by Falon Gold
Undisclosed Desire
Box Set
by Falon Gold
Published Assistance by Nayberry Publications (2017)
Opelika, Alabama, 36801, USA
Copyright © Falon Gold 2017. All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America
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Table of Contents
Part 1: The Tycoon’s Heart
Part 2: The Sheriff’s Heart
Part 3: The Contracted Lovers
Part 1
The Tycoon’s Heart
Chapter One
Friday is finally here. In three hours, I board my plane leaving Utah, fly to Vegas, and check into my hotel where I can sleep for the whole weekend if I want to. My boss, Apollo Ford, grudgingly promised me this weekend off, with no emergency calls or unexpected problems. Being the personal assistant to a workaholic investment banker is becoming hazardous to my health. It’s too bad Mr. Ford’s look—too damn tall, dark, and handsome—doesn’t make it easy to work for him either.
His slaver-driver mode can last for days until I can’t remember the last time I talked to my family back in Colorado. And I damn sure haven’t been able to visit them since I started at Ford Global Enterprises four years ago. This hard work day in and day out is how I lost seventy-five pounds without one visit to a gym. Okay, that aspect isn’t so bad. However, the constant dark circles under my eyes, lack of sleep, and a developing case of narcolepsy definitely isn’t a positive result from working around the clock. I had to threaten to quit for real before he agreed to give me the next two days off.
Don’t get me wrong. He isn’t happy about having to fend for himself for forty-eight measly hours at the business that he chose to start ten years ago. Therefore, I know I’ll have to quit for real, one day. My health and future love life keep begging me to pin a date down.
I’m moving around the office at a fast clip so my weekend away from work and Mr. Ford can start as soon as possible. Readying things for his weekend meetings, like putting reports that he’ll need on the right corner of his black lacquer desk with the glass top and stacking takeout menus on the left corner are next to the last things I have to do today. If I find his cell phone, erasing my number out of it is imperative before I fly one state over, or he’ll call me morning, noon, and night.
Sigh.
All he needs is one excuse to call and he will. Mostly, he calls because he can’t find contracts or payroll timesheets, which I leave in the bin that he designated for paperwork that needs his signature. Occasionally, he can’t find the list of passwords that are in a locked bottom drawer of his desk every day, all day, even though he has one of the only two keys to it in his pocket at all times. Sometimes, I swear he just likes to hear my sleepy voice, and he’s obviously an insomniac. Well, I’m not. I love to get my rest, and I don’t appreciate being forced to work around the clock. His workaholic tendencies are running me down physically and making me run from the person I developed a crush on the minute I stepped in his office to interview as his personal assistant. Almost completely blinding love for him crept upon me slowly afterwards. It’s part of the reason why I need this break.
When I walk into his office, he’s standing at the glass wall, glaring at the view of Lake City. His office is enormous and sparsely decorated with just his and my matching desks. Black file cabinets sit behind each desk, which face each other from opposite ends of the room. His side has the glass wall and a fantastic view of Lake City’s skyline.
I can tell he’s grumpy about my leaving, but that’s just tough. I’m out of here as soon as I open every file on his computer, so he can’t call asking about damn passwords.
“Malisa,” someone whispers in my ear, startling the hell out of me while I’m bending over the bottom drawer of Ford’s desk.
I spring upright, as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t have. My heart beats erratically.
“Jesus, Mr. Ford,” I hiss, wondering when he crossed the room. “Give a girl some warning next time, why don’t you?” I say and I tug my ruffled white blouse down over my plain gray skirt, both two sizes too big and held up by a wide, gray belt.
He takes a seat on the corner of his desk, eyeballing me with dark, bedroom eyes that could convince sugar to jump out of a cake. “You’re in a big hurry to leave me, aren’t you?” he asks, and I hear pure need in his voice. Not simply the need of his personal assistant, but a need for me.
I drop down into his heavily-cushioned office chair then reach down for the drawer with the passwords again, with him looking down on me. Tingles fire off along the back of my bare neck. If he can affect my skin by just looking at me, what would happen if he ever actually touched it?
I’ll never know. I’m not the type of woman he dates, and I'm unwilling to get caught up in his basket of significant others. I quickly push back the fantasy that I’m having about him needing me and jokingly say, “Yes, Mr. Ford, I’m fleeing here like I stole something. I would appreciate if you didn’t call me for anything after I’m gone. I left my cell phone at home in case you do, and the hotel won’t be allowed to put calls through to my room. I’m taking the phone off the hook just in case they try."
That's partially a lie. I have a wakeup call scheduled for eight a.m. and want my family to be able to reach me if anything happens in Colorado. But after four long years without a real break, I want to be free of Ford Global Enterprises for every moment possible.
Bingo! I retrieve the lists of passwords and sit up to face the computer. He crosses his thick, muscular arms that he keeps toned in the gym three floors above us, with too damn early in the morning workouts.
“I don’t know why you have to go all the way to Vegas, Malisa. I know how to leave a woman alone that doesn’t want to be bothered with me.”
I roll my eyes heavenward then start to open files on the computer. “What woman do you know that doesn’t want your company?”
“You,” he fires back.
That’s not exactly true, but what good would it do me to tell him that?
“Well, that’s your fault, Mr. Ford, for working me like a dog. I’ll be dead by the time I’m thirty at this rate.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Overdramatic much, Malisa?”
“That’s because I don’t sleep much, Ford,” I counter. “You really need to hire another assistant. I know you can afford it, because I print off reports of your bottom line every day.”
He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a busy man.”
“One that needs more help.”
Mr. Ford starts to do one of his ordinary things that always does
weird things to my heartbeat and the bottom of my stomach; he simply grins. “I’m going to miss that mouth of yours,” he admits.
“I will not miss yours,” I grumble underneath my breath.
At least, I’m going to try not to miss it.
He starts to chuckle quietly, as expected.
Apollo and I are probably the only white male boss and black female employee in the entire state of Utah that get along like a house on fire. He says whatever he wants to me and I return the favor. Nothing sexual has ever passed from his lips toward me, not even when I’ve slept over his house, which is at least twice a week. I’m there even more nights when there’s a difficult client who lives overseas and keeps changing the terms of whatever contract. Eventually, I pass out on Ford’s home office’s leather couch, and he keeps right on working until he drops at his desk. When he wakes up with keyboard-face and a blanket I’ve thrown over his shoulders, I’m gone, having slipped out the side door at the crack of dawn. Usually, I make it to my home on the less expensive side of town in my reliable Honda Civic and have just unlocked my front door before he’s barking an order into my phone for me to come back.
Sometimes, I outright refuse. When he threatens to fire me, I tell him to go ahead. Then, he gives me a few hours to sleep, shower, and show up for work. His dry wit keeps me entertained while he orders me around. I don’t mind it, especially when what he pays me a month is more than what most personal assistants make in half a year anywhere.
The best part about working for him is that I get paid extremely well for staring into his oval-shaped, chocolate eyes, pondering whether his slightly larger top lip that overlaps his bottom one is as supple as it looks, and imagining running my fingers over his perfectly built body. He’s just right, not too big or too slim.
Whether I’m on the clock or at home in my bed alone, my mind always wanders to running my fingers through his hair that I schedule cuts for every two weeks. It’s a little long on the top, parted on the right, and swoops backwards, to blend in with the closely-shaved hair around his ears and nape so it doesn’t touch the designer suits that he wears.
When I’m asked to make reservations for the classiest of restaurants, so he can enjoy himself with other women, I get a little grumpy and a lot heartbroken, but he’s never noticed. If I had time to schedule my own dates, maybe I wouldn’t be so crabby about him wining and dining some socialite from one continent or another.
They’re always beautiful women that know the difference between Prada and Gucci, and that’s about all. Ford seems to like his women shallow, so I don’t hold out any real hope for spending time with him that doesn’t involve his computer, business, or dry-cleaning. I’m officially work-zoned in his world, and my battery-operated boyfriend isn’t enough to remove Apollo from my deepest needs and thoughts anymore. So, I will have to find another job or a date soon.
I need more than my fantasies of him can provide, and I want it all: the house with the picket fence, two point five kids, and even the damn dog. I’ve been picky about the men I dated since I left college, which means I haven’t been dating. Okay, maybe I’ve been secretly waiting for Apollo to ask me out.
It’s time to stop waiting and start dating again, beginning with a spa visit and complete makeover at the Shalimar Hotel in Vegas.
With the fat that was hugging my short frame like icing on a cake gone, I can now flaunt whatever figure I got, after I get rid of the oversized clothes I’ve been housing it in. Yeah, it’s time to start looking for a lover, and hell I may even find a husband.
I open the last confidential file on Ford’s computer that he’s most certainly not going to need for any of his meetings this weekend. I stand up, avoiding his stare while reaching beside his desk for my purse and the duffel bag on the floor. I packed this morning and brought my bag to work so I could leave for the airport from here.
“Any other emergencies, Mr. Ford, dial 911,” I say respectively, throwing in a slight bit of humor. I sling the straps of my bags over my shoulder and step around his desk. I intend to bypass him and haul ass to the ground floor, where a taxi is scheduled to pick me up in twenty minutes.
Ford stands up before I can get past him, effectively blocking my getaway. I stop in my tracks then sidestep to the right. His long legs make him quicker at getting to the next spot on the thick, gray carpet. When he opens his arms wide, I curse under my breath. I could keep sidestepping, but I’d be doing that all day. I look toward the glass wall, but my view of the skyline is obstructed, with Mr. Ford and his file cabinet as the obstructions.
“Can I get a hug goodbye?” he asks with a frown, the timbre of his deep voice making tiny campfires blaze under every inch of my flesh.
Oh hell no, you can’t say goodbye! You’ve said enough already, and touching me is out of the question. If I hug him, I’ll probably forget how to let go, and he’ll have to shake himself like a dog to get me off.
“You don’t need to say goodbye, Mr. Ford. I’ll be back Monday morning, not next year.”
He laughs and steps forward, enveloping me in his arms anyway, making my glasses tilt sideways on my face. I reach up to adjust them, then breathe in the scent of his Burberry cologne mixed with his natural manly smell. It’s a mind-scrambling concoction when he’s just standing across the room, but it changes the quality of the air and makes my ability to breathe nonexistent when he’s this close.
The feel of his arms wrapped around me isn’t making things easy for my self-control. I’d consider him a tease, if I didn’t already know that he really just wants a hug. I'm not one of the women who will ever be on the receiving end of his affection. I suspect he sees me as a little sister, and always will.
Well, at least he sees me.
Now if he would just let me go, before I wrap my arms around him, too.
“Mr. Ford,” I say, my words muffled by his wide chest, my cheek resting between the ridges of his bulging pectorals.
Lord have mercy, I didn’t know his chest was this big.
He rocks me just a little bit, making a rush of unwanted desire ripple through my core.
“Malisa, stay with me. I’ll give you a raise.”
I’d consider that too, if he was raising me from his personal assistant to his girlfriend.
“No, you’ve worn out the ‘I’ll give you a raise’ line already. I have more money than I know what to do with. I’m going to Vegas, and I’m not returning until Monday.” I stand firm, quietly, and in his arms, while trying not to add a meaning to his offer that he would never imply.
He releases me finally. I miss his touch instantly and rush for the door, before I change my mind about staying or the unrequited love, which refuses to go away, starts to choke me up. I deserve this break and the chance to attract everything in life that I want, which isn’t going to come from him.
That’s why I need this trip so badly, to find the new me that’s lurking below the too big skirts, unattractive shoes, wire-rimmed glasses, and grandma blouses that I find in department stores for a steal on my way to work.
Outside, on the sidewalk in front of the glass skyscraper that’s the headquarters for Ford Global Enterprises, I stand under an awning with the valet, Mikhail, who’s been working here just as long as I have. While I wait for my cab, I can’t help skimming my eyes over his Spanish features of long lashes, thick lips, high cheekbones, muscular build cloaked in sun-kissed skin and black uniform of suit and tie. He's handsome, but he’s not Apollo.
My taxi arrives right on time. I wave goodbye to more than just Mikhail. The one-sided love I have for Ford needs to be left behind, too.
During the ride to the airport, I actually manage to stay awake until I find my first-class aisle seat on the airplane. An hour later, I hail another taxi to the hotel, where I go up to the fiftieth floor and dump my suitcases and purse on the lounge chair at the foot of the bed. I slip under a white comforter bearing the Shalimar’s signature ‘S.’ I fall dead asleep at six o’clock in the evening, without taking i
n any of the sights in Sin City.
Chapter Two
My morning wakeup call arrives thirty minutes too late. I’ve already showered and feel completely rejuvenated after a night of uninterrupted sleep. I sit down to breakfast in my luxurious suite. For five-hundred dollars a night, it is luxuriously spacious with intricate designs, hand-carved into the Cherrywood furniture and French doors that open to the Las Vegas horizon. The bed is positioned in the middle of the room, surrounded by potted plants. It’s a permanent pleasant memory etched in my mind.
However, I’ve admired my bedroom for the weekend enough. I have thirty minutes before my spa visit and makeover that come free with the three-room suite. Fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, coffee, and toast every morning along with my choice of dinner, whether it’s French cuisine or a hamburger and fries every night, isn’t a bad complimentary feature, either.
Hopefully, thirty minutes is enough time to learn how to put in the contacts that were delivered to my room before I arrived. At least, I have another year to figure out how to squeeze another eye appointment into Ford’s hectic schedule that makes getting anything done for myself almost impossible.
It wouldn’t be so hard if I quit my job, I think, tired of not being able to take care of myself first, second, or last. Mr. Ford has yet to figure out how to turn work off. Even when he’s on his dates, I still have something pressing for his business to do. Then I go home, alone, if I find the time. Well, not anymore dammit, I vow, then get up from the breakfast table set at the foot of the king-sized bed with elegant posts that would touch the ceiling if it was low. Instead, it’s vaulted.
After grabbing the bag with the contact lenses from the nightstand, I cross to the back of the bedroom and enter the bathroom. I figure out how to cover my dark-brown, ordinary eyes in medicated plastic, after thirty tries for each eye. I lock the few possessions I brought with me in the suite’s safe and ride the elevator down to the sixth floor.
