Authors: Cleo Peitsche
Then I wonder if he ever makes phone calls when he’s still in his pajamas. Something tells me he doesn’t.
“That’s what you’ll wear to the office,” he says, indicating the chair with the clothing draped over the back. I’d forgotten about it.
The chair is facing away from us, and I have to walk around.
The clothing is all black, so it’s difficult to discern the outlines of the different pieces, but I can make out a few items.
Super-high stilettos, in black.
A black garter belt.
Black sheer thigh-highs with delicate lace tops. The stockings look like a run waiting to happen.
And… a padded bra.
There’s enough extra oomph in each cup to double as a pillow.
Confused, I stare at Romeo. “You
want
me to wear these things?”
“For your first day of training,” he says. “You’ll have a change of wardrobe at the office, and you’ll wear that for the second half of the day. Get dressed.”
Instead of leaving, he leans on the edge of one of the dressers and resumes his phone call. He’s discussing real estate, something about a luxury hotel in Zurich.
Inside, I’m almost giddy. I was afraid of having to walk around in dowdy dresses and ugly shoes.
It’s almost enough to take my mind off my other worries.
I’ve worn stockings before, but they were always the kind with a sticky, rubbery grip on the inside of the lace. Garter belts? Sensual in photos but I’ve never worn one in my life. I turn it over, trying to differentiate the front from the back. There are so many straps…
“Where are the panties?” I mouth to Romeo.
He shakes his head.
No panties?
Okay…
I slide into the stockings, then the bra.
Oh, the bra is heaven. It is the most beautiful, most perfect bra in the history of mankind. My breasts aren’t my greatest asset, but cradled in swollen satin, pushed up and together, I’ve got
cleavage
. Swollen creamy mounds that tremble when I breathe, my breasts are perfectly displayed in the silky black cups.
“Let me call you back,” Romeo says, and he hangs up the phone. “Would you like help with the garter?”
“I… yes.” And I blush. I’m not usually a blusher, but Romeo has that effect on me.
He takes up the garter belt.
Watching his large hands adjust the various straps is fascinating. Finally he puts the belt around my waist, hooks it in the back, and fastens the snaps onto the stockings.
And all the while, my sex is bare. Not that you’d know it from Romeo’s efficient movements. I wish that just once, he would lose the stranglehold he has on his self-control.
I wish he would touch me.
“Sit on the bed,” he says, picking up the heels.
I sit, and he slides my feet into the shoes. They’re not going to be comfortable, but they make my legs long and elegant.
When I stand, I’m tall.
Still not nearly as tall as Romeo, but it feels nice. Powerful. I wish I were going to a club, not the office.
Romeo hands me the rest of the clothes. The black blouse isn’t tight, and it’s a little shimmery, very luxurious to the touch. As I do up the buttons, I notice that it flows over my skin like molten chocolate.
In contrast, the skirt is tight. It goes to my knees and would be perfect except I can’t take very big steps. It’s like someone forgot to snip the stitch holding the slit closed.
Except there is no slit.
Trying not to be obvious about it, I steal a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Even though my hair is still damp, I look almost glamorous. The quiet sensuality of the blouse and skirt works with the tasteful stockings to offset the shoes, their blaring sex appeal.
Sex appeal? If they weren’t so obviously expensive, they’d be trampy.
“Finish getting ready.” Romeo leaves, closing the door behind him.
My makeup is in the bathroom, lined up on the sink. Walking across the room takes twice as many steps as it should thanks to the skirt and because of the height of the heels.
I can walk in them—I love sexy shoes and I’ve had plenty of practice—but it’s not easy. These are more like frenemies than friends; they’re pretending to be on my side but secretly they’re plotting to break my neck.
My elation at not having to dress like a frump begins to fade as I realize what Romeo’s game is. He’s trying to make me overdose on the things I like so much. Some kind of avoidance therapy.
Mind games aren’t his style, but I can’t think of another reason he would have chosen this ensemble.
I sit in the back of the limo, my hands folded in my lap. The seats are slippery, and the interior smells faintly of lemon.
Even though it’s a bright and sunny morning, and even though I don’t think the air conditioning is on, my fingers are chilled; I can feel them like icicles through the skirt.
My body is folded into a socially inferior position. It’s not something I’d ever want anyone to see, but I might as well be alone. Romeo’s on his phone, his deep voice rumbling seductively on his favorite subject: business. Despite my stop-the-traffic outfit, the man isn’t paying attention to me.
Today, that’s fine. I’m so jittery that I could vibrate right out of my skin. It feels good to slouch a bit, to fold my arms across my chest and cross my legs. It comforts me.
Whenever the limo stops at a light, I brace myself, expecting Kidnapper Joe to surge out of nowhere, rip the door open and drag me, kicking and screaming, back to Milford Crossing.
That doesn’t happen, at least not outside of my overactive imagination, where worst-case scenarios continue to play on a continuous loop, the horrors so crisply vivid that they would put even the most technologically advanced television screen to shame.
I pull a mirror out of my purse to check my makeup. Pale blue eyes stare back at me as I swipe honey-flavored lip gloss over my mouth.
Finally the limo stops in front of the skyscraper where I worked.
Work
.
Because even though I quit over a week ago, my bosses weren’t inclined to accept my resignation.
Two weeks’ notice, they said. They threatened me with legal action, which they know damned well I can’t afford—not the lawyers and especially not the publicity. If I still want to leave after those two weeks, they say they’ll let me go.
Of course, I never wanted to leave in the first place, and now… I never want to go. This desire is at odds with my self-preservation instincts.
But if Romeo, Slade, and Hawthorne can keep me safe, I’ll stay. I’m twenty-three. I’ve never had a relationship. I haven’t had friends in years because I’ve been on the move. My birthday is coming up, and I don’t want to celebrate by picking up a hot guy in a bar for meaningless, tepid sex.
Here is where I belong.
I just can’t imagine how my bosses plan to get my grandfather to back off. He’s not a backing off sort of guy, and the battlefield is filled with the bodies of his foes.
Unfortunately, I don’t mean that figuratively—a detail I haven’t shared with anyone.
On the other hand, my bosses aren’t backing off sorts of guys, either. They’re rich, and they’re strong, but if they’re as ruthless as my grandfather, isn’t that a sign that I’m not any safer with them?
I feel like my entire body must be trembling visibly, but when I look down, I can’t see it.
Perception is all that matters. It’s a strangely comforting thought, one that sends a small but warm tendril of confidence shooting down my spine.
~
When the limo comes to a stop in front of the office, Romeo finally gets off the phone.
“Don’t open the door,” he tells me.
By now I’m sitting with my shoulders back, my chin up, my fingers loose and relaxed. I surely appear calm and poised.
A moment later, three men in dark suits approach the limo.
They’ve got identical haircuts—short, tidy, every strand flowing obediently in the same direction and gelled into submission. They wear dark sunglasses that reflect the towering skyscrapers.
Romeo instructs the driver to disengage the locks, and one of the men opens the door.
“Miss Yorker,” he says, extending a large hand.
For a moment, I don’t move. Yorker is my legal last name, but I haven’t used it since I was sixteen. The last time I heard it was a little over a week ago, when I was abducted by one of my grandfather’s henchmen.
Before that? When I was sixteen, before I learned how to set up a decent alias.
Sadly, my first impulse upon hearing the sound of my name is to knee someone in the nuts and run in the opposite direction.
Not that kneeing these guys would go far. They have the smooth, plastic faces of fashion dolls, and I wonder if all their bulges are smoothed over in the name of practicality.
I give the man my hand, and he helps me onto the sidewalk. Romeo comes around, and the four of us walk into the office building.
I’m boxed in by big, muscular men.
People stare. Eyebrows go up. Someone says to a friend, “Do you know her? I think she’s from a reality show.”
The men come all the way up to the office, where they install themselves in the chairs near the elevator. Their cool efficiency makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“You’ll be with Hawthorne today,” Romeo says. “Good luck, and see you after lunch.”
My heart sinks into my stilettos.
I knew I was going to get some mysterious training in the morning, but I hoped Hawthorne wouldn’t be first.
Stiffly, I walk down the hall and knock on Hawthorne’s door.
“Mr. Tarraget isn’t in yet,” Andrea says. “The door’s unlocked.”
She’s telling me that I can go in, which means Hawthorne has added me to his official schedule.
Which means Hawthorne has cleared his morning just for me.
8:00 to noon
, he might have written.
Train Lindsay sexually. Whip her into shape.
Should I be flattered or terrified?
~
Hawthorne’s office isn’t quite as large as Romeo’s. In fact, it’s exactly the same size as Slade’s, which is down the hall. Hawthorne has a much bigger office in another building, but I don’t think he uses it much these days.
But what do I know? I haven’t been around for the last week, and before that I was swamped with work.
The office is furnished in the standard rich guy way. He really could have ripped a page out of a magazine expo on any random CEO and used it as a template.
The room’s focal point is the massive desk, an intimidating monstrosity of dark wood. The padded chair behind it might as well be a throne. The bookcases lining the walls and the black sofa sitting on a shaggy black rug almost seem like afterthoughts, like props to give the impression that it’s really an office and not a pulpit from which the executive can hand down life-and-death decisions.
But maybe I’m projecting based on what I know of Hawthorne’s personality. Romeo’s office isn’t so very different, but it doesn’t give the same impression.
There’s also a freestanding wardrobe.
Curious, I open it and see a simple black dress and a pair of classy black shoes. No heels. It must be my outfit for the afternoon.
It’s a nice dress, though not my style. I wonder what would happen if I hid it.
I cross to the window and peer out. From up here, it’s impossible to see the street, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.
For the moment I’m safe, but that does little to assuage my worry. After all, I was abducted from this building once, and I can never let my guard down again.
My thoughts wander to the night before. Slade said he has a secret, and he wants me to guess it, but I don’t even know where to start. I assume it’s about sex—I was naked, my arms and legs restrained, when he teasingly brought it up. The only thing I’m sure of is that it’s not something bad or scary; he was too upbeat for that.
Muffled footsteps approach the office, then stop.
I hear the deep growl of Hawthorne’s voice. Andrea says something in return.
Hawthorne steps into view, holding a coffee mug.
He’s wearing one of his many conservative dark suits and a red tie with blue dots. He looks like a candidate for president, right down to his perfectly styled dark hair. Only his eyes, which are a piercing, icy blue, suggest deep, dark secrets.
His face is expressionless as he stares past me and out the window, and I wonder what he’s thinking. He certainly doesn’t seem excited that I’m there.
“Good morning,” I say finally. I make myself uncross my arms. When did they get crossed? I have no idea.
His cool gaze abruptly swings toward me. “Get out,” he says flatly. “Out of my office.”
It takes me a second to process the words. “Why?”
“Employees aren’t allowed in executive areas without supervision.”
“But Romeo told me—”
“Out.” He doesn’t need to yell the word for it to have the air of finality.
Throwing my hands up in frustrated surrender, I leave the office at the snail’s pace dictated by the tight skirt.
Hawthorne practically slams the door behind me.
Stunned, I stand outside Hawthorne’s door.
Andrea is gone, her computer dark. Her purse is missing, too, and I wonder where she went.
Smoothing my hands down the front of my tight skirt, I pull myself together. So Hawthorne is being a dick. Why am I even surprised?
His door swings open. “Go to conference room A,” he says, and he slams it again.
“What happened to making an effort to get along with me?” I ask.
Walking to the conference room takes an eternity. I have to take three steps to cover the distance of one normal step. The outfit might be sexy, but I look like a fool.
The conference room door is open, and I hear a commotion long before I’m close enough to see what’s going on. Inside, half the office is crowded around the table, which is covered in messy piles of paper. A delivery guy with a hand truck brings in sealed boxes and stacks them in a corner.
He checks me out, then offers me a stick of cinnamon gum. I politely decline.
“Lindsay,” Tamara says, flustered. “Glad you’re here. There was a problem with our printing company, and we had to use someone new. They did the printing but neglected to actually make the booklets.” She glances at her watch.