Marjorie said she didn’t tell anyone about this other than me. I read it again and again. It quotes my story almost word for word, and each time I get more confused.
Did she tell another reporter the same wrong name? I take out my phone and dial her number, and she answers on the first ring. “Hello, Marjorie, this is Emily Foster.”
“Oh hello, dear; that was quick.”
“Marjorie, did you speak to anyone else from another paper about this graffiti story?”
“No, dear.”
“You haven’t told anyone?” I frown.
“Not a soul. The street and I made a collective decision that we only wanted Miles Media to report on it. That way we knew the police would have to listen.”
I begin to hear my heartbeat in my ears. What the hell is going on?
“Coffee for Emily,” the cashier calls.
“Thank you.” I take my coffee and head back out into the rain, confused as all hell.
It’s one o’clock, and I’m on my lunch break. I arrive at the top floor and walk through to reception. “Hello.” I smile nervously. “I’m here to see Mr. Miles. It’s an urgent matter.”
I’ve been racking my brain all day, and the only theory I can come up with isn’t pretty. I need to talk to Jameson.
The blonde receptionist smiles. “Just a moment, please. Your name is?”
“Emily Foster.”
She pushes the intercom. “Mr. Miles, I have an Emily Foster here to see you.”
“Send her in,” his velvety voice purrs without hesitation.
I feel my stomach dip with nerves, and I follow her out into the corridor and across the marble. Damn it, I still haven’t bought rubber-soled shoes yet. I try to tiptoe so I don’t click as I walk. “Just knock on the end door.”
Holy shit. My heart begins to pump, and I force a smile. “Thank you.”
She disappears up the hall, and I close my eyes as I stand in front of the door, bracing myself. Okay, here goes.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Come in,” I hear Jameson call. I scrunch my eyes shut as nerves dance deep in my stomach.
I open the door, and there he sits in a navy suit. With his white shirt, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes, he looks like God’s gift to women. Maybe he is. “Hello, Emily,” he whispers as his sexy eyes hold mine.
“Hello.”
Jameson stands and stares at me. Our eyes are locked, and the air swirls between us. “Please, take a seat.”
I fall into the chair, and he sits behind his desk and leans back in his chair; his eyes don’t leave me.
“I wanted to see you about something,” I say as I glance at the glass of scotch beside him. I don’t know what kind of work has scotch involved, but where’s my glass?
I could do with a drink or ten right now.
He sits back and smirks as if amused.
“Umm.” I pause and swallow the sand in my throat. “So something has happened, and I know I could get into trouble for it, but I feel like you need to know,” I blurt out in a rush.
“Such as?”
“I got a name wrong in a story.”
Jameson’s unimpressed eyes hold mine.
“But it’s the weirdest thing,” I stammer. “Today the Gazette has published the same story . . . with my error in it.”
He frowns. “What?”
“Look, I don’t know, and I could be totally wrong, and I don’t know why I’m even telling you this, but I think . . .” I pause.
“You think what?” he snaps.
“I just know for certain that the Gazette didn’t get that story themselves, and they most definitely couldn’t make the same mistake as I have. The old lady in the story contacted me directly because she would only talk to Miles Media.” I put the Gazette down on the desk in front of him, and he reads it and stares at me for a moment as if processing my words.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I got the name wrong.” I point to the name where my mistake was made. “This here is my error.”
Jameson brushes his thumb back and forth over his bottom lip as he stares at the paper before him, deep in thought. “Thank you. I’ll discuss this with Tristan and get back to you.”
“Okay.” I stand. “I’m sorry for making the error. It was unprofessional, and it won’t happen again.” My eyes go to Jameson, and I wait for him to say something. Is that it?
“Goodbye, Emily,” he says flatly.
Oh, he’s dismissing me. “Goodbye.” I turn, feeling dejected, and make my way downstairs. I don’t know whether I just did the right thing by telling him my theory. Maybe it will only work against me.
It’s four o’clock, and I’m drinking my afternoon coffee. My phone rings, and I answer it. “Hello.”
“Hello, Emily, this is Sammia. Mr. Miles would like to see you in his office, please.”
I frown. “Now?”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay. I’m on my way up.”
Ten minutes later, I knock on Jameson’s door. “Come in,” he calls.
I walk in and find him sitting behind his large desk. His face breaks into a sexy smile as his eyes find mine. “Hello.”
My stomach dances with nerves. “Hi.”
“Have you had a good day?” he asks, and in slow motion I watch as his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. He’s different this afternoon. He has a playful air about him.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask.
“Yes, I’ve spoken to Tristan, and we have a special project that we would like you to work on,” he says as he leans back in his chair.
“You do?”
“Yes. We want you to write a story to publish.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.” I shrug. “What’s the story on?”
Jameson narrows his eyes as he thinks. “I was thinking . . . something along the lines of lovebites.”
I frown in confusion. “Love bites?”
Amusement flashes across his face as if he’s trying to keep it straight. “Lovebites, one word. Plural.”
I stare at him for a moment in confusion. I don’t get it.
Oh my God.He’s talking about the hickey I gave him. Of all the nerve. Trust him to bring that up.
I tilt my chin to the sky in defiance. “I think I’m better equipped to write a story on premature ejaculation. That way you could help me with it.” I smile sweetly.
Jameson’s eyes dance with delight. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I reply straight faced. “News stories are so much better when they have evidence to back them up.”
Amusement crosses his face as he sips his scotch. I have no idea what’s going through that head of his this afternoon. Maybe he’s had too many scotches. We stare at each other, and I want to blurt out, “Did you ever think of me?” But I can’t because this is work, and I’m acting uninterested. Actually, let me rephrase that. I’m not interested—I’m slightly fascinated. Huge difference.
“How was your weekend?” he asks.
“Fine.”
His eyebrow rises. “Just fine?”
I nod. “Uh-huh.” I don’t want to tell him that I broke up with Robbie, but then I don’t want to lie to him either.
“You got back Sunday night?”
“Yes.”
His eyes hold mine, and I know he wants to ask about Robbie and me but is holding his tongue.
“How was your weekend?” I ask.
“Great,” he replies as his eyes drop to my lips. “I had a great weekend.”
I frown. Does great mean just generally great, or does great mean “I had great hot sex with a gorgeous, great woman all weekend”?
Stop it.
“Sorry about that,” Tristan says as he breezes into the room. He smiles warmly and shakes my hand. “I’m Tristan.” He’s slightly younger than Jameson, and his hair is a lighter brown and has a curl to it. His eyes are big and brown. He’s very different from Jameson but has that same power thing going on.
“I’m Emily.”
His eyes hold mine. “Hello, Emily.” He and Jameson make eye contact, and at that moment, I know that he knows Jameson and my history together. I swallow the nervous lump in my throat.
Why would he have told his brother about me?
Tristan glances at Jameson’s scotch. “What time is it? Has happy hour started?”
“Four thirty, and yes,” Jameson replies.
Tristan goes to the bar and pours himself a glass of the amber liquid. He holds a glass up. “Would you like a drink, Emily?”
“No thanks. I’m working,” I reply nervously.
Amusement crosses Jameson’s face as he lifts his drink to his lips.
Okay, what the hell is that look? Is it a condescending smirk or nearly a smile? I can’t read this man at all.
Jameson sits still and stares at me. Our eyes are locked, and the air swirls between us.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask. I really don’t know what kind of meeting has scotch involved. Maybe I should have had a glass. God, no. Remember what you did last time you got drunk with this man. You tried to suck all the blood out of him.
“As we just discussed, we have a special project we would like you to work on,” Jameson says.
I nod as I look between them.
“Yes. In light of what you told me this morning, we want you to write a story for us to publish.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.” I look between them. “What’s the story on?”
“Name a subject.” His tongue slips out and runs across his bottom lip, and I feel it all the way to my toes. “We have a secret project coming up, and I wanted you to be involved, but I need to know if you can report on a subject.”
“You know I can. I’ve worked for regional papers for five years as a reporter.”
“This is strictly off the record,” Tristan says. “You cannot tell a soul. It’s imperative.”
“I won’t,” I say as I look between them.
“For some time, we have thought that somebody on your floor is selling our stories to our competitors so that they are breaking before us. What you told us this morning all but confirms it.”
I frown. “How do you know?”
“Trust me; we know,” Jameson replies. “Our stocks are falling and so is our credibility. It needs to stop.”
I frown as I listen.
“We want you to make up a fake news story and submit it through the normal channels, and we will see if it turns up in our competitor’s papers.”
I stare at him as I try to get my brain to keep up. “What would I write about?”
“Something worth selling. It doesn’t have to be real. The faker the better—then it’s more easily traceable.”
“Who do you think it is?” I ask as excitement runs through me. This is my chance. If I do well here, I can prove myself as a valuable employee. Imagine if I cracked the case. I bite my bottom lip to hide my smile. I need to act as if exciting things like this happen to me every day.
“We have no idea, but we know it’s not you.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because it began before you started,” Jameson says as he stands and goes to the bar.
“Okay.” I think for a moment. “I could do that.” I look between them. “When do you want the story by?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, if possible.”
“Okay.”
A voice comes through the intercom. “Tristan, you have London on line two.”
He stands and pushes the button. “Give me a moment to get back to my office.”
“Okay,” the receptionist answers.
“Sorry, I have to take this call. We are settling today on a new company. We’ll talk more tomorrow afternoon,” he says.
“Sure.” I smile. Oh, I like him. He’s friendlier than his brother.
He shakes my hand. “Remember, not a word to anyone. I would hate to have to fire you.” He gives me a playful wink, but something tells me he’s not joking.
I frown. What the hell? “Okay.”
“I look forward to reading your story,” he says. He turns and walks out of the office and closes the door behind him.
I turn to Jameson. His eyes are dark, and he’s holding his glass of scotch. He sips it in slow motion, and I smile nervously as my heart begins to race.
He raises his eyebrow and sips his scotch again. The electricity in the air between us is palpable.
“I should get back to my desk,” I whisper.
His eyes stay fixed on me as if he wants to say something, but he remains silent.
“Is there anything else you wanted, sir?” I whisper as I stand.
He puts his drink down on the desk and walks toward me. “Yes, actually. There is.”
He stops in front of me so that our faces are only an inch apart, and I stare up at him.
His close proximity steals my breath, and like a wave in the ocean, arousal swims between us. “Can you feel that?” he breathes.
I nod because it’s undeniable.
“I’m so sexually attracted to you that it’s insane,” he whispers. “From the first moment I saw you on that plane.”
I stare at him as I get a vision of him throwing me across his desk.
He trails his index finger down my face, over the center of my chest between my breasts, and then lower to my stomach, and then he skims it over my pubic bone before resting his hand on my hip. “I have a request.”
“Yes.” I close my eyes as I feel myself melt under his touch.
He leans forward so that his lips are almost touching my ear. His breath tickles and sends goose bumps down my spine. “I want you to wear your gray skirt tomorrow, the one with the split.”
I frown as I listen to his whispered words.
“Your white silk blouse, and the lace bra that you wear underneath it.”
Holy shit . . .
“No stockings.” His hand grips my hip bone, and I clench my sex.
He licks my ear. “I want you to wear your hair in a ponytail so I can wrap it around my hand.”
I get a vision of him wrapping my ponytail around his hand, and I nearly combust.
This man is a god.
I stare up at him. “Anything else?” I breathe.
“Yes.” His eyes darken, and he reaches up and rubs his pointer finger over my bottom lip. “Tonight, I want you to take your vibrator.” His voice is deep and hushed and doing things to my insides that I didn’t know were possible.
My eyes widen as he slightly parts my lips with his finger. Then he puts it in my mouth, and I find myself sucking it. His eyes darken as he watches me, and a slow, sexy smile crosses his face.
“I want you to fuck yourself. Long . . . deep and slow.”
Oh . . . Lord have mercy.
“Why would I do that?” I breathe.
“Because I know it will be my face that you will see when you come.”
He bends and licks up my neck, and then he bites my ear, and my legs nearly buckle underneath me. “Do your homework, and you will be well rewarded,” he whispers in my ear before tenderly kissing my neck with an open mouth.
I’m like putty in his hands. I can’t even pretend to fight this . . . whatever this is.
He dusts his lips across mine but then steps back, and my body jerks at his withdrawal. I pant as I stare at him.
“Do your homework, Emily. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I stare at him for a moment; he’s dismissing me.
I frown as he turns and goes back to sit at his desk as if nothing ever happened.
He picks up his scotch and sips it as his eyes hold mine. He slides a security key across the desk. “This will get you to this floor.”
Huh.
What in the hell was that?
I snatch the key and leave his office in a fluster. I get into the elevator with my heart hammering.
For fuck’s sake. I need to find some self-control, and I need to find it quick.
Because he has it all.
Chapter 6
I sit in the café across the road from the Miles Media building. I told myself I came here to get some takeout for dinner. But the truth is, I want to see him leave. I want to see his face, to see if it’s as flushed as mine. I’m so close to orgasming in public; it’s not even funny. How can one finger through clothes arouse me so much? This man turns me into a puddle, a wet, soppy, pliable puddle. I have absolutely no resistance when he touches me.
For twelve months I’ve dreamed about Jim, the funny, carefree man I spent the night with. And now that I’ve met another version of him, I’m not sure that I like him. I mean, he’s hot, hotter than hot. Blazing fucking inferno.
Who is Jameson Miles?
I sit on the bench seat by the window and stare across the street, and then I see the limousine arrive and pull into the parking bay.
I sit up. My stomach flips, and I hold my breath as I watch the door open. In slow motion he walks out; he’s like a rock star, and everyone turns to watch him.
Mr. Orgasmic.
I watch as he gets into the back of the limousine and the driver closes the door behind him, and then it slowly pulls away.
I watch it all the way up the street as it disappears, and I feel a wave of disappointment roll over me.
I wonder what he’s doing tonight. It’s late, nearly six thirty, and the Miles Media building is emptied out for the day. I can’t believe I waited around to get a glimpse of him leaving . . . what a loser. I guess I may as well order something to eat here. I’m only going to go and eat alone at home anyway. I pick up the menu and scan the choices, and then the front doors of Miles Media open again, and Tristan walks out. I frown as I watch him. He’s with a woman; she’s blonde and beautiful and wearing a gray woolen fitted dress and high-heeled short black boots. She has a trendy vibe about her, and her hair is in a bouncy ponytail. She says something, and he laughs out loud. They walk around the corner but are still in my view, and he puts his hand on her behind and leans in and kisses her.
Who is she?
He then takes her hand in his, and they disappear up the street together.
Does she work in the building? I would have thought they had some no-dating-the-staff kind of rule. Maybe not?
Maybe it’s a free-for-all, and they’re fucking their way through the floors?
Am I the only girl he’s flirting with? Does he summon anyone else up to his office?
I close my eyes in disgust.
Stop it.
God, I need to get a grip.
I go through my wardrobe and take out my clothes for tomorrow. It’s late, and I’ve been working on that story that they want. I hope it’s all right. My preparation is different this time. What should I wear tomorrow? Do I do as I was told?
I lay out the clothes Jameson told me to wear, and I stare at them on my bed.
The gray skirt with the split, the white silk shirt. How does he know that I wear a white lace bra with this shirt? How does he even know about this outfit?
He watches me.
A sick thrill runs through me. Fuck, this guy is playing with my head.
I’m walking around, a raging mass of hormones, and he hardly touches me.
Imagine if he did.