DOTTY (The Naughty Ones Book 3) (58 page)

“Savvy,” he offered. “Realistic. A dreamer who knows which one to follow when it presents itself to her.”

“Is this it, then?” I asked him. “Is this my dream to follow? How do I know that this is the one?”

“Just close your eyes and fall,” he said, smiling at me, his eyes tracing the shape of my mouth. “I’m there to catch you.”

My eyes fluttered closed, and he kissed me, softly, unexpectedly, then pulled away.

“Mom and Dad are coming back,” he said, laughter in his voice. “We’d better be good.”

My eyes opened, and I smiled. “You’d better be good — and keep your hands to yourself.”

“What?” he asked, his blue eyes wide but in no way, shape, or form innocent. “I thought it would help you relax.”

“You have a lot to learn,” I said, smiling as Frank and my mother sat down at the table, both of them beaming with excitement. I knew just how they felt.

I walked into one of the tall, glittering buildings that I had admired since I’d moved to New York City, feeling, for the first time in a long time, hopeful about the future. There was still a lot to figure out, and still a lot of things that I wasn’t sure about, but at least I wasn’t plucking dog turds from the grass at Central Park with only a plastic bag to protect my hand.

It had been hugely validating to close the door on my shoebox apartment for the last time. Peter had sent his car to help me transport everything across town, which was helpful. I hadn’t accumulated much, and I was more than happy to sell or ditch what furniture I had scraped together. I might’ve worked hard for them, but they were only things. I was going on to greater things, now, and there was no place in my very nice hotel room for my battered futon or the coffee table that doubled as a kitchen table. They would only hold me back.

When I got to the hotel, a bellhop was waiting with a rolling caddy for my things. I laughed at him.

“I don’t have that much,” I said, the driver popping the trunk to the car. “This is all there is.”

“That’s fine,” he said, loading my two pathetic suitcases I’d taken when I first got here, as well as a couple of trash bags I’d packed my remaining belongings into, and loading them onto the caddy. I felt more than a little self-conscious as other guests arrived around me, their personal items secured in designer luggage and handbags. I felt better accompanying the bellhop inside and into the relative privacy of an elevator. He pushed the highest number on the bank, and the doors rumbled shut.

“Um, if my memory serves me correctly, the room I’m staying in is on the fifth floor,” I said slowly. “Okay, maybe the fourth floor. But it definitely wasn’t at the top.”

“Mr. Bly has instructed us to upgrade you to our penthouse suite,” the bellhop said, keeping his eyes upon the quickly advancing floor numbers on the display above the elevator doors.

My mouth dropped open. “The what?”

“Penthouse suite. It’s much more spacious than our other rooms. And a better view, too.”

The bellhop deposited my bags on a rack just inside a closet in the entryway of the penthouse while I gasped, agog at the splendor I was apparently living in now. Opulence didn’t describe it properly. It was the epitome of elegance, all warm colors and large windows with creamy curtains I could draw — if I ever saw a need to. I had a wonderful view of all the glittering buildings I’d been in love with ever since I moved to the city. I didn’t even understand why anyone would want to draw the curtains.

There was a full kitchen with all the latest appliances, as well as a sitting room with couches low to the carpeting. The bedroom was its own room, with a king size bed dwarfed in its spacious surroundings. The closet for the bedroom was as big as my old shoebox apartment had been, and once I hung my clothes up, they looked sad and lonely, not even taking up a quarter of the space available.

I walked back out to find that the bellhop had already slipped out, leaving me alone in this massive and intimidating space.

I noticed a sealed envelope that had been easy to overlook before, when I was aghast at all the finery, resting on one of the tables in the sitting room.

“Gemma,” it read, “please make yourself at home. I’ve enclosed a credit card that you will employ for all of your expenses. These expenses will include any food you’d like to purchase — the refrigerator in the kitchen, as well as the pantry, is fully stocked at this time — as well as clothes appropriate for the office. Dress code is very smart business casual. There is no limit on the credit card, nor should you limit yourself with it. It is yours, as are the funds available on it. The car is at your disposal anytime. Use it to commute to and from the office, as well as for any other errands you might run. This might take some getting used to, but I hope you will enjoy yourself. Call with any questions. Peter.”

Was I a terrible person for taking that credit card directly to Top Shop for some long overdue retail therapy? I was like a kid in a candy store, ripping clothes off the racks, trying on different combinations of everything I found, buying everything I liked instead of restricting myself to a budget.

Maybe I should’ve shown more restraint, but Peter’s letter had told me to, more or less, go hog wild with the card. It was as if I was making up for a whole year of frugality. I bought satiny shirts and silk tunics and all manner of leggings — even a leather pair — as well as cardigans, sweaters, jackets, blazers, whole matching business suits and skirts that I had always imagined I would be wearing. It was like a dream come true — I was finally dressing for the job I wanted, even if I wasn’t sure exactly what being a secretary with Peter’s company entailed.

I called him as the same bellhop, hiding a smile behind his gloved hand, unloaded shopping bag after shopping bag onto the rolling caddy to get all of my purchases back up into the penthouse. It was more than I’d arrived with. I’d more than doubled my wardrobe, and added shoes and accessories and purses to it, as well.

“Don’t say it’s too much,” Peter said in lieu of a simple greeting. “I won’t argue about it.”

“It is too much,” I said, laughing, “but we won’t argue about it. I love the penthouse. I love the fact that I can see all the buildings. And I just did enough damage on that credit card that I think you should seriously consider imposing a monthly limit.”

Peter laughed, delighted, the sound unexpectedly boyish. “I’m so glad you’re having a good time. How was visiting with your mother and my father? Did everything go well?”

The week was finally over, but it hadn’t been nearly as painful as I thought it was going to be. I’d actually enjoyed spending time with my mother, and we’d even spent a few afternoons dress shopping for her wedding. She and Frank had decided that it should be held in the fall.

“Why wait?” my mother reasoned, modeling a ridiculously fluffy white dress in front of three mirrors just for fun as I laughed at her girlishness. “Frank and I have been waiting our whole lives for this. We don’t need a long engagement.”

“The visit was surprisingly good,” I said. “I think they’re really in love.”

“I should hope so,” Peter said. “They shouldn’t get married if it was anything less.”

“Oh, no,” I said, smiling as the bellhop left me in the penthouse with all my purchases. “You’re one of those old-fashioned types, aren’t you? The type who takes marriage very seriously — the be-all and end-all, the last, best thing two people can do.”

“I even think you should wait until marriage to become intimate,” he intoned as I laughed at him. “Marriage is just a big decision, that’s all. It destroyed my dad when my mum died. It was hard to watch.”

I swallowed hard. “I can understand that.”

“Well,” Peter said quickly, his tone much brighter. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your long vacation. It’s time to start earning your keep, Ms. Ryan.”

“I am eagerly awaiting your instructions, Mr. Bly,” I said in what I imagined to be my best secretary’s voice.

“A man could get used to that, Gemma,” Peter said, his voice lower, rougher. “You should see the boner I’m sporting.”

I blushed even though we were only on the telephone. “You’d better behave yourself, Mr. Bly.”

“We’ll see.”

And there I was, wearing one of my nicest blazer and skirt combinations, high heels making me teeter dangerously as I rode the elevator up to Peter’s offices.

He greeted me himself, grinning and looking me up and down in a way that wasn’t very befitting of a professional office setting as the elevator doors rolled open.

“You look marvelous, Gemma,” he said, stepping forward and giving me kisses on either cheek. “Cheers, really. Not a penny misspent.”

“Thank you,” I said, darting a nervous glance around. The office was well-proportioned, but full of people. It was hard to imagine that there were other departments on other floors with even more people working at this company — harder still to remember that Peter was in charge of all of this.

“Let me show you around,” he said, offering me his arm.

“Thanks, but shouldn’t you be doing something right now?” I asked, afraid that people were staring. “I don’t want any preferential treatment, and I know you’re a busy man.”

“This is exactly what I need to be doing right now,” he said. “I want you to know this place inside and out.”

Peter’s company — the Bly Group — was a hotel conglomerate, I soon learned, which was why Peter thought nothing of me taking up residence in the penthouse suite at the hotel he’d set me up at. It was one of his company’s hotels, and there were dozens of other locations around the globe, hotels that Peter’s company bought and retrofitted and made into luxurious powerhouses.

“The idea is that, while the hotel acts as a home away from home, it’s also nicer than what people are used to living in,” Peter said, showing me a few blueprints of properties the company was looking to acquire, laid out over a long table in a conference room.

“It’s definitely nicer than anything I’ve ever lived in,” I said, describing the view of my penthouse home. “I get there, and I’m immediately comfortable, but also pampered. Like, you go on vacation to get out there and experience different places, but that suite would be like a vacation in of itself. I’d have trouble wanting to motivate myself to leave it to see the things I’d wanted to see on my vacation.”

Peter stared at me for a few long moments, then whipped out his phone, his thumbs typing swiftly on the display.

“Did I say something wrong?” I asked, then, more quietly, “Are you going to fire me?”

“What?” Peter looked up from his phone, dazed. “No, I’m not going to fire you. That was a brilliant insight. I was just conveying it to marketing as an idea for our next advertising campaign. ‘The best part of vacation.’”

“You liked it?” I asked. “I was just rambling.”

“You’re going to do very well here,” he promised me. “You’ll see. Now. I’ve got a few things for you to sign to make it all official.” He produced a packet of papers and a pen, sweeping some of the blueprints aside to make room for me at one of the seats around the table. “I’ll give you a few moments to read through it — ah, here’s marketing now. Pardon me.”

He stepped out to take the call, and the door closed behind him. I watched as he gesticulated wildly, excitedly, and I smiled, turning back to the papers. I ran my hands along the boardroom table. I couldn’t name what kind of wood it was, but it was sanded and finished to a satin smoothness, each place marked by an empty crystal glass and a leather pad with a penholder. It was very nice — nicer even than the conference room table I’d fantasized about while spinning tales to my mother about my office life.

It was going to get a lot easier to talk to her, now. Now that this was actually my real life.

I fought the urge to pinch myself and flipped to the back of the contract, signing it with a flourish. Even the ink from the pen flowed differently, as if it, too, were expensive. I pushed myself up from the comfortable chair and walked around, admiring the view from outside the windows, admiring the lush carpet beneath my heels. I went back to the blueprints, tracing the rooms with my fingers, noticing that they were all properties located in Paris.

“All set?” Peter asked, poking his head back in the conference room door.

“All set,” I said. “Signed and sealed.”

“Perfect,” he said. “Any questions about the contract?”

“None whatsoever. I do, though, have questions about these.” I indicated the blueprints. “Are you actually buying properties in France? These all say Paris.”

He grinned. “We are now.”

I blinked at him. “What?”

“The company’s looking at properties in France — just like you told your mother, and just like I explained to my father,” he said. “I got to thinking about it, and I realized that I really did want to expand our brand abroad more. Most of our locations are here, stateside, or back in London. Paris makes sense.”

I gulped. “Are you seriously telling me right now that you’re planning on buying properties just because of one of my lies?”

“It was a good lie,” he said, his grin not fading one bit. “Very forward thinking.”

“You’re doing it to cover my tracks.”

“I’m doing it because I want to do it,” he said. “And because I want you to come to Paris with me.”

“Also to cover my tracks.”

“No. Because Paris is the most romantic city in the entire world, and there’s no one else I’d want to spend time there with.”

My heart did a funny flip-flop, and my stomach joined it the moment Peter leaned close to me and pushed a button on the table, flipping shut all of the blinds to the windows looking in on the conference room from the outer office. The light dimmed considerably, and then Peter’s cheek grazed mine, the stubble against my soft skin making me shiver.

“Peter…”

“Let’s celebrate,” he proposed, cutting me off abruptly, pushing me against the table before lifting me to perch me on its edge.

“Wait…”

I gasped as he pulled my knees apart and knelt on the floor, writhed as he hooked a finger in the crotch of my new silken panties, bit down on my tongue as he expertly inserted one finger into my very wet pussy, all the way up to the second knuckle.