Chapter Text
Boston, Present Day...
The linear mass of morning traffic chugged along through the streets of downtown Boston, vehicles of various sizes rumbling the ground Allan Gold walked on as he practically shouted above the din.
His cane tapped the ground rhythmically as he traversed through the people walking the same crowded sidewalks, the lighter vibrations moving up to his hand as the other held a phone to his ear, the poor soul on the other end likely cringing at the combination of street noise and Allan’s shouting.
“We are a five-partner law firm and I am not Ms. Greene’s personal attorney on retainer,” he spat into the phone. “Now, you can either do your job and remind her of this or she is welcome to seek other options.”
His secretary muttered something rude under his breath and Allan chuckled, pausing at a crosswalk and waiting for the signal to proceed safely. The light changed, the first obnoxious buzz of the crosswalk alert firing off as people shuffled across the path.
“You’ll have to speak lower than that next time, dearie.” He grinned nastily, regardless that his secretary couldn’t see him, and started across the road. “Or better yet, keep the thought in your head. Remind Ms. Greene exactly whose name is on the bloody placard or you yourself can find another firm, too—”
A loud honk and the sickening screech of brakes applied too late was his only warning. His head whipped towards the sound and some long-dormant instinct had him fumbling backward in retreat, but it was no use. A quick, painful clip against his thigh and he was sprawled on the street. A few people screamed and hands were suddenly on him, concerned voices asking if he was hurt and another voice shouted that he could have been killed.
Dazed but otherwise miraculously unhurt, Allan blinked, coming back to himself. He felt stiff, the seizing of his muscles no doubt designed to prevent greater injury to his internal organs. He struggled upright, aware that though he was mostly unharmed, his dignity lay in shards around him.
“Holy shit! Mister, are you ok?”
Allan nodded, rubbing the back of his head to check for blood. His fingers came away dry, thank god. His face felt curiously light and he realized his sunglasses must have flown off when he fell. He carefully pushed himself to his feet, aware that the same young man who’d so solicitously asked after him was helping him stand. He brushed the youth off once he was on his own two feet.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly, and the young man patted him on the shoulder.
“No problem, sir. Can I call you an ambulance or a car, something?”
Allan shook his head.
“No, but, ah, do you see a black cane with a gold top anywhere, and perhaps an iPhone? Also black?”
The youth turned, his hand twisting on Allan’s shoulder as he looked.
“Um, no, I don’t—oh, wait!”
He released Allan and shouted at someone else on the street. Before Allan knew it, the youth returned, the slap of his sneakers somehow louder than the hum of the public.
“Found them! Here you go, sir.” He pressed the cane and phone into Allan’s hands. Allan sighed in relief, running his thumb over the cane, then the phone. He chuckled sardonically. Just a few minor scratches on both. Better than he deserved for being so careless as to not do his normal double check. Idiot.
“Son,” he said to the youth, “where is the driver? I assume he didn’t just turn tail and run.”
“No,” the young man said, a trace of dry humor in his voice. “He’s still at the crosswalk. And…yup, the cops got him.”
Allan grinned darkly. Good. Time to put on a small show. His leg hurt like a bitch but nothing seemed broken. He was certain to have a wickedly throbbing bruise on the morrow, however. Likely all different shades of blue and purple as well. He’d love to see that, he thought wryly.
Allan tested his cane against the sidewalk, leaning into it to make sure it could bear appropriate weight before nodding in satisfaction. He turned to the young man.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Oh, I’m Billy, sir. I mean, it’s William but everybody calls me Billy.”
Allan stuck out his hand and Billy took it in a firm, warm grip. Allan smiled when they parted, fishing a business card out of the silver card holder he held in the inner pocket of his suit, the metal warm from his body heat.
“Allan Gold, of Gold, Sterling, and Pound.” He held the card out, pointing when Billy took it. “You did me a great service here, Billy. I owe you for it. If you ever need a favor, come to my office.”
A shocked silence met his ears and Allan cocked an eyebrow.
“Something the matter, son?”
“N-no, sir. Just,” Billy paused, flicking the card against his fingers. “That’s the huge place in the middle of downtown, right?”
“The one with the all-glass front? Yes. It makes a hell of a sight at sunrise, or so I’m told.”
“Yeah, that one.” Billy chuckled. “Man, that’s so cool.” He shuffled his feet. “Listen, Mr. Gold, I got to run but are you sure you’re gonna be ok? You don’t want that ambulance or a Lyft?”
Allan waved away the words.
“I’m fine. Just need to have a word with that police officer and then I’ll make my way to my office.” He nodded. “Thank you again for your service.”
“Hey, no problem, sir.” Another clap on the shoulder. “You take care, ok?”
“You as well, and please, come to me if you need that favor. Alright?”
“You got it.”
And with that, Billy merged back into the flow of people as Allan made his way back to the intersection and the particular individuals standing there.
He cleared his throat upon reaching the officer and driver and their irate chatter immediately ceased, a stunned silence following it its wake.
“Uh, hello, sir.” The officer’s body radio crackled with a static-muffled voice and he said a quick word into it before returning his attention to Allan. The leather of his holster belt creaked as he shifted his weight and Allan estimated this particular altercation had derailed a usual morning pastry run for this particular member of the city’s finest.
“Officer. I am the man that was struck by this man here,” he pointed to the driver, “and while I’m relatively unscathed, I imagine a wealth of bruising and muscle pain greeting me tomorrow morning.”
He swung his head in the direction of the driver, the man’s nervous swallow audible.
“Unfortunately for him, I’m also a lawyer.”
The driver cursed under his breath, letting loose a stream of pleading to the officer. It wasn’t really his fault, the timing of the light had been off and he swore it was still yellow when he made it to the intersection! He swore on his wife and kids!
Allan waited for the man to run out of steam before flicking a business card towards the man, and one towards the officer.
“You’ve made me late for an extremely important day, sir. And you as well, officer. Now, normally, I would be happy to have any assailant of mine frog-marched down to the station and thrown in a cell. However, seeing as the future of two precariously-poised corporations rests on my actually making it to my office at some point today, you both take those cards and send me all the information I require to destroy both your lives.”
The driver gasped and the officer shifted, sighing.
“Now, sir, I’m going to have to ask you—”
“To what?” Allan interrupted. “Calm down? I’m perfectly calm, as you can see. To leave the area? A fantastic idea, I concur. Please get out of my way.”
A car pulled to an abrupt stop near them, a door thrown open hard enough to bounce back and nearly hit the person climbing out.
“Allan!”
He winced. Fantastic. Exactly what he needed at this precise moment. Interference.
“David. What brings you to this part of town on such a brilliant morning?” He turned to his partner, the sound of the younger man’s wingtips as they hit the ground in hurried strides sounding far too much like the angry clip of a woman’s heels as they tapped in irritation. He pursed his lips.
“I got an impact alert on my phone and left immediately. What the hell happened?”
David stopped next to him, breathing heavily. Allan wound up to deliver a remark meant to distract, but David beat him to it.
“Allan, did you get hit by a delivery truck?”
He ground his teeth. “It’s no matter. I am unharmed.”
He could practically feel David try to marshal his patience.
“Are you the one who hit him?”
The driver grunted. “Look, man. I’m not sayin’ shit until I talk to a lawyer.”
“Oh, I highly advise that,” Allan spat, lifting his cane and taking a step towards the driver.
“Alright, alright. Knock it off.” David pushed him back. “Officer, get the info you need and forward it to Gold, Sterling & Pound.”
“Uh, s-sure.” The officer cleared his throat. “I mean, will do.”
David hummed in satisfaction, turning to Allan.
“Dove is waiting. I’ll handle the rest of this,” he murmured, giving Allan a pat on the shoulder. When Billy had done it, the gesture had been kind. When David did it, Allan felt bile rise in his throat.
“Fuck you, David.”
David sighed as Allan walked to the car, Dove already standing ready to open the door.
“Morning, Mr. Gold.”
Allan grunted in acknowledgment before sliding into the cool leather seat. He flexed his leg as he waited for David to return, massaging the already-sore muscles. A long, hot soak was on the docket, as soon as the important items were cleared from his day. He needed the pounding of water jets and the hot brush of steam inside his lungs to calm his wounded pride.
After a few moments, David joined him, settling into the seat as Dove pulled smoothly away from the curb and into traffic.
Silence reigned and Allan was content to let it remain so, but David had other plans.
“You could have been killed.”
Allan sighed through his nose.
“Obviously I was not.”
“I lost my mind when I got that alert.”
“Oh, how romantic,” Allan sneered, “but whatever shall we tell Mary Margaret?”
“Knock it off, Gold. I’m serious.”
“As am I, dearie. I’d love an Autumn wedding, though it’s probably bad taste to ask Mary Margaret for her planner’s details.”
“Damn it, Allan, I’m being serious.”
“And I’m not?” Allan turned, snarling. “What the fuck are you playing at, David?”
“I-I’m not playing at anything!” David huffed. “The alert only comes when there’s been an impact hard enough to potentially cause injury!”
“Well, why not just slap a med-alert necklace on me while we’re at it, and install one of those moving chairs to carry me up the stairs? That way when I’ve fallen and I can’t get up, we can be sure it’s because I’ve jumped to my fucking death on purpose.”
He sat back, anger thrumming through his veins and making him want to lash out and strike something, or someone.
“Allan,” David said softly, “it’s just concern for—”
“What?” Allan spat venomously. “For what, David? For the crippled partner? You think I can’t manage? I’ve managed nearly fifty years pretty well so far. Did so before you and will do so after. So spare me your knight-in-shining-armor act. I don’t need it.”
He collapsed against the seat, his ire draining like a valve had been released and leaving him exhausted and shaking. Likely the aftereffects of the adrenaline from the accident but he hated it for all he understood it.
“You’re not a cripple, Allan. None of us look at you that way and you know it.”
Allan stayed silent.
“But, while we’re on the subject…”
Allan lifted his head. David wouldn’t dare. Not again. Not after the events of the morning. Did he have a death wish? He made a fist around the lacquered wood of his cane, squeezing and praying for patience.
“David—”
“We don’t have to go the usual route.”
“I’m warning you, David—”
“There’s a company that offers alternatives.”
Allan clenched his teeth, letting a slow breath out through his nose and closing his eyes.
“Look,” David said, his voice warm, sympathetic, “I get that it’s a matter of pride. I’d feel the same way.”
“Oh, would you? What a relief.”
“But,” David continued, ignoring Allan’s jibe, “too many near-misses have turned me into an old man before my time.” He chuckled lightly. “If you won’t do it for me, then do it for Mary Margaret. She gets as worried about you as I do.”
Allan pursed his lips, sucking his teeth as he turned his head away from David and towards the window. A light breeze came through the partially-lowered glass, lifting a few strands of his hair.
Mary Margaret had been a young lawyer at the firm, up and coming, when she convinced Allan to take a chance on her friend David Sterling, fresh out of law school.
Allan reluctantly agreed to meet with the boy as a favor to his protégé, but the younger man’s manner sparked an immediate appreciation in Allan all on its own. He’d grown into an incredible lawyer since joining the firm and it had been easy to persuade the other partners to make David one so early in his career. Pulling in a series of billionaire clients and getting them on retainer had earned him the spot in the firm’s name.
Mary Margaret had left shortly after to pursue her own dream of being a child-protection advocate and had started a nonprofit, pro-bono legal network representing neglected and abused children around the Boston area. She and David were married the previous spring, and Allan had given her away, her own father having passed some years ago and her stepmother off gallivanting around Europe with what was, by rights, Mary Margaret’s inheritance.
Pushing that particular button was unfair but effective and he felt his resolve crack.
“She’s the one who found the company.”
The cracks turned to crumbles and his resolve collapsed in a pile of dust.
Goddamnit.
Several time-sensitive contracts were put on pause as Allan was forced to meet with potential assistants throughout the next morning. He refused to call them anything else, for that’s what they were. Potential assistants, there to assist him with his day-to-day personal operations. If he could find one he actually liked speaking to for more than thirty seconds.
In between the not-brief-enough meetings he snuck readings of the contracts waiting on the corner of his desk. David caught him at it, scolding him like he was a naughty child caught reading a dirty magazine instead of a carefully worded masterpiece of legalese.
“Put that away, Allan. Your next appointment is here and she’ll think you’re rude if you’re perusing contracts when you’re supposed to be interviewing her.”
Allan raised an eyebrow, his fingers twitching on the paper in his hands.
“All the better that she learns up front.”
“Just be nice, would you? I’ll be right back with her.”
Allan sighed, pushing the contract away. David meant well, however much it chafed Allan horribly to have him fluttering around like some mother hen when he had twenty years on the lad. Twenty long years where he’d proven to everyone he came into bloody contact with that he was as capable as the next man. Even more so, having scraped his sorry arse up from the Glasgow gutters with his own two hands and built a lasting, powerful empire housed in one massive glass building that dominated downtown Boston.
Whoever this next person was, he’d hire her on the spot if she was halfway intelligent and didn’t annoy him too much. If for no other reason than to get David to leave him the hell alone more often. The lad apparently didn’t have enough to do if he could spend so much time trying to save Allan from the world.
A light knock on his door had him lifting his head.
“Allan,” David said, stepping into the room, his shoes echoing on the polished wood floor, “I’d like to introduce you to Belle French.”
Her heels clicked in a shorter rhythm than David’s as she traversed his long office. Allan stood, holding out a hand and the woman slid one of her own into his. Her hand was small, her skin warm and soft. Cheerful, if a hand could be so.
“Miss French. A pleasure,” he said, releasing her hand. “Please, have a seat.”
“Pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. Gold,” she said, the leather of his guest chair sliding against the fabric of her clothing as she sat. She shifted a bit and cleared her throat.
“Well, I’ll let you two get acquainted.” David hurried back towards the door. “Have fun!”
He closed the door behind him, the latch clicking decisively, and Allan suppressed an irritated sigh. Have fun. Bloody hell, it was an interview, not a lunch date. He drummed the fingers of one hand on his desk.
“Nervous habit?”
He lifted his head at her remark, frowning.
“The tapping, I mean. I do that sometimes when I’m nervous, too.”
He huffed. Less than thirty seconds and he was annoyed. It didn’t bode well for the rest of the time she’d been allotted.
“I’m not nervous, dearie. I’m impatient. I have a long day ahead of me and these meetings are taking up a fair bit of useful time.”
“I’d imagine so,” she said, poorly concealed mirth in her voice. “Can’t be fun, meeting with a bunch of helpers and trying to find one you can stand long enough to not throw a chair at.”
“Helpers?” He echoed, the tapping fingers curling into a fist he rested on the edge of his desk. “I’m not looking for a caretaker, Miss French.”
“Then what are you looking for, Mr. Gold?”
The curious tilt to her accent made her voice deeper, like she was asking for a secret. He switched topics, hoping to catch her off guard.
“Where are you from? Australia?”
She hummed in assent, following him right along.
“Brisbane. Good catch, Mr. Gold. Most people think I’m from some part of England.”
“Most people are stupid.”
She giggled, the sound throaty and sweet at the same time and his mouth curved in an unbidden smile.
“And my guess is you’re from Scotland, am I right?”
“Astute of you. Care to hazard a guess as to where?”
“Oh, well. Let me think,” she said and there was that giggle again, distracting and feminine and pretty. “Edinburgh?”
“Afraid not, dearie.” He smirked. “I’m a Glaswegian boy, through and through.”
“Really?” She nearly squeaked. “I’ve never been to Glasgow.”
“Good thing, too. It’s not a place for young things like yourself.”
A third giggle, but this time he snapped out of whatever spell she’d cast, common sense returning in a rush. What the hell was he doing? Flirting with the help? Bloody hell. He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat and frowning at her.
“Anyway,” he gruffed, “we’re wasting time. What are your qualifications and why on earth should I hire you for this position? I warn you, this is not some walk in the park, Miss French. I am hiring an assistant, not a babysitter and not a tattler who will run to David at every little misstep. If you think to pull one over on me simply because I can’t physically see what you’re doing, you’ve got another thing coming.”
She took a sharp breath, releasing it quickly.
“Mr. Sterling won’t be signing my checks, sir.” Her voice held an edge, just a hint of glimmering steel and a tiny part of him he’d have to crush later thrilled at the defiance.
“Something you’d do well to remember, girl,” he snarled at her. Allan sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin and waiting for her to dart out of the room like a scared doe.
She hummed again, this time in what sounded like curiosity.
“What?”
“You really, really don’t want this. Do you, Mr. Gold? Is that why you’re snapping at me like some crocodile in a Brioni suit?”
He scowled. “Impertinence will get you booted from this office faster than you can blink, Miss French.”
“I’m still sitting here, though, so how much does that threat really go for on the market?”
He let out a disbelieving laugh. Mouthy little thing. Well, to be fair he wasn’t sure how little she really was. She could be amazonian for all he knew, yet somehow he doubted it. He wasn’t sure of anything aside from the odd warmth her defiance spread in his chest and how delightful her accent was.
“So,” he began once more, “tell me about yourself, Miss French.”
“In which way, Mr. Gold?”
He gestured vaguely with one hand. “Whichever way you think is most important.”
She paused, the gears of her mind no doubt spinning as she mulled over how to give him what he wanted. He smirked in the silence.
“Okay then.” She took a deep breath. “Well, I graduated Magna cum Laude from Boston University, with a Bachelors in English Literature. I have my Masters in Library Science and worked at a small library in a small town in Maine for several years before I decided to change things up.”
She slapped a piece of paper down on his desk and slid it towards him.
“I moved back to Boston, looking for something new and joined this interesting agency that offers assistance to people with particular needs as an alternative to other types of guidance aids. I’ve been doing this for about two years. At the bottom there you’ll find a list of my most recent clients, all willing to give a reference, should you require them.”
Allan wanted to snark, wanted to bite at her words, tear them up and find holes in her that he could fill with hot disdain as he’d done to the rest. He couldn’t. None of his faculties would cooperate in the face of her clear, confident words. He picked up the piece of paper, his fingers skimming over the fine surface and started a bit when he felt familiar bumps under his fingertips.
She’d done her resume in braille. None of the other assistants had done theirs like this, despite being from the same agency. They had merely sent them electronically. It was old-fashioned of her but then, he was old-fashioned, too. The contracts stacked on the corner of his desk were a veritable fortune to have done in braille but it was his favorite way to read them. To read anything, really. Like painting a story with his fingers before the images transferred to his brain. The seldom-used whimsical side of him liked to imagine he was crafting a story along with the writer as he read and it made him feel more connected to the world than anything else since he’d lost his sight all those years ago.
His fingers raced across her resume, going back and rereading a few lines here and there.
“You certainly seem qualified, Miss French.” He tried to keep the amazement from his voice but wasn’t altogether successful and for a split second was glad he couldn’t see her face.
Just a split second, though, as her sweet laugh filled the air once more. Rather than irritate him, the fourth time seemed to be the charm that relaxed him and he set her resume back down on his desk.
“I had a feeling you were testing me, Mr. Gold.”
A sheepish smile crossed his face. “One can never be too cautious, dear.”
She hummed in agreement. “Are you curious as to what I look like? The basics, I mean?”
“Yes.” The word was out of his mouth without his conscious permission. “That is, I would appreciate it. Merely as a formality, of course.”
“Of course.” He could hear her smirk. “Well, I’m five feet and three inches tall and I wear heels all the time to make up for it. I’d imagine I come to about your shoulder without them and I reach just about to your ears with them.”
“Good lord, how high are they?”
“Well, these are four inches but I have higher.”
He shook his head. “My apologies. Please continue.”
“No worries, sir. Uh, let’s see. My hair is long, past my shoulders, and curly. It’s technically brown but I like to think of it more like shifting shades of copper all the way to black, depending on the light. I have blue eyes that I got from my mother. My hair color is from my dad, before he went gray.”
He painted a picture of her in his mind as she spoke, conjuring something that resembled a forest sprite, all earthen and lustrous.
“The, ah, the bones of your hand. They’re quite delicate.”
“Oh, well, yes. I suppose,” she faltered, and he mentally scolded himself. Inappropriate, Gold.
“Miss French, I—that came out wrong.” He held a hand out in apology. “I only meant—that is, I wanted to—”
“It’s alright.” Her voice dipped to a soothing level. “No harm done. You’re not wrong. I’m what some would call petite, I think. Short and slight. Itty bitty.” She chuckled.
His cheeks heated in embarrassment as she saved him from his glaring faux-pas. He was normally in much better control but apparently, his wits decided to take a holiday where Miss French was concerned. It was the novelty of her and would wear off soon. He simply had to be patient.
“Miss French,” it was his turn to take a deep breath, “perhaps we could come to a trial employment arrangement, if you are amenable to the idea?”
She was silent for a beat, giving him the unusual feeling of being sized up.
“I think I could do that, yes. How long would you like the trial to last?”
He let his breath out in a whoosh that sounded far too much like relief for his comfort.
“Two weeks should suffice. With the option to make the arrangement permanent should we find it to our mutual satisfaction.”
“I think that sounds great. Shall we shake on it?”
The slide of her clothes against the chair and the creak of the leather as she lifted herself to standing cued him to do the same and hold out his own hand. Her skin met his once more and she squeezed, giving it a quick shake. He missed the touch as soon as she withdrew.
“I’ll draw up a contract and have it sent to your employer.” He reached for his cane, skirting his desk and holding out an arm to guide her to the door. His hand settled high on her back and he felt the edge of a zipper, a strange jolt going through him as he realized she was likely wearing a dress.
“Oh, that’s a neat style for a long cane. It looks like something out of a baroque play. I like it.”
He tried to ignore the rising heat in his face and focused on her words.
“T-thank you. I had it made some time ago.”
“Doesn’t look at all the worse for the accident yesterday.”
He stopped, a chill chasing through his blood, effectively killing the stupid warmth that had risen to his cheeks at her admiration of the way he skirted the traditional parameters of the assistive device.
He knew it. It had been too good to be true. She was just a fucking babysitter, someone to coddle and nag him into early retirement. David was going to pay for this.
He ground his teeth, prepared to fully renege on the trial agreement and then rip David a new one.
“Miss French—”
She whipped around so fast he felt the breeze from her hair, the scent of roses meeting his nose.
“I hope you nail that asshole to the wall,” she said, her voice a low rasp meant only for his ears. “I’m sorry to curse, but that jackass could have killed you.”
He was puzzled by her passionate defense, her quiet rage thawing his blood and he managed a smile. David’s concern had been quite similar but somehow it sounded different coming from the tiny woman in front of him. Her hand shot up between them, her fingers skimming his vest, and he grasped it once more, lingering over the soft touch of her skin.
“I plan to, dearie.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze at odds with his decisive words.
He felt the vibrations, heard clothing rustle as she nodded. “Good. That’s good. You can’t just run people over like that.” She sighed through her nose. “It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Gold. I look forward to reading the terms of the contract.”
Her hand slipped from his and he dropped his arm, grasping his cane awkwardly.
“Goodbye, Mr. Gold.” Her words were nearly a whisper and he felt her energy fade as she slipped out the door, taking the sweet scent of roses with her.
He was in trouble.
Three days later…
His phone rang just as Allan was at the tail end of another ridiculous, demanding email from Ms. Greene and he stopped the readout with vicious pleasure as he picked up the receiver.
“Paul, give me anything but more harassment from Zelena Greene.”
His secretary chuckled.
“You’re in luck, Mr. Gold. Belle French is on line one.”
An anxious thrill skittered through his abdomen and he placed an unconscious hand on his vest.
“Put her through.”
The line clicked.
“Mr. Gold.”
That sweet, throaty murmur of his name did things to his psyche it shouldn’t have and sent his concentration flying. He grasped at whatever ribbon of sentient speech he could and managed to respond.
“Miss French.”
He winced. His voice was more clipped than he wished. Not a good place to start the conversation. He was her employer, he should be more regulated and smooth in his speech.
Or, at least, he would be her employer when she sent the contract back, signed and sealed and ready to be tucked into its very own folder in his filing cabinet. Safe and sound.
Her voice pulled him back from his wandering thoughts.
“You think some of these clauses will hold up in court?”
He heard the amusement in her voice and a smile tugged at his lips.
“Oh, yes. I expect every clause would hold up. Are you planning to take me to court, dearie?”
A low giggle. He closed his eyes at the sound.
“No, sir. I merely mean some of them are tailor-made to keep me from doing my job.”
His head cleared a bit and he sat up straighter, reaching for his copy of their contract that sat at the corner of his desk.
“To which clauses are you referring in particular?”
“Well…”
She was smart. Nearly too smart for the likes of him. She chased him around his own words, finding little holes in clauses here and there that even for all his meticulous combing he missed. After their argument turned the corner into its third hour, he begged a ceasefire, his brain desperate for a tactical retreat to regroup its pieces.
Belle suggested she bring lunch to his office and they could continue where they left off after they ate.
He hesitated. He was starving, of course. Intellectual marathons like the one he’d just run tended to make him ravenous but he was hesitant nonetheless.
“Mr. Gold?”
He’d been silent too long and mentally smacked himself.
“I’m here, Miss French.” He drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair. “What, ah...what did you have in mind?”
“Hmm. How about sandwiches? What do you like?”
“I like sandwiches.” Good god, was that him? Sounding like a primary school lad? He cleared his throat.
“I-I mean, yes, that sounds lovely. There is a cafe near the building, right on the corner of—”
“Broad Street and Market? Yep, I know just the one. I love that place! I always get the number four.”
He smiled in spite of himself.
“I normally go with the thirteen.”
“Oh, yum,” she cooed. “I’ve never tried that one, though it sounds amazing. Sweet and savory and probably the kind of sticky you have to suck off your fingers?” She hummed. “Yes, please. Just not in one of my better dresses. I’m so messy.”
Heat surged to his groin as she let out another throaty laugh. Jesus, what the hell was wrong with him? She was talking about a sandwich, for fuck’s sake. He took a deep, slow breath.
“So,” she continued, “one number four for me and a number thirteen for you. Got it. Anything else you’d like? I’m grabbing an iced tea and some chips.”
“I’ll have the same.”
“Great!” Her accented little chirp had him grinning like an idiot again. Thank god no one saw him, sitting there, mooning over the idea of sandwiches with Miss French. He was a fucking child.
“I’ll reimburse you when you get here, Miss French.”
She snorted.
“You can pay me back by changing some of these ridiculous clauses,” she said, a sly hint to her voice. “Gotta go, the line gets around the block this time of day and if I don’t move fast we’ll never eat.”
He managed a noncommittal grunt and she giggled once more.
“Bring your A-game, Mr. Gold.”
The line went dead after that lush murmur, taking him from an obnoxious twitch to a full-blown cockstand. He squirmed, reaching down to adjust his trousers. He hissed at the pressure against his cock as he shifted the fabric, trying to find a more comfortable way to house the bulge.
This was ridiculous. One tiny woman who smelled like roses and had a mind better than a steel trap had him acting like a fucking schoolboy touching a breast for the first time. He growled at himself. High past time to knock that shit off. She was a professional and had yet to sign the contract. If she ever did. She was keen to argue every little point with him but instead of driving him up the wall, he was thrilled at the challenge she presented.
How delightful it would be to face her as opposing counsel. To go toe-to-literal-toe with her and that sharp mind as she filleted him for all he was worth and then tossed the pieces of him about the room. He loathed losing. It was not in his nature to tolerate weakness in that form but the idea of Belle dressing down his case arguments and eviscerating him through an unseen loophole was—
Was doing nothing to help deflate his goddamned erection.
He shoved himself out of his chair, needing to walk and disperse the blood to the rest of his body. Preferably back to his brain so he could behave like an adult.
He snatched his cane, gripping harder than necessary as he stomped to his office door, intending to take a lap around the floor before Belle arrived so he could be the fucking professional he knew was buried somewhere under the perverted idiot who had suddenly sprung up.
He wrenched open the door and the scent of roses hit his nose just in time to stop him from barreling out into the foyer. He inhaled deeply.
It was her.
“Miss French,” he breathed, his annoyance deflating and his pride the only thing keeping him from sagging in a strange rush of relief.
“Hey!” A bag rustled and the smell of fresh bread hit his nose. “Delivery direct from Starry Night cafe!”
He stepped back, gesturing for her to come in. Her heels struck the floor in delicate clicks and he heard her pause by the long glass table near the windows.
“Is here ok, or would you rather sit at your desk?”
“The table is fine, Miss French.” He gestured once more. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
He moved to the table, finding and taking his own seat, and sucked in a quiet gasp as he felt her warm energy just to the side of him. He assumed she’d sit further away; it was disconcerting to have her so close.
The bag rustled again and he heard her pull out their respective lunches.
“Here’s your thirteen and your tea and chips. Just kettle cooked, I hope that’s ok. I love the crunch.”
He accepted his meal when she slid it to him, unwrapping the sandwich and spreading the paper into a makeshift placemat.
“Oh man, that looks even better than I imagined,” she said around the crunch of a chip.
He grinned, lifting half and offering it to her.
“Care for a bite?”
“What? No!”
His smile fell. Idiot. Of course she didn’t want to take what he offered. This was a business lunch and she’d—
“Not before you get to taste it first. It’s your lunch!”
Oh.
“You’re…that’s very kind, Miss French.”
She snorted and popped another chip into her mouth, the crunch quite loud but not bothersome. Thank god he didn’t have dysphonia.
“I’d like to think I’m not so rude as to steal the first bite of my new boss’ sandwich, but honestly, I thought about it for a split second before realizing it was a dick move.”
He heard flesh meet flesh and laughed. She must have slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Sorry, sir. I’m usually not this, uh, colorful? In my language?”
He waved a hand.
“It’s quite alright. I appreciate your candor, and thoughtfulness. You did buy, after all.” He took a bite, humming in pleasure, fig jam squishing onto his fingers where they held the edge of the bread.
She giggled. “I knew it was going to be messy. Seems worth it, though.”
He thrust the half at her.
“Take a bite, then, since you’re so keen on it.” His words held no heat, his smile betraying him. She lifted the sandwich from his jam-smeared fingers, a little squeak of excitement escaping her as he snatched up some napkins and tried to wipe his hands.
A sudden, sinful moan erupted from her and landed on him, sliding clever fingers down his spine. His cleaning ground to a halt as he tried to remember how to breathe.
“Oh my god,” she followed the moan around her mouthful of sandwich, “oh, damn. I’m officially changing my favorite to number thirteen. Mmmm.”
His face heated so fast it nearly made him lightheaded and he suddenly doubled his efforts to get the sticky jam off his hands. He was desperate to visit the private en-suite of his office but in his present state, found that to be a distinctly unappealing idea regardless of how many parts of him begged to escape the fraught moment.
She suddenly groaned, an embarrassed little sound, and he drew his brows down in confusion.
“Miss French?”
“God, I’m such a dork. I’m so sorry, Mr. Gold, but I’m really glad you can’t see me, because my face? Red as hell right now. Ugh, that was the most ridiculous noise to make over a sandwich.”
He stilled for a split second before a laugh bubbled up from his chest and escaped his mouth. His face split into a grin and he let himself enjoy the simple pleasure of enjoying a sweet—if self-deprecating—joke. When was the last time someone took his blindness in stride, just accepted it as a part of him and didn’t try to coddle or tiptoe around him?
His laughter triggered her own giggles and once they’d calmed somewhat he held out his hand, sending her a wry smirk and a raised eyebrow.
“I think I’d better take that back now, Miss French.”
She passed the sandwich back with a final amused snort.
“I told you I was clumsy. In actions and words, I’m afraid. Will that be too much to deal with in an assistant?”
Oh, there was no way he was letting her go now.
“I’ll survive,” he murmured, bringing the sandwich up for another bite.
Three weeks later...
“I’m your assistant.”
He nodded graciously, taking a sip from the cup in his hand.
“That means I get you the Moonwinks Cafe coffee order. Not the other way around.”
“Ah, no. Paul should get the coffee. As he normally does under the general duties of being my secretary. You keep me from getting hit by rogue delivery trucks. Which I didn’t encounter this morning as the cafe is only a block away and they know my usual quite well.”
She tapped one Louboutin-clad foot in what he’d rapidly come to recognize as annoyance. He’d discovered they were her favorite style accidentally one day when she’d walked far more gingerly into his office than had been her habit.
When he’d asked, trying and failing to keep concern from his voice, she’d sheepishly admitted to buying them during a weekend splurge with a girlfriend, and her feet had paid the sartorial price as they were broken in.
They must have finally become comfortable, for he could tell by the way they struck the floor that she’d taken to wearing them more often than not. And at that moment, one expensive pump was striking the floor in patent irritation.
“I get you what you need. Coffee, across a street without dying, anything. It’s in the-”
“Contract, yes,” he interrupted dryly. “I’m aware, Miss French. What I’m not aware of is why we’re wasting time arguing over it?”
“So, then,” she clicked slowly over to where he leaned against his desk, her tone lowering, “why won’t you let me do my job, sir?” She stopped, the tips of her pointed shoes just brushing against his wingtips. She leaned closer to him. “We both signed, and signing indicates agreement. You know what I think?”
He gulped, her scent overwhelming his brain, and stuttered a reply.
“W-what?”
“I think,” she leaned closer to his ear, “that you just like having a bunch of people scurrying around for you, their intimidating boss.”
Her nearness made his heart want to bolt but her words disappointed him. She found him intimidating?
“I-”
She giggled, cutting him off.
“I’m sorry,” she said between laughs, “I couldn’t resist. Your face was priceless!”
His cheeks heated at her teasing and he used the pretense of adjusting his suit jacket to hide his face for the moment. Good lord, when was he going to stop feeling like an untried boy around her?
“Does, ah,” he rooted around his enfeebled brain for words as he buttoned then unbuttoned his jacket, “does this mean I’m not intimidating?”
She hummed, taking a sip of her hot tea before replying.
“Mmm, yes, you are. To everyone else at the firm, partners included, from what I’ve seen.”
“But not you.” It was a hope, not a question.
“Nope!” She chirped. “I think you can get very grumpy, like a crocodile with a toothache. Or a cat that’s been accidentally jostled while sitting in its master’s lap.”
What an odd pair of similes. It was on the tip of his tongue to remark on them until she continued.
“Basically, you’re harmless.”
He slowly raised an eyebrow, the delicate hope fading in an uncharacteristic rush of stung pride, at least where she was concerned.
“Harmless?”
She hummed in assent.
“Like a teddy bear.”
He sucked his teeth behind a cold smile, nodding slowly. Harmless, indeed. She was too young to have heard the stories of the ruthless way he’d climbed the ladder, the people he’d stepped on and then turned around and locked into owing him favors. The more time she spent with him, the more likely she’d find out just how harmless he was. Especially when pissed off.
He skirted the edge of his desk, sliding into the leather chair and tugged a contract closer.
“If you’re done casting aspersions on my character,” he flipped to a page in the middle, picking up where he had left off when she’d barrelled in complaining about who should get the coffee, “perhaps you’d be so good as to pick up my lunch?”
Silence met his ears and he chuckled.
“Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I don’t know you have your arms petulantly crossed and are glaring daggers at me, Miss French.” He licked a thumb and turned the page, skimming the fingers of his other hand across the braille. “I’ll take the usual from Starry Night. You’re free to pursue lunch where you choose.”
More silence and then, “Is this a punishment?”
He paused in his reading but didn’t lift his head.
“Punishment?”
“For teasing you.”
“Nothing of the kind, I assure you.” His fingers met a paragraph and he frowned, disliking the wording and making a mental note of the page and location to have it edited later. “Merely adhering to the tenets set forth in our contract.”
She sighed, taking a few steps forward.
“Look, I know I’m new here, but-”
“But what, dearie?” He interrupted airily, his face stubbornly kept towards the paper in his hands. “I’m rather busy. And hungry. Please do as I asked.”
He turned another page but could practically feel her scowl in the silence. Good. Wasn’t so harmless now, was he?
“You’re being a real butthead.”
He raised his head sharply, astonished at the juvenile term being applied to him of all people. Before he could formulate a retort, she was clicking away furiously and slamming the door behind her.
Well, what did she expect him to do? Laugh off her offensive remarks and gently shoo her out to get their meal? He scoffed. Teddy bear. What nonsense. And butthead? When was the last time anybody over the age of twelve had called him a butthead?
If anything, she was the butthead. Impertinent thing with her giggles and her teasing and her flirting—
Wait.
Had she been flirting? Was that what it was, was he seeing this all wrong?
He snorted. Not bloody likely. Who flirts with their employer, short of those who want a promotion and don’t think they’re qualified to get it in the normal way? Not a sweet-smelling, smart woman with soft hands and a throaty voice that made him harder than he’d ever—
He slapped a hand on the contract, yanking it closer once more. He skimmed his fingers across the paper far too quickly, his mind absorbing nothing of what he read. He tried a few more times, starting from the top of the page but soon gave up, tossing the uncooperative sheaf back onto his desk and slumping backward.
Three weeks. Three bloody weeks of more time spent with her than not, her laughter and perfume following him even when she wasn’t in the office and especially when he was alone in a penthouse apartment that had begun to feel increasingly overlarge and lonely.
He’d spent the better part of twenty years not giving a whit about loneliness. Women came and went, attracted to the power and money or by some misguided idea that he was an invalid who needed fixing. He sent the latter packing quicker than the former and never felt the worse for being alone.
Not till this exasperating woman swanned into his life with her specialty sandwiches and the giant cookies she’d always break in half and share with him. Lunch had quickly become their own private ritual and he was loathe to let the real world intruded to end it. And then he would spend a portion of the afternoon loathing himself for being a perverted old man.
Damn his stupid reptile brain subsuming his higher consciousness. And his ridiculous body, betraying him every time she was in the damned room. He sighed.
It was nice that he scared the daylights out of the people in his firm. Always good to be the uncontested ruler of a kingdom. But to have Miss French think of him as some harmless, toothless whatever? That grated on his nerves a bit too much and made him want…dangerous things.
Like pulling that sweetly-scented body across his desk and gripping handfuls of her skirt to shove upwards before he buried his face between her legs. He wanted to make her scream and wrap her legs around him, trapping him in her heat and wetness.
Blood surged to his cock, stiffening him rapidly, and he reached down, adjusting his trousers. The brief friction made him gasp, and he squeezed himself, trying to take the edge off, but all it did was make him want more. He squeezed again, slamming his eyes shut against the thread of shame that wanted to wrap around his wrist and yank him away from himself. He let it burn up in the heat beneath his hand as he squeezed, his brain supplying an idea of the noises she would make for him as he devoured her.
He moaned, desperate to pull out his cock and relieve his suffering right there at his desk. He began fumbling frantically with his zipper just as his office door opened gently and then shut, the measured sound of Miss French’s heels clicking against the floor and a bag crinkling in her hands. He froze.
Oh, fuck.
He quickly yanked up the zipper and pulled his hand up, grabbing a contract at random and trying like fucking hell to appear calm and not like he was about to abuse himself in his office to thoughts of her moans in his ear and her pleasure on his tongue.
His heart hammered in his chest, his cock throbbing at being denied release, and the sounds of her drew closer as he kept his head down, pretending to read an appendix.
She set the bag down on his desk.
“Hey, Mr. Gold.”
Bloody hell. Even a contrite murmur from her was sexy. He cleared his throat.
“Miss French.”
Well, thank fuck for small miracles. He managed to sound merely foreboding instead of like the wrecked mess he was with a cock that was up and eager to play and pointing directly at the thing it wanted most.
“I want to apologize for earlier.”
She opened the lunch bag and pulled a few things out, placing them in front of him. A sandwich, naturally, and something else hit the desk with a gentle thud. He sniffed. Strawberries?
“The guy at the counter said you sometimes come in for a strawberry smoothie with extra banana and you really seem to enjoy it, so,” she pushed it closer, “I, um, got you one.”
His traitorous brain suggested spreading the stuff over her body and licking it off and his cock unhelpfully agreed. He dropped his head, growling at his pants.
“I guess it’s an ‘I’m sorry for being a jerk and you could totally fire me for it and I’d understand’ smoothie.”
She took a few steps back, the air between them tense and awkward and all his fault. He sat up.
“Miss French-”
“You can just call me Belle. If…if you want.” She laughed nervously. “I’ve been pretty unprofessional lately but I hope using my name isn’t too informal.”
He sighed, willing his erection to deflate. When it didn’t happen, he gritted his teeth and prepared himself to converse around the begging twit.
“Of course not. I…should apologize, as well.”
For being a bloody, arse-dragging bawbag perving on a sweet young thing.
“I was rude. You were merely being, ah, playful. No harm done.”
She laughed again, muffled, and he guessed her hand covered her mouth.
“Yeah, well. Still. If my agency boss heard me she’d kick me out on the spot.”
He smiled, pained though it was.
“I promise not to tell. Have you eaten yet?”
“Mmm, no. I was, um, too irritated? Kind of killed my appetite.”
He began to relax, the tightness of his pants easing a bit, and he let out a surreptitious sigh of relief, picking up his sandwich and standing.
“Well, we can’t have you fainting dead away with half the day left, can we?” He gestured towards the table. “Have a seat. I don’t mind sharing.”
“Are you sure? I bought that for you.”
He nodded, picking up his smoothie and moving to the table.
“This will keep me more than full, so half a sandwich shouldn’t go to waste. It’s yours, if you’ll have it.”
He sat, unwrapping and handing her half, their fingers brushing as she took it. His pulse jumped when they touched and he had a moment of panic but his cock stayed where it was, finally dormant. He sent thanks heavenward but she moaned as she took a bite and his thanks fell from the sky, bashing him in the head.
He took a deep draw from the smoothie, hoping the ensuing brain freeze would kill whatever stupid ideas that moan inspired. She giggled yet again and the freeze thawed faster than physics should allow, damn it.
“Sorry,” she said around a mouthful. “It’s just so yummy.”
This damned woman was a minx and he was going to die. He took another deep pull of the drink, then another.
“Wow, you really do like those. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Cheeky thing. He could hear the wink in her voice.
They finished their meal quickly. Hers in genuine hunger, his in desperation to occupy his mouth. Paper crinkled loudly as she wadded up the trash from their meal and her chair squeaked as she swiveled, aiming for his wastebasket like she always did.
“Think I can make it this time?”
That pulled a grin from him.
“Perhaps you will.”
“Care to wager on it?”
He swallowed. “What did you have in mind?”
She laughed.
“Nothing awful, you can relax. Five bucks says I sink it on the first try. Fully in, no rim.”
“Oh, now, that’s not fair. How will I know if I can’t see it happen?”
She scoffed.
“Oh, please. You think I don’t know you could hear a pin drop from a mile away during rush hour? Besides, I always play fair.”
She hummed a little as she lined up her shot and he waited, his brain firing with images of a plump lower lip bitten between white teeth as she concentrated. He took a deep breath, crossing his legs as he swiveled away from the table and waited for her to win or lose.
She lost.
“Damn!” She shot up, her heels clicking as she retrieved the wadded up ball of paper. “Two out of three?”
“I thought you always played fair?” He grinned.
“That is fair!”
“I beg to differ, Miss French.”
Her shoes squeaked on the floor as she spun around and took a step towards him.
“I told you, call me—oh!”
An odd snap rang in the air and he had a moment of fear it was her ankle, until she crashed into his lap. A light, rose-scented bundle of soft female filled his arms and her delectably plump ass pressed right on top of his groin.
She gasped, her hands landing on his chest and clutching the lapels of his suit jacket for dear life, making him idly wonder if there would be holes in the fabric when she let go. Her cheek was pressed close to his, her quickened breaths in his ear, and her little pants were exactly what he imagined she might breathe like as he worked her into a frenzy with his hands and mouth and cock.
The offending thing stirred beneath her ass at his thoughts and he stifled a groan when she shifted. Her breasts brushed his chest with every inhale and his hands somehow found their way around her small waist, his fingers stiff from the effort of keeping them still when all he wanted was to grab the silken shirt she wore and tear it to pieces, baring all of her soft flesh to his greed.
“I…” she trailed off, the puff of her breath hitting his face and he moved slowly, barely brushing the tip of his nose against the downy skin of her cheek. He inhaled her deeply, his chest rising against her and his hands sliding up her back and pressing her against him. A minute whimper escaped her and had he not been obsessed with her every move and sound at that moment, he might have missed it. The little note was a siren’s song and he turned his face, nudging her nose with his in silent supplication for her mouth.
She met his demand, turning towards him, and he brushed his open mouth over hers. Gentle so as not to frighten her and ruin whatever spell had been cast over them. She returned the light, playful nudges, the tip of her tongue running ever so slightly against his bottom lip. The warm, wet flick unmoored him and he captured her mouth, the lush press of her lips a benediction.
She moaned against him, sliding her arms fully around his neck and pressing her breasts into his chest. The intimate pressure of the small mounds even through his suit drove him insane and his hands curled into claws against her back. The desire to hoist her onto the table and bury himself inside her was flagrant, dangerous, but he refused to stop.
He’d been tormented for weeks since he met her. Wanting her, wishing for a moment exactly like this, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting it go.
He slid a hand around and up her ribs to brush his palm against her breast and she jolted in his arms with a whimper, pressing herself into his hand. He groaned in response, the slight weight heaven to hold even through the layers of her shirt and bra.
She squirmed in his lap, shifting her position without breaking the seal of their lips, and moved her legs to straddle him in the chair. Her cunt pressed against his trousers, the pressure on his cock delicious and he yelped in pleasure into her mouth.
She ground herself down against him and moaned. His hands dropped to her thighs, fisting in her skirt to pull it up and give her legs better access to open as wide as she needed. His fingers caught the edges of thigh-high tights and he shuddered, digging his fingers into her thighs before sliding his hands up to cup her ass.
She broke their kiss first, releasing him with a cry of pleasure as he gripped her and pressed her harder against him. He did it again and she repeated the cry, slightly higher in pitch and he groaned in satisfaction, nipping her jaw and moving down to sink his teeth into her neck as he built a rhythm of working her against his groin.
She gripped his shoulders hard and he released her neck, bringing his face back to hers. She pressed her forehead to his and gasped, whimpering as she drew close to orgasm. He nipped at her lips, flicking his tongue into her open mouth and she closed her lips around him, sucking him in hard and sending a bolt of lightning to his cock.
She ground down harder and he knew she was close. He tore his mouth away from hers.
“Good?” He rasped and she nodded against him.
“Yes! Allan, please!”
He growled in pleasure at the sound of his name on her tongue and kept working her.
“Good girl,” he nearly snarled. “Take what you need from—”
A knock at the door had them both freezing and she let out a frustrated sob into his neck.
“Oh no,” he rasped in her ear. “No, don’t you go anywhere.” He started the rhythm up again, and she squeaked before melting against him and he gloried in her surrender.
Another knock came and this time, he did snarl as he felt Belle start to shake in his arms.
“Not now!”
“Sir, I just need a moment for—”
“I swear to god, Paul, if you open that fucking door, you are fired!”
Gold turned his attention back to Belle, his entire world focusing on her as she began to crest.
“Yes, Belle,” he moaned into her hair, “come for me. Let me hear you, sweetheart.”
She ducked her head to his shoulder, muffling her sounds, but he heard everything he needed to.
“Oh, god!—Allan—fuck!”
Her thighs squeezed his, nearly painful in their grip as she rode out the delicious spasms he knew rippled through her cunt, desperate moans escaping her and landing on his consciousness like a symphony. He wanted his tongue, fingers, cock in her, anything to feel and absorb those beautiful little contractions. She gasped and writhed, seeking out every ounce of pleasure she could and he pressed his forehead against her face, holding her close and breathing in the heady scents of her arousal, sweat, and roses as they mingled in the air.
She came down from her high all too soon, her arms and legs shaking from the effort of coming and he pressed soft kisses to the side of her face and up to her temple, pushing her silky curls back as he held her tiny, shaking frame.
It had been the single most erotic experience of his life and he’d kept every fucking stitch of clothing on. She was glorious.
He nuzzled her ear as he felt her come back to herself and her breathing slowed. She grew very still in his arms, suddenly pushing herself up and away from him. He frowned.
“Belle?”
“I…I should go.”
She slid off his lap, scurrying away from him. He heard sit in a chair as she rifled around in her purse for a moment. She said nothing. Her chair creaked in protest and rolled backward as she abruptly stood.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.”
He stood, moving towards her soft voice and reaching out to her but she left the spot before he was able to make contact. He heard her move swiftly to the door but was too late to stop her as she opened it and slipped out, not bothering to shut it behind her.
“Uh, sir? Would, um…would you like a fresh suit?”
He blinked, confused for a moment before he registered a rapidly cooling wetness at the front of his trousers. Belle’s come was on his pants and he couldn’t even take a moment to relish the erotic thrill it sent through him in his upset over her hasty departure.
“Fuck off, Paul.”
He slammed the door, moving back to his desk and slumping into his chair.
What the hell had gone wrong?
That weekend…
A soft, pulsing alarm roused him from sleep and he let out a deep sigh, reaching across his bedside table to turn the damn thing off before sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
Three days. It had been three bloody days since he’d held Belle in his arms and made her writhe and moan as she rode his lap and he’d not heard a word from her. He’d heard from her agency sure enough. Some swill about coming down with the flu and how terribly sorry they were and would they like an interim assistant until Belle was well again?
Paul had delivered the message and in return for his efforts was rewarded with a crumpled wad of paper being hurled in his general direction. And now Paul wasn’t speaking to him either.
Allan shoved the covers aside and walked blearily towards the bathroom, intending to blast the thoughts out of his head with a scalding hot shower. He started the water, letting the steam fill the cavernous bathroom as the sound of water on tile echoed all around him. His mind conjured an image of Belle sitting on the counter before him, her soft legs spread and her sweet core offered up to him as a sacrifice, the steam mixing with the scent of her arousal and filling the space with her. He’d drop to his knees and latch his mouth to her warm, wet folds and make her scream. Her noises would echo all around them, her flavor on his tongue, her hands in his hair, gripping to hold him in place.
He shook his head to clear the fantasy. It was never going to happen. He pulled out his shaving implements, thwacking them onto the counter with more force than necessary and began spreading shaving lotion around his cheeks and jaw. The herbal scent normally energized him, clearing the cobwebs of sleep, but it might as well have smelled like dirt for all he cared at the moment.
The day after their midday interlude had him worried to his bones that he’d somehow taken advantage of her. She was his employee, after all, and he’d been concerned she might have felt pressured to surrender to him.
He dismissed that idea after giving it some actual analysis. She was a fierce, smart, feisty little thing. He’d have gotten a slap to the mouth and a rage-filled lecture if his attentions had been unwanted. It wasn’t that.
The day after he’d barely been able to draw breath, let alone conclusions about her, as he went from one contentious meeting to the next.
He’d not been able to give her due thought again until Friday evening, long after everyone had left and he knew it had grown dark outside. Thoughts of her came rushing back in the absence of pressing work matters and he’d returned to the idea of having taken advantage of her.
By all ethical counts, he’d fucked up—royally—and perhaps she was staying away long enough to find a lawyer of her own and serve him with a lawsuit. He’d get the chance to face her across a courtroom like he’d imagined at the start of their acquaintance, only nowhere fucking near the way he’d really wanted.
He filled the sink with hot water, swishing his razor around in it to warm it up before applying it to his face in careful, measured strokes.
Perhaps Belle had simply taken what she wanted from him and decided he wasn’t worth it. That was far more plausible to his mind. A sharp, young thing, probably more gorgeous than he had any right to, and he and his firm weren’t exactly anonymous in their big city. More than one flattering article had been written about him in local and national magazines: the blind, self-made multi-millionaire lawyer who made all of Boston’s big players quake at the tap of his cane.
Ridiculous drivel but it did lend him a certain mysteriousness that many women found highly appealing. He’d never lacked for female companionship, especially so since his first million landed in the bank. Perhaps she wanted to see what all the fuss was about and figured a few weeks in his employ was more than enough time to get where she wanted.
If she was so keen to fuck him, then why not just fuck him? Why the song and dance around each other for weeks, becoming his employee, when they could have just gotten to it and saved themselves time and energy?
He hissed as he nicked his neck and pressed a finger to the stinging spot, rinsing the razor in the sink.
Perhaps she’d wanted an orgasm from Boston’s most powerful and intimidating professional, something to gossip about to her friends while they got drunk on bad mixed drinks at some sleazy bar after she left him for the day.
His mouth twisted in a bitter smile as he cleaned up his shaving materials and moved into the hot spray of the shower.
If she thought to make a fool of him, she had another thing coming.
He let the water pound against his body, turning so the spray hit his back, soothing muscles that had been sore from the stress of worrying over her.
When she returned next week, he’d fire her on the spot. No preamble, no chance for her to say anything. Just a swift cut out of his life and onto the next idiot unlucky enough to find her in his arms.
His heart gave a peculiar, aching thump and his bitter smile fell into sad confusion.
Why spend weeks opening up to him, showing him the parts of her like turning the pages of a beautiful book, and gaining his trust in return if she was just planning to get a quick-and-dirty one out of him? He knew how she took her tea now—three sugars and enough milk to make it almost not worth it—the kinds of silly things she splurged money on when she was feeling particularly happy, the odd name her college group of friends gave themselves—the Bookends. How strange—and that her sweet tooth was nearly as awful as his.
It made no sense.
He finished washing and turned off the shower, snagging a towel and drying himself before pulling his robe off the back of the door and making his way back to his room. He’d just pulled on a pair of black silk boxers and a black undershirt when his intercom phone rang.
His head jerked up. Who the hell was calling at his penthouse on a Saturday morning? He grabbed his robe, sliding it on and belting it as he made his way to the wide living room. He crossed the expanse and located the intercom receiver, bringing it to his ear.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Gold! It’s Ricky this morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Ricky. What’s going on?”
“I have a Miss Belle French here, sir. She says she knows you but I wanted to be sure before I let her up.”
A bolt of desire so strong it weakened his knees shot through him and he closed his eyes against his body’s traitorous response.
He should say no, should tell Ricky to put her back out on the street, but he couldn’t. He wanted her in front of him, damn it. Perhaps he could abandon his plan and just fire her right then and there. He imagined her face would crumple as he threw her cruelty right back at her. Imagined her enraged reaction when she realized he’d figured out her game.
He frowned.
None of this made sense but goddamn it, he was owed an explanation and she was conveniently here. So be it.
“Send her up.”