by Luke Steel
Lucy sits a bit straighter in the chair, and once again, I have to fight to ignore the way that pushes out her breasts.
“Your education is exemplary. Credentials, excellent. I see here military service.” That surprises me.
“Yes, sir. Army. I was an interpreter.”
“It says here you speak five languages?”
“Six, if you count English,” she offers with a smile. When I don’t smile at her little joke, she says, “French, Spanish and Farsi and different forms of Arabic, sir.”
I drop the tablet to my knee and nail her with an impatient stare.
“I don’t need the ‘sirs’ Lucy. My name is Dominic.”
Lucy nods and says nothing.
“I don’t think I have to tell you that you have some very big shoes to fill.”
Lucy nods again, though this time she smiles as though the thought amuses her.
“You find that funny?” Before she can speak, I stretch my arms out on the couch. “There’s a standard of professionalism that I expect, and as you see from my schedule, I don’t have a lot of time. Which is why I don’t abide anyone wasting it. Be prompt, be ready. Be aware that ignorance will never be an excuse for why you haven’t done your job. There is no training period. Do you understand?”
“I do,” she says.
The light smile is gone, and Lucy Warner is sitting up ramrod straight at the edge of the chair. I can almost see her in uniform in my mind.
“Alright then. Have you been given what you need to begin today?”
“Yes,” she pauses. “I was told to share your agenda for the morning and then prep you for the conference call this afternoon. Everything is ready.”
“I don’t need to be ‘prepped,’ but that’s fine.” I stand and hold my arm out, indicating she can leave. “Then I have work to get to, and I know you do, too.” She stands and she’s wearing some kind of perfume that lingers in the air as she passes. It’s delicious. Annoyed again, I fire a parting shot. “Barring any more coffee fiascoes, we should get along fine.”
I see her wince and then nod as she heads out. “No more desks in your morning coffee. Got it.” I wait for her to close the door before I let myself smile.
That little flash of backbone is going to make me like her. Goddamnit.
2
Dominic
“Listen, Greg. The changes are inevitable. You knew it was going to happen when we saved the company from bankruptcy.”
Greg Foster pushes back in his chair, making a face. “You wouldn’t be merging with us if we weren’t doing something right! I don’t need you to tell me how to run my company.”
It’s almost eight. We’ve been in this room for about four hours, which is exactly three hours and forty-five minutes longer than originally scheduled. Breson Company rented this corporate suite at the Cramer Hotel, the most prestigious in the city, as a gesture of respect and celebration. But the only thing we should have been doing today is signing the goddamned papers to formalize the merger.
Instead, Greg Foster, head designer and heir apparent to his father’s cutting edge research and development labs arrived with a list of demands that were never a part of negotiation. Namely, that he expects Breson Company to honor Foster’s autonomy and not take over operations.
I can appreciate the man feels like he’s losing control of the rudder. Foster will now have to answer to us for their budget and operations, as well as split the fruit of their labor and patents—all of which will belong to me. On the other hand, Greg Foster and the people who work for him wouldn’t have a roof over their lab coats if running operations were still left to him. Foster is an ideas and design man. Practical matters like payroll, pensions, and investment negotiations escape head-in-the-clouds designers.
The team of lawyers on both sides of the conference table have been watching us volley this ball back and forth for hours. I’m done playing.
I lean forward and level with the guy. “Let’s be straight about one thing. You are a brilliant engineer, and your company is one of the best for design. But you know shit about business and what it takes to run the company. That’s why we’re here. You didn’t think we were just going to change the names on the building and cut a check, did you?”
Foster just gawps at me.
“I’m not an investor. I’m buying your company. Calling it a ‘merger’ is putting a face on something when we all know what it really is. But let’s talk about what else we know. Things have to change, or you’ll just end up in trouble again.” I can see the man stiffen, ready to fire back with some more hot head bluster. I put a hand up to stop him.
“Both of us know what it means to take over the family business. It’s twenty-five percent doing a good job, and seventy-five percent not screwing up everything someone else built. Which is why I know that what I say next is going to be important to you.” I look him in the eye. “I’m saving you from a giant mess of your own making. One that would have cost the suppliers and a few hundred families their livelihood, not to mention everyone else down the line. Your people are going to be very well compensated, as will you. Everyone knows Breson takes very good care of our own, which is why the Foster board and the shareholders voted for this deal. It’s in your interest as well as mine to turn the finance over to our team.”
I don’t think anyone has had the nerve to lay this out for him before, and I can see the guy is stunned. Truth does that to some people. But I’m not here to cut him off at the knees. I ease up a bit. “We won’t meddle with your lab or its operations. I do know that you’re the leader for your creative and design team. We want to keep that going.”
I can see the relief begin to flow into his face. He’s been on the ropes for a while. “I won’t bullshit you—there will be oversight. But it’s what Foster needs to keep the lights on and production going. Work with me and you get to go back to doing what you’re best at.”
When his back hits the chair, I know the battle’s over. Which is not to say this guy won’t be a pain in my ass somewhere down the road. But I wasn’t lying about the deal: Greg Foster is always happiest playing the visionary, and everyone comes out ahead when he and his team are free to focus on the design products that put Foster Industries on the map. As we shake hands with each other and the lawyers, Foster looks fifty pounds lighter walking out the door.
Gerald Simon, Breson Company’s lead counsel for this deal, shakes my hand as I make my own way out, leaving the executives and lawyers behind me in the suite to enjoy “their” victory. The elegant downtown hotel we’re in was chosen as neutral territory for the final meeting. I’m the first to leave and take the private elevator down to my car.
On the way out I pass the hotel lobby. There’s some kind of reception letting out. I can hear music and the sound of laughter spilling out from some gathering within. A lot of happy noise and celebrating. As I pass, a couple tumbles out into the hallway. The woman is tall and leggy, wearing some kind of tight, red sequined mini-dress. She’s tipsy on her high heels, laughing and coyly holding a glass of champagne by the stem. The man she’s with is in a tux, practically salivating as he holds her up by her hips. She giggles and tugs at his arm, heading for the lobby elevators. I only spare them a passing glance, but I can imagine they’re heading upstairs for a private party of their own.
The valet already has the car waiting when I make it outside the hotel lobby and into the cool air. It’s a crisp fall evening, but I can smell snow on the way. The driver holds the car door open for me, but before I climb in, I glance back into the bright lights of the hotel lobby thinking of the couple I just saw. Then I climb into the car and tell the driver to head for my apartment building.
Staring out the tinted windows at the passing street lamps and shop windows, I feel… empty. I should be celebrating, counting imaginary money in my head. I should be—
The thought is cut off when I see a bottle of champagne cooling in an ice bucket in the bar panel beside me. It’s festooned with green ribbon. I
didn’t ask for this to be waiting. There is a note tied with more ribbon to the neck of the bottle. I reach for it and see the word “Congratulations!” written in the neatly swirling handwriting I recognize as Lucy’s, just as my phone vibrates in my jacket pocket.
The cell phone screen lights up with a text. From Lucy.
SIMON’S OFFICE SENT OVER THE SIGNED PAPERS JUST NOW. CONGRATULATIONS.
I stare at the letters in the text for a long while before I push “8” on the speed dial.
“Dominic?” Her usually soft-pitched voice is excited and happy when she says my name. Almost breathless, as though she was waiting for me. The sound of it is so sexy, it instantly makes me hard.
Christ.
“Did you order this champagne?” I ask, knowing she did. I can hear my voice is gruff and thick, harsher than I intended, though I’m not calling to be nice.
Lucy hesitates on the phone before she answers. “The uh…y-yes, I did. I knew you were finishing the Foster deal tonight. I thought—“
I cut her off. “Gestures like this are not necessary. I’d be drunk twenty-four seven if I had champagne every time we closed a deal. Do you understand?” I don’t even understand. I’m being a dick to her, I know it. But for some reason, the bottle in front of me feels like a joke rather than a joint celebration. Just makes me feel more alone.
When she answers, her voice is still that silky soft that makes me nuts, but there’s steel in her tone. It’s her soldier voice. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
I clench my jaw. Another ‘sir.’ She does that from time to time. Over the last few weeks, I’ve picked up on the fact that she calls me sir when she’s biting her tongue to keep from snapping back at me, expressly because I told her not to. Standing tall and straight in practiced attention as she takes notes, or rattles off my agenda for the day. When I bark at her, her sea-blue eyes narrow just the littlest bit, and she sets her lips in a pursed line. But she stays cool no matter how much I demand of her, with a laser-like focus I admire.
And if I really admit it, I even like her stiff like that. That lithe body drawn up in a tall line. I don’t think she realizes that her chest pushes out the more she tenses, shoulders straight and chin up, as though set for battle. Never aggressive or rude. Just tight, ready. And polite to a fault. I guess you could call it defiant deference, if there is such a thing. The kind of challenge that makes me think of dragging her over my knee. If she were in the car with me, I know I’d have to fight to keep my hands to myself. A feeling I’ve also become more than accustomed to.
She’s still on the line, and I have to fight a new urge. It’s eight forty-five. I wonder if she’s had dinner, or if she was waiting to hear about the deal first. Part of me wants to ask if she has dinner plans.
Great strategy, I think to myself. Get her good and irritated, then give her grounds for a harassment lawsuit, all at the same time.
Instead, I make the smart play and say, “OK. It’s been a long day and I’m heading back to my place. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes, sir. The car will be waiting to take you to your nine-thirty. I’ve emailed everything and the documents are attached. Have a good evening.”
We hang up together.
I realize I’m gnashing my teeth as I look at the phone in my hand. I eye the bottle while I loosen my tie.
The champagne, I admit to myself now, was actually a nice thought. Something that even Mrs. Talbot might have done.
I don’t tell her this, ever, but Lucy has been true to her word since the day she started, stepping in quietly and efficiently where Mrs. Talbot left off. Knowledgeable despite being new, Lucy has proven to be both adaptable and adept. She is a testament, probably, to how thoroughly my former assistant vetted the new one. But she’s also just… Lucy. Everything I could have asked for. Smart. Precise. Quick to smile, sharp witted.
And so goddamned sexy just looking at her makes my hands hurt. It’s been a problem from the jump. The worst is when she’ll stand in my office doorway, all red full lips and long legs in those spike heels and stockings, her hip jutted out as she ticks off agenda items. The whole time I try to listen, instead I’m picturing her bent over again, the fabric straining over her hips and that incredible ass.
I know people in the office notice how different I am with her than I am with anyone else. I can only hope no one ever figures out why.
The car has stopped. My driver, Tom, peers into the rearview mirror. “We’re here. You ok, Dominic?”
I don’t answer for a moment. I dread the thought of walking into my place, spending the night alone. There are a few go-to numbers in my phone I could try, but I’m not in the mood to sweet talk anyone for company either.
“Changed my mind. To the office, Tom.”
3
Dominic
Working alone is better than being alone.
Except when you’re not.
The floor is dark and quiet for the night but the tell-tale light emanating from down the hall in my office is exactly what I was dreading.
Lucy is still at her desk, tapping furiously at her laptop. I’ve trained myself not to look at her for too long, but tonight there’s no helping it.
Rather than the prim-yet-sexy secretary thing she usually has going on, Lucy is in a bright pink cropped top that looks more like a sports bra than a shirt. And her hair, which is usually down and straight is twisted and piled up in a loose knot on top of her head, a cascade of wisps hanging down the sides of her face. She’s chewing furiously on a pencil as she types, a habit I snapped at her to stop doing the very first week she began working for me.
Whatever she’s pounding out, it has her full attention. She hasn’t seen me yet. While I watch from the door, she takes the pencil out of her mouth and sticks it in her hair before she leans a bit into the screen to check her work. While she’s reading, she raises her arms up above her head in a long stretch, turning her head from side to side. Then she drops her head back, stretching more, and all I can see is smooth toned skin, and her breasts lifted high. I want to run my hand down the long column of her neck, then down, down to—“
“Lucy.” I say her name quietly, trying not to scare her.
“Aaah!” She jumps a mile when she screams, completely out of her chair.
I hold my hands up. “Just me. It’s OK.”
That little bit of news only seems to fluster her more.
“Dominic? What are you—“ Did you forget something? Can I help?”
I can’t help it. I can see the rest of her now. She’s wearing a matching pair of yoga pants, low on her hip bones. Any question I might have had about whether the body beneath her work clothes was as hot as I imagined is answered right there. Hot damn.
“No. I just thought I’d come in for a bit, do some work instead of sit at home.”
“Oh,” she says. “Well, can I bring you something? I was just working on—“
“No, Lucy, stop. Go home. Why are you even here? Why are you dressed like that?”
She looks down at herself and blushes hard. She’s also barefoot, with pretty toes painted red.
“I was waiting to hear confirmation about the Foster deal, and then I was going to hit the gym before I headed home.”
“And? The meeting started at four-thirty.”
She tilts her head. “It only ended at eight-thirty.”
“Right.” Foster’s last minute dog-and-pony show kept everyone late.
Lucy is closing up again, her eyes hooded as she waits out the interrogation. All she did was stay late to do her job.
Suddenly, I’m tired. I keep snapping and snarling at Lucy for things that are not her fault. Even I can tell I’m being a dick.
“Listen, Lucy, I’m sorry. I’m interrogating you, but I can see you stayed late even though you weren’t asked to. You’re dedicated and you’re doing a great job.”
I was going to say that little piece and then push on to my office, but Lucy’s face breaks into the most triumphant, happy
smile I’ve ever seen. Her whole face softens and shines and for the first time in my life, I know what the saying “her smile can light up a room” really means. She’s stunning.
“Thank you,” she says, softly. And then she bites her lip.
Instant hard-on. That little bite is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, hotter than the heels, hotter than the pin-up girl stockings she wears every goddamned day just to drive me crazy.
We’re still standing in the open foyer and I feel like a teenager, holding my jacket over my arm so she won’t see the freaking tent pole in my slacks. I head for my office, thinking the conversation is over.
Instead, she’s followed me. That body… pin-up girl morphed into a spandex sex kitten gift. When I realize I’m staring, I try to cover.
“I’ve never seen you in workout clothes before.”
She blushes again. I’m starting to enjoy how easy it is to make her do that.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. I was going to go to the gym after work, but then the emails started flying and I—“
“No, no,” I say, cutting her off. “You look great.” When I see her eyes widen, I pull myself up, worried that now I sound like a harassing dick. “Different, I mean. I’m used to your work clothes. You always look so professional.”
She puts a hand to her hair, self-consciously.
“And I like the hair. You look like…” Shut up, Dominic.
“Like what?”
I drop down into my office chair and sigh. Too late to turn back now. “You look like this teacher I had in school. She wore her hair all up high like that.”
Lucy’s eyes spark with a little mischief. “Did you like this teacher?”
“Let’s just say I liked…certain things about her. Her hair being one of them.” What I don’t say: I liked her hair, and I liked the way her tits bulged behind her too-tight sweaters. Very much the way Lucy’s are tucked in that bra top thingy, or whatever the hell it is.
My eyes drop to her breasts straining through the fabric. Then to the smooth, taut skin of her bare midriff. I’ve imagined her naked more than a few times, and this is more of her than I’ve ever seen in real life. The skin-hugging spandex leaves nothing to the imagination, and my brain is on fire. She’s just standing there dry and ready for the gym, but I picture her panting and wet after a workout. It’s almost as hot as the very real way her ass and hips twitch in the pencil skirts and heels she wears to work every day.
