by Zara Cox
Apologies. Instructions still stand. The Boss insists.
End of story.
I tug at the scarf around my neck as I hurry down the stairs to the basement and wonder if the problems I’ve managed to alleviate on the outside of Blackwood Tower will achieve the opposite effect inside.
Miguel’s interest has been especially sharp the past couple of days, ever since I started working upstairs. He blithely ignores my evasive answers and probes with more questions.
And sure as shit, he’s the first person I see when I walk into the rec room. There are a couple of kitchen guys taking a break, but one walks out as I enter, and the other is absorbed in his phone and doesn’t look up when Miguel spots me and gives a low whistle.
“Hola, chiquita.” Dark brown eyes rake me from head to toe. “Wow, looks like someone tripped and fell out of Vogue Magazine today.”
I ignore him and attempt to walk past him. He grabs my wrist, his hold surprisingly rigid as he examines the label of my new black, waterfall-styled coat.
“Valentino…” He frowns as his speculative gaze moves from the label to my face and back again.
Panicked, I snatch my wrist so hard from his grasp I know it’ll leave a mark. Shit. “You don’t ever touch me without my permission, Miguel. Ever.” There’s anger packed into every millimeter of that hushed sentence.
He raises his hand and steps back. “Cool it, sweet thing. Was only trying to compliment a lady, s’all.”
Every instinct screams at me to walk away, but I see the questions swirling in his eyes. I need to diffuse this new interest before it mushrooms.
I grind my teeth against the lies I need to tell to protect myself. But I have no choice. I can aggravate Miguel, or I can continue being laconic in the hope that he eventually gets the hint. Although from the way his eyes drop from my face to linger on my tits, I don’t think that day is coming soon.
“It’s…the coat…is a fake. And I have a thing after work. That’s why I’m dressed like this.”
He nods. “Like I said, we’re cool. You could’ve just said that.”
I notice he doesn’t apologize for grabbing me. I choose not to inform him that the last man who touched me without my permission ended up with a bullet in his chest. In fact, I stash that memory firmly into the don’t go there box and head for my locker. I can feel his eyes on me. When I look over my shoulder, I swear he’s aiming his phone camera at me while pretending to be absorbed in it.
Jesus.
I quickly turn back around and grab my work gear. As I peel my clothes off in the changing room, I examine each label and my mouth drops open. Valentino, Ferragamo, Balenciaga, Forever 21. My new leather boots are stylish but look fairly standard. Until I check the label.
Manolo Blahniks.
My heart sinks further.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
After the fitness instructor left this morning, I hit the shower and dressed in a hurry, knowing I needed to hustle or be late for my shift. When a quick examination of each bag revealed an entire ensemble, I thanked the Lord because I didn’t have to waste time coordinating outfits. I just threw on the jeans, top and coat in the first bag, dragged on the boots and left.
The thought that I may have inadvertently painted a bullseye on my back through carelessness steadily claws through me for the next two hours as I finish laying tables and sorting condiment baskets in the Executive Restaurant. Once that’s done, I take a quick break, then return to wait on the side of the counter for the chef to finish preparing Quinn Blackwood’s lunch.
Even the thought of seeing him again doesn’t erase the naked flame of terror at what my carelessness could cost me. I listen with diminished attention as the chef rumbles through the intricacies of serving the CEO’s meal. I nod through it but have forgotten most of it by the time I wheel the trolley through Quinn’s frosted double doors.
He’s seated at his desk, as usual.
His gaze snaps to me the moment the door shuts, and stays riveted on me. As usual.
By the fourth or fifth step, my legs threaten to give way beneath the gravitational power of his stare. Nothing new there either. I arrive at the dining table without mishap, but still a little lost in my head.
“I thought we agreed on the general etiquette surrounding entering a room?”
My God. His voice.
It’s deep, cultured, oiled with class and money and power and glory. The kind of voice that stops you in your tracks, that makes you want to throw your softness at his hardness, bruise yourself on his attention.
The complete compulsion of his voice and stare swivels me round to face him.
“I’m sorry. Good afternoon, Mr. Blackwood.”
He recaps his black ball pen and sets it down with a precise action. His eyes never leave my face. “Good afternoon, Elly.”
I turn around and start laying his table. I know the moment he rises and walks to the front of his desk because the air thickens with awareness.
“Have you had lunch yet?” The same question as before.
A different answer today, courtesy of a text from Fionnella during my break to say she won’t be feeding me this afternoon. “No. Not yet.”
“Set a place for yourself.”
I freeze for a moment, then curb the turbulent rush of emotion. “Ah, no thanks. I’m good.”
I’m so attuned to him, I know the moment he straightens and heads toward me. His aura slams into me long before the spicy sandalwood of his aftershave wraps around me. “I hate to disagree with you, but no, you’re not good.”
I’m dying to look up into those piercing silver blue eyes, but I fear it’ll be my undoing. So I transfer dishes from trolley to table and check that the requisite distances are achieved. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Have you been ill recently, Elly?”
The question surprises me enough to make me abandon my vow not to look at him. I meet electric eyes that trap mine for a second before raking over me. “No…I haven’t.”
“You don’t like food, is that it?” he drawls. “Is that why you look so…breakable?”
“No, I love food.”
He nods. “So, it must be me then?”
“You…what?”
“The idea of eating with me fills you with horror?”
My eyes widen. “I…no.”
“Then set a place for yourself.”
Sitting opposite him while he eats, waiting to collect his dishes is one thing. Despite the alarming intensity of it, it’s what I’m paid to do. Eating with him, tasting the same food he’s putting into his mouth…
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
He takes a single step toward me and I’m drenched in his substance. Today, he’s wearing a navy suit with a navy shirt one shade deeper. A black pinstriped tie, black belt and polished dress shoes complete the stunning ensemble. On his wrist, a streamlined silver watch gleams. We’re still outside arms length of each other, but he may as well be binding me in ropes. Such is the power of Quinn Blackwood’s force field.
He rests a hand flat on the table, next to his plate. “Whose name is at the top of the building, Elly?”
“Yours?”
“Then I believe that buys me a little sway in what goes on around here, don’t you?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I mean, yes, if you want to play that card.”
“I don’t want to play that card. But I will. Unless you tell me why you won’t eat with me.” His voice is conversational, but there’s steel in there. Steel wrapped around six foot two of live electricity.
“I don’t think it’s appropriate. That’s all.”
Another step, and I can see the silver flares sparking the blues in his eyes.
“Look at the dining table, Elly, there are twelve places. Do you think I use all twelve places at once, all the time?”
“Of course not.”
One more step. I lose the ability to breathe.
“What do you imagine I use it for then, if not to play musical chairs when no one’s looking?”
My mouth twitches before amusement drops dead in his presence. “Business lunches.”
He lifts the last dish from the trolley and places it on the table. Then he picks up a spare plate, cutlery and strides to the opposite end of the dining table.
When he’s done laying it out, he pulls out a seat, just like he’s done the last two times I’ve been here. “So, let’s you and I have one.”
“A business lunch? Why?”
“To air any grievance you might have.”
“I don’t have any.”
“Either I’m doing something very right, or you’re lying. I believe it’s the latter.”
I’m lying about a lot of things, but I don’t like it pointed out. “You don’t know me well enough to make that assessment, Mr. Blackwood.”
“Don’t I?” He whispers the two words in a way that sends a shiver over me. That deathly stillness that excited and frightened me the first time I laid eyes on him slides through the air, freezes us both in place.
We watch each other, his gaze never straying from its rigid focus on my face. Although his eyes…
God. There’s something in there, something deep and dark and mercilessly horrifying. But whereas before it felt like an all-encompassing outlook, this time it’s spotlighted on one thing.
Me.
“No.” I use the word, but even I doubt the veracity of it. With each second in his presence I feel his stare like a paring knife beneath my skin, opening me up from the inside out.
“Then give me a chance to,” he says. His large fingers glide slowly across the top of the dining chair. Then he grips the sides until his knuckles whiten. “Sit down, Elly.”
***
Something happens between the moment I sit in the chair and when he places my food in front of me. It’s almost like a switch has gone off inside him.
Conversation dries up and he’s no longer interested in pursuing the imagined grievance he wanted to discuss.
The seared Wagyu beef strips on a bed of Cesar salad is cooked to perfection, but I barely taste it as I struggle to chew and swallow each mouthful.
All the simple but engaging conversation pieces I used on clients at The Villa to get them to talk dries up as I look up halfway through the silent meal to find his gaze locked on my wrist. Specifically, the courtesy-of-Miguel finger-marked bruise circling my left wrist.
His gaze moves from the bruise to my face.
His eyes are a thousand white-hot blades spiking into me.
I swallow wrong. My fingers fly toward my water glass.
He calmly sets his cutlery down, his meal abandoned.
I gulp more water. I chose water for the simple reason that I need a sharper than ever handle on my mental faculties. The consumption of alcohol was encouraged at The Villa during work hours, but I witnessed its ill effects on both clients and girls often enough to stay away from it.
But now I wonder if I should’ve asked for a glass of the Bordeaux Quinn poured for himself. The Bordeaux he’s sipping now as he watches me.
“Grievances. Let’s hear them.” The question is clearly not one he wants to discuss. His gaze keeps moving back to my wrist. Each time the looks in his eyes tips the volatility scale further towards what I imagine insanity looks like.
I glance at the door, wondering if I’ll make it out in one piece. I haven’t had a drink, and yet I’m tipsy with the sheer volume of high-octane emotions racing through me. “I don’t have any. Honestly.”
His hand closes around his wine glass. He picks it up. Sets it back down. He lays his palms flat on the table. “Hmm. And what about your co-workers? Are they grievance-free too?”
I try to shrug. My shoulder refuses to cooperate. “I don’t know. I haven’t been here that long.”
“Perhaps a visit is required then, to stare into the whites of their eyes, as it were. Judge their contentment, or lack thereof, for myself.”
“Surely you have people to do that for you?”
“A team of them.”
I push a piece of beef around, before I spear it with my fork. “There you go. You can get them to put together an anonymous poll for you.”
He considers my response for a second. “There are things I don’t mind delegating. This isn’t one of them,” he breathes.
His gaze hooks into me again. Then my wrist.
God. He’s serious.
My mind flies through the possible outcomes of the CEO visiting the basement three days after I start working for him. None of them are good. Aside from the personal attention it’ll spotlight on me, there’s Sully. I’m not sure how he’s squaring away paying me in cash, but the last thing I want is scrutiny on him.
“Please. Can you not do that?”
His left forefinger taps on the table. I wonder if it’s a grounding mechanism of some sort. “You don’t want me to find out whether or not my employees are happy?”
“You can do that…without making a personal trip down there. When was the last time you went down there, anyway?”
“I’ve never had the privilege.”
“But suddenly you want to? I’ve been serving you for three days. There’s no way your visit won’t make them think I’m some sort of…snitch.”
“And the idea of being labeled as such distresses you?”
“Of course it does. Wouldn’t it, you?”
A single tic flicks past one cheek, a ghostly sliver of a smile. “Are you asking me for a favor, Elly? Are you asking me to care about your comfort?”
The question is weird. Quinn Blackwood is, hands down, the strangest person I’ve ever met. He’s also electrifyingly handsome and frightening enough to make me wonder how I’m still in one piece.
“I know I have no right to—”
“On the contrary, you have rights. Perhaps more than you know.” Again softly spoken words, as if he doesn’t want to spook me with whatever he’s suppressing.
“Thanks. So, you won’t come down there?”
His gaze refocuses from the middle distance of wherever he retreated to. Then it finds mine. And my leaping heart tells me I’m about to become intimate with the abyss.
I watch him rise from his seat, move toward me with measured, predatory strides that reminds me of a sleek jungle cat. He stops next to my chair, and I have to raise my head to meet his eyes. My racing pulse is now screaming and I have to stop myself from full out panting. Or bolting out the door.
He reaches out in slow motion, as if whatever his intentions are, he wants to draw it out for as long as possible.
His fingers find the back of my unbruised right hand. I flinch and gasp from the sizzling sensation. Something shifts in his eyes. A confirmation. Acceptance. Then his lids drop. He stares at his flesh touching mine. Tracing a tiny vein to my wrist and back again. His nostrils flare slightly before he closes his hand on mine and turns it palm up. Again, he traces his fingers over my palm. The sensation is a thousand times more potent. Lust and fire and the need to be fucked hard rushes through my blood. My pussy clenches so hard I feel my juices wetting my panties.
He makes a sound and it jerks right through me. One finger rests on my wrist pulse as he raises his gaze and stares at me with stark, devastating hunger.
“I won’t come down there, Elly. But, you’ll owe me.”
14
HIATUS
Quinn Blackwood refuses to tell me exactly what I owe him. And I’m too chicken to ask. I leave his office in a deeper daze than ever before and lock myself in the bathroom as soon as I get a chance. For the first time in my life, the temptation to masturbate is borne out of frenzied frustration rather than the adolescent curiosity that briefly gripped me before Mom died and my life went to shit.
I sit on the close-lidded toilet, rest my head against the cool tile, and, eyes closed, drift my fingers over my palm where he touched me.
I shudder, and the ball of fire betw
een my legs threatens to rage out of control.
God.
My body is being prepped to fuck another man starting next week, and yet, I’m lusting after Quinn with a need that is beyond insane.
His face slides into my mind’s eye and a moan slips free. Slowly, I open my legs and slide my hand underneath my panties. The force of need nearly sends me shooting off the toilet seat the moment my finger touches my engorged clit. Gasping, I glide my hand lower, to my blazing center. I’m hotter than a furnace and wet enough to feel my slickness on the inside of my thigh.
Getting myself off will be as easy and satisfying as jumping off a cliff. But a part of me resists. An innate knowledge that it won’t be as satisfying as I imagine prevents me from succumbing to the need. I resort to massaging the outer lips of my pussy while trying to breathe through the terrible hunger tearing me apart. My brain finally relents and transmits the message to my cunt. Hunger recedes far enough for me to tear my eyes open, adjust my clothes and stumble out of the stall.
The rest of the afternoon passes without incident, and I make it back to Hell’s Kitchen in one still-dazed piece.
At seven, Bruce, my fitness trainer, returns to put me through another ninety minutes of hell. When he leaves, I strip and take a shower, luxuriating in the endless hot water and thankful that I’m too exhausted to tend to the dull ache still throbbing between my legs.
I dress in a brand new set of lounge pants, and I’m on my way to the kitchen when the doorbell goes.
Before alarm takes full hold, I cross to the security screen and turn on the outside camera.
Fionnella.
I release the lock and wait for her to walk through the double set of security doors. Once the last one closes behind her, I open the front door.
Her hobo purse is slung over one shoulder, and she’s clutching a large brown bag with a logo I don’t recognize.
“Have you eaten?”
“No, but I was just about to make myself a sandwich.” I can cook a few basic meals, but I’m no culinary expert by any stretch of the imagination, so having a fridge stocked full of food is a blessing but also a curse. Although I planned to make something other than grilled cheese or pasta this weekend, using a cookbook I discovered among the plethora of reading material in the loft.
