3. Catriona
Three
Catriona
Rian’s biceps flex under his white shirt as he flicks through the pages of the updated document.
Trying to focus on something less distracting, I lift my gaze to his face.
He can’t have been in many fights in whatever private school he went to, as his nose is perfectly straight.
Below it, a strong cupid’s bow shapes his upper lip.
Dark eyebrows frame his eyes. I can’t see their colour with his head tilted down, but I’ve been locked in silent battles with him enough times to know they are pale grey with dark circles framing the irises.
In some light, a hint of moss green shines through.
My boss’s office is one of six that lead off from the big open-plan room.
Spacious enough to have a conference table that, although a bit cramped, fits eight people, and it sports the luxury of a private bathroom.
The office’s main feature, though, is the floor-to-ceiling window.
On the second floor, the views of the Grand Canal are great.
But up on the fifth floor, from Rian’s father’s office, the views of south-side Dublin are nothing short of spectacular.
Not that I’ve had the privilege of being up to see Arthur Kearney more than a few times in the five years I’ve worked here since I walked through the front door as a nineteen-year-old intern.
Rian takes his time going through the file, deliberately making me stand there in front of him, waiting, like a student in the principal’s office.
There are a lot of annoying things about my boss, but the most annoying of them all is that he’s actually smart.
He can quickly skim through complex documents and pick up on all important aspects.
In meetings with clients, he effortlessly steers conversations based on the mood in the room and can do a sales pitch so smooth, the client doesn’t even realise it’s a pitch.
And yet, most of the time, Rian chooses to sit behind his desk, playing king of the castle, making everyone – and me in particular – do his job for him.
And if I’ve made a mistake, I can be sure his lazy arse will pick up on it.
I snap to attention as Rian drops the file on the desk. The light from the window reflects off the Rolex on his wrist as he steeples his fingers in front of him. I know his game – know he’s carefully plotting how to break me.
“I expected more from you, Miss Taylor.”
I scan my brain trying to figure out what he’s picked up about the report. What have I forgotten?
“Is that so, Mr Kearney?” I bite out.
Abruptly, he gets up from his chair. There’s something threatening in the way he stalks around his desk. I suck in a sharp breath as he stops right in front of me, too close, making me tilt my head back to look up at him. I force myself to stop fidgeting with the sleeve of my jacket.
“You’ve omitted the possibility of shared surveillance.
” He’s been in a foul mood since he came back from seeing Smyth.
Not that anyone else would have noticed, but there’s an edge to his movements, his jaw tighter than normal, a stiffness to his charming smirk.
A shiver trickles down my spine. Perhaps today isn’t the day to pick a fight.
“Including the shared surveillance would require an assessment of all contracts in that area,” I counter, despite my better judgement.
He leans in, his hot breath fans over my skin. He’s never been physically threatening before. His edginess makes me swallow tightly while his cologne distracts me.
“So why didn’t you?”
I should retreat, say I’ll fix it, and leave, but his unjust attack sparks something in me. “Maybe I would’ve had time to include it if you’d dragged yourself to the office at a decent hour, helping to put the file together.”
Shit, shit, shit.
White teeth flash behind his sneer and a nerve under his eye is ticking. “Watch that mouth of yours.”
The low rumble of his voice electrifies the air around us. My pulse is racing. I clench my legs together as I force myself to stand still.
“Can’t you take it?” I challenge and lift my chin higher while my heart is hammering behind my ribcage.
The tip of his tongue wets his lower lip and he growls his next words. “I should teach you some manners by putting you over my knee to tan that arse of yours.”
I can’t stop my gasp. There’s a surge low in my tummy. I hate the glee in his eyes when I don’t have an immediate comeback. I swallow, and his gaze travels down to my throat. His teeth flash as if he’d like to sink them into my jugular and claim victory over his beaten opponent.
I stutter. “O-of course a neanderthal like you would have to resort to—”
There’s a knock on the door.
I clamp my lips shut. An unspoken warning flare in Rian’s gaze as he steps away and returns to his desk. I breathe out quietly and try to calm my racing heart. What the hell just happened! Our spats have never gone this far.
“Come on in,” Rian calls in the charming tone he uses for anyone but me.
“Rian, you have visitors,” Orla singsongs. With a big smile, the middle-aged office administrator holds the door open.
In walks a woman who can only be described as a breath of fresh air.
Her petite frame is covered by a flowing pink knee-length dress that looks both classy and innocent.
Her shiny, light brown hair is carefully windswept, and the gentle touch of her make-up highlights her striking green eyes.
She is stunningly beautiful, yet there is something subtle about her appearance.
I know, however, that the subtle look is carefully and purposefully crafted.
This is, after all, Alexandra Harrington, heiress of Calla, one of the world’s leading event companies.
Nothing – not a strand of hair or a movement of her hand – is left to chance when it comes to perfect Alexandra.
She even pronounces her name the posh way, where the second A is all nasal, sounding almost like an O. Alexsoondra.
“Alexandra, are you here to tell me you’ll be my date at the Hilton Charity Ball?” The corners of Rian’s mouth tilt up in a soft, intimate smile without a trace of the raw anger from earlier.
“Ach, Ri-ri…” she purrs teasingly, shaking her head.
He gets back up from his chair he just sat down in and says with a voice as sickening as cotton candy, “One day you’ll say yes. You know we’re meant to be together.”
She laughs quietly – intimately. “One day, Rian.”
I fight a gag as I try my best to ignore their nauseating conversation.
Alexandra tilts her head ever so slightly to the side and Rian leans down and kisses the offered cheek.
Taking a step back, he assesses her. “You look divine as always.”
His gaze shifts to me. He cocks his eyebrow. I lift my chin at the low blow. I try to stay unaffected, but there’s a pinch in my gut. It’s not the first time he’s hinted at my lack of good looks.
“Rian, have you had lunch yet?” sounds from the door, and a second person enters.
A man in his late twenties, twenty-eight, to be exact – the same age as my boss.
Leo Moore, Rian’s best friend, is tall and slender.
The genes from his late Italian mother make him stand out as exotic next to us pasty Irish.
He’s a well-known trust fund playboy, and judging by how frequently he visits this office, there can’t be a day’s work in him.
“No, I haven’t,” Rian responds and grabs his jacket and phone. “I could eat.”
Leo dips his head in my direction with his signature charming smile. “Ciao.”
“Hello,” I say as politely as I can muster.
“So, what’s your name, bella?”
I want to roll my eyes. It’s taken him six months to notice my existence. I’m just about to answer when a hand lands hard on Leo’s shoulder, steering him away from me.
“Let’s go.”
As Rian passes, he tosses me the O’Toole file with only a sideways glance. “Make sure you have this fixed by the time I’m back.”
“Oh, bossy much?” Alexandra chuckles, and then they’re gone, leaving me standing alone in his office. I slowly walk out, cursing Rian and the disgustingly perfect Alexandra, who hasn’t even acknowledged me with a single look. And why would she? I’m a nobody.
I’ve not even got to my desk before long, straight black hair blocks my way. Mona, one of the other assistants on my team. Her eyes shine in excitement. “Was that Alexandra Harrington with Rian?”
“It was indeed.”
“Gosh, she’s so pretty. Her mother is a British royal, you know,” she says, as if that’s news and not common knowledge.
“So I believe.”
Yes, perfect Alexandra has an aristocratic mother and her father is a self-made multimillionaire. Some people have it all – the looks, pedigree and money.
“Do you think they are dating?”
That pinch is back in my tummy. “I don’t think so,” I say and excuse myself.
It’s not the first time Rian and his posh friends with their smooth Irish accents have made me feel worthless. It never ceases to hurt – and makes me tone down my broad, north Dublin twang.
But today, the hurt is a dull notion at the back of my mind. I slowly walk back to my desk, leave the file and head to the bathrooms at the back of the office. As I close the door to the stall, I can’t help but picture his eyes, clouded dark, his teeth flashing. His words.
What would it be like, being bent over his knees, his big hand on my bum?
Spanking me.
I know people get off on it. Latex-wearing people with heavy eyeliner and choker jewellery. Not normal people, like me.
Surely not normal people like me.
Yet when I push down my panties, they’re wet.