Fired
Fired
The Billionaire Romance Collection
By
Veronika Bliss
© Copyright 2014 Veronika Bliss
All rights reserved.
Fired - The Billionaire Romance Collection
Book design by Veronika Bliss
Cover Image Copyright 2011 Jonathan Mueller
http://www.flickr.com/photos/jonomueller/
Used under a Creative Commons Attribution License
I stood by my desk, utterly humiliated as I packed my belongings into a cardboard box. Of course they’d fired me - it didn’t matter that I’d been the receptionist for over three years. That I’d been successful, professional, had worked hard and stayed late and never complained. I was just a receptionist. And the VP’s niece needed a job now that her poetry degree wasn’t instantly panning out, so out I go.
I was staring at my little line of porcelain figurines and trying not to cry. They were little ducks painted in the styles of famous artists: Van Gogh, Picasso, Monet, Lichtenstein. I’d painted them all myself, starting with my first week and adding one for each anniversary at the company.
Well,
I thought as I wrapped them in my scarf and stuffed them into the box,
guess I won’t be painting a Dali duck after all.
A rather large man in a suit stood just at my elbow, a security badge emblazoned across his shoulder, making sure I wasn’t stealing pens or USB drives or complicated company secrets. It was insult on top of my gaping injury, his very presence unnerving me and making my fingers fumble as I emptied out my desk. I could feel eyes on me, knew that some of my coworkers were watching the spectacle from just beyond the grand foyer of the company’s corporate office. I finally just started raking things off my desk without a care, unconcerned with whether or not my stupid polka-dotted stapler crushed my stash of cheese crackers into dust. I just needed to get out of there so I could go home and cry. And drink. And maybe combine the two. I was, after all, perpetually single and now unemployed.
I finally finished and hauled the box into my arms, surprisingly light for three years’ worth of possessions. Not that being a receptionist was my dream job and not that working at this company had been a joy, but it paid the bills and allowed me to paint at night and on the weekends. Now I was jobless, with the rent due on my incredibly tiny studio in Manhattan - why hadn’t I taken my friends’ advice and moved to a borough? - and no paycheck to pay it with. My thoughts spiraled darker and darker, and I imagined myself as one of those horrible caricature artists in Times Square, and then I was actually
crying in front of people.
The guard looked horrified, and I saved us both the trouble and hurried around the desk and out towards the elevator bank.
I managed to hook one arm around the box and use the other to blot the tears from my cheeks, taking a deep breath like they tell you you’re supposed to do and which did absolutely nothing to help. Sheer embarrassment was the only thing that got the tears to stop, and I told myself that once the elevator doors closed, I would let myself cry all the way to the subway.
The bell rang, the doors opened. And I froze, my dark eyes surely as round as saucers, to find that the elevator was occupied by none other than Richard Sellers. He was one of the most successful investors in the city, and I only knew him because he’d been trying to buy this company for the last six months. He was British and stunningly handsome, of course, with his perfect salt-and-pepper hair and exquisitely tailored suits, but he’d always stopped to speak to me when he arrived, which was more than I could say for most of the executives I came across. Most of them didn’t so much as acknowledge my existence, much less engage me in conversation and remember that I’d always wanted to visit the Louvre and the Museo Del Prado and the Rijksmuseum but had never managed to get a single stamp in my passport. I’d spent more than a few nights fantasizing about being ravished by him, imagining what sort of muscles he was hiding behind those pinstriped suits.
And here he was, watching me as I stood frozen holding my box of shame.
The doors started to close, and for a split second I thought maybe they would just close and the elevator would leave and I would be able to keep a tiny ounce of my dignity intact. But then his hand shot out, catching the doors, and I wondered if this is what it would feel like to die from politeness.
He arched an eyebrow and I realized I was still standing there like an idiot. But he was smiling now,
smiling
at me as if the entire world wasn’t in shambles. “Going down?” he said, his voice edged in humor, though the light in his blue eyes said it wasn’t at my expense. The first sound of his voice always sent a shiver up my spine, and even now I twitched and almost purred to hear it.
“You have
no
idea,” I muttered out, my penchant for sarcasm getting the better of me, and immediately blushed bright scarlet.
“Oh, I’m quite good at guessing,” he chuckled, reaching out with his free hand to grasp my elbow and propel me forward. He must not have been convinced I could do it myself, and he might have been right. Either way, I felt the shock of contact as his fingers touched my skin, the same I’d always felt when we shook hands at the reception desk. The same I imagined when I was alone in my bed at night, picturing his gorgeous face and bringing myself to spiraling heights of pleasure.
I slid in beside him, noisily adjusting my cardboard box as the doors closed. Suddenly it occurred to me how very small elevators actually are. I could smell the subtle musky tones of his aftershave, could hear his even breaths echoing in our little box. My own breath was coming in nervous hiccups, and I could feel myself blushing again. “Thank you,” I whispered, not exactly sure what I was thanking him for. For not mentioning how disheveled I was, for being kind when he didn’t need to, for just existing and giving me something to keep me warm once I made it home and downed a bottle of wine.
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye and could see him smiling again, and he nodded. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “Once I buy this place, I’ll sack the lot of them.”
It surprised a laugh out of me, and then he grinned so brightly that I couldn’t stop laughing. He joined me, and the tension between us dissolved as we both relaxed and I remembered that it
wasn’t
the end of the world. It was just a job, and I would find another one. “God, I needed that,” I sighed, still smiling as I wiped at my cheeks again, though the few tears I’d shed were from laughter rather than the horrified shock of earlier. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sellers. I’m sure you didn’t expect to have to deal with my mess today.”
“Richard,” he corrected quickly. “And on the contrary, Regina,” he said, sending a flutter through me at hearing my name in his posh accent. “I would have been quite upset to have visited again to find you mysteriously gone. Though I am still unhappy at the prospect of saying goodbye to you,” he said, catching my eye and giving another of his quiet smiles.
I fidgeted with the corner of my box, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Was he just being polite? I bit my lip, and his gaze wandered down to my mouth, and I felt another jolt of that electricity between us. Was this really happening? “I’d hate to make you unhappy,” I murmured, surprising myself with my own boldness, but I was officially an unemployed artist. What did I have to lose?
His bright blue eyes shifted back up to meet mine, and for a moment I couldn’t think. Then the damnable elevator bell rang, and the doors opened onto the lobby of the building. I blushed again and turned to go, but before I could take a single step I felt his hand slide comfortably into the curve of my lower back. “In that case,” he chuckled, guiding me out of the elevator and across the floor, “lunch is on me. I assume you haven’t any plans for the rest of the day?”
I laughed again, enjoying the dry banter between us, and rolled my eyes. “I don’t have any plans for the rest of the
week,”
I laughed. His hand against my back held me firmly against his side, a light, easy touch that nonetheless controlled my every move. Such an old-fashioned thing, and yet so utterly compelling that I gave in to it completely, safe and unstoppable and wanted.
“Even better,” he whispered, so low that I wasn’t sure he’d even meant to say it out loud.
* * *
Three hours later I was somewhere I never would have imagined: arm-in-arm with Richard Sellers, carelessly laughing as he teased me about my little painted ducks as we left the ultra-trendy restaurant of some five-star hotel. The meal itself had probably cost my entire month’s rent, and it was
definitely
the most sumptuous food I’d ever tasted. The champagne had helped relax me as well, and somewhere between the duck breast and the creme brulee I’d fallen into an easy camaraderie with the eccentric billionaire.
“I feel as if I’ve known you forever,” I sighed, glancing up at him and wondering how I’d found myself here. “It’s not fair, really. Now that I’m not working for that ridiculous company, I’ll probably never see you again.” The thought of that, of never again seeing his gorgeous smile or hearing him tease me for my silly trinkets, filled me with an inexplicable sadness. My fingers tightened around his arm unconsciously, and I sighed again. But it couldn’t last. As nice as the lunch had been, I wasn’t foolish enough to think it meant anything more.
He pulled us to a stop, unconcerned with the throngs of people walking through the lobby who were now forced to flow around us. He took my hands in his, ducking his head to catch my gaze. We stared at each other for a few moments, and I tried to memorize the perfect angle of his jaw, the shadow of the day’s stubble already roughening his skin. But his blue eyes were too undeniable, and I found myself caught by them once again. “I told you already,” he murmured, reaching up to tuck a strand of dark hair behind my ear. “It would make me quite unhappy to say goodbye to you, Regina.”
My heart stuttered in my chest. Part of me wanted to run out the door and as far away as I could get, because there was no way this could be true. There had to be a catch. He was rich and handsome and funny in a way that I understood perfectly, full of dry wit and sarcastic teasing that most people found alienating and I just found endearing. He made me feel as if I were the most important woman in the world. It just wasn’t possible for this to be real. I swallowed hard, and lowered my head to stare down at his hand still clutched between mine.
I heard him sigh, watched his hard chest expand as he inhaled sharply, and realized that he was disappointed. He was
upset
because he thought I was rejecting him. He cared. About
me.
He started to gently pull his hand from mine, but I refused to let go. Instead I reached up and grabbed his tie in one fist, lifting my chin as his eyes widened and he gave a startled little noise in the back of his throat that made my body tighten. “Then don’t,” I said, meeting his gaze with a troublesome little smile of my own. He blinked once as if he couldn’t quite understand what I meant, and then his lips twisted to match mine and I felt my heart pounding again.
I pulled him down by his tie just as he reached up and plunged his hand into my hair. Our lips met, and I couldn’t help my little groan of pleasure at the sweet taste of him. The kiss began innocently enough, but it took no more than a few heartbeats for our arms to twine around each other. He pulled me against him and I felt the hard muscles beneath the tailored suit, and he gave a playful little growl as he nipped at my bottom lip. I opened my mouth and surrendered myself to the kiss as his tongue demanded entrance. My body felt as if it were on fire, the heat traveling from the hard press of his hands to pool in the very center of me.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that, entwined together and exploring each other’s bodies and mouths, but we seemed to realize at exactly the same moment that people were staring at us, some of them laughing appreciatively. Someone whistled, and I broke off the kiss as he laughed indulgently, his hand still cupping my face.
“Take me to your place, Richard,” I purred, and was rewarded by his little growl of pleasure at the sound of his name.
“No need,” he whispered, laughing as he pressed another kiss to my lips. “I own this hotel.”
I gasped and blinked at him, mouth hanging open at such a ridiculous statement. He looked incredibly proud of himself, delighted to be able to shock me, and I laughed again as I launched myself into his arms. He caught me easily, my heels dangling a few inches off the ground as he kissed me hard enough to garner another round of catcalls from our audience.
He didn’t say anything as he set me back on my feet, just tucked his hand into the small of my back and guided me toward another the hotel’s bank of elevators. We stepped inside, and he pulled a keycard from his pocket. He pressed the button for the penthouse, and then swiped his card for access. The car started smoothly upwards as he tucked away his keycard and turned back to me with an indulgent grin.
He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could utter a word I slid my body against his and pulled him down for another kiss. There was no one to see us now, no one to interrupt, and we lost all pretense of propriety. My polite, repressed British businessman gave a sigh of surrender, and then he kissed me so hungrily that my knees went weak. He didn’t seem to mind, simply cupped my ass in his hands and shoved me back against the mirrored wall, lifting me up and supporting me as he ground his body against mine. I could feel his cock grow rigid and moaned as I rubbed myself shamelessly against him. He shoved my prim business skirt up over my hips and picked me up again, and I spread my legs for him and cried out as he pressed the hard length of his dick against me. My panties were quickly soaked through, and I gasped as he broke off the kiss and lowered his head to bite and suckle on the delicate flesh of my throat.