He Touches Me (5 page)

“Please call me Anna.” I grasp her fingers. Her skin is warm and creased with wrinkles. She smells sweet, like peaches, and I like her immediately. “Sorry about this.” I tug on Blaine's jacket, straightening the oversized garment. “I wasn't prepared for the rain.”

“No one in L.A. ever is.” Fran smiles. “Please come with me.” She pivots on her heels and hurries through an arched entranceway. I follow her, my shoes sloshing, as we move along a wide quiet hallway. The lights around us are dimmed, the meeting rooms and cubicles empty. A printer hums, spitting out paper.

“Everyone is gone for the evening,” I observe.

“Blaine Technologies encourages employees to work remotely after hours if at all possible.” Fran looks back at me. “If you're offered this job, you'll be working solely with myself and Mr. Blaine. Is that a problem for you?”

“No.” My spirits lift. Working in isolation will solve my wardrobe challenge. “It's no problem.”

“Good.” Fran turns into a small meeting room and holds the door open. “Please take a seat, Anna.”

A small round table separates one black mesh chair from another. An award for innovation hangs on one wall. A framed magazine cover proclaiming Blaine Technologies as the next big thing is centered on another.

I sit down on the chair farthest from the door, the seat comfortably cradling my curves. Fran fills the other seat, crossing her legs primly at the ankles and clasping her hands before her. I mirror her stance, borrowing her professionalism.

“What do you know about the position you're being considered for?” Fran leans forward, her gaze as intense as Blaine's.

Does she see me too? I wiggle nervously in my chair and the polyester fiber mesh squeaks under my wet ass. I stop moving.

“I'll be your assistant and work outside of regular business hours with yourself and Mr. Blaine.” I share everything I know.

“My assistant.” Fran blinks. Her lips twitch. “I suppose that's true . . . in a way. Do you have any previous experience working as an assistant?”

“None,” I confess. “I've done almost every entry-­level job there is, but an assistant isn't entry level, is it? You must earn the trust of the executive you're assisting, and trust isn't given easily. One wrong word, one wrong act by yourself or someone else, and it's gone forever. No one will trust you.” I stop, realizing I'm rambling, something I rarely do.

“That's true.” Fran smiles gently, as though she's humoring an overly rambunctious child. “I understand this will be your second job.” I nod, wondering what else Blaine has told her. “Why are you working two jobs?”

I frown. Isn't the reason obvious? Why does anyone work two jobs? “I need the income,” I admit.

Silence stretches. Fran doesn't say anything, gazing at me with her finely plucked eyebrows raised, clearly expecting me to say more. What is there to say? If I don't work another job, I won't eat. My stomach growls, the sound obscenely loud in the small room, and my face heats.

“I see,” she finally says, echoing one of her boss's common expressions. “You have no experience and you're desperate for cash.” I give her another Blainelike nod, this sentence summing up my situation perfectly. “What is your relationship with Mr. Blaine?”

He sends me erotic text messages and finger fucks me in his backyard. I squirm and the seat squeaks. “I prefer not to say.”

Fran frowns, lines appearing between her eyebrows. “And if I said I couldn't consider you for this position without knowing your relationship?”

She's looking for dirt on her boss. She won't get it from me. Blaine is the only person in this world I trust and I won't betray him. “Then I no longer wish to be considered for this position.” I stand, smoothing down my damp pants. “Thank you for your time.”

“Mr. Blaine trusts me, Anna.” Fran rises to her feet also. “Please reconsider your decision.”

“Mr. Blaine
does
trust you . . . completely.” As I move toward the door, Fran steps sideways, blocking my exit. “And I won't reconsider my decision because, someday, I also hope to earn Mr. Blaine's trust.”

“Someday, I'm certain you will.” Fran holds out her hand. “Welcome to Blaine Technologies.”

“What?” I stare at Blaine's assistant. Did she say what I think she did?

“Welcome to Blaine Technologies,” Fran repeats. “You're now
my
new assistant.”

I grasp her fingers, my mind spinning. “You were testing me.”

“And you passed.” Fran beams. “Though next time, if you're asked by someone else, lie and say you met through Feed Your Hungry. Mr. Blaine's donation has been reported in the media.”

Fran opens the door and cooler air sweeps into the room. “You'll be on probation for the first three months. Once you pass that period, I'll add you to Payroll. Until then you'll be paid daily out of petty cash.”

No company pays employees out of petty cash. Is this another test? I trail behind her, confused. I have a job . . . I think. “When do I start?”

“You've started.” Fran laughs. “This is my desk.” She pats the top of a huge desk. It dominates the end of the hallway. A pot of thyme sits on one corner. Multiple screens surround a black leather chair. A faded photo in a silver frame shows a stylish woman wearing a white pillbox hat and a vintage lace wedding dress smiling up at a man sporting a crew cut.

“That is your desk.” Fran waves her hand at a smaller desk on the other side of an office door. Boxes are piled around the desk, creating makeshift cubicle walls. “And this is Mr. Blaine's office.” She raps her knuckles against the wooden door.

“Enter.” Blaine's voice is muffled but unmistakable. I straighten, my body humming to life.

Fran swings the door open. She stops short, her jaw drops and her eyes widen. “Mr. Blaine.” She recovers quickly, grinning. “I'd like to introduce you to
my
new assistant Miss Anna Sampson.”

Fran ushers me over the threshold. An arousing wall of scent hits me, the mixture of sandalwood, musk, and man moistening my pussy and tightening my nipples.

“Miss Anna Sampson, this is Blaine Technologies' CEO and founder, Gabriel Blaine.” She makes the unnecessary introductions.

“Miss Sampson.” Blaine stands, his white shirt stark against the dark wood desk, black leather chair, and gray wallpaper. He's surrounded by three screens showing text and brightly colored graphs. Symbols and prices run in a steady stream at the top and bottom. There are no personal items on his desk, no plants, no photos, no knickknacks.

“Please call me Anna, Mr. Blaine.” I extend my hand, my fingers trembling. “It's a pleasure to see you again.” My feet sink into luxuriously thick black carpet.

Blaine engulfs my palm with both of his, his skin hot, rough, arousing. “It's always a pleasure to see you, Anna.” He holds my hand for three seconds longer than is proper and releases me.

I glance covertly around his office, eager for a glimpse into my mysterious billionaire's working life. The space is four times larger than my bedroom, a long table stretching in front of wall-­to-­floor windows. The art pieces hanging on the walls are modern, painted in black, white, and gray, clearly chosen more for decorative reasons than artistic. It is impressive yet sterile.

“What do you think?” Blaine asks.

I meet his gaze. He appears almost nervous. Did I miss something? I scan the room again, noticing nothing new, noticing nothing. “It's cold.”

Fran inhales sharply.

“But expected,” I add. “If I was a successful CEO, this is the office I would show the world.” Blaine's green eyes glitter. I walk to the windows and gaze out. “The view is beautiful.” Lightning flashes across the black sky. Raindrops splatter on rooftops. Red streams of taillights extend down the streets.

“I think so.” Blaine stands beside me, his hands clenched behind his back. “We all hide in our own ways, Anna,” he murmurs.

“I understand,” I whisper. “If we don't let them see us, they can't hurt us.” I gaze up at him. “I won't ever hurt you, Blaine. You know that, right?”

“I know that.” Blaine's face softens.

Fran is watching us yet I can't look away. Blaine isn't traditionally handsome. He's striking, strong, male, and, for this moment, mine.

I lean into him. He leans into me, the heat from his body engulfing me.

Fran clears her throat and Blaine pulls away, his face settling into a cold, emotionless mask. “Welcome to Blaine Technologies, Anna.” He dismisses me with an abrupt turn, returning to the seat behind his desk.

I follow Fran into the hallway, unable to meet her gaze. As the door closes, she hurries to her desk, opens a bottom drawer, and shakes the folds out of a black sweater. “Wear this.” She gives me the sweater. “Mr. Blaine doesn't like to be seen without his jacket.”

Because his jacket is part of his disguise, his way of hiding his true self away from the judgmental world. I remove his jacket and Fran brushes the wrinkles out of the fabric. “Blaine Technologies is very formal.” I don her sweater, the garment also hanging on me.

“It is.” Fran nods, watching me. “I once was as tiny as you are,” she confides. “And I still have some suits in that size. I couldn't bear to throw them away.”

“Don't ever throw them away.” I stare at her, dismayed that she'd consider tossing vintage garments into the trash. “I'll take the suits if you don't want them.”

“I was hoping you'd say that.” Her lips curl upward. “I'll bring in one suit tonight. You can take it home and try it on. If you like it, I'll send the rest to your house.”

She doesn't ask where my house is. Blaine must have told her where I live. I suspect Fran knows more about me than I want her to know.

“Now for tonight's task.” She waves her hands toward my desk. “The federal government returned our files in a disorganized mess. There are folders in the boxes on your desk. I need them sorted alphabetically before we put them back in storage.”

“I'll start on it right away.” I sit behind my new desk and open box after box, focusing completely on my task, the easiest job I've ever had. There's no one cursing me out, no one expecting me to ask strangers for donations, no one watching what I'm doing.

Fran grabs her purse and her car keys and leaves for over an hour. She returns with a dry cleaning garment bag. She hangs this bag on a hook behind her desk and asks me how I'm doing, as though she expects me to have difficulty sorting files.

Assured that I know my alphabet, Fran buzzes around her desk, talks quietly on the phone, and then leaves again. I wait for a ­couple of minutes before hurrying down the hallway, searching for a bathroom. I pass a large kitchen. Chairs are neatly tucked into round tables, the satin chrome finish on the faucets above the double sinks is shiny and the tiled floor immaculately clean.

The bathroom is luxurious. The lighting makes my skin glow. The hand soap smells like vanilla. The towels are soft fluffy cotton. I want to linger but I can't. I have work to do.

I rush back to my desk and open the next box. The edges of the files are creased, and I'm indignant that someone would disrespect Blaine's documents like this. I smooth the thick paper and put the files in order.

I don't hear Fran approach. I'm completely absorbed in my task.

“Break time, Anna,” she announces. She carries two clear plastic bags filled with Chinese takeout containers.

I glance at the boxes I still have to organize. It's ten o'clock and I don't know if I can finish them tonight. I also don't have the money to contribute to the meal. I certainly don't trust the concept of being paid daily out of petty cash. What company does that? “I—­”

“Mr. Blaine rarely breaks for dinner. When he does, we do also.” Fran opens Blaine's door. “Join us.”

Not having a choice, I slip a five dollar bill out of my tote and fold it into the palm of my right hand. If I don't get paid before the end of the week, I'll be walking to work on Friday.

I enter Blaine's office. The smell of spice and sweetness and meat teases my nostrils and my stomach rumbles loudly. Blaine and Fran don't say anything, my boss and my boss's boss already seated at the end of the long table.

Blaine is once again immaculately dressed, wearing his suit jacket—­the suit jacket I borrowed—­and he's sitting in the power seat at the head of the table, dominating the space around him. I trace the collar of my blouse with my fingers, my clothing suddenly restrictive.

“Please sit down, Anna.” Fran opens the fast food containers, revealing stir fries over rice, one beef, one chicken, and two vegetarian.

A wave of dizziness sweeps over me, the carpeted floor shifting under my feet. I hurry toward the table, needing to sit down before I pass out.

A white china plate, matching cloth napkin with a sterling silver fork and knife, a crystal tumbler, and a bottle of water is set before an empty chair. “It smells delicious.” I take my seat beside Blaine, across from Fran, giving both of them a nervous smile.

“The orange ginger chicken is Fran's favorite.” Blaine dishes a generous helping onto Fran's plate as though it is perfectly natural for a CEO to serve his assistant. “She ate that once a week during start-­up.”

“Start-­up,” I repeat with wonder and a tinge of envy. Had Blaine been as hard, as unrelenting, then? “You've been working here for a long time.”

“I'm employee number one.” Fran holds up her index finger. “I did a bit of everything back then—­programming, answering phones, shipping product.”

“You did too much back then. You still do too much,” Blaine rumbles, and I slide my gaze to the enigmatic billionaire. He watches me. He's always watching me. My nipples tighten.

“What would you like to eat, Anna?” His voice softens as he says my name.