Chapter 1 #2
"I need my tux for this evening. My lunch better not be late. Tell the agency if they don’t send in the proofs for the advertisements by four p.m., they can stuff 'em where the sun don’t shine.
" My boss pauses. "And tell my pilot to ready the jet by six p.m. I have a dinner appointment in Brussels. "
His voice is so demanding, so assertive, that heat flushes my skin. I push aside my reaction and focus on scrawling his orders.
"Also, I need a fresh cup of coffee, and it better not be cold," he snipes.
I draw in a sharp breath, then ask, "How do you take your—" The line goes dead.
I stare at the receiver. I have to assume that it’s The Beast with the capital B. He sounded like one. And his voice was gruff and dark and so…so… Hot. I swallow.
I hate how he spoke to me. But even more, I hate the fact that I found his voice so tantalizing. I push aside the thought and focus on the list The Beast gave me. First, the coffee. "I don’t suppose you know—" I raise my gaze to find I’m alone.
Zelda's walking down the corridor. She stops to speak to one of the women working outside another one of the offices. Both turn to look at me. Their faces reflect pity. The older woman makes the sign of the cross.
Excuse me? Did she just—? I’m aware, I‘m gaping. I school my features into a neutral expression and ignore the sense of foreboding rippling through me.
They turn back to each other and exchange a few more words before Zelda walks off.
My ribcage tightens. She brushed me off. All of a sudden, I feel like I’m back in high school, being ignored by the cool kids. I push up the glasses on my nose. I feel lonely and abandoned and... Shoot, I never got to ask Zelda how my boss takes his coffee.
I rise to my feet and head for the woman she was speaking with. She’s an older woman, with her silvery gray hair pulled back. She watches me approach with a wary look.
"I’m June Donnelly." I extend my hand.
She doesn't shake it. "Double espresso, no milk or sugar.”
"Excuse me?"
"His coffee." She jerks her chin in the direction of the kitchen. "Better not keep him waiting."
OMG, seriously? Doesn’t anyone here know how to be polite? Before I can stop myself, I burst out, “You know, I’m not surprised so many of the other assistants quit within the hour.”
“Oh?” Her eyebrows knit.
“Maybe it's not just because of the difficult boss." I pause for a moment. "Maybe it has something to do with the rudeness of the co-workers, too.”
I spin around and turn toward the kitchen when she calls out, "I don’t mean to be ill-mannered, but I’ve learned it's best not to invest in relationships with any of Knox’s assistants, since they never last."
I turn back toward her. “And by being so unwelcoming, you’re ensuring no one will want to stay because they'll feel there's no support system.”
She flushes, then has the grace to look embarrassed. “You’re right.” She rises to her feet and walks over to me. She holds out her hand. “I’m sorry, I was standoffish. I’m Mary, Quentin Davenport’s assistant. I’m also the Office Administrator."
I hesitate, then decide not to be churlish about it. I need all the friends I can get if I want to survive this job. I shake her hand. "Nice to meet you.”
“You, too, June,” she says in a polite, if reserved, voice. At least, that wary look about her eyes is gone.
We size each other up for a few seconds, and I know that she’s trying to figure out how long I’m going to be able to stay the course. “I don’t give up easily, you know.”
I didn’t survive being shuttled between foster families before being adopted by tapping out.
After months of searching, I didn’t land this job which will help me pay off my debts faster than I anticipated, only to quit because my boss has a bad attitude, or because my work-colleagues are disagreeable.
Mary must see the resolution on my face, for her expression softens and she nods. “I’m beginning to see that. I’d say good luck but—”
“But?”
“I have a feeling you make your own luck, June Donnelly.” She half smiles.
My throat closes up. After the shitty morning I’ve had, to hear her words of praise makes me want to burst into tears, but I swallow them down. “Thanks.” I clear my throat.
She pats my shoulder, then nods in the direction of my boss’ office. “Best not keep him waiting, dear.”
She returns to her desk.
I reach the kitchen and find a complicated coffee machine. Thanks to my stint as a barista, I have a double espresso ready in a matter of minutes. I retrace my steps to The Beast’s office, taking care not to spill the coffee. When I pass Mary’s desk on the way back, she’s not there.
I head for my boss’ office, then draw in a breath. This is it. Showtime. I tuck stray strands of hair behind my ear, square my shoulders, then knock on the door.
I wait for a few seconds, but there’s no answer.
I knock again. The seconds stretch further.
Should I wait? The coffee will get cold, and he specified it must be hot.
Fine, fine. I need to get this over with.
Need to find my mettle. Need to chin up and face the music.
He’s only a man. I square my shoulders, push open the door and step in, only to find the place is empty. Hmm.
The room is huge, like three times the size of my apartment, and has floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, it’s raining. It’s only eleven a.m., but thanks to the low hanging clouds, it’s gray outside. No surprise in London.
I take a step forward and that’s when the scent of rich tobacco and leather, and something deeper—sandalwood?
—pours over me. I take a deep breath, and little fires seem to light up my spine.
It’s a very masculine smell. Something very male.
Something primal which resonates with a need deep inside me.
I squeeze my fingers around the handle of the cup I’m holding and glance about the space.
There’s a massive desk set in front of a glass wall, with a view of the Thames. We’re on the fortieth story of the Davenport tower, and I can see on the opposite bank the dome of St. Paul’s, with the Millennium bridge suspended over the river in the foreground.
On the wall opposite the windows, there’s a bank of six televisions. Each one shows a different news channel. Facing it is a couch and armchairs with a coffee table in front. To my right is another sitting area, this one facing an unlit fireplace.
The lights are dimmed, so the space crawls with shadows. A gust of wind rattles against one of the walls, I shiver. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and I realize I’m not alone. My attention is drawn to the other side of the room.
There, in the corner, in the space between two windows, shrouded in shadows, is the unmistakable outline of a man. I gasp and strain through the dim light, trying to make out his features.
His face is in darkness, but there’s just enough light to pick out the shape of his shoulders, which are broad enough to stretch his suit.
The sleeves are tight around his biceps, and his jacket pulls across his chest. He’s standing with one hand thrust in his pocket, the other at his side.
His pants and his jacket are black enough to meld with his surroundings, and he’s wearing a shirt, which is also black.
I can tell that his black tie is made of silk because of the light that reflects off it. Then he takes a step forward.