by R. C. Martin
If this is my new boss, I’m absolutely screwed.
WHEN I GOT out of the shower, I didn’t bother with any clothes as I went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. My mind already at work, I tried to recall my schedule for the day. I knew I didn’t have to be in court, but there was something in the afternoon that I couldn’t remember. It wasn’t until I went looking for my phone that I realized I had left it on my desk. Certain I wouldn’t run into anyone at this time in the morning, I came down for a mere moment, wrapped only in a towel.
Now, as I stand perfectly still, my fingers submerged in my wet hair while I stare at the woman standing outside of my office, this afternoon is the last thing on my mind.
Fuck. Me.
She’s got legs for days.
Her dark skirt clings to those gorgeous things, showing off the subtle curve of her hips while simultaneously sculpting her narrow waist.
Fuck—me.
The button-up she’s wearing hugs her tits just right, and I clench my jaw, willing my dick to stay flaccid at the sight. As my gaze continues its upward journey, I admire her slightly curled, strawberry blonde hair—grown out halfway down her back and draped over her chest. She wears it parted down the side, like that goddamn Jessica Rabbit cartoon.
Jesus. Fuck.
Her pink, plump lips are parted open, as if she’s too transfixed to concentrate on keeping her mouth closed. Noticing that her focus is directed at the tattoo on my side, I drop my arm to cover up the lovely Lady Justice.
Big mistake.
Fucking hell—I wasn’t ready for those eyes.
They’re huge.
They’re green.
They’re stunning.
Our gazes collide for only a moment before she starts looking around frantically, as if searching for an exit of some kind. Even still, her feet remain planted, like she’s rooted to the very spot on which she stands.
It isn’t until this second that it dawns on me that she’s either lost, or she’s new. Seeing as visitors can’t even access this floor for another two hours, process of elimination brings me to one conclusion.
Fucking shit—my secretary is not some middle-aged, librarian type woman. She’s a goddamn knock out.
I draw in a deep breath, waiting for her eyes to meet mine again. When they do, I lift my brow expectantly and hold up a hand. Curling two fingers in a beckoning motion, I signal for her to come inside. She presses a hand to her flat belly, looking from side to side, as if she’s unsure; as if I could be waiting for someone other than her. I can’t help the small smirk that tugs at the corner of my mouth.
Sexy and cute.
Maybe I was wrong to trust Rebecca.
The last thing I need is some tight ass temptation sitting right outside my door, day after day.
I watch as she sucks down a deep breath before taking hold of the handle on the door, pushing it open.
“Hi,” she murmurs timidly, crossing the threshold into my office.
My dick twitches at the sound of her voice, and I twist my neck in an attempt to ward off the sensation.
“I’m so sorry for—um—showing up like this. I—I didn’t think anyone would be here yet, and I—”
“And you are?” I ask, rudely interrupting her.
In all sincerity, it can’t be helped. Two steps into the room, and the scent of her perfume has my mind traversing down roads I do not wish to travel. Not to mention, I’m completely out of my element, here. I’m wearing a fucking towel, for Christ’s sake.
“Oh,” she says softly, taking another step toward me. “I’m Sally. Sally Salenger. I believe I’m your new secretary. You’re Mr. Croft, right?” Hooking her thumb over her shoulder, she goes on to say, “Your name isn’t on the door. It’s the only corner office without one. I just assumed—”
“Call me Dane,” I instruct with a confused scowl. “My secretary’s name is Sigourney.”
“Yes. Legally, my name is Sigourney; but I go by Sally.”
I study her for a moment, my brow still furrowed as I come to the swift conclusion that I won’t be calling her Sally. It doesn’t suit her. There’s something about the way she carries herself, the manner in which she holds her body, it speaks of a confidence and hidden prowess that doesn’t befit a name as simple as Sally.
“You don’t look like a Sally,” I inform her.
A small smile plays at her lips as she tilts her head slightly. “Well, it’s more of a nickname, really.”
“Good. Then you won’t mind if I refer to you by your birth name.”
She straightens, lacing her fingers together and resting her hands against her lower stomach as she tells me, “Nobody calls me Sigourney. Not even my parents.”
“Then why did they give you the name?” I challenge.
She shakes her head, as if she’s perplexed by our entire exchange, and then she answers, “Both my first and my middle name are old family names. My great-great grandmother on my dad’s side was Sigourney. My dad’s buddies, for as long as I can remember, have always called him Salenger or Sal. Growing up with a name like Sigourney wasn’t easy, and my middle name is even worse, so I adopted my dad’s nickname—thus Sally.”
Intrigued by her little antidote, I fold my arms across my chest before I ask, “What’s your middle name?”
At first, she doesn’t answer me. My gaze unwavering, I stare at her until she concedes. When she finally gives in, she closes her eyes and pulls in a breath, like she’s preparing herself for something dreadful.
“Petunia,” she mutters. Opening her eyes once more, she looks right at me and says, “If you must know, my name is Sigourney Petunia Salenger.”
I cough, bringing a fist to my mouth in a failed attempt to cover up my laugh. Admittedly, I can’t blame her for favoring her nickname. I can only imagine the cruel insults children could think up with a name like that.
Obviously fighting her own smile, she folds her arms underneath her breasts and pops her hip before exclaiming, “See? It’s awful.”
The amusement I felt a moment ago vanishes at the sight of her standing like that. Seeing a hint of her sass only solidifies my earlier decision. She’s already too alluringly cute as it is. The last thing she needs is an endearing nickname to add to her total package.
A person would have to be blind not to see how attractive she is. The level of concentration I’m exercising right now just to keep all my blood from racing to my crotch is impressive by any man’s standards. Different place, different time, Sally and I would be having an entirely different conversation. Unfortunately for my dick, this woman is my subordinate. I need boundaries—solid boundaries. I’m not my father, which means she’s off limits—no matter how tempting she might be. I’m drawing a professional line right here, right now.
“THIS IS NOT a playground,” he states, arching an eyebrow at me. “It’s a law office, and I intend to call you by your legal name. Are you going to have a problem with that?”
I drop my arms to my sides, straightening my stance as I fight to keep my lips sealed. I won’t lie—his smooth, tenor voice, with all that nakedness going on, is intimidating all on its own. Hearing him put his foot down, and seeing that he’s capable of getting his way while wearing nothing but a towel, it’s enough to make me surrender. It also has my mind wandering, imagining how commanding he’s capable of being in a suit.
Or even better—in a suit, in front of a judge.
I drop my eyes to my feet, silently berating myself for even thinking about how such a sight would totally turn me on. Over the years, I’ve been around my fair share of lawyers in suits. I’ve never, not once, entertained such sensual thoughts about any of them. In environments such as this one, it’s hard enough to be a woman stuck in a lowly clerical position. Earning their respect is a chore in and of itself; furthermore, sleeping my way to the top has never been an option. The fact that my thoughts keep running rampant—in regards to my boss, no less—is both ridiculous and concerning.
Then again
, I’m used to the men in the office wearing clothes, not towels.
“Sigourney?” he calls, recapturing my attention.
My gaze snaps up, and I shake my head as I remember his question. Swiftly, I reply, “No. No, sir. No problem. I’ll—adapt.”
“Dane. I’m not so high and mighty that you can’t refer to me by my legal name, as well.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.” Before I can apologize again, he says, “While I appreciate and look forward to your promptness moving forward, I don’t understand why you’re here. I wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”
Having since forgotten the time, I lace my fingers together in front of me as I attempt to explain. “Yes, I know. I meant to sneak in only for a second, just to get a look around. I planned on slipping out before anyone got here. There’s a coffee shop on the corner—”
“The Grind. I know.”
Anxiously tucking a bit of hair behind my ear, I mutter, “Right, well, I was going to stop by and grab a drink before I came back. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“What did I tell you about apologizing?” He spins his phone between his fingers and then starts to make his way across the room, heading in the direction from which he came a few minutes ago.
I watch him, distracted by the shape of his undoubtedly nice ass, and surprised when he presses a button on the wall. The act causes the elevator doors I hadn’t noticed before to open. While it makes sense that he has to have come from somewhere wrapped in only a towel, it still surprises me that he’s obviously got a shower upstairs. It makes me wonder what else is up there.
It isn’t until he steps into the elevator that I realize he’s leaving with hardly a parting glance. Not sure whether I should stay or go or what, I blurt, “Did you want something?”
He stops, leaning out of the lift car to look at me, his blue eyes so unbelievably blue that I almost forget I’ve asked him anything. He quirks an eyebrow at me, and I realize it’s his silent way of asking me to clarify.
“Coffee. Did you want some coffee?”
It takes him a few seconds to answer. His gaze is concentrated on me so intently, I’m not sure what he’s thinking.
Finally, he answers, “House blend. Cream. No sugar.” Disappearing from view, he calls out, “I’ll see you in forty-five minutes, Sigourney.”
THE LINE AT the coffee shop is long. I don’t have a chance to call Ellery by the time I’ve picked up my latte and Dane’s coffee with cream—no sugar. When I return to the office, it’s eight o’clock on the dot, and the firm is starting to buzz with the activity of the day. Admittedly, it feels good to walk in with a newfound sense of where I am. With no one seated at the reception desk yet, I breeze right by it, taking a left to my work space.
After I stow my purse in one of the empty bottom drawers, I grab Dane’s coffee and turn toward his office. A small squeak spills from my lips when I find him standing right behind me. As inappropriate as it might be, I can’t stop my eyes from taking him in from head to toe. Seeing him in a fitted, three-piece, black suit, with a skinny, silver neck tie and a white button-up would be enough to bring any woman to her knees. Knowing what lies underneath all of that material only makes him more desirable.
And his hair? Dark blond and styled perfectly.
Finished with my perusal, I feel it when a slight blush colors my cheeks at the sight of his small, knowing smile.
“Better?” he quips, his voice soft and low.
“Mmhmm,” I hum, not trusting my voice to handle much more.
I seriously need to get my shit together.
I’m better than this.
I’m more professional than this.
I’m Sally Salenger, and I don’t flirt with my boss.
“House blend. Cream. No sugar,” I murmur, extending my arm and holding out his cup.
He takes it from me without so much as a nod of acknowledgment before he demands, “Follow me.”
I don’t have time to second guess him as he turns and starts walking away from his office. I have to move fast to keep up with his long strides, and the clicking sound of my heels against the hard floor gives voice to my hurried pace. When he stops, he does so abruptly. Turning to face me, he then extends his arm, silently instructing me to walk through the propped open door of one of the offices I scouted out this morning. Speechless and curious, I do as I’m told, crossing the threshold into Avangeline Hayek’s office.
She looks away from her computer as we enter the room, and my eyes grow large in amazement as she smiles widely at the sight of Dane. She’s beautiful; her skin a smooth, copper-brown color, and her complexion completely flawless. She doesn’t wear a lot of makeup, but I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t either if I had a face like that.
“Well, howdy, partner,” she says cheekily. “Big day today, huh?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dane replies.
I glance beside me, hearing the smile in his voice and wishing to see it. He’s grinning, and it’s marvelous, which is why I look away at once.
“Cases to be researched, trials to be won, the law to be put to use—same responsibility, different day.”
“Yeah, uh-huh,” Avangeline laughs before shifting her attention onto me. “Hi,” she greets as she stands, making her way out from behind her desk.
“Hi,” I echo.
She’s tall, probably reaching the height of six feet with her heels on, and she reminds me of a runway model. Her frame is slight and narrow, and the sleeveless, fitted, striped shift dress she wears clings to her incredibly subtle curves just right. Her brown hair, only a few shades darker than her skin, is long and curly; and her smile lights up her whole face. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if there was more to the playfulness between her and Dane than just two colleagues bidding each other good morning. She really is lovely.
Then I remember that I don’t care. It’s not my place to care.
“I’m Ava,” Avangeline speaks, pulling me from my wayward thoughts as she extends her hand. “You must be Sigourney.”
I accept her gesture, shaking her hand in return as I reply, “I am, but you can call me Sally.”
The words fall out of my mouth automatically, and I stiffen a little after I’ve spoken them. When Dane doesn’t challenge me, I relax once more.
“I thought, if you had time, you could show her the ropes—get her situated,” says Dane.
“Absolutely,” she agrees with a nod. “Rebecca will be out until tomorrow, so it’s perfect timing. I can have Sally back to you by this afternoon.”
“Excellent.”
I don’t bother watching him leave, my eyes tracking Avangeline as she makes her way around her desk. She picks up her phone and then smiles at me. When she opens up her mouth to speak, nothing comes out, her gaze shifting toward the door.
“Sigourney.”
I’m quick to glance over my shoulder at the sound of his voice wrapped around my name, and my stomach clenches when my gaze crashes into his. Dane doesn’t offer me the amazing grin he gave to Avangeline, but he does lift his coffee with a slight dip of his chin.
“Thank you. You can expense the charge as soon as Avangeline shows you how.”
A small smile graces my lips as I manage a nod. He doesn’t say another word before he walks away, but I’m grateful for having received that much. When I turn toward Avangeline, she’s got a smirk on her face, and her arms are folded across her chest.
“So, you’ve met the Dane Croft. First impressions?” she inquires, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
“Honestly?” I cough out a half amused laugh as I reach up and run my fingers through my hair. “I can’t seem to get a good read on him.”
I don’t miss the knowing twinkle in her hazel eyes as she tells me, “Give it time. You’ll figure him out. He can be pretty intense. He’s serious about what he does—serious and passionate. But underneath all that drive and relentless ambition, he’s an exceptional guy.”
I nod, surprised by the pang of jealousy I feel that she knows him so well. “Good to know.”
“Come on,” she insists, heading for the door. “Let’s start with a tour. I’ll take you downstairs.”
Excited to see what the rest of the office space looks like, I quickly discard my irrational jealousy and follow her without hesitation.
AS I RIDE THE elevator down to the forty-seventh floor, I take a sip of my coffee. I don’t think about the full pot that’s now cold in my penthouse flat, or the way Sigourney looked me up and down before handing me my current cup. Instead, I try and concentrate on the morning I have ahead of me—my first order of business awaiting me two levels down. It’s time I start making use of my associates.
I hear Maverick’s deep, booming voice as soon as I step out of the elevator. I follow the resonate sound of his London bred, British accent until I reach the opening at the rear end of the room. It’s full of cubicles, where the first year associates make their temporary home. Each fall, the firm brings on anywhere from twenty to twenty-five recent law school grads to fill this space. Now, Maverick addresses the six that made the cut. Today is moving day. They’ll clear out of this bunker hell-hole to the bull-pin up one level, where the associate cubicles are a little bigger. Not much of an upgrade, but offices are earned around here. Some of the men and women in this room will stay on and become attorneys for this firm; others will find employment elsewhere. The next few months should be quite telling.
Leaning against the wall, I shake my head, amused with Maverick’s speech. He loves this shit. I’m always giving him hell, claiming that it’s the Oxford graduate in him that makes him want to teach the new bloods—molding them to be more like the fine educated man he is, produced only by way of proper schooling. He then reminds me that he came to the United States to go to law school, and he never left. While he makes a valid point, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s Parker who takes on the babes each year. His new set will start next week.
When he’s finished with his speech, he makes his way through the associates before they disperse. Spotting me across the room, he flashes a bright smile, his white teeth a stark contrast against his dark brown skin. I hear his chuckle as he closes the distance between us.
