by Adira August
“Don’t they ever poop on your head?” she couldn’t help asking.
“More often than I want to think about,” he said, moving off into the interior. “The elevator is this way.”
She followed him down a hallway, to an elevator, door open and waiting.
“Is this for my convenience? I’d be fine taking the stairs,” she said, “And maybe see the jungle from above.”
“I believe it’s more a rainforest,” he said, leading her inside. The door slid closed.
”There is no stairway access to the Keep,” he said. He entered a code into a security keypad, blocking her view with his body. The elevator ascended briefly.
They came to a halt and the doors slid open. He stepped out and the elevator remained, door open. She suspected only a few people had the code that made the elevator work.
“Straight on to the end of the hall and knock. Mr. Hart’s waiting for you,” Hugo Ramos said.
He opened a solid mahogany door to the right, but didn’t enter. There was another door on her left. In front of her, a hallway, maybe as long as sixty feet, ended at a third door. None of the doors was marked. Of course not, she told herself, this enormous place is actually someone’s home. They don’t need to label the rooms.
Ramos waited. He’d been quite friendly and open during the ride up to the house. But she knew he wouldn’t leave her until she’d passed through that last door, protecting Hart’s privacy.
“Before I go, do you like working for Ben Hart?” she asked. “I mean, if you don’t mind saying. It’s all on deep background, so I won’t quote you.”
“I don’t mind if you quote me,” he responded. “I do enjoy working for Mr. Hart. His management style fits my way of working.”
“What’s his style?” Avia asked, genuinely curious.
“I can’t speak for everyone here, but I think Mr. Hart has a talent for hiring good people. I like to think I’m one.”
“You mean ‘good’ in a character sense or good at their jobs?” she asked.
“Both, I suppose, though I meant good at their jobs. Smart people, easy to get along with. People with a solid work ethic,” he replied. “Mr. Hart lays out what the job is, what his expectations are and leaves you alone to get on with it.”
“You’re saying he doesn’t micromanage. He trusts you.”
Ramos nodded. “Anything else, Ma’am?”
Avia knew he wanted her to move on. Whether because he was uncomfortable answering or just wanted to get her into Hart’s office, she wasn’t sure. But she was fairly confident he’d be there afterward, when she’d have more information for follow-up questions.
She walked the long hall while making notes of Ramos’ responses. Walking and writing was a skill she’d mastered long ago. Avia’s conservative grandfather, who had paid for her education, wanted her to learn typing and office skills, so she’d always be employable. Sound, sensible advice.
Avia didn’t know one other person even close to her age who took shorthand. She’d taken her Grandad’s advice and acquired those skills, not for menial job security, but because she knew it would make interview notes more secure.
No one could take a digital recorder she didn’t have and download or listen to her interviews. And no one could read over her shoulder and make sense of what looked like meaningless squiggles. In a digital age, shorthand was a secret code.
She slipped the notebook into the pocket of her skirt when she reached the last door. As was her custom, she’d left her bag locked in the trunk of her car. Time to meet the sex toy king. She knocked.
“Come,” a deep, strongly masculine voice called. In a moment of fancy, Avia wondered if the wood of the door vibrated when the sound waves passed through it. Then she heard a faint click. The door had been electronically unlocked. She turned the solid brass knob and pushed the heavy door open.
CROSSING THE THRESHOLD
Ben Hart rose from his desk chair as Avia entered the room. He took a step toward her, extending his hand, bending just slightly forward to take hers in a brief, firm handshake.
“Ms. Rivers. Ben Hart.”
She smiled. “Hello, thanks for seeing me.”
A subtle metallic click when the door closed, caught her attention. She looked back at the door.
“We’re locked in?” she asked.
Ben gestured at the door, inviting her to try it.
She did. It opened easily. She stepped through, noting the hallway was empty. When the door closed, she heard that same metallic click. She tried the knob. Locked. A faint sound behind her caught her attention.
Hugo Ramos stood outside his office door, watching her.
Avia knocked. The door opened immediately. Ben Hart swung the door wide open and stood back, waiting for her to decide to re-enter.
She gave him a speculative once-over and stepped over the threshold.
“It’s just about security,” he told her. “There’s proprietary information, prototypes and so forth on this floor.”
“In the Keep, you mean?” she asked with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes and a crooked smile.
“I do,” He said, surprised. “Hugo told you about Curtis?”
She stepped further into the room and he closed the door, his gaze sliding automatically over her.
Ben Hart liked women. He’d made a ridiculously large amount of money understanding what they wanted and giving it to them. He noticed them. The things they said. How they moved. What they wore. He enjoyed unravelling the mystery of them.
Now, he studied Avia Rivers. He noted that her full, camel-colored skirt fell to just below the knee. The skirt had side pockets he presumed were for utility, as she carried no purse. A silky white blouse was held in place by a soft black leather belt. Her hair was layered and just long enough to grab a fistful of. The color such a dark blond it looked brown in room light. But he suspected in sunlight, it would be awash in glints of gold.
Avia was dressed in simple good taste for comfort and utility. She neither flaunted her sexuality, nor hid her femininity. And she’d investigated his door, not concerned that the billionaire she wanted to interview might be offended. She hadn’t been suspicious or accusing; she simply wanted to find out the way things worked for herself.
He preliminarily assigned her to the unfortunately small subset of women who liked themselves. His assessment confirmed by her easy humor and comfort in his company. Ben Hart never tried to be an intimidating presence, a stereotypical uber-controlling manufacturing magnate. He’d never been very interested in controlling things or people, that way. He’d hired Hugo to do that.
Ben liked creating things. Fixing things. Solving problems. The thrill came for him when people wanted what he made. Money came to him that way, as well. Controlling was a personal issue to him. Controlling himself, his appetites, the designs he put his name on. Control was a very personal thing to Benedict Hart.
And while all that was true, Ben realized long ago that he was a natural-born Alpha male. People automatically deferred to him, even as a child. As an adult, his wealth brought him a certain amount of additional power. It would be normal for Ms. Rivers to be intimidated. To expect him to fit the stereotype. Instead, she’d apparently chosen to simply be herself. And it made him like her.
It’s not personal; it’s business. Stay on point. He gave her his attention as she answered his question.
“Don’t blame Hugo. I started it by comparing features of the grounds to those of medieval castles and the subject of Curtis was kind of inevitable,” she explained. “By the way, is Curtis his first or last name?”
“You know, I actually have no idea,” he replied as if he’d never thought about it before. “He’s always just been ‘Curtis.’ ”
She looked around the large room as he answered. To her left, an area comprising half the very large room, held a variety of unfamiliar objects, though she did recognize a long, black leather couch and matching recliner. There were also two large items under canvas covers tha
t looked like machines of some sort. Across from them, in the wall she faced, a set of arched double doors gave access to a bright, sunlit terrace.
“Would you care to sit?” He nodded at the desk diagonally to her right.
She cast a longing glance at the sunlight pouring through the arched doors. He amended his question. “Or, would you like to chat out on the terrace for a while?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, moving to the doors.
Avia reached for one of the brass handles. Another metallic click. He dropped a remote control into the pocket of his suit coat and followed her outside.
She went directly to the four-foot high balustrade and leaned out into the light wind, taking a deep breath, absorbing the view: Mount Evans visible to the north and Pikes Peak clearly outlined to the south. Yellow-gold patches of mid-September aspen splashed across deep green stands of lodgepole pine. Even to a native Coloradan like Avia, used to spectacular vistas even from fast food parking lots, it was a very fine view.
Ben hung back, also taking in a view.
He leaned against the sun-warmed wall of the Keep, watching her gaze out at the mountains he’d come to love.
The west wind tousled her hair and rippled her long skirt over her strong thighs and the sweet curves of her buttocks. She reminded him of a young puma, golden haired and green-eyed, a sleek, graceful, wild feline of a woman. Just for a moment he let himself imagine her writhing with pleasure under his hands. Begging him to let her come.
And in that moment, his cock stirring against his thigh, in the five minutes since they’d met, she became personal to him. Needful, to him. That was no good. She was a strong, confident Alpha female. The kind who never begged.
I can get her there, he thought as his cock twitched and lengthened.
Let it go. She’s a reporter.
Avia gazed steadily into the far distance and took a series of slow, deep breaths. It was a centering technique.
And I really do need centering, she thought. She was working and had only a minute to regain the professional distance she’d lost when Ben Hart took two long strides toward her, bent slightly from the waist, and offered his hand.
It was bad enough that he was great-looking. Really, Avi? Great? “Great” was the word, as much as she hated to admit it. The profile shot didn’t do his clean arched brows or chiseled cheekbones or sculpted mouth anything in the same time zone as justice.
Yeah, bad enough he looked like a character in one of his own books, but - it was such a gentlemanly thing to do. That bend from the waist, keeping his body away, extending his hand. Not crowding her, not getting into her space like so many men, or grabbing her hand using both of his or - ugh - kissing her hand.
She responded on autopilot. The pleasant smile, the thanks for seeing me, taking his hand into hers. But she felt … presence. As if he emanated an invisible force field that enveloped her. It was powerful. Magnetic. Sexual.
Next thing you know, you’ll be stumbling into his rock-hard chest. She mentally rolled her eyes at herself.
Still, it looked like it might be a very fine chest that filled the summer grey coat of his bespoke suit. The white shirt open at the collar, showed a triangle of tanned skin, the shadowed hollow at the base of his throat. He didn’t strike her as a ripped as much as … solid. A fortress of a man, to match his house.
The wind freshened, bringing her back to the moment. Get to work. But before she could turn around, he was there. Beside her. Enveloping her in his presence. Making her hyperaware of his body. And a very particular lower region of hers.
Okay, enough.
Avia stepped back casually, away from the warmth she felt despite the cool west wind.
Long-practiced in the art of not being a servant to his body, Ben moved smoothly to Avia’s side, resting his hands on the rail and pushing his thickening cock into the cool stone of a baluster. The enticing curves beneath the flow of Avia’s skirt were no longer visible to him. He reminded himself to focus. There was a story to be told, and one not to be told.
She stepped back and turned around, looked toward the house. To the left of the door was a huge pot with a giant aloe vera plant, easily five feet tall. To the right, a blue and white striped canvas awning created a shaded space with a variety of patio furniture.
“Can we sit?” She asked, with a nod toward a round cedar table.
“Absolutely.” He said, leading her to it. She opened her notebook, obviously ready to get to on with the interview. Fine with him.
“J.J. said you were willing to share data on customer buying habits?” she asked.
He fished a card from his breast pocket he handed her. “That’s my database manager. She’s expecting your call and will give you stats. In the meantime, I can give you an overview, if you like.”
“Can you tell me now why what’s popular, is?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I can give you my personal opinions, if you think that’s useful. There aren’t a lot of social scientists studying what women want in sex aids and erotic fiction. I do base my product development and marketing on those opinions, though. Seems to be working, so far.”
“Please,” she answered. “I’d like to hear anything, everything, you have to say on the subject.” She leaned forward, eyes on his, giving him the impression that nothing in the world could possibly be more interesting than his next words.
Damn, she’s good, he thought, staring straight back into eyes … more turquoise than green, really. Green-blue with flecks of gold. Stay on topic, he told himself.
“In terms of erotica,” he began. “In general, women want lots of steamy sex with an Alpha male who is well-versed in the art of pleasuring. A fantasy, during which they can relax and let him take charge. But the hero’s dominant behavior only works for the reader because the man is besotted with the heroine. Only she can satisfy his needs.”
Avia stopped writing, and waited. He’d paused to give her space to ask a question, but she was content to simply listen. He wondered if she knew what a heady aphrodisiac that was for a man: A woman who wanted nothing more than to listen to him without question or comment.
“That’s speaking generally,” Ben went on. “I market four specific imprints so customers know they are getting what they want, and avoiding what they don’t want, before they buy.”
He pulled out his cell and brought up a screen. He handed her the phone. “The imprints are links that take you to the list.”
Red Deer Publishing: Romance - Erotica
Sweethart: Classic Romance
Hartlands: LGBT Romance
Hartless: D/s Romance
Blackhart: B&D Romance
“There’s some crossover, naturally. The least profitable imprint is Sweethart. ‘Classic’ is code for no explicit
sex words or images. A cock is always a ‘member’ or a ‘tell-tale hardness.’ Women don’t have cunts, they have ‘a burning love-core.’ The books are racy rather than erotic. The demographic is senior and/or Bible belt and still carry themes of sin and redemption. Usually, the damaged male redeemed by the simple love of a good woman.”
Avia finished writing. She waited, again. “You don’t have questions?” He asked. “I expected a reporter - “
“Journalist,” she interrupted him. “I’m happy to call the sex toys you sell ‘sexual support products,’ and I’d appreciate you not calling me a reporter.” She smiled, her tone pleasant, without censure.
“Tell me what you see as the difference,” he asked, genuinely curious.
“Reporters gather and deliver data. Journalists unearth and reveal stories.” She shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe that sounds pretentious, but - it’s important to me. It’s what I love.”
“Fair enough. Would you believe me if I told you that designing better sexual support devices and products is the thing I love? Can you entertain the thought that my work is as serious and significant to me, as yours is to you?” he asked. “Can you imagine it might be as important?”
Avia considered this. “I think I need to know a lot more about it to answer that,” she finally responded. “This is a new world, to me.”
Ben Hart didn’t make a billion dollars being reckless. But there came a point in a negotiation or a decision when he knew caution was a stumbling block to success. Avia Rivers’ disarming honesty tipped those scales for him. Screw the danger.
Ben took the phone from her and made a call. “Cancel the rest of my of day and have some food sent in,” he said. He looked at her and covered the phone, “When would you like to eat and do you have anything you’re craving?”
Avia blinked.
What the hell are you doing? You just met the woman, some sensible part of himself asked. You’re trying to impress her!
You bet your sweet ass I am, he answered. Allowing her to hear him “cancel the rest of his day” was a little dishonest as there was really nothing to cancel. Though it did mean Hugo wouldn’t schedule anything for him, now. He’d been planning on spending the day in the palas fiddling with a new toy idea he’d had. There were a couple conference calls, but they were overseas calls he couldn’t make until evening.
You don’t do this! The voice shouted.
He hesitated. It can still be just lunch. He told his sensible self to calm down. Nothing had happened. Yet.
Avia cocked her head and shot him that crooked grin as she thought about food. She leaned forward, pressing against the table edge, tightening her blouse over her high, rounded breasts, nipples slightly pebbled by the cool wind. His cock stirred, again. Oh yeah, I’m doing this. And it will serve the plan, well.
“As for when? Now.” she said. “Carbs and protein, please. But I warn you, I’m an eater.”
While he ordered, he looked to her for approval. “Grilled salmon in big slabs. Mounds of potato salad. Sliced avocado and tomato. … Vinaigrette on the side … for two, but pretend there’re four of us … surprise me …” Avia gave him a double thumbs up. “Hugo will be down in fifteen, have the cart at the lift … thank you.”
