The Three Rs (8 page)

“But—I thought you said you had no office staff, and that’s why I need to do it?” I see a possible glimmer of a reprieve here. And after all, it wouldn’t be right to edge Mrs Benson out of her job. Not after forty years.

No such luck. “Phyllis is great, but she keeps threatening to retire. Apparently she’s got it into her head she should be spending more time with her husband now that he’s given up work. If you ask me, she’d die of boredom within a week, but there’s no talking to her once she gets something in her head. So, I need a long-term solution, and that’s you.”

“But, surely it’d make more sense to get her an assistant, someone she could teach the ropes to. Then when she retires you’d have someone already trained. Someone who’s good at office work…”

Someone who can read.

He smiles at me, another of those ‘lips-and-teeth-only’ smiles that don’t come close to reaching his eyes. “Phyllis
is
getting an assistant. You.”

“But I thought you said I’m a partner. The senior partner…”

“So you are, according to dear old Uncle James, God rest him. But that doesn’t mean you’ve the first inkling how to run a construction company. Does it?” He hesitates, as if waiting for me to argue with him.

I’m bristling at his off-hand, dismissive manner and I more than half-wish I’d stayed in my room. But he has a point, and I manage not to argue. Well, not this time.

With a satisfied—and in my view somewhat arrogant—nod, he continues, “So, no matter how big your majority shareholding, you, Miss Fischer, are the junior partner round here in every other way. You’ll do as you’re told, learn how things work, learn how to make yourself useful, and you’ll earn your bloody salary like everyone else.”

He may be right about my lack of knowledge, but I deeply resent the implication that I may not do my share of the work. I was lazy at school and look where it got me. Now, I’m a grafter. Despite my good intentions, I can’t keep my mouth shut, it seems, when he starts in this vein and I’m straight back on the offensive, “Thank you, Mr Parrish, but I do think I’ve heard enough now. I’m fed up of you talking to me as though I’m some sort of free loader. I didn’t ask to be here. I don’t mind working hard, I’ll do my share. But I’m telling you now, I’ll be rubbish in the office. Mrs Benson’ll probably sack me before the first tea break.”

His steel gray gaze catches and holds mine, and despite my sudden rush of bravado a moment ago, I feel my resolve shrinking under his stare. He waits a few moments before he replies, “One. If you want tea breaks, join a bloody union. And two, you get on the wrong side of Mrs Benson, and you and I will be discussing spanking again. More than just discussing it in fact. Are you understanding me here?”

I catch my breath and just stare at him. His words were toe-curling enough when he threatened to spank me from two hundred miles away at the end of a telephone, but here, in the same room, sitting just two feet away from me… My knickers are dampening yet again whilst my mouth goes bone dry. Speechless, I grapple with my conflicting responses. I should be insulted, outraged. I should be telling him to treat me in a professional manner. I should be ranting about sexual harassment and threatening him with God knows what dire consequences the law makes available to heap retribution on abusive employers. But I say and do none of that. And he watches me, his lip quirking in an amused half-smile, knowing exactly the effect he’s having on me.

Sure enough, “Well, Miss Fischer, I’m guessing from your expression that the prospect of a spanking is not entirely terrifying. I thought maybe not when you didn’t protest unduly the first time I suggested it. And we’ve already established I can’t dock your wages. Maybe I’ll need to come up with something else.”

Still I don’t answer, but I’m shifting in my seat, my knees pressed defensively together as I clench my buttocks.

He glances down at my legs, clearly sees my stiff posture, my awkwardness, and his smile broadens. “Panties wet just thinking about it? Oh, Miss Fischer, what am I going to do with you?”

It seems to me perfectly obvious what he’s going to do with me—to me—the first chance he gets. The question is, will he get that chance?

And yes, on reflection, I think he probably will.

Chapter Five

We peel the potatoes together, side by side at the huge sink, watched closely by Oscar who has followed us into the kitchen and is now sitting hopefully beside his food bowl. Cain takes the hint and tips some dried food into it. He tops up the drinking water too. The cat crouches over his dinner and starts to chomp noisily as we get on with preparing our own meal.

“I wouldn’t have imagined you as a cat lover…” I offer this observation by way of making conversation.

“I’m not, not really. I inherited Oscar. He was James’ cat and he’s lived here for the last ten years. He’s old and bad-tempered, but he mostly minds his own business and we rub along fine by ignoring each other. The deal is I feed him, and he stays out of my way.”

“I wouldn’t say he’s keeping his end of the bargain. He follows you around everywhere.”

Cain turns to me, frowning. “No he doesn’t…”

I just nod. “He does. He sleeps in your office while you’re there and when you came in here, he came too.”

“Only because he was hungry.”

I shrug. “Well, he’s not hungry now.”

We both turn to watch the huge old cat pad silently across the kitchen toward a battered old lone fireside chair in the corner. He hops up and makes himself comfortable on the rather flattened cushion there. He regards us solemnly from his vantage point and, apparently satisfied we’re not about to get up to any mischief, he shoves his nose back between his paws and closes his eyes. I shoot my best ‘I told you so’ look in Cain’s direction, and return to the potatoes. I wouldn’t mind betting the old moggy sleeps on the cushion I spotted on the landing earlier, just outside Cain’s bedroom.

“What makes you say he’s bad-tempered?” In fairness, although I’m no authority on cats, Oscar hasn’t struck me so far as being anything other than mild-mannered.

“He hisses at me. When I stand on him.”

“Well, I’d hiss at you if you trampled all over me as well. So how come you manage to stand on him? He’s big enough to see.”

“He trips me up. All the time. I just seem to turn round, and he’s there. Getting under my feet and bloody hissing. What’s so funny, and why the fuck are you so interested in a grumpy old cat anyway?”

I shrug, trying not to laugh.
‘Stays out of my way’ indeed.
That cat follows him around everywhere. I find myself developing a soft spot for old Oscar.

“Just asking… And Oscar’s not grumpy. He’s just loyal. And he likes you. I can’t imagine why.”

Cain grabs a vegetable knife and starts to chop the peeled potatoes into smaller cubes. “What do you mean? I’m perfectly likable.”

“Sometimes. When you’re not threatening to spank me.”

Now it’s his turn to chuckle. “Threatening, or offering?”

I consider that while I dump water into a pan and place it carefully on top of the stove. He has to give me directions for lighting the gas ring, but soon our potatoes are simmering happily. Cain checks the beef casserole in the oven, gives it a stir then grabs a couple of wine glasses from a cupboard above his head.

“Red or white?”

I seem to remember hearing somewhere that it should be red wine to go with red meat, but I prefer white and say so. He selects a bottle from the bottom of the monster fridge, the sort with a proper, old fashioned cork not a screw top, and deftly twists the corkscrew into it. He pulls the cork out with a lively
pop
then pours us both a glass before sitting down at the table opposite me. He takes a sip, waits for me to do likewise, then goes for the jugular again.

“All this talk of spanking has drawn my attention to what a perfectly gorgeous bum you have there, Miss Fischer. So, will you be tempted to let me leave some hand prints on it, then?”

My second sip of wine narrowly misses going down the wrong way. As it is I’m coughing as I replace my glass, and find myself once more staring at him. Cain Parrish leans back in his chair, perfectly composed as he waits for me to right myself. I make a decent attempt, trying to inject a note of sternness into my voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I hardly know you.”

“Ah, I see. You only let men you know well spank you, is that it?”

“No, I don’t… I mean…” Another fortifying sip of wine, but still, with just a few casually suggestive words from Cain Parrish, my composure has fled, never to return, I suspect. This time though, Cain takes pity. He puts his glass down, leans across the table and reaches for my hand. I try to pull away, but his hold is firm. He turns my palm up, and with his middle finger caresses the sensitive heart of my hand.

“Would it be your first time then? Being spanked, I mean. Or maybe you’re a virgin…?”

I can only stare, shaking my head briefly. No one has ever spoken to me like this before, or asked me such personal, such totally outrageous questions.

He doesn’t press me to answer, but he holds my gaze. I feel like a rabbit caught in headlamps, I couldn’t tear my eyes from his if I wanted to. And in this moment I’m not at all sure what I want.

“No? So you
have
enjoyed a nice, erotic spanking before now?” His tone is soft now, seductive.

At last I manage a response. “What? No! Of course not.”

“Ah. But you want to.”

“I… How…?” I’m stammering, not certain what I want to say. Do I tell him the truth, that no, I’ve never been spanked but I’ve wanted to be. But I’ve never dared ask. And that I’m not a virgin, very nearly but not quite. A few sweaty episodes of clumsy fumbling, however enthusiastic, in my late teens is hardly an adequate apprenticeship for this. I desperately wish I could come up with some witty, sophisticated line that would make me seem more worldly, more interesting and less the gauche girl who last got laid over two years ago and is now dampening her knickers with her own juices just because a handsome man is stroking her hand. But none of that happens. Instead, I just whisper, “Yes, I’ve thought about it. Fantasized. And no, I’m not a virgin.”

He smiles at me, a sweet and gentle smile, absolutely compelling, drawing me in. He continues to caress my hand. I’ve stopped trying to tug it away.

“This sounds interesting. Delightful, in fact. Have you any other fantasies you’d like to share with me?” His tone is soft, beguiling and very sexy.

I shake my head. “No, not just now.”

“Pity. Maybe later then. So, what are we going to do about your yearning to be spanked? I’d love to oblige you. And I think I ought to tell you, I’d really, really love to fuck you afterwards, though I’m not going to insist on that. I’m offering you a free, no-strings erotic spanking, with an optional fuck-fest to follow. Would you like that?”

There’s silence, and he waits. The last word here has to be mine. He knows it, I know it.

Is that me? Is that really my voice saying yes? And am I really thanking him for his kind and generous offer. And telling him I’d really like to try the fuck-fest too? I suppose I must be, because he’s smiling broadly now, his sexy grin taking on a hint of the distinctly wicked. And my knickers are soaked.

He lifts my hand, drops a kiss in my palm before folding my fingers into a fist. He stands.

“Potatoes are ready. We’ll eat, enjoy our wine then get an early night. My room, I think.”

Cain makes no further reference to our plans for later in the evening as he serves the meal. He places my plate in front of me.

“Enjoy.” His smile is deceptively bland as he takes his seat and picks up his fork. I reach for my utensils, conscious that my hand is shaking and hoping that Cain won’t notice. If he does, he’s too polite, or wise, to comment. I start to eat, determined to achieve some passing resemblance to cool. As if agreeing to let a man I hardly know spank my bare bottom is a perfectly normal thing to do on a Saturday evening in Berwick.

Half an hour later we’re seated at the table, our empty plates evidence of Cain’s culinary skills. The meal was delicious, as I knew it would be, but I didn’t do it justice. I’m acutely conscious of the gorgeous man who shared the food with me, offering me extra helpings, refilling my wine glass. And when we finished, insisted I remain seated while he cleared the table and made coffee.

Now, he’s going to spank me. Really. Truly. And, I suspect, beautifully. Will he use his hand? Will it be across my bare bottom? The skin on my buttocks and the backs of my thighs is tingling in anticipation. He knows it, he must know. Every time he’s smiled at me, clinked his glass against mine, every time his fingers have brushed my hand as he’s passed me the potatoes or the sugar bowl, he must have felt the heat between us. My imagination may be over-active—God knows I’ve run this particular fantasy through in my head a time or two, but I’m not dreaming this. Am I?

In the circumstances I feel justified in studying Cain Parrish carefully. After all, we’re soon to become much more intimately acquainted. His dark blond hair is swept back from his face, and his teeth are white and very straight. His smile is absolutely stunning, and he’s turning the full force of it on me now. His white T-shirt hugs his torso seductively, and his jeans look to me to be bulging ever so slightly behind the zip. Maybe. I hope so.