Executive Toy (3 page)

She stares at me blankly.

“Do you know who that might have been?”

“Donald?”

That makes me blink because Donald is short and rotund and bespeckled and not in a sexy-nerdy-Armani sort of way.

I use my hand to indicate the mystery man’s approximate height.

“Probably not Donald,” she concedes.

“Are there any guys in the nearby branches like that?”

“Tall? Sure, but there are tall men here, too.”

It’s at that moment that I regret not having taken the time to make some friends. Sunrise Imports is growing fast, and they’re understaffed, so everyone is busy all the time. It’s the only reason they took a gamble on me given the dearth of previous employment on my résumé. Though I think that George Tarraget, who hired me directly, realized that any woman who can talk her way into a closed interview without being on the list of candidates is probably an excellent addition to any sales team.

Tarraget surely knows who the man is, but he’s never around.

So I tell myself that eventually the guy will show up in the office again, and I wait for Donald to return from vacation.

Donald never comes back. He has a minor coronary episode the last night of his vacation, and he ends up taking a two-month leave. I’m not happy about that because I don’t wish ill health on anyone, but let’s admit it: the timing is horrible. I’m tempted to look up his address and go by with flowers and questions, but even considering it feels despicable, and I’m ashamed of myself.

Instead, I sign my name to the card and I guiltily add an extra fifty dollars to the collection to send him a) flowers b) a quilt and c) a personalized sugar cookie the size of a wagon wheel. The cookie wouldn’t be my first choice for someone with heart problems, but no one asks my opinion.

The mysterious stranger should be fading in my mind, but the opposite is happening. He’s taking on almost mythological proportions. I know his shoulders can’t be as broad as I’m remembering, or his chest as deep, or his jaw as rectangular. And I know the sight of his erection distending the front of his pants is most definitely an exaggeration because if it were the size that I’m now picturing, he’d need a crane to wrangle the thing into and out of his pants.

I’m starting to think I invented him completely.

The only thing that convinces me otherwise is that my paycheck is indeed being docked. My bonuses, too.

And that really sucks.

Three weeks to the day after my spanky encounter, I find myself working late at the office. This is the predictable byproduct of my lower paychecks. I racked up a lot of expenses during my latest unplanned relocation, so I need every cent I earn.

Still, I consider myself lucky. I’m alive, my family has no idea where I am, and I still have a job. In the meantime, I’m working my ass off, making calls, trying to pull in higher commissions.

It’s 7:30 by the time I push away from my desk. I’ve got some very good leads to exploit for the following week, and I bet I can reel in a whale of a client. I’m thinking about splurging on a movie tomorrow to celebrate. Matinee showing, of course. Don’t want to go too crazy.

A herd of ceramic coffee mugs sits on my desk. Mondays and Tuesdays I only go through two or three cups, but as the week wears on, proof of my exhaustion tends to accumulate.

I gather them up and take them to the break room. After I put them in the dishwasher, I poke my head in Donald’s office, just in case. The company brought on some contractor to take his place, but the man is already gone for the day. Everyone is probably gone.

As I’m walking toward the ladies’ room, I hear a man’s laugh coming from Tarraget’s office. I haven’t seen Tarraget in a long time. He’s supposedly on a deep sea fishing expedition available only to rich people. They’re guaranteed to catch mermaids or something.

With the stranger on my mind, I make my way toward Tarraget’s office. I’m wearing a knee-length sleeveless dress that wouldn’t be out of place on a presidential campaign trail, and my hair is swept into a high ponytail. It’s reasonable to expect that Tarraget knows about my misstep with the corporate card, so I’m glad my clothes today are tasteful. Sometimes, depending on the client, I do have to skank it up a bit.

Tarraget isn’t alone, I realize as I approach the office. I hear several voices, all male. All… sexy, actually. These men don’t sound old.

I round the final corner. The office door is open, and I catch sight of an enormous man. He looks like a Samoan wrestler, though I don’t think there’s an ounce of fat on him.

He’s hot. He could be a nightclub bouncer, but even from a distance, I can see that his dark gray suit is expensive. I’m guessing Italian-made, and it fits him perfectly.

He’s holding a glass of champagne. The flute looks painfully vulnerable in his enormous hand. He takes a sip, and I can tell that it’s not just his clothing that’s refined.

A smile comes to my lips. Circumstances forced me to adopt a strict “no boyfriends” policy, but that doesn’t mean I can’t sometimes enjoy a hookup of convenience. The man I’m looking at would be
very
convenient indeed.

He catches sight of me and slowly lowers his glass. His dark eyes wander down my black sheath dress, then lower still, all the way to my black, four-inch heels, then back up.

“Won’t you come in?” he asks. His voice is stop-me-in-my-tracks sexy. Rich and deep, it vibrates along my skin. I’ve never looked at a man and gotten hard nipples, but I swear right now my breasts are swelling or
something.

Smiling brightly, I step into Tarraget’s office.

“Hello, Lindsay.”

I know that voice from my dreams, and it’s every bit as condescending as I recall. I turn stiffly toward its owner and see the mysterious man I’ve been obsessing over for weeks.

He’s half sitting, half leaning on the edge of Tarraget’s massive wooden desk, and he’s wearing another pinstripe suit and somber tie. His short hair looks exactly the same as the last time I saw him. Of course he’s one of those guys who gets it trimmed every ten days so that he always looks the same. Of course. He’s holding a bottle of champagne. There’s an unopened bottle of champagne on the desk next to him as well as a mostly empty glass.

“Who are you?” I blurt. I’m so surprised to see him that I can’t even pretend to be aloof.

This makes the Samoan throw back his head and laugh, the sound explosive and impossible to ignore. The way he does it makes me think about sex. I have a hunch that he’s loud in bed, the kind of man who roars his pleasure.

Heaven help me. Do you have any idea how rare it is to be in a room with two incredibly sexy alpha male types?

Oh, god. There are three of them. The third man, who is sitting on a sofa on the other side of the door I just entered, is also holding a glass of champagne. When my eyes connect with his, my panties go from wet to wetter.

Right now, I’m liking my odds. Even if Mr. Stick Up His Ass doesn’t know how to look at a woman, these other two do. The man on the sofa also has dark hair, which I can tell is baby fine. It falls over his brow in a swoop, and I get the urge to push it out of his hazel eyes, but I wouldn’t stop there. I want to trail my fingers over his square, aristocratic jaw. I want to grind myself on him until the magic he exudes rubs off on me.

“I take it this is the woman you spanked,” the man on the sofa says. He’s looking right at me, so there’s no way he misses my face heating red.

“Excuse me?” My voice is high. Too high. This is not a socially dominant register.

“Yes, this is Lindsay.” My original tormenter sets down the bottle of champagne and rises to standing. Heavens, I’d forgotten how tall he is.

He crosses the empty space between us and extends his hand. “Hawthorne Tarraget.”

“Tarraget,” I repeat softly. It had never occurred to me that I might be looking for someone related to the owner. It’s not exactly a family business.

“George is my grandfather,” he explains. “The amused gentleman to your left is Romeo Wood Bison. Don’t let the name fool you. He’s neither a playboy nor an emo kid. And on the sofa is—”

“Rick Slade,” interrupts sofa man. “Call me Slade.”

“Slade, Romeo… nice to meet… all of you.” I shake Hawthorne’s hand. I can’t bring myself to say his name. It’s simply too pretentious, too ridiculous.

“You can call him by the first four letters of his name,” Romeo rumbles.

It takes me a second to get it. “Hawt?” I snort. “That’s a joke, right?”

Hawthorne grins as he releases my hand. Romeo asks, “You don’t think he’s hot?”

Only then do I wonder how much these guys have already had to drink. I see just the one open bottle, but that doesn’t mean they haven’t already demolished a few others.

“Nice to meet you, Hawthorne.”

There’s a faint smirk on Hawthorne’s face, and for absolutely no reason whatsoever, I remember the size of the bulge in his pants. And then I remember that he’s been telling people about spanking me.

I push my finger into his face. “Talking about what happened is… obnoxious,” I say.
Reprehensible
would have been better. Or
gauche
.

This makes him smile. “Are you upset because I shared the spanking or the reason for the spanking?”

“Both!”

“I share everything with Romeo and Slade.” His smile widens. “Everything.”

The way he says it makes me think he’s talking about… but no, men don’t do that. Do they?

What I know for sure is that Hawthorne is nothing like he was three weeks ago. He’s still scary, don’t get me wrong, but his beauty is much more accessible when he’s smiling.

That still doesn’t make me forgive him. “I don’t care if you share a toothbrush. You had no right to tell them.”

He steps a little closer, and I’m aware of his yummy scent, that spicy aftershave. I stare up at him, and as we look into each other’s eyes, I realize that if he kisses me right now, it wouldn’t be completely unexpected.

He moves his face closer to mine, and my breath catches. “I know one way to fix that,” he says, his voice low.

I frown. “How?” I murmur.

“We can recreate the scene.”

I have never hit another person in my life except in self-defense, but my hands are curling into fists. We’re standing so close together that I can see the pulse of his heartbeat in his neck. His blue eyes are flecked with gold. Knowing what I know now, it’s probably 24 karat. I should have realized he was filthy rich by the way he acted. Entitled. Confident. He carries himself like a man who has never been beaten down by the world.

He moves closer, and now our lips are millimeters apart. Even though they’re not touching mine, I know his lips are soft. I know he’s a good kisser. I hear myself whimper, and I’m aware that the sound feels helpless, and that breaks the spell.

Someone shoves a glass of champagne into my hand. Startled, I step away from Hawthorne, who also takes a step back. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, and for the first time, I can imagine what he’s like when he’s wearing jeans and being normal. That makes me realize that for a moment, I was almost normal, too, and a weird ache unfurls inside me.

“We’re celebrating,” Romeo says. He holds his champagne flute out at me. “Toast with me,” he says. And just like that, my anger and anxiety diffuse. His warm brown eyes… there’s something about him that makes me trust him.

“Toasting what?”

“Hawthorne’s freedom,” he says.

“Divorce?” I look at Hawthorne. I can’t imagine what kind of woman would marry such an egomaniac.

“What you’re thinking is written all over your face, Lindsay,” Hawthorne says. His expression has gotten tight again, like when he was examining my expenses. He sloshes champagne into his empty glass and then clinks it against mine. “To freedom.”

Freedom is the one thing I will always drink to, because I never know when mine is going to come to an end.

“You’re wrong,” Hawthorne says after a minute. It startles me because for a moment I think he somehow read my mind, but then he says, “Not a divorce. Today is my twenty-eighth birthday, and twelve hours ago I gained full control of my trust fund as well as the company I’ve been improving the last six years.”

“Shit,” I say. “I mean, happy birthday.” There is nothing shocking about a man named Hawthorne Tarraget having a trust fund, but, damn. All that hassle he gave me about salon visits, an amount that would just be pocket change to him?

I wonder what he would say if he knew that I broke off my nails fighting for my life and they’ve never been right since.

Suddenly I don’t want any more champagne. I just want to go home.

“Hey,” Hawthorne says. I look up into those piercing eyes of his. “Are you ok?”

“Sure. I’ll see you later.”

It’s Romeo who stops me. He hands me a business card. “In case you find yourself in need of a new job. I’ve got offices all over the world, and I can tell you’ve got a good head on your shoulders.” The way he says it makes me wonder if he somehow knows about me.

But he can’t. No one knows who I am.

I tap the business card against my leg. “Thanks.”

It’s not until I’m halfway across the parking lot that I realize that I blew an easy chance to have a good time. Not Hawthorne, of course. I’m not interested in him. But the other two… either one would have been a good time, maybe even a warm body to fall asleep next to, an escape from the fear that haunts my nights.

With a resigned sigh, I slide behind the steering wheel of my car and I’m about to close the door when I freeze. It’s not too late. I can go back up.

I swing my legs outside, and I’m about to stand when I hear a faint meowing.

Slowly, I get out and take several steps away. There’s another meow, this one louder, and I realize it’s coming from under the car, so I slowly, carefully, and yes, awkwardly, squat. I can’t quite see under the vehicle, so I gingerly place one of my palms on the dirty concrete and bend over.

It’s Bandit. I named him that because of the dark mask over his eyes. He’s skinny but larger than the last time I saw him, two weeks earlier. It’s silly, but I was reading a book about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs when I first started at Sunrise Imports, and I explained to Bandit, while feeding him scraps of my lunch, that I couldn’t take him home with me because I was still on the second step: physical safety. Having a pet would fit on the third step: love and belonging. He’d stared at me with pleading yellow eyes while I told him that life with me wouldn’t be any better than living near the dumpsters, and anyway, he should value his freedom.