Dirty Boss

by C L Cruz

  I take a second to get my bearings and then turn for the bar.

  “I’ll have a Bulleit sour,” I tell the flustered-looking bartender.

  He gets me my drink and I turn, running almost smack into Maximilian Hawthorne. He claps me on the shoulder, nearly spilling my drink.

  “Toby, my good man,” he says with a smile. “Good to see you here.”

  “It’s Tobias,” I remind him. I swear he knows my preference, but the man is an expert at pushing buttons and making it seem friendly.

  “Of course. Your old man sent you this year, eh? Finally handing over the metaphorical reins?”

  I grunt, taking a long swig of my drink. What not a lot of people know is I’ve been the one holding the reins for years, even before my father’s retirement. While my dad has been the face of the company, I’ve been the one putting in the long hours.

  He gestures to the room. “What do you think of the space?”

  “Getting a pretty big tax break on this, I guess?” The Hawthorne Group acquired Monolith Hotels and sunk a ton of money into the properties. I can’t imagine Max doing anything out of the goodness of his heart, not when there’s money to be made—or saved.

  “Everyone wins when it’s for charity,” he says, practically echoing my own words back at me. As much as I hate to admit it, Max and I—and all the Oakwood Boys—are cut from the same cloth.

  “I heard you were dating Tana,” I say to change the subject. “Is she here?”

  “Ah, no, she isn’t.” He takes a sip of his own drink. “We’re not together anymore. But you know what they say—tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

  I twist my lips in thought. “Is it really, though?”

  He smiles ruefully over at me. “Would you be here otherwise?”

  Before I can remind him that I’m here out of duty, not desire, he spots someone else and raises a hand.

  “You’ll excuse me,” he says, and without waiting for a reply, disappears to the other side of the room.

  I spend the next half an hour mingling with men I typically only see at the Oakwood Club, and then, only in passing. These are some of the biggest business tycoons, not just in the city, but in the nation. Bankers and investors and oil men, some of them above-board but most of them with their fingers in shadier dealings, too. Wealthy men. Entitled. Dangerous. I tread lightly, careful to foster relationships that my father spent years building, trying to repair those he destroyed for one reason or another.

  Clarence Talbot is one of the latter. He and my father have some sort of feud, and it really gets his goat that his son, Ben, who’s also one of my friends, is marrying my sister. When I catch him scowling at me from across the room, I make it a point to make the first move, approaching him with a drink to replace the empty glass sitting on the table beside him.

  “Mr. Talbot,” I say, offering him the glass. “Good to see you.”

  Warily, he takes the drink, and then gestures to an empty chair at the table. “Thank you. Please sit.”

  I do, grateful to get off my feet and hide in the shadows for a bit. “I guess you’re here in Ben’s place?”

  He scoffs. “Me, at a date auction. And my son, marrying a Kline. Who would have thought?”

  “We’re not so bad.”

  “Maybe you’re not. And I guess your sister isn’t, either. Just don’t put me at a table with your father at Christmas dinner.”

  I laugh. “I’ll make sure Josie gets the request.”

  He studies his glass for a minute and then looks up at me again. “There are certain expectations of men in yours and Ben’s shoes. It’s nothing personal against Josephine. I just hope she understands that there are appearances to maintain. Standards to live up to. Being married to my son comes with duties.”

  Duties. Expectations. Appearances. No wonder I have no interest in actually investing time and affection into anyone, not when that’s what it boils down to.

  Before I can respond to remind him that Josie grew up in this world even if she doesn’t always act like it, the lights dim even further and the master of ceremonies takes the stage. Both of us turn our attention to him as he reminds us why we’re all here—for the girls. There’s polite laughter as he corrects himself.

  “We’re also here to honor Valentina Rodriguez and raise awareness for cancer research. So, gentlemen, get those checkbooks ready, here comes our first lovely lady.”

  An older Latina woman ushers a pretty blond on stage, and the MC drones on about her interests, but everyone is really looking at her…assets, trying to decide if something better might come along or if they should go ahead and cut their losses.

  “Five hundred,” Clarence Talbot shouts to my surprise. Then, he leans over to me. “Better to get it over with. You’ll see.”

  Someone else raises the bid, and Clarence counters. I drain my glass and signal a girl who looks like a waitress for another. She takes my empty glass and by the time she returns, Clarence is two thousand dollars poorer and the girl is that much closer to becoming a kept woman. Neither one of them seems too disappointed.

  “You’ll excuse me.” Clarence stands, empties his own glass, and approaches the stairs, where the MC presents the girl to her date.

  Another girl is paraded onto the stage, and then another. I finish my second drink, and the waitress brings me a third. I’m considering writing the charity a check and leaving so that I can still make it to the Oakwood Club before it gets too late, when the MC announces the next participant.

  “Next is Ms. Nina Rodriguez, sister to our own Valentina.”

  Nina is the name of the girl Ross says works for H&K. It draws my attention back to the stage just as an elegant, dark-haired woman whose voluptuous curves are poured into a tight purple—no, lavender—dress walks out on sky-high stilettos. There’s something about her that makes me pause. And it’s not just because I want to ride her curves like a roller coaster. No, it’s like she’s a breath of fresh air, a flower blooming in the sidewalk crack. For the first time in my life, I want to slow down and appreciate the view.

  After the introduction, the MC opens the bids.

  “Five hundred,” calls a voice across the room.

  My head jerks to the side and I see fucking Max Hawthorne with his hand raised.

  The MC acknowledges him and scans the crowd.

  “One thousand,” I say.

  Max raises his glass to me, and I think that’s it, until he says, “Two thousand.”

  What the actual fuck? “Twenty-five hundred,” I counter before the MC even turns back to me.

  “Three.”

  “Four.”

  “Forty-five hundred.”

  “Five,” I say, already over my planned budget, but willing to spend more. It’s the price I’ll pay for being so focused on the company that I didn’t see her when she was right under my nose.

  On stage, Nina’s head whips back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match, but I don’t take my eyes off her. Her breasts heave with her excited breaths, and her dark eyes are wide. There’s an innocence in her excitement that I don’t know if I’ve ever seen before. I can only imagine how that translates to the bedroom. She’s magnificent, and she’s going to be mine, no matter what the cost.

  “Six,” Max says.

  I wonder at his game. Is it just because I want her? Or does he see the same thing in her that I do?

  “Going once,” the MC warns.

  For the first time, Nina’s eyes meet mine, and there’s a spark there, concealed behind her innocence. I want to ignite her, corrupt her, make her mine. I’ll be damned if I let Max get there first.

  “Going twice.”

  “Ten thousand,” I announce.

  The MC’s eyes go wide and he glances at Max. “Going once.”

  I don’t even bother to look at Max, instead keeping Nina trapped under my gaze.

  “Going twice,” the MC says. Then, after a brief pause, continues, “And the lovely lady is sol
d to this fine gentleman here for the—” Here he pauses and clears his throat. “The impressive sum of ten thousand big ones.”

  There are shouts and cheers, and the older woman says something to Nina, brushing her hair out of her face and turning her toward the stairs, where I’m waiting, my hand held out to her.

  Chapter Four

  Nina

  Amid the applause and cheers, Camila appears in front of me, her lips twisted in a surprised smile. “Maybe you have more oomph than I thought, mija.” She brushes my curled hair back over my shoulders.

  “What just happened?” I whisper, more to myself than to her.

  Her eyes flick past me and then back to my face. “There’s no time to talk about it now. He’s waiting. And you don’t keep a man like that waiting.”

  She spins me by my shoulders and practically shoves me toward the stairs.

  And there he is, my beautiful, dark, debonair dream, standing at the bottom of the stairs like a prince in a fairytale.

  So why does he look more like the villain?

  I discreetly pinch myself, but no, it’s not a dream. My heart is racing as I take his hand—his big, strong hand with neatly trimmed fingernails—and descend the stairs. I feel a little lightheaded, like I might swoon. Wouldn’t that be something straight out of a historical romance novel?

  It feels like everyone is watching as I reach the floor and turn to him. After having spent my life playing second-string to Valentina, it feels weird to have so much attention on me. I’m not sure that I like it.

  He doesn’t let go of my hand as he snags a drink off a passing tray and hands it to me.

  “Nina, right?” he asks.

  I nod, my mouth suddenly dry, the room too warm, the dress too tight. It’s like I can’t catch my breath.

  He says something, his voice low, his breath warm on my ear. But I can barely hear him. The room is swirling. I grab his sleeve to steady myself, and his brow furrows, concern flicking across his face.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know if it’s the fact that this is happening at all, or the fact that my boss just spent ten thousand dollars to go on a date with me. What is he going to want in return? It’s one thing to fantasize about something, but another thing entirely to be faced with the reality of it.

  What if I bore him?

  What if he regrets it?

  “Want to get out of here?” he asks.

  I put a hand to my chest. “I can’t breathe,” I gasp.

  He’s going to want his ten thousand back. I’m going to be the laughingstock of Oakwood City.

  He wraps a steadying arm around me and ushers me out the side door. Spotting the room with all the girls’ stuff in it, he steers me there. I stumble inside my little dressing area and immediately go for the zipper on the dress. I can’t get enough air into my lungs; I don’t care that he’s in here. But the fucking zipper is stuck.

  “What’s wrong?” he’s asking.

  I spin in a circle, reaching, tugging, to no avail. It won’t budge.

  He catches me, his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to meet his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he repeats.

  My chest heaves and I’m sure I’m turning red.

  He seems to catch on then, because he spins me around. I brace myself against the back of the couch. He’s right behind me, his crotch against my ass. I can feel the outline of his apparently considerable length pressed against me, and that makes the panic worse as my vision goes blurry.

  Then, there’s the sound of ripping fabric and I gulp down air like a drowning man, barely noticing as the bodice of the beautiful—and borrowed—dress pools around my hips. A firm hand strokes my back, and as my breathing slows and my heart rate returns to normal…I am completely horrified.

  I bury my face in my hands. “Oh my God.”

  His hand stills at the base of my spine. Then, his fingers curl around the fabric of the dress and pull me back against him. His other hand comes around my shoulders and grabs my chin, tilting my head up. My hands fall away as he turns my face until I can just see him out of the corner of my eye.

  “Don’t ever hide,” he says. “Not from me. Not from anyone.”

  All I want to do is run and hide, like I’m Little Red Riding Hood and he’s the Big Bad Wolf. But his grip on my chin is strong and forces me to comply.

  “Do you understand?”

  I become suddenly very aware of every inch of exposed skin touching him, of the heat of his arm against the swell of my breast, his tight abs against my back, his fingers sliding inside the waistband at the back of my Spanx. Holy shit.

  “Yes, Sir,” I say, my voice a whisper, hoping that’s what he wants to hear, and hoping he can tell that I’m willing to play along. I’ve never pictured myself as the sexy goddesses in my romance books, but who’s to say I can’t be?

  His eyes flick down to my lips for a split second and I think he might kiss me. I lick my lips in preparation, but instead, he releases me completely, taking a step back. It’s all I can do not to collapse onto the seat in front of me. I gather the bodice of the dress to me and turn. He’s about a foot away from me, but the air between us feels charged with electric energy.

  “I’m so sorry about this,” I say, trying to regain some semblance of composure, sure he can see the embarrassed flush creeping up my neck. “I get panic attacks sometimes, I’m usually alone when it happens. I’ll talk to my aunt; I can probably get you out of having to pay.”

  “No,” he says sharply, his brow furrowing again.

  “No?”

  He takes a step, closing the distance between us. My legs bump the arm of the couch. “I’m a businessman. We made a deal when I made my bid and won you, and you will hold up your end of the bargain.”

  God, he might as well just ravish me here and now with the effect his words have on me. The way he says he won me, like I’m a prize. I swear I can feel my panties getting wet and he isn’t even touching me.

  I look down at myself. “I guess I can change—”

  “Not tonight. I want you to be at one hundred percent when I take you out. Go home, get some rest. I expect you to be well-rested and ready when I call.”

  I want to demand more details, to know when and where, to tell him that sometimes I have family obligations and work obligations and my schedule doesn’t revolve around him…but his tone leaves no room for discussion, and to be fair, my schedule already revolves around other people anyway. My aunt. My mom. My sister. My job. I’ll add him to the mix if it means potentially having his hands on me again.

  “Nina?” My aunt’s voice breaks the silence between us. Before Tobias or I can react, she whips the curtain open. “Are you—Oh!” She stops when she catches sight of us—me, half-naked. Tobias, standing so close it should be uncomfortable. Actually, it probably is uncomfortable for her. Not so much for me.

  “We were just making plans for our date,” Tobias says, sparing her only a passing glance.

  Then his eyes are on me again. He takes one of my hands—the one holding my dress up, of course—and brings it to his lips. As the bodice falls open again, though, his dark gaze stays on mine, never dropping as if he’s some kind of gentleman.

  His lips brush my palm. “Be ready,” he says.

  Turning, he nods at Camila and brushes past her, leaving the two of us alone, staring at each other in shocked silence. At least now I know what it takes to get my aunt to stop talking.

  Chapter Five

  Tobias

  “Your usual, Sir?” The thin, blond hostess at the private entrance to the Oakwood Club bats her long, fake lashes at me, but instead of turning me on, all I can think about are Nina’s natural, dark lashes framing eyes that seem to change colors depending on her mood.

  Light and honey-colored when she’s happy.

  Dark, nearly black when she’s turned on.

  Like the good girl that she knows to be, the hostess doesn’t push me for a response. Instead, she stands obediently, waiting for my reply
. I know that with just a word from me, she’ll do anything that I ask. Her body, her mind, her obedience—they’ll be mine.

  But I don’t want her.

  For some reason, the dungeon isn’t calling to me tonight.

  I came here to blow off steam, to put Nina from my mind and get my head on straight before work tomorrow.

  It’s not working. Instead, all I can think about is Nina, and how these girls don’t compare to her. To her luscious curves, to her innocent smile, to her willingness to learn.

  Yes, Sir, she’d said, her plump lips parted, ready for my kiss. A kiss I’d denied her because I’m a fucking idiot who has to exert control over every aspect of my life. If I’d kissed her then, I know that I would have laid all my cards out on the table. I convinced myself that it was enough that she wasn’t going home with anyone else, at least.

  But now, as I look down at this woman that is not Nina, I’m having some regrets.

  “No,” I finally answer her. “I’ll be in the lounge.”

  Her surprise shows only briefly in her eyes. “Of course,” she says, stepping aside and holding open the door.

  The lounge is mid-level and exclusive only to the Oakwood Boy nobility—Kings, Princes, Knights—members of the highest order. Tonight, as every night, it’s dark, smoky, and warm. Men gather in clusters in and around leather chairs, Port wine glasses in one hand and burning cigars in the other, as they conduct business deals that could change the whole course of the nation’s economy.

  The attendant greets me and takes my jacket. His eyes flick over my open collar disapprovingly—I took the bowtie off and left it in the car. No fucking way I was wearing a purple—lavender—bowtie to the club, whether in the lounge or in the dungeon.

  “What can I get you, Sir?” he asks.

  I roll up my sleeves, surveying the other men. “A glass of the ’48 Fonseca,” I tell him. I’m in the mood for something big and bold.