Forbidden Boss (Nikki and Rome's Story) (Manhattan Billionaires)

17. Nikki

The cookies lastedall of two days. Loath as I was to admit it, they were the best I’d ever had. Not that I’d ever tell Rome that particular fact. Whatever had happened in the car got buried under a thick layer of professionalism, and for the next week, neither of us edged anywhere near the line of impropriety. I did research and prepared for all the upcoming events on our calendar. I didn’t want to mess this up—especially not by kissing my boss.

The last event before our jaunt to the Hamptons for Raphael Garcia’s anniversary party was a gala honoring Rome’s parents for their work with the Society of Gout Sufferers of New York, for which the Blakelys were apparently major donors.

I could tell Rome was dreading the evening the minute I slipped into the back seat of the car. I’d chosen a simple black velvet dress with matching black gloves for the night, trying to keep it elegant and understated. I tucked the bottom of my dress inside the car and nodded at Keith, who closed the door beside me.

Clasping my black clutch on my lap, I glanced over at my boss. His jaw was tight and his eyes glued to the window, where rain splattered the car and the city beyond it. The privacy screen was up, which meant he hadn’t even wanted Keith’s subtle attention on him. My presence was probably an irritant, but if I was to do my job properly, I had to lift his mood before we got to the event.

The car pulled away from the curb, and Rome still hadn’t said a word.

“It’s getting cold out these days,” I said to fill the silence.

Rome shifted, glancing over at me with cold blue eyes. “Yes,” he replied.

There was a gulf between us, one that hadn’t been there in the week since he took me out for chocolate chip cookies. I could still feel the pressure of his thumb against my lip, could still remember the heat in his eyes when he’d met my gaze.

No one had ever looked at me like that—like they ached for me. Like holding back from kissing me was pure torture.

As a lifetime placeholder, being seen—being wanted—by a man like Rome Blakely was a particularly strong drug. Especially when he’d shown me glimpses of the man beneath the arrogance and the scowls.

I’d seen below the surface, and now I wanted more.

He was a complicated man who liked to distance himself from anything that might hurt him. I could understand that. Hadn’t I been doing the same with my romantic relationships for the past decade? Hadn’t I been doing the same with my friends?

I’d seen Bonnie again this week to help her choose a dress for an event she was attending while Rome and I would be in the Hamptons—a gala for her boss’s charity. Even though it would have been the perfect opening to share the secrets of my new job, I told her nothing about my situation. It wasn’t because of the NDA. I kept myself apart because I was afraid of her judgment. Afraid of her rejection.

Beside me, Rome was doing the exact same thing. I knew because it was familiar to me. I could tell he was putting a wall up between himself and the rest of the world in preparation for tonight, when he’d have to smile and clap and pretend to be happy that his parents were being honored by the upper echelons of the city.

Meanwhile, he’d be remembering all the ways they let him down.

I couldn’t stand the distance between us, so I reached over and slipped my hand into his. He glanced down at my velvet glove, then slowly curled his fingers around my hand. A tightness eased in my chest.

“We don’t have to stay the whole night,” I said quietly.

His hand tightened slightly, then softened. “Yes, we do.”

“I’ll be right beside you,” I said.

He glanced over at me, the tilt of his eyebrow slightly sardonic. “To protect me from the big, bad wolf?”

I met his gaze levelly. “If that’s what it takes.”

He huffed and looked away, but he didn’t remove his hand from mine. We sat like that as we snaked through the streets toward Midtown. All too soon, we arrived at our destination. In the few moments between the car stopping and Keith opening the door for us, I watched Rome don his armor. His face became remote. His hand slipped out of mine, and he straightened his tie and cufflinks. By the time the door beside me opened, there was no hint of the man whose gaze sparkled with amusement when I said something he didn’t expect, or the man whose gaze burned through me whenever we were alone. The man who had a surly baker at his beck and call, who had a photo of a high school basketball coach in the place of honor in his office.

This was Rome Blakely, business mogul, giant of the industry, and perfect son to the guests of honor.

I hated it. I wanted the real him. The man he kept hidden behind the remote exterior. But I had a job to do, so I donned my own mask. The pleasant smile and open expression that made it easy for people to approach us. I became his companion, his plus-one, and nothing more.

The dinner was held at a huge, airy space in Midtown that had been decorated in silver, blue, and ice-white. Delicate music floated through the space, exactly the same way it did at every one of these events. The far end of the huge room had a big stage with a clear podium and a fluttery curtain as a backdrop, with large round tables filling two-thirds of the floor space.

Where we stood, by the door, was a bar and a clear area for people to mill around and network. We were immediately accosted by an older couple who complimented our clothes, then commented on the space, then inquired about our attendance at the Garcia event this weekend.

“We’ll be there,” Rome said, sliding his hand down my spine. A shiver followed his touch. Even through the heavy fabric of my gown, I could feel the heat of his touch.

The woman smiled. “Marvelous. Garcia’s place is just magical out there.”

“We heard your work with him included some challenges,” the man said. “Delays in the planned launch schedule.”

Rome smiled. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he said. “I’m confident we’ll be able to deliver on our promises.”

“You always do,” the woman said, smiling, but her eyes were sharp. She patted Rome’s arm, then led her husband away to speak to another couple. I was learning the language of these people—the subtle jabs, the taunts, the probing questions. Just as much could be said with the twitch of an eyebrow or a significant silence as could with words.

Rome was a master at it. With Joanne Blakely as a mother, I was sure he’d gotten a rigorous education in that particular style of communication.

The evening continued like that for the next twenty minutes or so. I did my best to be the charming companion who added color to conversations when I could, and stayed quiet when I thought it was called for. Rome stood a little further away than he usually did. Tension ran through him, evident in the set of his shoulders and the stiffness of his movements.

I wanted to fix it. I hated this distant, cold man who responded exactly as he should and showed no hint of personality. As we flitted from conversation to conversation, I wondered if anyone else noticed. They didn’t seem to; men joked with him and took his polite, wooden smiles as if Rome had guffawed along with them. Women flirted and charmed, not put off by my presence or Rome’s distance.

The longer things dragged on, the more uncomfortable I became. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t him. I didn’t like it.

Then a booming male voice called Rome’s name, and he put his fingers on my elbow to turn me toward the noise. His mother and father glided toward us, waving and nodding politely to the people who greeted them along the way.

They came to a stop in front of us, and Joanne inspected Rome’s tux, then my dress, her lips pursing ever so slightly.

“You brought the girl,” she said, not looking at me.

“Hello, Mother. Father,” Rome replied, inclining his head. “Congratulations. You must be happy about all this.”

“I really would have preferred you came alone,” his mother said, “or brought someone more appropriate.”

An elongated pause. “The food leaves a bit to be desired,” Rome noted.

They were doing that thing again—talking past each other. Having two separate conversations where the things that weren’t said were as meaningful as the things that were.

It reminded me of my teenage years with my mother. After my father died, she was consumed with grief—we both were—but she forgot that I needed her. I didn’t exist to be her shoulder to cry on. Didn’t exist to ease her pain. She forgot that I was hurting just as much as she was. So we talked exactly like Joanne spoke to Rome. At each other, instead of with. Never connecting, and never even attempting to.

I inhaled slowly, trying to tamp down the heat that crawled up my neck.

“The Gerbers have a daughter, you know,” Joanne said, her gaze flicking to me for the briefest moment. I gathered I was supposed to wonder who the Gerbers’ daughter was, and how she stacked up against me.

Too bad for Joanne, I had the benefit of a contract and a healthy paycheck to keep me right here, smiling politely at her hidden barbs.

“I don’t know the Gerbers or their daughter,” Rome finally replied directly. “Nikita has accompanied me to every event for the past three weeks. It would be noticed if she weren’t here tonight.”

“Still,” Joanne said, her lips curling as she glanced down my gown. “It amazes me how you manage to make things about yourself.”

Rome stiffened next to me.

“Your mother’s right,” his dad said, leaning in as he lowered his voice. “Attending these events solo never seemed to bother you before, and now the spotlight is on you and your date instead of on your mother where it rightfully should be. Why couldn’t you just come alone? You couldn’t do that for your mother, just this once?”

Outrage filled me and moved my tongue before I could clamp my mouth shut. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

For the first time, Rome’s parents met my gaze, their expressions startled, as if they’d forgotten I was able to speak.

I sneered at them. “Why do you want your son to be alone? Do you enjoy the thought of isolating him from people? Is that why you sent him away when he was just a boy and rubbed his face in it when you had a second child?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Joanne whispered at me, the apples of her cheeks growing bright red.

“I know damn well what it feels like to be the family punching bag,” I replied in the same harsh whisper.

“You shut your mouth, you little?—”

“Mother.” The word whipped out from Rome’s mouth, sharp.

Her eyes widened, and Rome’s father cut in. “Get a handle on your woman, boy.”

Rome’s hand appeared on my lower back. Suddenly, my blood ran cold. What had I done? What had I said? I was supposed to be the perfect, charming companion who took all the off-color jokes and the boring conversation and pretended to love it.

I wasn’t supposed to talk back to my boss’s mother, of all people. Especially not on a night when she was the guest of honor.

Her face was tight, and, judging by the fury and triumph flashing in her eyes, she knew I’d just realized I’d messed up.

Slight pressure on my back drew my attention to Rome, whose other hand wrapped around my elbow. He guided me around his parents and led me toward the front of the room, where the exit was located. He murmured greetings to people as we sliced through the crowd, not slowing down as he marched me out of there.

My chest collapsed. I’d messed up. I’d messed up bad.

With every step we took, dread grew claws that sank into my chest. In the far corner of the room, a corridor led off toward the bathrooms. Rome walked me down the hallway, past the bathrooms, all the way to a stairwell. The sound of our footsteps echoed as we walked up the steps, and all I could do was focus on keeping my steps steady as my mind whirled.

I shouldn’t have said anything. I’d forgotten myself. I was reading into our relationship when all it should have been was professional. My attraction to the man blinded me and made me mess up, and now I’d be jobless and homeless, and?—

And I’d never see Rome again. That shouldn’t have been the thought that made me want to burst into tears, but it was.

“In here.” Rome pushed open a door at the top of the stairs. To our left, the sound of conversation filtered through. There were a few tables on the mezzanine level overlooking the main event space, but he led me to the right, into what looked like a smaller, private dining space that hadn’t been set up for the event. Chairs were stacked around the edges of the room, with a few boxes full of miscellaneous supplies strewn here and there. A long table dominated the space, with light from the big dormer windows illuminating the room.

The door latched shut, and I turned to face him. My heart thumped as my throat constricted, but I had to get the words out—had to explain. “I’m sorry,” I said, staring at his bowtie. He’d shaved, but I could see the shadow of his beard on his jaw and throat. “I shouldn’t have said anything. She was just being so horrible to you, and I couldn’t take it.”

“To...me?”

I blinked, lifting my gaze. “What?”

“You’re upset because she was being horrible to me?” His brows tugged together.

I gulped and nodded. “Well…yeah. All that crap about you coming alone. It’s like they want you to be miserable. Not that I’m the one to make you happy, but someone will. And you deserve that! But the way they talk, it’s like they want you to just stand there and absorb all their criticism because it’s your job. It’s not right, Rome. It just isn’t.”

My eyes stung, and I blinked a few times to clear them. When I finally looked up again, Rome’s expression had changed. His eyes were focused on me with an intensity that made me suddenly go still.

“You weren’t upset about what they were saying about you? Talking like you weren’t even there?”

I shrugged. “Sure, but I mean, whatever. No offense, but they kind of suck. So their opinion doesn’t really matter to me.” I took a deep breath, dropping my gaze to his bowtie again. I knew what I needed to say, and I didn’t think I could do it while looking at his face. “I understand if you need to fire me. I know I was out of line down there, and I completely failed at my job. I should never have talked back, especially not to your family and especially not when they’re the point of this whole event. So, it’s okay. I understand?—”

He hummed, then lifted his hand and slid it over my jaw to curl around the side of my neck. The movement startled me so much I stopped talking and looked up at him.

“I’m not going to fire you, Jordan,” he said, his voice warm and faintly amused.

“You’re not?”

“Why would I fire the only person who’s ever ridden to my defense?”

At my startled blink, he let out a low chuckle—then he dipped his head and before I knew what was happening, my billionaire boss pressed his lips to mine and kissed me.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a kiss that said, I’ve been waiting for this moment. He curled his fingers around my neck and banded his other arm around my back, pulling me flush to his body. I clutched his shoulders and kissed him back, heat burning away every thought that might have crowded my mind and stopped me.

His lips demanded so much of me. He kissed to possess. To own. The arm around my back shifted and his hand slid down to my ass, squeezing. He groaned against my mouth then moved to kiss my jaw, my neck, and back up again. His hand clutched my hair as he bent me backward, and all I could do was pant and cling on for dear life.

“You make me want things no man has any business wanting,” he said, voice like gravel. He pulled away to look in my eyes, his hands still holding me exactly where he wanted me.

“Like what?” My chest heaved. My mind reeled. I didn’t know what was happening, but it felt so good I couldn’t stop. He walked me backward until my shoulder blades hit the wall, then pinned me there with the bulk of his body. His hands slipped down my arms to my wrists, which he circled with his fingers and brought up above my head, pinning them there with one hand.

“Like this,” he said darkly. “You, breathless.” His free hand moved to my face, and he traced the outline of my bottom lip. “Your lipstick smudged.”

“Some of it ended up on you,” I noted, glancing at the red smeared on his lips.

He grinned. “Good,” he said, then kissed me again.

Rome was no gentler the second time around. He pinned me to the wall with his hips against mine and his hand shackling my wrists, his free hand tilting my head so he could kiss the breath out of me. His tongue slid against mine as he groaned, and then his teeth nipped at my lip. I laughed, leaning my head against the wall, loving the way he was watching me, like he’d forgotten where and who we were.

In that moment, I’d forgotten too.

All that existed was the dark heat in his eyes, the press of his body against mine, the heat burning through me. I’d never felt so consumed by a man before. I’d never had my mind go so quiet, where all that mattered was the feel of his body, the rhythm of his breath, the sin in his gaze.

We kissed until our movements became frantic. He dropped my wrists and I clung to his lapels, my hips bucking against him. I could feel him pressed against me, hard, needy. His hands cupped my breasts, fingers digging into the flesh above the sweetheart neckline, and then he grabbed my thighs and spread them, holding me pinned to the wall in that darkened room where we had no business being.

I moaned, muffling the sound against his neck. My core pulsed. I wanted him inside me.

A dish clattered outside the door, and reality intruded. We flew apart. I ended up clutching the wall, gasping for breath. Rome stood with his back to me, his hands leaning on the table in the middle of the room, head bowed. Silence pressed in.

Gulping, I took a deep breath and bent down to pick up the clutch I’d dropped at some point in our little encounter. Thoughts came to me in fits and starts. My hands trembled. I unclasped the kiss lock at the top of my clutch and pulled out my compact mirror and the travel-sized makeup wipes I always brought with me.

Rome glanced my way, his eyes dark. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

His mouth was smeared with lipstick. My heart thumped. “It certainly went against the code of conduct from Appendix B,” I noted, then pulled out a makeup wipe and handed it to him before pointing to my own lips.

He scrubbed his lips with the wipe as I did the same, albeit with slightly more precise movements using my mirror. When I looked up, he was frowning at the smears of red on the makeup wipe.

“You missed a spot,” I said, then took the wipe and dabbed at the corner of his lip. He stood very still, his gaze steady on mine.

When I was done, I threw out both wipes and touched up my makeup, then went to work fixing my hair and dress. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best I could do. Rome straightened himself, frowning at one of the wrinkles in his jacket from where I’d gripped it in a tight fist.

As I set myself to rights and watched him do the same, the full consequence of what we’d done settled over my shoulders.

I couldn’t fall into a relationship with this man—for a multitude of reasons.

First, he was my boss. It was written out in black and white in my contract that this kind of thing was unacceptable. That should have been enough to guide my actions. If I wanted to gain some sort of financial stability, I needed to work this job longer than three measly weeks. At least until I found somewhere to live and saved up a bit of an emergency fund.

Secondly, he was wealthy. Men like him just didn’t end up with women like me. He’d use me and then toss me aside. That was pretty much written in my contact too. I was the official placeholder. I’d agreed to it. Letting myself get wrapped up in him would be disastrous not just for my stability, but for my sanity too.

I wasn’t able to separate sex from emotion. I was already feeling the pull of his charm. If we did something like this again, I already knew I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from developing feelings for him. That absolutely couldn’t happen.

Kissing him had lit a fire in my gut. It had made me want to submit to him, to give him my body and my heart and my soul. He’d made me feel alive, and I wanted more.

But I wasn’t stupid. The first thing he’d said was that it shouldn’t have happened, and I agreed.

He met my gaze. “Jordan?—”

I held up my hand. “Let’s not. That was… That happened. We agree it shouldn’t have. We can just move on and go back to the way things were before.”

“Can we?” His question was slightly cynical, his eyes shadowed as the light from the windows silhouetted him against them.

I straightened, adjusting the fall of my dress. “Yes. We can. You’ve hired me to do a job, and that’s what we need to remember.”

Standing my ground while he stalked toward me, I ignored the fluttering in my chest. I tilted my head to meet his gaze as his eyes bore into mine. Having him this close to me challenged my resolve. His energy pressed against me, weakening my defenses.

If he told me he wanted me in that moment, I’m not sure I would’ve refused. Despite all the logical reasons to stick to what was outlined in my contract, a big part of me wanted to rip those papers to shreds, wrap my arms around him, and deal with the consequences later.

But he just slid his hand across my back and guided me back out the door and into the glittering blue and silver of the event. By the time we got back downstairs, the interlude in that room felt like a distant memory.