Wicked Fortune (Wicked Nights #5)

Chapter 11

ELEVEN

Holt pauses in front of the open door, the headset in his hand making clear that he’s no longer on the phone. “How’s your first day going?”

“Oh. Fine. Getting settled and digging in.” I’m pushed back from my desk, my shoes kicked off and my feet on a box of unfiled documents. Since that seems a little too casual for a conversation with the boss, I start to move my legs.

“Don’t,” he says, his gaze leaving a trail of fire as it drifts from my toes to the hem of my skirt, then up over my thighs, then my breasts, then higher still until he meets my eyes. “I like you this way. Comfortable. Doing my bidding.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. My own mouth is dry. Unlike certain other parts of me.

“All of my bidding,” he adds.

I lick my lips as I try to think of something clever and flirtatious to say. I’m supposed to be the femme fatale in this particular drama. The woman who’s invaded his private domain in order to find the truth and render justice, and right now, he’s snared firmly in my web.

Unfortunately, I don’t actually have a web, and my mind’s entirely forgotten how to function. All I see is him. All I feel is a slow burn spreading through my body, its growing intensity promising a wild burst of flame any second.

“Let me see,” he demands. “Show me that you’ve met all the conditions for being in my office.”

I tilt my head in what I hope is a flirtatious manner. “If you want to take a peek, nobody’s stopping you.”

“No?” He moves a step closer, his fingertips barely grazing the top of my foot, then easing higher as he inches closer. Soon, he’s standing by my hip, his fingertips butterfly-soft on the skin above my knee and just below the hem of my skirt.

My breath catches in my throat, and my eyes meet his, only to look away for fear I might get burned by the heat I see there.

Then he’s inching my skirt up, higher and higher, his fingers stroking soft, sensitive skin, and I’m trying so hard not to squirm, so hard not to crave his touch. I imagine the stroke of his finger along the edge of the panties, his soft touch as he slips under and inside me. The low growl when he?—

“ Aria?”

The fantasy shatters.

I jump to my feet, my heart pounding in my chest as I turn to see Lila standing at my reception-side door, her arms crossed as she looks at me with a furrowed brow.

“Sorry,” I say, hoping she can’t read my mind. “Just resting my eyes before another round of computer entries.”

“Hmm.” She taps her watch, her brow furrowed as if she can see all my prurient thoughts. “I leave at three on Mondays and Fridays. I’ve switched the reception phone to your desk.” She nods to the door that leads to Holt’s office, still closed. “I expect he’ll be at least another half-hour in this meeting. I know your work history is … checkered. Can you handle his calls for the rest of the day?”

I assure her I can, trying to keep the glee out of my voice. She gives me a dubious look, then continues to linger in the doorway. So long, in fact, that if another minute passes, I might just end up confessing everything.

Thankfully, her eyes do another quick run over me, then she nods and strides out of my tiny space. My computer can access the floor’s security video, and as soon as I see her disappear into the elevator, I do a little fist pump.

Let the snooping begin .

I hurry out of my alcove and into the reception area, then park myself behind Lila’s desk. I can’t access her computer, of course, but Holt’s policy is to keep hard copies of anything important. Which means that what I’m really interested in are the file drawers built into the cabinetry behind her workstation. Too bad I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for. A file labeled Garland, Jenny ? Probably not. And while I might hope for Illegal Activities , that seems unlikely, too.

Which means I’m going to have to rifle through as much as I can, and hope for the best.

Since I don’t want interruptions during this project—and since I don’t have the benefit of the hall camera from out here—I hurry over to the door and lock it, even though Holt has an open-door policy, and it’s supposed to be unlocked from ten to five.

Well, let them knock.

With luck, there won’t be any visitors.

With more luck, neither Holt nor his guests will burst out of his office.

I swivel the chair and tug on a file drawer. Nothing happens.

I try again. Nothing. There’s no indication that the lock is electronic, but I swipe my key card along the top and front just in case.

Nada.

There are ten file drawers behind Lila’s desk, and every single one of them is locked. So are the desk drawers. And since there’s no keyhole that I see, I think the lock must be electronic. Or biometric. Or some other fancy security set-up that’s part of the Billionaire Office Security Package, and therefore above my pay grade.

I could probably jimmy them—but since I haven’t a clue how to do that, they’d end up mangled by me banging the end of a screwdriver with a hammer. Not the subtle sneaky approach I’m going for. Plus, Holt would probably hear the banging. Plus, I don’t have a screwdriver or a hammer on me.

A pity, especially since something incriminating might be tucked into these drawers.

But the truth is, I don’t really believe that. Holt’s too careful. He wouldn’t trust someone else to hide his red flags, not even Lila, who’s his right-hand gal. At least she thinks so.

No, if it’s important—if it’s dangerous or inculpatory—he’s going to keep it close.

Which means I don’t need Lila’s files. I need Holt’s. And that is something that’s clearly not happening. At least not now. And probably not tomorrow. That kind of access requires either criminal-level sneakiness or a hefty dose of trust. Normally, I’d go for sneaky, but in this case, I think trust will be easier. After all, Matthew set the terms of my employment, and the simple fact is that sex often morphs into trust. That’s Psych 101.

And that’s what I’m counting on.

With a little moan, I squeeze my legs together, my body still tingling after my daydream, and since Lila’s gone, I allow my overactive imagination to conjure the glorious sensation of his fingers inside the silky, lacy thong.

Soon , I think. Sex first, then snooping.

It’s what makes women such excellent spies.

With my freshly hatched sex-then-files plan, I feel more centered, but not enough to just sit around. And I do have one avenue I can investigate right now.

With that thought, I press the intercom button. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Holt,” I say in my Officious Assistant voice, “but Ms. Blackstone’s left for the day and I need to run down to Human Resources. More new hire paperwork.”

“That’s fine,” he says. “Just leave the placard on Lila’s desk.”

He’s referring to the “Please Have a Seat” sign that she’d shown me earlier. I plop it on the desktop, then hurry into the hall, giddy with the prospect of action.

The same clerk’s minding the Human Resources desk when I arrive. I tell her what I need, then take a seat as she disappears into what must be the vault from the last scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark because it takes her forever to return.

“I’m sorry,” she says, pushing a red curl off her forehead. “I can’t locate it.” She’s a bit out of breath, and I believe her when she adds that she looked everywhere she could think of.

“What’s missing?” Lila’s soul sister approaches the clerk, then turns to me as if I’m some sort of troublemaker.

I resist the urge to put my hands up and take a step back. Instead, I tell her that I’m Mr. Holt’s new PA and that I’m trying to locate Jenny Garland’s personnel file for my boss. “She was a background actor on at least one film,” I add, hoping the extra info helps.

“I’ve looked everywhere,” the clerk says.

The stern woman looks down her nose at me. “You must have misunderstood Mr. Holt.”

I freeze, certain she’s going to call Holt, and since he’s no dummy, he’ll realize that I’m nosing around about who killed Jenny, and I’ll lose this job, attract the attention of the bad guys—assuming Holt’s not leading them—and end up tossed over a bridge myself.

None of that happens.

But what she does say is almost as terrifying. “Mr. Holt requested that file himself about two weeks ago. If he’s misplaced it, I can check the server for the scanned backup, but?—”

“No, no. You’re absolutely right. I realize now that I’d misunderstood. I assumed I had to come down here, when really he was very clear.” I’ve taken two steps back. Now I add a turn toward the door. “I’m so sorry to have bothered you. I really didn’t mean to take up your time.”

And with that, I yank open the door and disappear into the hall, my heels clattering as I walk-run to the elevator before one of them decides to follow and interrogate me.

It’s not until I’m on the elevator that the bottom line sinks in. Holt has Jenny’s file . And he pulled it not long after she died.

Why?

Does this mean he really did have something to do with her death? Or is he just a man with such a need for control that he doesn’t want anyone else—like the police—looking at it without going through it first himself?

Except surely the police already looked at it, assuming they were interested at all. As far as the LAPD is concerned, Jenny Garland committed suicide. End of story.

So why does he have it? I don’t know, but it’s a pretty good guess that the file includes something incriminating … and that her death was somehow tied to Hardline Entertainment.

I’m shaking my head as the elevator slides to a halt on twelve, hating that scenario. And the truth is, the file could be completely bland, and Holt requested it simply because of her death.

I just don’t know. And the only way to figure it out is to find the file in Holt’s office and do what I came here to do. Snoop.

The doors open, and I gasp as Francesca Muratti, the acclaimed actress, steps on as I step off. I’m a huge fan, but I’m so muddled up in thoughts of Jenny that I don’t even introduce myself as Holt’s PA.

I’m still feeling muddled and uneasy and very, very confused when I arrive back at the office. Only Matthew is there, and the double doors between reception and his private office are wide open. He’s standing by the window, his back to the door, his headset on. One hand is in his pocket, and although I know that he may turn and see me at any time, I can’t help but step closer, trying to hear as he speaks in a low, firm voice.

I catch only a few words—something about a report and PR implications, followed by, “Dammit, that’s not what I want to hear, and you know it. And as for the functions, the moment they become a liability, we shut it down. If we get audited because someone’s not accounting for expenses the way we discussed, there will be hell to pay. And these were never intended to be a profit-making program, so we need to revisit that at the next board meeting.”

I hold my breath as he stays silent, listening.

“Fine,” he says after a significant pause. “Tell Joel to get his ass up here tomorrow. And, yes, I know he’s new here, but that’s not an excuse for unilaterally deciding that budgetary restrictions don’t apply to him. He can call Lila in the morning and she’ll squeeze him in. No excuses.”

He ends the call abruptly, then turns around, his attention going right to me.

I freeze, only relaxing when a flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Damn windows are like mirrors,” he says. “And now you’re wondering if that was one of my intentional design choices or just a happy coincidence.”

“You don’t seem to be a man who lives by coincidence, Mr. Holt.”

“If there are no guests in the office, then ‘Matthew’ is fine,” he says, motioning for me to enter.

“Sure, um, Matthew,” I say, surprised by how much I like the feel of his name on my tongue.

His desk is littered with dozens of file folders labeled with films and shows in various stages of development or production. But what really catches my attention are the booklets of word games—everything from Wordle to crosswords to Jumble. Bree and Jenny and I were anagram fiends back in high school, and this tiny little connection to Matthew leaves a surprisingly warm feeling in my belly.

I try to act casual as I stack and shuffle, as if tidying is the reason he’d beckoned for me. It wasn’t, of course. But I’m not sure if I’m about to be chastised for eavesdropping or if he’s finally going to acknowledge what I’m wearing under my suit.

The thought of the first rattles me, but the second rattles me even more. I’ve been waiting all day, and if his goal was to have me spend the day half-lost in sensual anticipation, he has very much achieved that objective.

“Trouble with the press?” I ask, my voice carefully neutral. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you mention PR.”

He waves it off. “There’s always trouble, Ms. Parker. It’s the way of the world.” He gives me a smile that feels half genuine, half predatory. “The business world, at any rate.”

He stands for a moment, watching me work. There’s something oddly intimate about having his attention like that, and it’s making me more than a little fidgety. I’m about to pretend that my phone’s buzzed in my pocket when I notice the yellow pad on the corner of his desk blotter. His handwriting covers it, mostly scribbled words and numbers. But in the bottom right, I see the letters JG. They’ve been overwritten with multiple pens, and circled, too. As if JG were something weighing on his mind.

My stomach goes tight, and I force myself to continue stacking papers, putting several other pads on top of that one.

If he’s noticed my reaction he doesn’t show it. On the contrary, he waves a hand to indicate the couch. “Come sit and tell me about your first day.”

I comply, telling myself that JG could mean anything. He was talking on the phone with someone named Joel, after all. For all I know, Joel’s last name is Gotlieb.

It’s a valid point, and I cram it through my thick, suspicious head as I take a seat.

“Drink?” he asks, so casually, I have to assume the note meant nothing. Otherwise, wouldn’t he have told me to ignore the desk in the first place?

“I’d love a drink,” I say, which right then is so very true. I look around for a bar, and since I don’t see one, I expect him to pull a bottle of bourbon from a drawer in his desk.

Instead, he moves across the room and opens the top hemisphere of an antique globe to reveal a small bar.

I clap my hand over my mouth to muffle my little squeak of surprise and delight.

He turns to me, brows raised in question.

“The bar,” I explain. “I’ve wanted one of those since I was a kid and my parents showed me? —”

“Dr. No, ” we say in unison, then laugh.

He holds up a bottle of Glenfiddich 50-Year-Old, a seriously impressive bottle, but I just shrug. “What? No vodka martini, shaken not stirred?”

“I can do that if you’d rather,” he says, calling my bluff.

“No, no. I give up. I want the Glenfiddich.”

“I don’t know. We shared a Bond moment. Maybe?—”

“Give me the damn whisky,” I say, making him laugh.

“Neat?”

“That vintage? Hell, yes.”

He pours, then brings me the liquid gold. Our fingers brush and I feel a jolt that’s from more than anticipation of this rare drink.

I take it carefully so as not to spill. And I definitely don’t confess that I’ve never had such an expensive drink.

He pours his own, then joins me on the couch. He lifts his glass and we clink a toast. “Thank you,” I say, hoping he hears the sincerity.

“A whisky this special is meant to be shared.”

“In that case, thank you for sharing it with me.”

Our eyes meet. “You’re very welcome.”

We both take a sip, and I savor the taste, noticing that he’s doing the same. “Amazing.” I practically purr the word, which doesn’t do the drink justice at all.

“I like to collect amazing things. Things that inspire me or challenge me. Sometimes I collect something just because I want to understand it better.”

“Oh?” I take another sip, trying to hide my certainty that he’s talking about me. “Like what?”

“Well, whisky, actually. And Kentucky bourbon. I even dipped a toe into gin, but that wasn’t a good fit.”

“You wanted to understand them?”

He chuckles, clearly hearing my wry tone. “I did. I was twenty-three and even though my dad was a drunk, I didn’t have a clue about spirits. I grew up dirt poor, so we never had something like this. Not unless my dad snatched it, anyway.”

I realize I’m leaning forward, and he has my complete attention. “Did he do that? Steal?”

Matthew meets my eyes, then nods slowly. “From time to time. Or, more accurately, every damn day. Point being, I wanted to learn about whisky. Bond might be a vodka man, but I’d seen enough by then to know that deals were made in rooms where men drank. And the richer the men, the pricier the drink. I was dirt poor, and I couldn’t fix that.”

I tilt my head. “Um, look around you.”

“I couldn’t fix it overnight,” he says with a nod to my correction. “I figured if I didn’t have money, I could have knowledge. If I knew about The Dalmore 62, then wouldn’t folks assume I was someone who could afford it?”

“So you went to Scotland?”

“And Kentucky and a number of other places. Spent a year learning and walked away a connoisseur.”

“And did it work? You could name the good stuff, so did folks assume you could afford it, too?”

His grin is more than a little smug. “Like you said—look around you.”

I laugh, genuinely impressed. Then I lean back, letting myself settle into the cushion and get more comfortable than I probably should with this man. But right or wrong, I trust him a little bit more now.

That, I think, was probably what he was hoping for. But I can’t fault him for it. I believe the story, and if it’s a lie, well, at least it was entertaining. No surprise there, I suppose. Entertainment is part of his company’s name.

“And now you have a whole world filled with the good stuff,” I say, nodding to his globe.

“I guess I do.”

“I was barely ten when I saw the movie,” I tell him. “The couch, my dad, and a big bowl of popcorn. I wanted it for toys. I thought hiding Mr. Quack and the rest in the center of the world was the coolest idea ever.”

“Mr. Quack?”

I feel my cheeks heat. “A stuffed duck I had when I was a kid.” I don’t mention that I still have him.

“I was thirteen the first time I saw it,” he says. “It was at a revival house in Manhattan. I snuck in. Decided right then I wanted to be James Bond.”

“Is that your way of telling me that you’re a spy pretending to be a movie mogul?”

He gives me a long, dry stare. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

I try to fight my grin but fail. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

He tilts his head as if studying me. As if wondering if I really mean that. Honestly, I think maybe I do.

One corner of his mouth curves up. “That would be quite a burden,” he says. “I have so many.” He shifts on the sofa. Now he’s positioned so that he could put his hand on my leg. But he’s not so close that he’s in my personal space.

I kind of want him to slide into my personal space.

I clear my throat. “Why not tell me one? I’ll prove to you I can keep your secret, and you can relieve yourself of a burden. Sounds like a win-win to me.”

His smile lights his face, and he leans back, his right arm stretched along the top of the couch behind me. It’s not touching me, but I’m overly aware of it, as if the air between my back and his arm is warmer than the rest of the room. “Already she’s trying to move up in my organization.”

I shake my head, not understanding.

“Your excellent negotiating skills,” he says. “You won’t stay a PA for long.”

I tilt my head and meet his gaze dead on, taking control of the moment. “Maybe I like the job. Personal assistant, I mean.”

I’m playing with fire, and I know it. But the plan was to get close. And so far, what’s under my outfit hasn’t worked as the first-string play, despite Matthew having chosen that play himself.

That’s when I realize that while I’m still wearing my suit jacket, he’s not wearing his jacket or his tie. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone, and I can see just a smattering of hair on his chest. He must have shed the corporate uniform when his meeting ended.

In a whoosh, the ease and control I’d felt moments earlier slips away with the stealth of James Bond himself. I’m no longer cool and calm, and butterflies are doing the Rumba in my stomach.

I start to take a sip of my drink—I need it—but he lifts his hand to stop me. “What shall we drink to?”

I hesitate, then look him straight in the eye as I say, “To friendship and loyalty.”

He nods. If he reads anything into my words, he doesn’t show it. “And to new beginnings,” he adds, then clinks my glass. His gaze lingers on mine, and while it might be my imagination, I think I catch a hint of challenge in his eyes.

“And new adventures,” I add before taking a sip. The words feel bold, but his smile deepens, as if I’ve passed some sort of test.

He tilts his head, studying me over the rim of his glass. “This industry can be … challenging,” he says, his voice low. “Especially for those who don’t know what they’re getting into.”

“And we’re talking about me?”

“On the contrary. I think you know exactly what you’re getting into. I think you like a challenge. An adventure.” As he speaks, his gaze dips briefly—almost imperceptibly—to the hem of my skirt, currently sitting midway up my thigh.

I feel his words as if they’re a physical touch, skimming over the lace he knows I’m wearing. He hasn’t mentioned the lingerie, but every glance, every pause in his speech reminds me of it, keeping me acutely aware that beneath my professional facade, I’ve followed his every command.

I cast about for a clever retort, but one doesn’t come, and I’m left with the rather mortifying realization that even though I know this man may very well be complicit in Jenny’s death, all I want in this moment is his touch. His hands on my skin. His mouth on my lips. It’s been too long since I’ve felt the kind of tug I feel with Holt, like I’m a live wire ready to spark.

I work to steady my breath, hoping he can’t hear my heartbeat. I take a long sip of my whisky, needing to feel that burn.

I’m lost in a sea of frustration, wanting to beg, but knowing that would take me out of the game.

And that’s when I realize the truth—this is a game. The job, the lingerie, even the desire in his eyes. It’s real. I don’t think I’m fooling myself about that. But the rest of this—the commanding manner, the sexy underthings, the hand on my thigh. The arm behind my back.

Even the buzz from the whisky. It’s a game of control. And every move is him telling me that he’s won.

I should be furious. I’m not.

Instead, I’m more desperate than ever for his touch. Not that I’m going to tell him that.

In fact—damn him—I do the only thing I can do to shift the score back to my side of the court. I slide away from him, then study his face, looking for a sign that I’ve broken from the script.

But he’s as unreadable as ever.

“I should get going,” I say, expecting him to reach for me. To pull me back. To tell me I can’t leave until I show him that I obeyed. That I’m wearing the underwear he sent with the contract.

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t try to pull me back.

“Nine tomorrow?” I ask once I’m standing.

He leans back against the smooth leather, both arms spread, one hand slowly swirling his drink. “Nine sharp. And Aria,” he adds with a cocky half-smile, “welcome to the team.”