Chapter Six
Scarlett
O h my sweet, sweet Lord.
This man can kiss.
His mouth is hot and wet and firm on mine, and tendrils of desire bloom like insane flowers inside me.
The first kiss was divine, but this is a game changer. It’s seduction, it melts my bones, and my heart is hammering in my chest as he draws me into him. I’m wrapped around him, his erection pressing against my stomach though he makes no move to do anything but kiss.
I’m burning. I’m pure sensation and I want to go deeper and deeper into the kiss to see where it goes. My clit throbs with need as my insides clench, like there’s something they must have. That pleasure-filled desire is blooming madly and if I could crawl into this kiss, I would. Right down into its depths.
There are songs written about kisses, books. Movies made. Legends built and this kiss blows them all into nothing more than dust.
And I’m melting into him. His tongue is magic in my mouth and he tastes like Scotch and sin and wicked promises.
His hand slides down my spine, a soft, tantalizing touch I feel everywhere, and then the kiss is over and he’s let me go.
I’m a mess. I’m panting. I thought running earlier was my undoing, but really, it’s this. My blood pounds loudly in my ears and my entire body is encased in some kind of heat haze that the running could only dream of creating. And inside, down deep in my core, right there between my legs, I’m a throbbing, needing, mass of nerve ends that are tight and aching in that good way I know his touch can both rile and soothe and push me over the edge and he—
Hudson Sinclair looks cucumber cool and spectacularly unruffled, like he didn’t just have the kiss of his life.
I hit the concrete hard. Metaphorically, that is. Reality floods my veins with a coolness that a vat of ice never could.
For all I know, Hudson wasn’t moved by that kiss like I am. Or was. I’m over it now. At least, that’s what I tell myself. He’s rich, he dates the kind of gorgeous women I could never hope to be. And he thinks I’m some airhead rich girl who can’t hold on to money.
I thought I was wildly attracted to him before, but that was mere passing fancy. This is a drop your panties attraction. That kiss opened something in me.
But not for him, because this is fake. And now he’s staring at me. I have to say something. “That was…nice.”
His eyebrows rise and I want to melt away.
“It’s good,” I say, “to know we can do that in case we have to. For…appearances.”
Hudson’s mouth quirks a little. “Do you want me to walk you in?”
“God no!” I stop and a woman walking by casts me a long look. I ignore her, just like I ignore the burn in my cheeks that’s all embarrassment. “People will talk.”
What I want is for him to kiss me again. I think about doing it, just to see if that was a fluke, but I don’t have the nerve. Besides, I’m horribly aware I don’t live in the building behind me and I’m lying to the man who said he’d destroy me if I do that.
I don’t think he will, but there’s that martini quality to him. The bite beneath the smooth that worries me.
It’s not like he’s going to find out, but I’d rather not test that, so I step away and say, “I’ll see you tomorrow at work. For you.”
And then, because he’s making no effort to move from where he stands, looking all relaxed and gorgeous and unruffled, I whirl around and head to the building before I can think about it.
I bound up through the big door where the doorman stands in his natty suit and hat and I say, “I’ll give you twenty bucks if you let me go inside for five minutes.”
I ended up giving that doorman—Fred his name is—a cool fifty for letting me do that. When I came out, I peered up and down the street and Fred said the gentleman had gone.
With a wave, I’d taken off, hobbling down the street to the subway station because now that adrenaline had ebbed away, my feet hurt like I’d performed some kind of torture on them.
Now I’m in bed, my covers up under my chin and Mr. Figglesmort in a death grip. He’s used to it, and I need the comfort from the old bear.
I try to sleep and can’t, so by the time morning comes I drag myself out of bed and into the shower like I drank ten of those terrible martinis—actual martinis, not Hudson type martinis—instead of half of one.
“You look like you had a night.”
Amber is pointing a perfectly manicured finger at me in an accusing fashion and I swallow hard, wishing I’d stayed in bed, but she’s not usually up at six a.m., even on a work morning. She has one of those hipster jobs that starts at eleven.
“I have a night each time the sun goes down,” I say, scurrying into our tiny kitchen and searching for sustenance. There are Cheerios, which I hate, but I grab a handful and crunch them down dry, anyway.
She crosses her arms, blocking the door. “Oh, very funny. Who is he?”
“Who’s what now?”
“The man you keep borrowing my clothes for.”
“I’m not. There is no man.”
But heat is burning in my face again and she gives a triumphant, “Hah! Liar! Tell me all…or I won’t let you wear that.”
I look down. “This is mine.”
“Hmm… Cute little black pants, perfect for boots or strappy heels and a poppy red blouse with a black pussy bow. Are you sure?”
“Yes. You made me buy these because you said every girl needs an outfit that’s office chic and ready to party on the down low. Whatever that means.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re trying to change the subject.”
“I have a new job. It pays well. That’s all.”
“There’s a man. I can tell.”
“You always think there’s a man,” I snap, taking another handful of Cheerios and nabbing her overly sweet coffee that’s sitting on the bench and take a big swallow. It’s warm because she forgot it and it’s creamy and sweet and very caffeinated, so I drink some more. “But…”
I stop talking.
“I knew it,” Amber says. “Who is he?”
“It’s not…it’s not like whatever you’re thinking. It’s to do with work.”
She clutches a hand to her generous breasts. “You’re a high-class hooker. I should have known when you started taking my clothes.”
“Are you saying you wear high-class hooker clothes?”
“Hey, they do very well.”
“I’m not.” And with that I hand her the coffee and push past with words of trains and running late and new boss and hard ass.
I know I didn’t get away with it, not really. Amber’s got her claws out for the story and she knows there’s one. But I can’t tell her anything.
This is way more complicated than I thought.
I don’t have time over the next few days to do anything but panic. I’m in the deep end, and as a boss, Hudson is scary.
He’s not an ogre. But he’s exacting and he demands excellence in everything. Right to the smallest detail.
When I said hard ass to Amber, I didn’t know how wrong I was.
He was worse.
Steel and ice ran in his veins, and no one dared to put a foot wrong around him.
No wonder he’s paying me so much. This is Gulag-style work. But with pay. It’s like back breaking but for the mind. And the worst thing? The absolute worst? He holds himself to the highest of all standards.
I saw a grown man cry. Not when Hudson was looking, but after he came to tell him that he’d screwed something up. And Hudson hadn’t said anything other than okay.
It was worse than being reamed or fired.
And me?
I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m in the deep end and I’m teaching myself to swim.
I’m getting ready to leave, but I have to send an email to one of his clients who wants a meeting. And for some reason, this woman is the worst. She’s demanding and pushy and she’s also very, very rich, so I’m not sure why she’s at the bottom of the pile.
Perhaps that’s why he needs a PA.
I live in a cavern next to his office. I’m like a side step to his receptionist. I’m about to press send on the email when the pressure in the room changes and my skin starts to buzz.
Without looking, I know he’d stepped inside.
Hudson approaches the desk of blackwood where I sit. It’s some designer piece, all curved and beautiful and I’m sort of in love with it. With my cavern, actually. It’s bright and filled with black steel and white and creams and dark, black woods.
My brain is melting because he’s there. He’s changed from his suit and is dressed head to toe in black and looks impossibly suave and dangerous in that impeccable way, and he’s so gorgeous I’m probably drooling.
“Scarlett,” he says, his voice soft and velvety. “You have a…a way of working that’s unique.”
“Thank you?”
He smiles. “Yesterday, you booked two meetings for me at the same time. One in Queens and one in SoHo. I’m good, but even I haven’t mastered time travel or cloning. Try to keep an eye on that.” He sits on my desk and crosses his legs, his gaze skimming over me and then to the computer where my hand still hovers over the keyboard.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that. I thought it was the following week for the Queens meeting.” His face doesn’t change, but I know that’s the wrong answer. “The follow up meeting. I’ll call and fix it. Send an edible arrangement.”
He just nods and says, “Okay.”
I know exactly why that man cried in the corner of one of the offices. That okay is horrible. I don’t know how or why, but it is. I’d rather he scream at me.
“Also…” His hand is holding my wrist, his thumb drawing circles against the sensitive skin there and I’m having trouble thinking of anything but that. “I’d rather you not press send on this email.”
“Okay. Is she your girlfriend?”
He looks completely horrified and he actually shudders. “No. Let’s just say while I want her money, I don’t want anything that comes with it.”
“You could—”
“The meetings thing is your one screw up. Now.” He lets me go like he didn’t just threaten the job. I want to ask if that threat includes our contract, but I’m not that brave. “Come on. We have things to do tonight.”
“Now?”
“That’s what tonight means.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” He stands. “This is part of our contract, or didn’t you read that? I need you when I need you. We have four weeks, not months.”
Shit, I have plans with my brother that I can’t get out of. Anything else, for anything else with him, I’d cancel, but I promised I’d go to an event with him this evening that’s important and I can’t let him down.
“It’s just…” It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I’ve plans with my brother, but Sarah’s an only child, so I panic. “I’ve got a charity event. It’s the Matronly Matrons of the Hamptons fundraiser. It’s this thing where—”
“That’s fine.” He cuts me off and I’m almost sagging with relief because I honestly don’t know where that would have ended.
“Tomorrow. No excuses.”
I watch him leave, hating the disappointment that surges at his departure. Instead, I delete the email and shut down the computer and head to meet my brother.
This all has the beginnings of a nightmare. Especially how the little lies keep growing into more lies. But this is only four weeks. And I can control an unrequited crush for four weeks. Right? I can do that. Four weeks. Then I get paid. Then I can save my brother’s business and help him find his confidence again, and I never have to think about this job. Except when I’m old and gray. Then I can relish the memory of the kiss.
But I just have to do this for four weeks.
What, really, could possibly go wrong?