Sex Slave to the Dictator (The Initiation 3) (6 page)

Straightening her back with new resolve, she
resumes her gait to the CEO’s office.

Ms. Radcliffe, the forty-something year old
Executive Assistant who has been with the company since its
inception, looks up.

“Right on time, Ms. Chalmers.” She
smiles.

“Please call me Susan.” Never hurts to get
on the Executive Assistant’s side.

“Go right in. He’s waiting for you.” Ms.
Radcliffe jerks her head. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

Her nerve bundles are starting to fire up
again. Susan swallows, grips both her fists, composes herself and
heads in.

And almost stumbles.

The man sitting behind the large mahogany
desk has always unsettled her, and even more so now. Channing
Crawford is in his late thirties and he radiates a magnetic aura of
great power. He doesn’t look his age though. He looks younger,
possibly because he is so fit.

He is handsome – almost unspeakably so. His
blue eyes are sparkling and vivid in a well-chiseled face. He has
marvelous bone structure – a structure she can well imagine on
ancient Greek kings and war frescoes. His dark hair is razor shorn
into a buzz cut, and his body is bulked up and magnificent under
his dark suit. His lips have a determined and ruthless streak to
them.

She can’t look away from his eyes. Her knees
begin to wobble again.

Damn. Now you remember why you take great
pains to avoid meeting this man.

Not helping are the rumors of how he found
his fortune. It isn’t a matter of luck or investment, though those
came much later. Channing Crawford, William Peterson and Derek
Fulham were Iraqi war veterans – battle-scarred and hardened army
officers who had been decorated for many acts of valor. In Iraq,
they had found hoarded gold bullion and claimed their share of the
spoils.

The rumors speculated that the way they
found the gold was not without bloodshed. Iraqi warlords were
involved, even organized crime. There were whispers of a bloody
raid, the detonation of an entire citadel and a chase across the
desert.

Of course, no one could ever confirm what
happened. Only Channing Crawford, William Peterson and Derek Fulham
knew exactly what went down, and they weren’t telling.

With this gold, they came back to America
and founded the company. William Peterson was killed in a
surfboarding accident (also raising suspicions) and Derek Fulham
sold his shares to Channing two years later. Now Channing Crawford
holds the share majority in a company that has capital investments
as far as China, Bolivia and the Middle East.

Susan can now feel the weight of speculative
history emanating from this magnificent specimen of a man – mixed
with a thrilling splash of mystery and danger. It’s as if she’s
face to face with a drug lord, not a CEO of a much-admired
company.

This is a mistake. She shouldn’t have come
here.

Then she thinks of Leonard Drake in this
very room, facing Channing Crawford down. Her mouth sets into a
determined line.
If you can’t bear to be in the same room as
Channing Crawford, then you have no business being a VP of this
company.

Channing says, “Yes? Susan Chalmers, isn’t
it? You wanted to see me?”

Direct and right to the point. No
pleasantries required.

Susan swallows.

“Yes, Mr. Crawford. I came to see you about
the Vice-President’s job. I’m going to tell you why I think I
deserve it.”

Before she can lose her nerve, she rushes
into her well-rehearsed spiel about her list of accomplishments
within the company. And yes, it’s a long list. As she states each
achievement and contract she has brought in by rote – without once
referring to any piece of paper – her voice grows steadier and her
back becomes straighter.

Why, she thinks proudly, I
do
deserve
this job.

Channing Crawford listens to her monologue
with an intense look in his blazing blue eyes. When she finally
finishes, he says, “Impressive, Susan.”

“Thank you, Mr. Crawford.” She has been
standing all this while, and now her knees have a sudden urge to
buckle.

He intuits this and gestures to one of the
chairs in front of his desk. “Sit.”

“Thank you.” She seats herself
gratefully.

She is still a little terrified. Less so
than when she first walked into the room, but it’s still there – an
omnipresent, overpowering awe of him that sends palpable quakes
down her torso and limbs.

“How old are you, Susan?”

“Twenty-nine this year.”

“Isn’t that a little young to be VP?”

“Age should not be a determinant, but merit,
sir.”

He nods. His eyes haven’t left hers. She
feels herself being drawn into his blue, blue eyes – the windows
upon windows of their depths. She doesn’t dare blink for fear of
losing herself.

He says, “And what would you do for this
job?”

“Anything, sir.”

“Anything?” His deep voice takes on a
dangerous timbre.

“Yes.”

She is aware she’s treading on dangerous
territory now. Still, the offer is open-ended and questionable.
Anything
can mean working till twelve midnight every office
day and coming in on weekends and holidays.
Anything
can
mean chasing another three hundred million dollar contract to the
ends of the Earth.

Anything
is a speculative word . . .
every bit as speculative as what really happened in that Iraqi
desert.

Is she dreaming or is there an appreciative
gleam in his eyes?

“Do you have a boyfriend, Susan?”

Now the conversation is veering down a path
she had not expected. Does she really have a boyfriend? Well, she’s
technically dating Brad Thornbird, but they are not living together
or anything. She isn’t even sure they are going anywhere with their
relationship.

“Yes, sir.” A bead of sweat trickles slowly
down the back of her neck.

His eyes slowly dip to her chest and focuses
on her two jutting breasts. She has large breasts, and she can’t
mask them with officious buttoned-up clothing.
Oh my God, is
Channing Crawford checking me out?

“I have a proposition for you, Susan
Chalmers,” he says calmly. His gaze rakes her face again.

The gnawing apprehension bubbles over in her
stomach.

Oh what oh what is he going to ask me to
do?

He says, “I have seen you around and taken
note of your progress in all these years.”

You have?
She’s astonished.

“I believe you have the ruthless ambition to
make things happen for yourself.”

“I do, Mr. Crawford, I do.” This comes out
in a bit of a rush.

He leans back in his chair, and it creaks
with protest.

“You see, I have certain personal needs. I’m
looking for the right woman to fulfill them, and I believe you have
the characteristics to tend to my needs, Susan.”

She can’t believe what she’s hearing. Her
jaw drops.

“Wh-what kind of needs, Mr. Crawford?”

He steeples his hands. “Let’s just say I
enjoy taking a strong-willed, ambitious woman like yourself and
molding her into someone who will bend the knee and obey my every
command. Are you that woman, Ms. Susan Chalmers?”

The proposition dangles in front of her like
a carrot on a stick.

This can’t be happening, she thinks. This is
surreal. Channing Crawford
wants
her in the physical sense?
He who is unattainable and lives in the clouds, who is secretly
desired by every woman in the company, only they are too afraid to
even speak of it?

Bend the knee.

It sounds deliciously depraved . . . and yet
tantalizing.

Her terror surfaces again.

“Wh-what’s in it for me, sir?”

“I will be making a decision on the
Vice-President post by Friday next week. Leonard Drake, a fine
upstart individual with extremely impressive paper qualifications
and a track record that dwarfs even yours, is your main contender –
as you no doubt have acceded. He has promised to bring in the
Buchanan contract by Thursday next week.”

He lets this float in the tension-filled air
between them.

The Buchanan contract? Her spirits sink. The
Buchanan contract is the Holy Grail of contracts – the biggest,
most notoriously sought among them. Edward Buchanan is a recluse
whose company is worth eighteen billion dollars.

A recluse who donates generously to the
church.

“I see,” she says, the pit of her stomach
caving in. How can she possibly compete with that?

But that’s precisely the point.

She
can
compete with it.

Her voice is shaky as she says, “What would
you require me to do, Mr. Crawford? And for how long?”

“Let’s make it until Friday, Susan Chalmers.
As for what I require . . . well, let’s just say you will do my
every bidding . . . my every command.” His crystalline blue eyes
bore probingly into hers.

She licks her lips nervously. “And would
those . . . requests . . . be sexual in nature, sir?”

He waits a beat before answering, “Yes, for
most part.”

A deep, complex emotion courses through her
– strangely filled with equal parts fear, desire and conflict.

He adds, “I should warn you that there will
be pain along with pleasure. You will be possibly be subjected to
practices foreign to your nature. I would require your absolute
compliance. Once you have agreed, refusal of any of the requests is
not an option.”

She breathes sharply. Her heart is beating
very fast against the curvature of her ribs.

Refusal not an option? Just what does he
have in store for her? She thinks of this volatile, dangerous man
moving like a thief in Iraqi desert night, and she suddenly has an
idea of what he can and will do.

Her hands begin to tremble at the
thought.

She manages to say, “I would like to think
about it, sir.”

“Needless to say, I trust I’ll have your
discretion over the matter.”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“I’ll expect your answer first thing
tomorrow morning.”

She nods. She feels as though all the energy
has been drained out of her.

“That will be all, Susan Chalmers.”

She knows she is being dismissed. She gets
up. The back of her panties are soaked through with her pooled
sweat.

As she exits the CEO’s office, she can feel
his eyes burning a hole in her back.