just be poised.

  She was trying. Straightening up, she reminded herself not to slouch.

  Too soon, the elevator pinged to a stop; she’d reached his floor. Alright. Zero hero. The beautiful, glossy doors opened.

  She swallowed a gasp.
His apartment was magnificent.

  Modernist, minimal, everything in it was obviously and breathtakingly expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a view of the skyline and moody Mount Rainier. The kitchen, to her right, was as streamlined as a space shuttle; the living room, in front of her, was spacious, white-carpeted, and white-walled. There were more rooms to both sides, beyond her line of sight.

  “Ginger.”

  Dane strode toward her, perfectly dressed in a Ralph Lauren sweater and slacks. He was just as dumbfoundingly gorgeous as she remembered.

  “Hello,” she said, instantly feeling that it was an insufficient greeting. Hello, Your Majesty?

  “Hello,” he returned easily. “Did you have any trouble getting here?”

  “No.” Of course not—he lived very close to his office.

  “Good.” He gestured her further in. “Come. Sit with me.”

  She followed him to the living room; he sat on one of the white luxury sofas, and she sat on its twin, across a coffee table made of glass as pure as spring water.

  “I have an informal lunch in”—he checked his watch, an expensive Swiss piece with creamy gold plating—“forty minutes. I’m going to leave in fifteen.”

  Fifteen? Fifteen minutes for him to communicate what he expected of her?

  “We will get to know each other over the coming week,” he went on coolly. “You will have a perfect idea, by Sunday, of what my needs are and what I demand from you. And I will have a perfect idea of your competency. Impress me.”

  She knew better than to interrupt and say anything. He went on.

  “Today I want you to engage a new maid service. The last one sent me a woman who stole.” His gaze was hard. “That is something I do not tolerate.” Did he think she, Ginger, was going to steal? Unconsciously, she bristled—and he smiled, very slightly. “And neither do you, I see. Good.

  “I also want you to book me a flight to Berlin for next Wednesday, as well as engage a German car service and hotel. Can you do that?” Automatically, Ginger nodded, feigning unperturbed confidence. “Good. I won’t accept less than first-rate accommodations—remember that. Similarly, next month I have a meeting in Shenzhen. You will put together the application packet for my business visa; my last one has expired. The materials you need will be in my home office.” He gestured down one impeccable hall; the office had to be that way.