Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
VINCENT
I’m so shocked at first by Velvet kicking me out that it takes some minutes for my rage to fully boil to the surface. It doesn’t happen until after I’ve stepped out of Octavio’s and onto the street that my entire body begins shaking with my wrath.
How could she say that? After how I’ve claimed her this many times, covered her in my smell, shown her pleasure so great she screamed? She is mine. Only mine. And her denial is like a sharp blade in my gut. How could she ignore what we have and act as if it means nothing to her?
Though my orcish fire is burning bright, I close my eyes as I wait for George to arrive and breathe the cold air in through my nose. I need to calm myself before I act irrationally.
Perhaps what enrages me most is that she was right to do it, to demand that I leave. This is her place of work. I know what she does here. But I couldn’t help losing my temper at the sight of another person’s hands all over her. I’m an orc, and orcs protect what belongs to us.
My plan to keep a distance between us clearly has not worked. I’ve grown far too attached to my pretty assistant, that much is obvious. Now my instincts are all ablaze, demanding to know why she’s back there in that club surrounded by roaming hands.
I’m still seething as the car arrives, but I’ve gotten it under my control enough that it doesn’t show on my face. As always, George silently drives me home.
I remember every word she said. Now you get everything you want from Rosette.
It makes me angrier that this is how she sees it. I had stayed away from Octavio’s because I didn’t want to jeopardize her, to take up all of her time, but I couldn’t any longer. I wanted to see Velvet again.
I should never have gone.
Though it’s already late, there’s no sleeping for me.
I head down to the basement gym, where I beat my sandbag until the seams are snapping.
All I have to do is think about Velvet on that stranger’s lap, dismembered hands fondling her perfect tits—which I haven’t even seen for myself before tonight—and my pulse skyrockets.
My punch rips through the leather casing, sending sand flying everywhere.
Damn it.
I return to my room, reminding myself to ask Ms. Kristoff about getting that cleaned up. She can make the arrangements.
It’s not until then that I think, What if she doesn’t come in to work tomorrow? What if she isn’t standing on the curb when I arrive to pick her up?
What if she quits?
It’s only thanks to three more strong whiskeys and a game of Gekaran that I’m able to fall asleep.
I’m wearing my sunglasses today to mask the bags under my eyes as we pull up in front of Ms. Kristoff’s apartment the next morning. She is dutifully standing where she always stands, but today…
Today, she is wearing pants.
I’ve never ever seen her in pants. Since her very first interview she’s worn pencil skirts, showing off her shapely legs. Today, though, black slacks cover her ass and hang down all the way to her heels.
I watch as she slides into the car, putting her purse in the seat back pocket and buckling in. She takes out her phone to look at the calendar, the same as she does every morning.
But she’s in pants.
“Ten a.m., meeting with the Sandhill investors,” she begins, reading off the next few items on the calendar.
“I need a cleaning crew at my house,” I interrupt. She pauses but doesn’t look at me as she pulls up her notes app and jots down my request. Then she continues with the schedule for the day.
Besides the pants, Ms. Kristoff behaves perfectly normal the entire morning.
She is attentive, focused, and doesn’t leave room for error.
She makes calls as we drive, scheduling the cleaners, and then arranging to have a new punching bag delivered.
At lunch, we have a brief reprieve from meetings when we settle down at one of my favorite restaurants.
“I’ll have the pork chop,” I say to the waiter, “and she’ll have the—”
“Club sandwich, please,” Ms. Kristoff interrupts. She hands the waiter her menu, not once looking at me.
My mouth snaps shut. I return my menu, too, and the waiter leaves us.
Ms. Kristoff says nothing, and so neither do I.
It’s not as if we ever made idle conversation before, but now the silence feels cavernous.
I don’t know what I would expect her to say, but she stares straight ahead, drinking her water, occasionally glancing at her phone as she receives text messages.
“Four o’clock rescheduled,” she says.
“All right.”
She devours her club sandwich, and I watch her through my sunglasses. She will not tolerate what I did last night. She is firmly putting her foot down, and I am both intrigued and annoyed. I don’t think I’ll be taking her against the desk today.
The rest of the afternoon is much the same. Ms. Kristoff is impeccably professional, and there’s not a fault to find. Any idle time she spends dutifully ignoring me and working.
When we stop for an afternoon coffee, George glances at me in the rearview mirror, one eyebrow arched.
“Pardon me for overstepping,” he says, “but Ms. Kristoff appears… upset. Should I arrange for some flowers, perhaps?”
I snarl through my tusks. “You are overstepping.”
But George doesn’t appear shaken. He has been my driver for a long time.
I think for a moment about those goddamned pants, and how she ordered her own lunch. How not even a bit of her personality shone through today, as if she had erected a bulletproof wall between us.
“Flowers may not be a bad idea,” I allow. I need her back, my Ms. Kristoff from before. The one who took my cock so eagerly and then rested her weight on me after I’d made her scream. I should have held her then, shown her what she’s come to mean to me. Then she would never doubt that she’s mine.
That’s when the truth settles on me, the full knowing of it. I truly have claimed her. My instincts are clamoring for her, to have her by my side, and I need her with me again.
“She will be attending the gala with you tomorrow night, correct?” George asks.
Normally, Ms. Kristoff comes as my assistant, keeping to the sidelines. She does not partake or enjoy, there only to take notes and make follow-up appointments.
“You could give them to her then,” he suggests.
Damn it, it’s a good idea. I grind my teeth because this will require one thing, one thing that I have so far in my life refused to give out to anyone.
An apology. And that may not be enough to get into her good graces again. No, if I am to have Ms. Kristoff back, I will need to put myself out on the table. Show her that things have changed for me, that simply being Mr. Roth isn’t enough.
When we bring Ms. Kristoff back to her apartment that night, I stop her from getting out with a gentle hand on her arm. Her eyes dart up to mine, suspicious.
“Tomorrow night. I am… sending you a gift. Do not bring your notebook.”
Her lips twist. “But how else will I take notes?”
“You will not be taking notes.” With that, I release her, and she departs the car with a perplexed look on her face.
ROSETTE
I am protecting my peace.
That’s what I told myself all day today as I did my job dutifully and efficiently. I am protecting my peace. I am going to work so hard and do so well that Mr. Roth will have no reason to fire me, but I will not give him another inch into my life, either.
But then, he told me not to bring my notebook tomorrow night. What does that mean? What kind of gift is he sending me?
Much to my relief, he does not come to Octavio’s that night. But the next morning, Saturday, I awaken to the doorbell ringing.
On the other side of my front door is a woman wearing a Hartmann’s tag from the department store downtown. She’s carrying a bag in her arms attached to a hanger, and she passes it to me when I sleepily open the door.
“From Mr. Roth, for the event tonight,” she says, then departs without another word.
What on earth could this be?
I carry the package inside and drape it over my chair, then zip open the bag. Inside is a beautiful blue dress with a metallic shine to the fabric, making it look like a cut sapphire, with a matching set of earrings clipped to the tag.
Is this Mr. Roth’s gift?
I pull it out, and it’s got four tiny straps that look like they’ll crisscross over my chest and back. It will show off quite a bit of my cleavage with its swooping collar.
I’ve never worn something like this in my life. I’ve dressed as Velvet, sure, but not as a high-class woman with real sapphire jewelry.
This is not what an assistant wears. This is what a date would wear.
I stare at the dress for a long time, wondering if he’s saying what I think he’s saying. That he wants to be more.
After getting in my workout for the day and taking a long shower, I stare at the dress a while longer, then finally decide to change into it.
I do my makeup to match, using a deep blue eye shadow and thick eyeliner to really accentuate it, then brush mascara into my lashes.
Finally, I apply a brown-burgundy lip stain instead of red to let my eyes stand out.
At six p.m. on the dot, I’m waiting at the curb when Mr. Roth’s car arrives. I slide into the back, this time keeping my small black clutch in my lap.
The car doesn’t pull away immediately. No, when I close the door behind me, I turn to see Mr. Roth sitting in his seat, a rather large bouquet of flowers in his hands.
He’s dressed in a perfectly white suit, clearly custom made for his frame, with a black collared shirt and red tie. He looks sharper than a knife.
“Ms. Kristoff.” The way he says my name is intentional and defined. “I wanted to express my regrets for my actions the other night.”
My mouth is probably hanging open. This is a set of words I never expected.
He hands the flowers to me, and dumbfounded into silence, I take them. They’re roses, white and red ones with a few black scattered among the mix. They are sexy and they smell delicious, and I can’t believe that Mr. Vincent Roth himself just gave them to me.
To apologize.
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. “All… right.”
Mr. Roth quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t press me for more. I sit back in the seat, holding the roses against my chest.
We arrive at the venue a few minutes later, and George drops us off out front. Typically, I go around the back of these types of events while Mr. Roth exits the car and enters publicly, but this time, he reaches out and takes my hand in his.
“Bring the flowers,” he says. “They’ll look good in the photos.”
Photos? He wants me to be in the photos with him?
He pulls me out of the car, and I allow myself to be pulled.
All at once, cameras are snapping. This is a big, hoity-toity fundraiser for the biggest humane society in the country, and the paparazzi want to know who’s coming. And I’m on Vincent Roth’s arm.
My throat tightens as Vincent curls my hand around his elbow, then squeezes it. I really am here as his date. He’s claiming me publicly, for everyone to see.
We enter through the front doors, where a camera is waiting for us to pose in front of a big wall. Easily, Mr. Roth slides his arm around my back and holds me against him as the camera goes off, capturing us for all eternity.
He doesn’t release me as we step away from the camera and slide into the venue.
A sign for the cocktail hour points straight ahead, and Mr. Roth leads me with him.
He surveys the room, the way he always does at these events, trying to discern who best to mingle with to achieve his personal ends.
Networking with other bigwigs is always at the top of his list.
I follow along behind, depositing the flowers on a table as we go while he heads for his first target, an older guy I recognize from other fancy-pants events we’ve attended.
After Mr. Roth reintroduces himself—I remember this man’s name now, Mr. Schwarz—I take out my phone so I can jot down notes.
Instead, though, Mr. Roth tugs me by the arm and brings me in against his side.
“And this is Ms. Kristoff,” he says. “Accompanying me this evening.”
The man’s eyebrows jump. “Oh, you’ve brought a date for once, have you, Mr. Roth? I didn’t think anyone could pique your interest. I’ve always seen you as a bit of a loner.”
“I suppose it just takes the right person.” Mr. Roth squeezes my side before releasing me. “Then you know you’re caught.”