Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself.
This is not what I needed today.
Looking down at my phone, I try to absorb the information that is splashed across the screen. It’s another email from my private investigator addressing that nosy journalist Wendy Allen.
I’ve looked under every rock and inside every crevice, searching for dirt on the journalist. I have checked for the most common things, like forged college transcripts and IRS liens.
I’ve called all her former bosses, looking for any hint that she might have a history of filing stories with dubious sources.
So far, I’ve found nothing of substance.
I will continue to look, but it might be advisable to consider alternative strategies.
Ms. Allen has several large student loans. Maybe offering her a job that will take her far away is a viable plan?
I close the email, frowning as I glance out the window of the chauffeured SUV. Ella is sitting next to me, staring blankly out her window, her eyes unfocused.
I glance back to see Natasha and Isla in the third row, both absorbed in their tablets. Turning back to my own window, I glance out and sigh. Reaching in my collared shirt, I fish out my necklace. The rings on the end of it make soft sounds as they clack together.
Once, the rings were proof of a vow before God. Now they serve as a reminder of a time when I saw things with rose tinted glasses. I was a romantic before I married Kingsley.
Now my whole perspective is tainted by that aberration of a marriage.
Picking up the rings, I place them against my bottom lip as I consider what to do about Wendy. Ella sighs and shifts in her seat beside me.
I’m distracted by a brief flash of sexy mahogany skin as she uncrosses and then recrosses her legs. She’s wearing a short pink skirt and a silky black top. The skirt is pleated and in my mind, pretty suggestive of all the things I could be doing to her while she wears it.
I could slide my hand up her thigh, find out what kind of panties she’s wearing.
Fuck, I bet she’s wearing a lacy little thong.
Imagining how it looks on her has my cock hard.
But it’s fantasizing about how a little touching might make a wet spot appear on the front of her thong… that has me fully ready to fuck.
I glance at her, edging my hand closer to the bare skin of her thigh. If we were alone in this car, I would tug her onto my lap right now and make her moan my name.
I shift in my seat, my raging erection doing me no favors. Scenes of last night flash over and over in my head. Her whispered pleas for more. My mind plays them like a filthy movie, always on in my head.
Gritting my teeth, I force myself to look at the passing buildings. As the driver steers us into the downtown arts district, I find blessed distraction in the cityscape as it changes and glides by the window.
Still, by the time the SUV pulls up to the curb in front of the NewsCorp building, I jump out before the chauffeur even makes it around to open my door.
While the women pile out of the SUV, I sprint ahead to the main entrance. I can feel my blood simmering when I glance at the physical embodiment of my work; being here is exciting, after so much bad news in my personal life.
Here at least, I am the master of every single thing I see. I can control things at NewsCorp, unlike the real world.
Yanking the doors open, I strut inside, my arms wide.
But I only make it ten paces before I collide with a young man.
He turns around, a full to-go coffee in one hand and his eyes on his phone.
He doesn’t even look up before he dumps his entire coffee down the front of my white dress shirt and dark gray suit and slacks.
“What the fuck?” I say, raising my arms and staring down at myself. I’m dripping with hot coffee and I pluck at my shirt, hoping to avoid a burn.
The young man looks at me, angry. “Watch where you are going!”
I look at him, my anger bubbling up and boiling over. I reach out and grab this young goon by the collar, giving him a shake. My voice rises with every sentence.
“This is the lobby of the building that I own. This is my fucking company. You don’t get to drench me with hot coffee and then lecture me about not fucking watching where I’m going!”
By the last word, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs. There were a few people going about their normal business in the lobby, but they have stopped, looking at me with a mild terror. The young man’s eyes go wide and he tries to shove my hand away.
I give the young man a final vicious shake and then push him backward. He keeps his balance but only just, pushing his hand through his hair.
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t realize who you were.”
“It shouldn’t matter!” I hiss. “You had better not count on having a job here anytime soon, you incompetent idiot.”
Ella surprises me by grabbing my wrist. Her touch catches me by surprise. When I look at her, sort of baffled, she tugs me toward the back hallway.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she suggests, her voice quiet. “Do you think that someone here has a spare shirt that you can change into?”
I give the young man one more glare before I allow myself to be pulled further into the lobby. “Fucking idiot kids.”
Ella snaps her fingers in my face. “Shirt?” she prompts.
“Yeah. Natasha keeps backups of all my clothing upstairs.”
She squints at me, but says nothing. She just marches me to the elevator bank and pushes the button to summon an elevator. I cock an eyebrow and walk over to the executive elevator, reaching in my pocket.
“I’ve got that for you,” a man tells me. He swipes his keycard, pressing a button. “Michael Girard. I work in the top-level administrative staff. We’re going to the same floor,” he jokes nervously.
I give him a short look. “You can take the next one, then.”
His cheeks flush but he bows flawlessly nevertheless. “Of course, sir.”
Ella turns, motioning for Natasha to hurry and bring Isla. I’d sort of forgotten about them, if I’m perfectly honest. As the door opens, I hurry all the women inside the elevator. And I can’t miss Ella glaring at me as I push the button, closing the elevator doors.
“What?” I ask.
She gives her head the tiniest shake and looks away. I notice that her hand is on Isla’s shoulder, rubbing gently. Comforting my daughter.
But why should Isla need comfort? It’s me that’s still dripping with sticky coffee mess.
We make it upstairs without further incident. Natasha heads off to find a change of clothes for me. Ella puts Isla in the glass-encased conference room, watching something on her tablet.
And then Ella walks with me to my office, a very cross look on her face when she closes the door. My office boasts a floor to ceiling window as one wall and a desk that is made out of recycled fighter jet parts. But Ella doesn’t even look at that.
No, she crosses her arms and pins me in place with her beautiful brown eyes. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting coffee dumped on me by a moron, apparently.”
She points a finger at me. “You scared the bejeezus out of Isla, Keir. You nearly made two men cry. How on earth do you think that is how a CEO of a major company should act?”
I blink slowly. “I’m sorry. Are you telling me that I’m in the wrong here?”
“Yes!” she cries, exasperated. “You cannot go around humiliating people like that, Keir. It’s unprofessional.
But worse than that, it sets a bad example for your daughter.
It’s no wonder that she lashes out at her teachers and fellow students.
Look at what you are implicitly telling her is acceptable behavior! ”
Heat flushes my cheeks. “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours.”
Ella folds her arms across her chest. “If you don’t see how this behavior affects me, then you are painfully short-sighted.”
With that, she whirls around and pulls my door open.
Natasha is there, a smirk on her face. Ella glances at me, huffs, and elbows her way through the door.
Natasha comes in carrying three suits and three different options for button ups.
She hangs them on my desk chair, unwrapping them all from swathes of dry-cleaning plastic.
“I thought you were perfectly within your rights to give that young man what for,” she says. “Which suit do you prefer?”
I give her a look over. Natasha is dressed as she usually is, in skintight black leather pants, a black cotton tee shirt, and a black blazer with the sleeves rolled up.
She is extremely thin and her oversized reddish-brown mane of tight curls frames her head and body like a lion’s mane. She’s attractive.
I know that she is.
And yet, I don’t feel anything when I picture Natasha naked. With Ella, I can’t even stop my overheated brain from wondering when the next time I get to strip her down and…
“Lord Grayrose?” Natasha prompts.
I give myself a shake, trying to focus.
“What?”
“I said I like the dark blue suit and the pale blue tie,” she says.
My mouth puckers up. That’s a terrible combination. “I’ll take the black suit, the dark gray tie, and a fresh shirt.”
“Sure. Why don’t I just help you out of your jacket?”
Natasha comes over and awkwardly begins to try to take my jacket off. After a second, I step back, a puzzled expression on my face.
“It’s fine. You can leave me.”
She pokes her tongue out, swiping it across her lips. “I don’t have to, though. I can… I can be here for whatever you want. Anything you desire. Say the word—”
“Thank you, Natasha,” I interject, cutting her off. “That will be all for now. Can you go check on Isla, please?”
She half-curtsies, but I’m not sure whether it is supposed to be a joke or not. I squint at her as she backs out of the room. She turns finally, reaching for the door to close it.
“Natasha?” I call out.
She looks back, her face brightening. “Yes?”
“Would you send Ella back in?”
A thundercloud rolls over her expression, leaving it dark and flat. “Of course, Lord Grayrose.”
She shuts the door much harder than is necessary, making me wonder about the interaction. Was Ella right about Natasha?
Could she have developed feelings for me?
Unsettled by that idea, I pace toward the window, looking out as I begin peeling off my jacket.