Falling for Sir

by Cat Kelly

  "Mrs. Bracknell, I have no intention of marrying Alana Shepherd. Or anyone for that matter. I did all that once already." Before the elderly secretary could start getting all sympathetic about his widower status, Jack forced a smile, "These days I'm leaving the acquisition of wives and alimony bills to my brother." He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. "So tell me more about Marianne Miller." He liked the way her name rolled off his tongue.

  Mrs. Bracknell began to fill him in. "She has a Masters in Interior Architecture and—"

  "A Masters? I wouldn't think she was old enough."

  "She's twenty three. Graduated early from high school. Something of a child prodigy it seems - very smart, evidently. Has a claim to fame in fact. Sort of."

  "Oh?" His heart sank because very smart women usually terrified him. But then so did women under thirty. Especially those under twenty-five. At that age they didn't know what they needed and what they wanted changed daily. Dating a woman that young was asking for trouble.

  Dating? Why the fuck was he thinking about dating her? That shouldn't be lurking in the shadows of his mind at all. Last night was just sex to keep his parts in working order. He couldn't face starting a deeper relationship with anyone. He wasn't ready for that, even if his friends and his little brother thought he should be.

  "She wrote a long letter to the President when she was eight, telling him all the things he was doing wrong and how to put it right. It made the National newspapers and she got her photo taken with Clinton. I believe it was in Time magazine, or some such."

  "Really?" He was intrigued now despite the initial reaction of wariness.

  "She worked part-time at Grant Peterson while she was in her last year of college. Reading between the lines, Leo Petersen was grooming her for the management of his new Boston branch. He was none to happy, I can tell you, when Rawlings snatched her up. I suppose, like most young girls, it was the lure of this city that brought her here. She lives in Greenwich Village now, but hails from a small town in Vermont. Her mother is an artist, her father was a professor of history. Both brothers are cops here in the city. Miss Miller comes to work early on the subway, leaves late. She's offended a few people already by complaining about the state of the staff kitchenette, the smell of microwave popcorn and the taste of the office coffee. To my knowledge she's turned down two date offers since she started at the beginning of September." Her eyes narrowed through her lenses. "Apparently doesn't believe in mixing personal and professional life."

  Jack laughed. "Mrs. B you never cease to amaze. Where do you get all your information? From listening in bathroom stalls?"

  "Sometimes," she admitted, clutching her files defensively. "It's surprising what one can pick up around this place with their ears open."

  "Yes, indeed." He swiveled his chair and glanced through the window at a surprisingly blue sky for November. Just a few clouds passing. It wouldn't last of course. Soon there would be rain, ice, snow and slush, but global warming gave the city a reprieve for now.

  "Is your brother in town too? I haven't seen him since the company picnic in August." She sniffed, chin up, making it plain what she thought of Cesare "Charlie" Marchetti and his easy come, easy go attitude.

  "My brother insists he can manage his side of things over the internet." The office environment, in Charlie's opinion, was a dinosaur soon to be extinct. He had every gadget under the sun and used that as his excuse to roam the world while he was "working". The only things more effective in person, he said, were sex, fast cars and a face slap from an ex-wife. "Last I heard he was touring the wine country in a Bugatti Veyron."

  "Sounds like a hospital emergency room visit waiting to happen."

  "I thought the same thing, Mrs. B."

  "What your father would say about the way his younger son carries on and the floozies he brings home, I don't know."

  He'd probably be amused, thought Jack dourly. Charlie had been their father's favorite. While nothing Jack ever did was quite good enough, his younger brother, who never tried, got all the attention, all the love. With no visible effort, Charlie could charm the stripes off a zebra. If he was there now he'd probably make a play for the new member on staff and her youth wouldn't bother him in the slightest. But Jack saw her first, didn't he? He wasn't generally the impulsive sort, but..."See what else you can dig up on Marianne Miller, will you Mrs. B? Discreetly."

  "Mr. Marchetti," she straightened her shoulders, "I am always discreet!"

  He shouldn't investigate, of course; there was never supposed to be contact outside The Club, but this woman was irresistible, possibly addictive. She'd just turned up out of the blue—out of his dreams— and now he found her working for his store.

  So she didn't believe in mixing business with pleasure? He could always fire her hot ass, couldn't he? Uh oh, he was starting to think like Charlie!

  Mrs. Bracknell was on her way out of his office when she looked back over her shoulder. "She's too young for you, of course."

  "Mrs. B, my interest is purely on the professional level. I always want to know about my employees."

  "It's time you found a nice, steady, mature woman to look after you again."

  He replied solemnly, "Only if you'll have me, Mrs. B."

  "Cheeky monkey!" She shook her head rapidly and scurried out.

  Chapter Five

  Waiting for James Bond

  They were half way through the staff meeting when he came in. Instantly the atmosphere in the conference room changed. People sat up and stopped texting under the table. A few hastily jammed the last bite of donut down their throats.

  In just a few seconds she realized the truth.

  He wasn't Caesar, but almost.

  "Don't let me interrupt." He smiled around the room. "Please carry on as if I'm not here."

  Without a doubt he knew that was a joke. Everyone was more self-conscious now, women and men preening alike. Marianne, however, tried to sink further into her chair.

  Jack Marchetti, the big boss. No wonder people gave him space in the elevator. She knew he wasn't around much—divided his time traveling the globe to oversee operations at the five branches—but she must have seen him on one of his few visits to the flagship Manhattan store. Or maybe she'd seen his picture in the news. So that was why he seemed familiar last night.

  He had just looked at her, but now his gaze skimmed onward, over her head. She couldn't be sure he remembered her or noticed her at all. Fumbling in the purse by her feet, she grabbed a stick of gum, unwrapped it swiftly and stuffed it into her dry mouth.

  Where was he going? The man strode slowly, leisurely around the perimeter of the conference room, disappearing from her side vision. Even thought she could no longer see him, his charisma was imprinted on her senses, his face a clear picture snapped and held by her mind.

  From the few tidbits she'd gleaned about the boss—and there weren't many as he appeared to be the secretive, mysterious type— she'd expected a stern-faced Italian with a quick temper, shiny shoes, a hard jaw and a receding hairline. Like a character from The Godfather. But although he did have that rugged jaw, there was something more to his face, a mischievous, warm light in his deep blue eyes that hinted at other heritage. A wayward offshoot from the family tree.

  He had a tall, Styrofoam coffee cup in one hand and she recognized the scribbled marker on the side. So he bought his coffee from the place on the corner, across the street. Apparently Mr. Woody didn't like the office coffee either. Suddenly she knew where she'd seen him prior to their encounter at The Club. On her very first day at this job, after buying coffee at the corner store, she'd bumped into him outside it, by the magazine stand. Coffee spilled on his sleeve, because her lid wasn't on properly. When she apologized he'd simply glared at her and walked into the coffee shop, still talking to someone on his IPhone. Funny how it happened that you could look a person so briefly in the eye and feel like you'd known them forever. That was why some people believed in reincarnation, she supposed. Marianne had
never been one of those people. Until now.

  The connection was instant and deep. Even before "Sir" threw her on a bed.

  She shivered and crossed her legs.

  Marchetti came to a halt somewhere behind her seat. Occasionally she caught a whisper of his expensive, spicy aftershave and the richness of his dark roast coffee. Every pore on her body seemed to open, aware of his closeness, trying to draw in the scent. Greedy for more.

  He leaned over her shoulder and reached for the printed agenda on the table in front of her knee. "May I?"

  "Sure." Horrified by his proximity, she grabbed it and handed it to him without looking. The stapled sheets of paper rustled above her head and her hair curled even tighter. Her pulse quickened. No one around the table seemed to notice, but of course they were pretending they didn't know he was even in the room.

  "Wow. Lot of agenda," he whispered.

  Not sure whether he addressed her or not, she stayed silent.

  "Where are we? Which item are we on?"

  Since no one else answered, she was forced to twist around in her seat and show him. "Page three." Marianne kept her gaze on the paper. "Marty Rosenberg on customer relations and Holiday events."

  He ran a broad fingertip over the typed words. Just as he'd run a finger over her last night. "Ah. Got it. Thank you."

  She turned away again, convinced he hadn't recognized her. With her hair tied back and a conservative grey blouse buttoned up to her throat she looked like a librarian.

  "So let's remember," Marty was saying, "the Holidays are a stressful time for all of us and we will bear witness to some shoppers rage. Keep smiling and remember—the customer is always right. It's important to maintain Marchetti's reputation for top-notch service and attention to detail. We are all representatives of the store wherever we go, whatever we do."

  Marianne had now attended three of these rah-rah "Morale" meetings and always left them feeling as if she'd just received a lecture in the principal's office. She knew her job; she knew what had to be done. It wasn't necessary, once a month, to reinforce the fact that she was just a little cog in the big machine. Her annoyance level was not quelled by the presence of the man behind her. If anything it was raised.

  Must be nice, she mused, to swan around, coming and going as he pleased, never forced to sit through an entire, dull meeting. She chewed her gum harder.

  I bet no one makes fun of Mr. Woody's suits on casual fucking Fridays. Nor would they complain about him buying his coffee at the corner store instead of drinking the office muck.

  Sinking further in her chair, Marianne tucked her chin under the collar of her blouse and tried to pretend her pulse wasn't racing for the finish line at the Kentucky Derby.

  She had to calm down somehow. It was just sex. So what if he was her boss?

  He was her boss. It echoed around her aching head.

  Marianne had never been a very social creature. Apparently missing out on the gene that made certain other people in her family fit in wherever they went, she'd concentrated instead on her studies and now her work. For companionship she had a goldfish, even if she simply inherited it from the last renter of her apartment. Recently she'd named it Pebbles. Considering she'd never owned a pet, never wanted one and knew almost nothing about fish, this was a big stride for her. She was even thinking of getting another. Maybe.

  But with her aversion to socializing, the opportunities for meeting anything datable that was obviously male, and had two legs with no gills, were far between and few. Dating anyone from work was out of the question. She couldn't risk merging those two worlds for Marianne wanted nothing to get in the way of her career.

  Now look what you've done. Great job, Miller, you've only gone and slept with your boss in your new job. You just dropped your panties for the CEO. Congratulations.

  As Marty wound down his speech, the man standing behind Marianne suddenly cleared his throat quite loudly and then said, "I hate to interrupt the meeting, but I can't stay long and I just wanted to remind everyone about the employee Holiday party." Faces turned their way like flowers seeking the sun. Marianne kept her gaze on her lap and, with one hand, brushed invisible crumbs from her skirt. "As you know," he continued, "this year on November 30th, Marchetti's will be celebrating it's centennial. I know this is late notice, but I'd like to put together a party planning committee with members from the floor and the admin offices. Let's get input from everyone to make this Centennial a great party."

  Around the table people fidgeted and murmured to one another. The prospect of a party was always good news, of course.

  "Perhaps Ms. Miller," he briefly laid a hand on her shoulder and she jumped, swallowing her gum, "could undertake the formation of a committee. Put a new spin on things, bring in some fresh ideas."

  Looking up she saw his words wiping smiles off a few faces. Marianne was still a new girl and hadn't earned the right to be singled out by the boss. There were people around that table who'd worked for Marchetti's since before she was born. Now they looked at her not only as the outspoken, young whippersnapper who insulted the office coffee, complained about sticky splatters on the microwave door, and refused to dress down on Fridays, but as a usurper, a sly sneak.

  "When you get the chance, Ms. Miller, come up to the 27th floor and see Mrs. Bracknell," he said to her. "She'll fill you in with the details."

  How the hell did he know her name anyway?

  To her intense relief his hand was gone from her shoulder. "Well, I'll leave you all to it. Keep up the good work."

  * * * *

  He shouldn't have touched her. The woman jumped as if he'd stuck her with a needle. But he couldn't help himself; his skin prickled with need to feel her again.

  After he left the meeting, Jack took the elevator down to the ground floor and made his usual promenade through the store, making notes in his head, checking every corner, every shiny glass surface, trying to keep his mind busy and off that curly-haired sexpot in the buttoned-up blouse. He wondered if he'd made her nervous because he was the boss, or because she recognized him from last night.

  Of all the women to pick out at a sex auction, he had to choose someone from his staff, he mused, shaking his head. One of the best things about joining The Club was the anonymity. It was supposed to be a fantasy and completely separate from real life. So now what? First, he'd have to find out if she recognized him. If she did, he'd have to make sure she kept it to herself. Hopefully she wasn't the sort to run to the tabloids. From what Mrs. Bracknell had told him, she didn't appear to be the type of woman who would want her name in the gossip rags. But one could never be sure.

  Jack was a very private man and tried to keep his face out of the papers, despite Alana Shepherd's attempts to get them snapped about town together. As he'd said to Mrs. Bracknell, since his wife's passing he'd left the business of romance to his younger brother. At thirty-nine Jack had no plans to marry again. Living through the five shocking months of Laura's sickness—watching her fade away from him—was something he never wanted to go through again. Why set oneself up for more pain and heartache?

  He knew there were a lot of women looking to land themselves a billionaire. Although his first impressions of Ms. Marianne Miller, aka "Claudia the Brat" did not lead him to think she would be the same, he couldn't be sure yet. Even as he tried to keep his thoughts turned away from her, Jack realized it was a losing battle. When he saw Marianne leaving the store at noon, he suddenly found his feet taking him through the doors after her.

  Why was he stalking her through a crowded square and across a street in Manhattan traffic? She was a woman young enough—well, almost, if he'd been a particularly precocious teen—to be his daughter. They had both signed confidentiality agreements at The Club so mentioning it to her would be a chancy business and in all likelihood she was there for the anonymity, just as he was. She was his employee, on his payroll. There were countless reasons why he shouldn't be following her around in the middle of his busy day. This was something Ch
arlie would do. Jack was the sensible one. Right?

  He pinned his gaze to the figure ahead and watched her throw coins for a violinist on the corner. In the crowd of people surging back and forth she looked quite small and alone, walking with her head down, an ugly woolen hat pulled down over her ears, and the collar of her coat standing up against the brisk chill. Someone nudged her arm as they hurried by in the other direction, causing her to step in a puddle and hunch her shoulders even further. She was young to be in the city alone, he thought. People with book-smarts weren't always the best at looking after themselves.

  Jack's heartbeat seemed to be all over the place today. One moment he was angry with himself and then all his thoughts were taken up with being concerned about her. He lengthened his stride to cut down on the number of people between them.

  Why had she gone to a sex club? Why would a good-looking, bright, vibrant young woman join a club for anonymous sex? Jack had his reasons, but what could hers possibly be? He shook his head, suddenly angry again. Her parents and her brothers couldn't know what she was getting up to in the city. Someone ought to be looking out for her, before she made some awful mistake.

  As she walked into the corner coffee shop he followed, soothing his nerves by deciding he could buy a coffee while he was there and it wouldn't look odd—wouldn't look as if he'd just stalked her down the block. This little place had the finest coffee, fluffiest donuts and most delicious toasted bagels in Manhattan. He used to think it was his little secret, but Ms. Miller knew about it and she liked breakfast at any hour of the day too, it seemed.

  Having ordered an egg and cheese bagel and a large cappuccino, she was rootling around in her over-sized shoulder bag for her money, when Jack decided to speak. Until that moment he couldn't really be sure he was going to say anything, but suddenly, standing behind her in the line, getting another soft drift of her perfume, it felt necessary that he acknowledge her. Make her see him. And find out if she knew he was her "Sir" from last night.