“Coincidentally, so did I.” I didn’t mean the accent.
I just remembered the bet we’d had at Le Coq Tail. If he didn’t make me come, I was allowed to take all his cash. Truthfully, I’d never come so hard in my life, but I wasn’t going to admit that. Not after he’d made me feel like a fool for the second time that day, faking a stupid French accent to shake me off his back in case I wanted to exchange numbers.
“Miss Humphry.” He tsked with pity, like I was adorable and exasperating at the same time—a puppy pissing on his two-grand loafers. “It’ll be a long time before you stop thinking about my cock every time you masturbate at the end of a long workday under your cheap covers.”
I was going to kill him.
I knew it right there and then.
Maybe not today and perhaps not tomorrow either, but it was going to happen.
I blew out air and folded my arms over my chest. “I’m sorry I took your money.” It hurt to apologize to him, but I had to do it for my conscience, not to mention my employment status.
He stared through me, like I’d said nothing. “I expect you to keep your lips sealed about our little…” He ran his eyes over my body, but not like he wanted me. More like he wanted to get rid of me.
I batted my eyelashes. “Cat got your tongue, sir?”
“No, but close.” He leaned his shoulder against the door, making shoulders and doors everywhere pale in comparison to how sexy he looked. “Your pussy got my tongue—several times, actually—but also my cock, fingers, and frankly everything else in that suite I could fit into you. I’ll spare you the sordid details because A, you were there, and B, we’re going to keep it strictly professional from here on out. Understood?”
Jesusjesusjesus. The mouth on this guy.
“Lady, if you don’t stop using my name in vain, I’m taking my complaint to a higher level,” Jesus grunted in my head.
“Aren’t you going to apologize, too?” I parked my fists on my waist.
“What for?” He sounded genuinely interested.
How old was he? Thirty? Thirty-two? He didn’t look so young anymore, now that I was sober and watching him through a curtain of red anger and sheer embarrassment.
“For lying to me,” I raised my voice, on the verge of stomping my foot. “For faking an accent and telling me you had a flight back home. For—”
“Not that it’s any of your business.” He lifted one hand, cutting into my stream of words. “And not that I will ever provide you with any more personal information, seeing as you’re officially an employee, and a junior one at that,” he reminded me coolly. “But I actually did fly out to see my mother in Florida. Home isn’t here. But it’s not in France, either.”
“And the accent?” I wished I could club him over the head with a stapler and still keep my job. Unfortunately, I was pretty sure HR would frown on that.
He tugged at his collar, his smile wolfish. “I have a taste for simple, meaningless fucks.”
“No. You made sure I wouldn’t ask for your number or try to give you mine.” I had zero control over my voice at this point, and I think he knew I was a step from punching him square in the face.
He looked at me flatly. “Crazy is not a good look on you, Spears.”
“Well, consider yourself lucky, because I have no intention of exchanging anything with you, be it numbers, fluids, or pleasantries.” I turned around, ready to storm out the door. I took the first few steps, but Célian grabbed my wrist and spun me in place. His touch sent a jolt of electricity straight to my groin, which only proved that my mind was savvy, and my heart was lonely, but my body was just a dumbass.
“Keep quiet,” he warned.
I rolled my eyes. Like letting my boss screw the living hell out of me was something I wanted to send a press release about.
“Yes, sir.” I shook his touch away. “Anything else, sir?”
“Watch your attitude.”
“Or else?”
“I’ll make your life very miserable. And enjoy it, too. Not because we slept together, but because you stole my cash, wallet, and condoms.”
To be fair, the condoms were inside his wallet, and I’d simply forgotten to discard them. Which gave the whole thing an extra layer of embarrassment. I knew I was skating on thin ice, and I didn’t want to crash my way to the bottom of the unemployment ocean. I decided to change the subject.
“I forgot my iPod in the suite. Did you happen to find it?”
“No.”
Damn. “Am I excused?”
He took a step back. “I hope to see very little of you, Miss Spears.”
“Duly noted, Mr. Timberlake.”
I slapped my forehead the entire way back to my cubicle, thinking things couldn’t possibly get any worse. The future owner of LBC looked royally vindictive, regally pissed, and majestically explosive. Because of me. I knew he was going to avoid me at all costs. And it embarrassed me that I was saddened by that, because his scent, voice, and the insanely inappropriate things leaving his mouth fascinated me no less than they infuriated me.
When I got back to my cubicle, my first instinct was to drown myself in perfume samples. But as soon as I walked in, I realized I had some explaining to do. Grayson and Ava sat side-to-side, cross-legged, staring at me like I was a National Geographic special. All they needed was popcorn.
Grayson jerked his thumb in the elevator’s direction. “Explain.”
“There’s nothing—”
Ava butted in. “Mr. Laurent Jr., AKA the news director slash executive producer of the prime-time news show and Lord Assholemort, never offers people eye contact, let alone talks to them.”
He doesn’t, now? Shocker.
“You better start singing like it’s American Idol and I’m Simon Cowell, girl.” Grayson snapped his fingers, wiggling his ass in his seat. “I want to know the how, when, where, and how long. Especially the long part. Inches and all.”
I guess I deserved this. Célian had no business seeking me out and having a private conversation with me on my first day. Besides, these were shaping up to be the only friendly faces in all sixty floors.
I stared down, my toes squirming in my shoes. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. We’ve met before. Briefly. At a…social function.” What’s more social than sucking each other’s privates? “I think we were just surprised to see each other is all.”
The way the lie slid effortlessly from my lips scared me. First stealing his wallet, and now this. Célian Laurent sure brought the worst out of me.
“So you’re saying you don’t know each other.” Ava tilted her chin down, inspecting me like I was a Russian spy.
“I’m not even sure what his first name is.” This was actually true.
“It’s Célian. Now, question—did you listen to anything he said in that meeting?” Grayson raised an eyebrow.
“I…” I searched for words.
Normally, I was far more eloquent. Debate had been my favorite subject at school. I’d gone head to head with my articulate, overtly opinionated, politician-wannabe classmates at Columbia—sons of lawyers and daughters of judges. But just like any woman determined to be taken seriously, I had an Achilles heel. Being caught getting freaky with the boss and salivating all over him was going to make my career freefall like a shooting star.
“Let me help you with that.” Grayson waved his hand. “Mr. Laurent said they’re slicing the budget of Couture by at least ten percent, which may not seem like much, but our blog is virtually running on fumes as it is. I thought this was the extent of it. I was wrong.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.” I frowned.
Grayson leaned forward, catching my gaze. “I’m going to ask again—how do you know the Laurents?”
“Why?” I felt my heart thudding against my chest. Now we were talking in plural?
“I just got this email.” He turned his monitor around so the three of us could huddle in front of it and take a look.
From: Mathias Laurent, President, LBC
To: Grayson Covey, Editor, Couture Online Magazine
Dear Mr. Covey,