by Abby Gordon
“What now, my Venus?” he murmured, moving to loom over her body, bracing himself on his forearms. “Now, I fuck you into submission.”
“Tony, I…”
Chapter Two
Banging at the door woke her. She glanced at the clock. Nearly ten-thirty. Grumpy on being awakened, no matter how much sleep she’d gotten, Pippa groaned and muttered all the way across the tiny living room. Her body felt weird from the dreams. Damn the man for looking like he had the body a Greek god or the model for a statue of one. She just knew from the way he looked with his clothes on – broad shoulders, tapered waist. Pippa closed her eyes briefly remembering the feel of his body when he’d pinned her against the table. Hard muscles that hadn’t frightened her. She’d felt protected more than anything else.
“What?” she demanded, going on tip-toe to reach the peephole.
“Pippa, open up,” insisted her neighbor across the hall.
“Bloody hell, Jane,” she grumbled, flipping the bolt. An energetic morning person, Jane bounded in. “I got home late and…”
“You just woke up? You haven’t seen it?” The other young woman spun around. “Ohmigod, it’s too incredible. It’s all over social media and the tabloids.”
“Jane, you’ve got three seconds before I kick you out and go back to bed,” Pippa stated, glaring at her.
“Sean Livingston and your friend Jessica,” Jane announced, grabbing her hands.
“What?” Pippa froze. All thoughts of erotic dreams fled. Jessica. Oh, dear heavens. No, no, no. “What happened?”
“He was on the Morning Three show and talking about what an incredible night he’d had. And said she was still in his room when he left. Well,” Jane grinned, “By nine-thirty, someone in the AceRace,” she referred to the raciest tabloid, “announced that Jessica Munroe, former assistant bartender at the Lincoln Hotel, had been found in Sean Livingston’s bed after he’d checked out and she had been fired.”
“Oh, my God,” Pippa breathed, stumbling to the nearest chair. “Oh, my God. He said her name on the radio program?”
“No,” Jane replied, shaking her head. “Sean never said her name. Some of the news sites think it came from someone inside the Lincoln.”
“From someone who was there when they checked the room,” agreed Pippa, mind racing. Only a few people would have been privy to that information. One in particular would have relished the chance.
“And her address.”
“Bloody hell,” swore Pippa. “They gave out her address?”
“That has to be someone in personnel, right?”
“No,” Pippa shook her head. “Henrietta wouldn’t do that. She’s a stickler for the rules.”
Jane shrugged and gestured wildly with her hands. “Well, someone did because they’ve staked out Jessica’s flat.”
“What?” Pippa snatched up the TV remote and hit the power button. In a few seconds, the late morning news show host was giving her updates. “Oh, poor Jessica.”
“Poor Jessica?” Jane hooted. “You’re kidding, right? She spent the night in Sean Livingston’s bed. OMG. Oh, I know. Let’s call her and ask what he did, what he was like.”
“No,” Pippa replied quickly, grabbing her phone from the charger before Jane could look for it. “She wouldn’t tell us and I wouldn’t ask her anyway.”
“Poo,” Jane grumbled, pursing her lips. “You’re no fun.” She grabbed Pippa’s arm. “I know. Let’s go down there and tell them we know her. Just think…”
“Jane!” Pippa shook free of her grasp. “Don’t you get it? Jessica’s trapped in her flat. Sean Livingston, the unmitigated arsehole, left her in his bed, talked about her, and got her fired.” She gestured at the TV screen. “Her life is being destroyed and you want to go down and talk to the paps?”
“Pippa, this is the chance of a lifetime. Everyone would want to talk to us,” urged Jane in excitement.
“You don’t know her, Jane,” Pippa reminded her. She couldn’t believe Jane was acting like this. Jessica’s life was in tatters and Jane wanted to celebrate by dancing around a media bonfire. “You met her once when she came by here and that’s it. So, don’t you go thinking you’ll go ’round there and talk to anyone, saying you know all about her.” Pippa wagged a finger. “I know a lot more about you, and I’ll flip that on you right quick.”
“Pippa,” groaned Jane. “This isn’t you at all.”
“I’m growing up, Jane,” announced Pippa, realizing Jessica had been rubbing off on her in all the right ways. She’d been resisting to a point, but now she embraced it. “Maybe you should try it.”
Jane laughed. “We’re only twenty-one, for chrissakes. There’s loads of time for that.”
“Well, I want to get started now.”
“Gawd.” Jane flopped down on the couch and changed channels. “You got serious about that bloody wine testing and became as boring as drying paint.”
“And right now,” Pippa reached over and took the remote. Suddenly, she couldn’t get Jane out of her flat fast enough. But she knew certain words would get her neighbor gone but fast. “I need to get ready for work. You remember what that is?”
With an exaggerated sigh, Jane got up and shrugged. “I got fired again last night.”
“What do you mean? Again? Jane, that’s the fourth job this year.” Pippa stared at her in shock and exasperation.
“Eh…” Jane waved it off. “I’ll enjoy the holidays and find something in January.”
“How are you going to enjoy the holidays without any money?”
Jane laughed and shook her head, patting Pippa’s cheek. “Bennies, Pippa, bennies.” She skipped to the door. “I’ll see myself out.”
The door closed behind her and Pippa quickly locked it again. She rested her head on wood and banged it twice. Jane didn’t care about filling out unemployment paperwork and taking all the benefits she could. But Pippa couldn’t bear the thought of it. Too many memories – she felt herself back-sliding.
“Bloody hell.”
Jessica. She had to call. Suiting action to thought, she scrolled through the contacts on her phone and called her friend, her mentor.
“Hi, Pip,” Jessica’s normally quiet voice was even more subdued.
“Jane across the hall just woke me up and I…” Pippa closed her eyes at the sight of the paps swarming a man trying to get to the building’s front door. “I can’t believe he told anyone you were in his room.”
“Neither can I.” Jessica sighed.
“What happened?”
“Pip, he might kiss and tell, but I’m not going to.”
“I didn’t mean that, much as I’m sure it was amazing.” Pippa sat on the couch and curled her legs under her. “I meant, what happened this morning?”
“I woke up and Sir Lincoln…” referring to the owner of the hotel.
“No,” breathed Pippa.
“Andy, Stanley and…Tom were with him,” she whispered, mentioning the concierge and head bartender.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Pippa crooned.
“They’d broken into my locker and had my bag and coat,” Jessica whispered.
Her voice was hoarse and Pippa could just imagine the crying that had caused it.
“Sir Lincoln said I was fired, and Andy wanted to know how many times I’d done that…slept with Sean or other guests.”
“He did not.” Pippa was outraged. “Gawd, Jess, I know you wouldn’t do that. If it had been anyone else last night, you’d have told them to make their own bloody drink and enjoy it on their way to hell. Elegantly, of course, and maybe not those words, but you would’ve.”
That got a short laugh from her friend. “Yeah, I would’ve.”
“But you’ve always had a thing for Sean Livingston,” Pippa sighed.
“Was it that obvious?”
“Just to me and maybe Tom.”
“I don’t think so for Tom,” Jessica replied quietly. “Oh, Pip, he was so disappointed this morning, but he still…” There
was some gulping. “He still insisted they pay me up to last night and the tip. In cash. He probably guessed Andy would tip off the paps and I wouldn’t have time to go the bank. I barely had time to go to market and get home before the first reporter showed up.”
“Thank goodness for Tom,” Pippa murmured. Something on the TV caught her eye. “Jess?”
“Mm?”
“There’s a man outside your building telling reporters he’s your uncle.”
“What?” Jessica gasped.
There was a pause, then Pippa heard her friend swearing. In French.
“What on earth did that mean?” she wondered aloud. “I didn’t know you knew French.”
“Un peu,” Jessica replied distractedly. “Pippa, please, please, don’t say anything to anyone about me.”
“Never,” she vowed stoutly. “And I told Jane that if she said one word to anyone that I would tell lots more on her. Can you believe she got herself fired? Again?”
Jessica laughed softly. “Thank you, Pippa. I needed to know I still have a friend left.”
“Always, Jess. Always.”
“I’m going to hunker down for a while,” added her friend in a quiet tone. “Just lay low for a bit. Promise you’ll call when you get the exam results though?”
“I promise, Jess. I promise.”
Feeling the shock, Pippa hung up and put the phone in to charge. It was just like Jessica that even as her world was being turned upside-down she would remember that the sommelier exam results would be arriving soon. Tea, tea would make her feel better. She got up, moving automatically to the tiny kitchen area and putting the kettle on. While it heated, she paced in a circle about her living room.
How could something like this have happened?
****
How in the hell could Sean have done something like this? Sometimes being my best friend’s PR handler really sucks.
Tony snarled after the tenth ring sent him to voice mail. “God damn the man,” he muttered, spinning his chair to look out at the New York City skyline and waiting for the intro and the beep. “This is turning into a fucking nightmare, Sean. Pick up the damn phone,” he snarled out at the falling snow. “Get the fuck out of your studio and do something.”
He tapped the screen and put the phone on his desk. Closing his eyes, he tried to figure a way out and couldn’t. The British tabloids and just about every paparazzi in Europe that Tony recognized had staked out Jessica Munroe’s building, waiting to pounce on the woman who not only had just spent a night in Sean Livingston’s bed but been caught in it the next morning and fired from her job because of it. Nothing else was happening, so they were focused on her since they didn’t know where Sean was.
“You had to schedule one more promo spot, didn’t you, Tony?” he berated himself. “Had to squeeze one more out of him.” He groaned. “How in the hell was I supposed to know he’d followed through on his desire for Jessica and then leave her in the damn bed? Why the hell didn’t he just wake her up, get her of there, and keep his damn mouth shut about it?”
Too agitated to sit still, he got up and stalked around his office.
“Oh, no, that’s not good enough for Sean Livingston. He has to go on the number one morning radio program in Britain and talk about what an incredible night he had. Forty seconds. That’s all he needed to ruin fucking everything!”
Knowing it would hurt, Tony drew his foot back and kicked the couch anyway. His big toe throbbed, reminding him what a bad idea it had been.
Muttering, he hobbled back to his desk and sat down as the phone rang. Recognizing the number, he tapped it.
“Bronson, tell me you’ve talked to him.”
Bronson Franklin had known Sean all their lives, their families intertwined since pre-Revolutionary days. Bronson was a celebrity lawyer extraordinaire. Surely Bronson would be able to reach Sean, get him to do something?
“I was hoping you’d reached him.”
“Shit. No. Not a damn thing,” Tony sighed. “He’s probably holed up in his studio, deaf to everything but the music in his head.”
“Goddammit,” Bronson muttered. “What the hell possessed him to be so fucking stupid?”
“I’ve no clue. Not a fucking clue. I’m calling every hour and leaving messages.”
“Same here. What do we do?”
“Again, I’ve no clue. There’s nothing in the PR handbook for dealing with a client-slash-best friend who commits career suicide by bragging about sleeping with a bartender at a ritzy London hotel and ruining that woman’s life.”
“I can’t fucking believe him sometimes,” Bronson groused. “Have you talked to Charlotte?”
“Talk to his ex-wife about how to deal with the man’s one-night stand? Are you insane?”
“She knows him better than anyone. She might be able to get through to him.”
“She’s probably busy trying to keep Maisie from finding out about it,” Tony pointed out.
“Oh, shit. Yeah, I forgot.” Bronson sighed. “Thank God, schools are out today for Thanksgiving and through the weekend. If it dies down, Maisie might not find out.”
“And it’s not full force over here,” Tony added. “If this is contained on that side of the Atlantic, he might get through this relatively unscathed.”
“He’s huge over there,” Bronson pointed out. “You think this will die down? You think that will happen? You going to count on that?”
“Hell, no. His only hope is if someone else does something more insane in the next twenty-four hours to flip the attention away from him.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” agreed Bron. “Well, if I can do anything, give me a call.”
“Will do. And thanks.”
“Shit like this is why I got into law and not public relations.”
“Such a pal,” Tony muttered.
The call blinked off his screen. Spinning his chair back around, he gazed out at the Empire State Building, and for the first time in the two days since the story had broken, he admitted to himself what was really pissing him off—Sean had done what he wanted to do. But because he had thought ahead and known what would happen to Pippa, he hadn’t done it. Sean probably hadn’t thought beyond his dick.
Tony groaned. Scratch that. The fucked up mess he was dealing with made it obvious that there was no probably about it. Sean’s only thought had been to get Jessica into his room while Tony had let decorum and sense hold him back from talking Pippa into his.
His cock hardened at the thought of her body and the way her waitress uniform clung to every curve. Little was left to the imagination, and Tony had a damned good imagination to fill in the details. He knew it was probably Andy who had decided that the female waitresses should wear dresses a half-size too tight, leaving a barely legal hem and exposing so much leg. Knew he should be pissed at the man, but considering the view he’d had down Pippa’s top just before he left, he couldn’t be. Not when the memory of her soft mounds, just a hint of a shadow near the edge of the bodice, watching how they’d risen with her shallow breathing, had nearly had him losing control. He knew damn well that, if the room had been empty, he’d have had his hands on her, would have fondled her sweet curves. He would’ve whispered in her ear as he bent her over the table, pulling up the short length of her dress. He would’ve swallowed her moans with a kiss as his hand played with her folds. And he’d have taken her. Fucked her until she was begging to come.
With a growl, he pounded his fist on the arm of the chair. He hadn’t though. He’d had some common fucking sense, in spite of the four drinks he’d had. Sean only had two and had still been insane enough to get Jessica into his room and leave her there.
“Fucking idiot,” he muttered, not sure if he was referring to Sean or himself.
If he had gotten Pippa to his room, he sure as hell wouldn’t have left her there to fend for herself. He would have made sure she was safe, because that’s what a Dominant did. He took care of his submissive. And, he inhaled swiftly at the realization
, Pippa was his. She’d responded to him the way a sub did to her Dom. And the way he’d reacted when Andy leered and insulted her? Classic alpha Dom. Similar, he blinked, to the way Sean had reacted when Andy had stalked Jessica behind the bar.
“No wonder the man’s buried in his studio,” he whispered. “Jessica is his the way Pippa is mine.” Trusting blue eyes and a shy smile appeared in his mind at the mention of her name. His cock twitched at the thought of her whispering “Master.”
“Holy shit.” His mind spun and he forced himself to work through everything.
Tony reached for the legal pad and pen he kept on the desk.
“Think it through, Henderson,” he muttered. “Don’t go off half-cocked like Sean did or there’ll be another shit pile to clean up.”
He jotted things down. What did he know about her? She’d started working at the Lincoln four years ago. Or was it five? He wasn’t sure, but at least four. So, he felt a bit of relief, she had to be at least twenty, probably more like twenty-one. So, he wasn’t a total pervert pedophile lusting after a minor.
“No, you’re just at least ten years older than her, idiot,” he muttered to himself. “But that’s okay. Women mature faster than men.” He shook his head. “Fuck it. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Next item.”
Like Jessica, Pippa had started in the dining room as a waitress, and after a couple years, had moved into the club. Someone had said that Sunday night was one of her first times in the private VIP room. He’d seen her the past few years, spoken to her in passing, had felt the tug of attraction. Hell, every man turned for a second and third look when she was around. Her face alone had heads turning—delicate features, china blue eyes with a slim nose and high cheekbones. He’d never seen her hair out of the braid she secured in a coil at the back of her neck, but imagined if loose it would fall nearly to her waist. And her body, he smiled at the thought of her body—creamy skin, slim hour-glass figure, and toned legs. And a pert little ass his palm itched to squeeze, to spank when she mouthed off.
Pippa had a sensual innocence, a way of being polite but keeping everyone at arm’s length. He’d seen a few customers flirt with her, and she’d frozen them out. But Sunday night was the first time he’d been around her for any length of time. First time he’d let himself think of her that way. And she hadn’t frozen him out. She’d responded. He smiled, remembering the surprise in her eyes at her own words.
