Rescued & Ravished: An Alpha's Conquest (A Paranormal Ménage Romance) (19 page)

He laughed—a wonderful baritone sound. She ached to hear more of it. “You have no interest in law, do you, Ginger? Laila neglected to mention that. It’s fine. In fact, it’s better,” he reassured her placidly. “Anyway, I won’t say ‘nothing.’ I’m sure you’ll get to know some very important people through me.” He gestured to the closed door. “That’s why those morons want this job.”

The leather of the chair rasped as he leaned forward again.

“But I want you,” he said with finality, his voice low.

The look he gave her went right between her legs.

“Me?” she breathed, stupidly.
He
wants
me?

“Yes. For this position.” He stood abruptly; she stood too, flustered.
Oh. Right.
“You’ll hear from me.”

“Alright.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say; casting around, she came up with “Thank you.”

He gestured her out. “Tell the others I won’t need to speak with them. Good day, Ginger.”

She turned to go, shrugging the strap of her borrowed Michael Kors bag over her shoulder and crossing the office. Then, when she was almost at the door:

“Ginger.”

She turned.
How do I address him? Mister… Dane? Mister MacAlister? Oh, hell.
“Yes?”

“What are you wearing?” There was an intent look on his face.

Wearing? Oh—does he mean a scent?
“Nothing.”

He didn’t answer; instead, his look of concentration deepened slightly.

“Should I? In future?” she asked, one hand on the doorknob. “Wear something?”

“No.” He straightened. “That will be all.”

Her scent lingered even after she’d gone. She wasn’t wearing perfume? That amazed him. She smelled as sweet as hyacinth, and there was a lick of vanilla about her, too.

She was a beautiful girl—the kind who wasn’t fully aware of it.
Pale
, porcelain-pale, with big hazel eyes and long, thick apricot-blond lashes. A couple of freckles on her cheek, like beauty marks. A plush, feminine mouth. A slender hourglass figure, with a swan’s neck.

And her hair—! All that thick, wavy, gingery hair. He had a mortal weakness for redheads.

If he was honest with himself, he had wanted to skip the interview altogether. Instead, he’d wanted to bend her over his desk, yank up her silk skirt (which was obviously Mujamdar’s, the whole suit was: he could smell her trademark balsam-and-juniper shampoo on it. He’d have to make some kind of provision for Ginger’s wardrobe, if she was going to be in his employ), peel aside her underwear, and—

No. He didn’t have time to fantasize right now—and anyway, desire brought the animal too close to the surface. Half-hard, he adjusted himself and reached for the phone.

Ginger needed a contract.

“Laila! I’m home!” Ginger closed the front door with her foot, wriggling out of the fawn-colored jacket Laila had lent her.

“I’m in the living room! Lunch’s cooking!”

Ginger locked the door, hung up the jacket, kicked off her heels, and headed for the TV room. Laila was lying on the couch, watching one of her favorite Bollywood movies: Amrita Rao was prancing around in a hot pink sari, precursor to a musical number.

“How’d it go?” Laila asked, turning down the TV.

Ginger shrugged, noncommittal.

“What? You aren’t sure?” Laila frowned. “I was certain… you don’t think it went well?”

Ginger shrugged again, enjoying the misdirection.

“
Aha re
, honey, I thought you’d be a shoe-in. I… wait.” She caught the gleam in Ginger’s eye. “Are you lying to me? Did it—it
did
go well!
Ginger
!”

“I was the only one he interviewed,” Ginger burst out, grinning. “I think he liked me. I think he’s going to—”

Laila shrieked, “The
only
one? Oh, honey, you’ve got it. It’s yours! Yes! The pay’s going to be amazing, and I know you can handle the work. Even if it’s a little—overwhelming, at first. I’ll help if I can.”

“You’ve helped enough, Lai,” Ginger said seriously. “I’ll sink or swim honestly.”

Laila stood up on the couch cushions, mimicking Amrita’s theatrical dancing. “We should celebraaaate. I made your favorite lunch, ’cause I knew!”

“We celebrated last night!”

“
Dil mera paagal hai jaana, isko tum behlaaaaaaado
,” Laila sang, in time with the film. “
Dil mein kyun halchal hai jaana, mujhko tum samjhaaaaaaado
! Ginger has a jooooob nooooowww!”

“Laila, stop it! Get down!”

But Laila grabbed Ginger’s hands and pulled her up on the couch, and they giggled and shrieked and jumped on the cushions like kids.

“Park in the garage,” Dane’s voice instructed her, on speakerphone from her iPhone.

“Okay.” She spun the wheel, turning into his building’s attached parking garage. The security porters waved her through, to the valet terminal.

“They’re expecting you.”

“Yeah, they let me in, no problem.”

“You’re about to lose service. Come up as soon as your car’s taken care of.”

The line cut, the signal blocked by the tons of concrete above her. A valet came running to the driver’s side window; she rolled down the glass.

“Hi. I’m here to see Dane MacAlister.” She flashed her brand new firm ID—Dane had insisted she have one, even though she’d hardly ever be at the downtown office. “I’m his personal assistant.”

“Oh, the new one?” the valet asked, mildly interested. “Yes, that’s right. Miss Rebecca moved off to Phoenix, I think it was. Marriage. Alright, Miss”—he squinted at her ID—“Graham. I’ll park it. Just give your name at the booth when you come back.”

She got out of the car—carrying another loaned bag and dressed in another loaned outfit—and was escorted (!) to an elevator. There she punched in the right number—32; he owned the entire floor—and ascended.

Nervously, she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

You can do this
, Laila had said before she’d left.
Just be poised.

She was trying. Straightening up, she reminded herself not to slouch.

Too soon, the elevator pinged to a stop; she’d reached his floor.
Alright. Zero hero.
The beautiful, glossy doors opened.

She swallowed a gasp. His apartment was magnificent.

Modernist, minimal, everything in it was obviously and breathtakingly expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a view of the skyline and moody Mount Rainier. The kitchen, to her right, was as streamlined as a space shuttle; the living room, in front of her, was spacious, white-carpeted, and white-walled. There were more rooms to both sides, beyond her line of sight.

“Ginger.”

Dane strode toward her, perfectly dressed in a Ralph Lauren sweater and slacks. He was just as dumbfoundingly gorgeous as she remembered.

“Hello,” she said, instantly feeling that it was an insufficient greeting.
Hello, Your Majesty?

“Hello,” he returned easily. “Did you have any trouble getting here?”

“No.” Of course not—he lived very close to his office.

“Good.” He gestured her further in. “Come. Sit with me.”

She followed him to the living room; he sat on one of the white luxury sofas, and she sat on its twin, across a coffee table made of glass as pure as spring water.

“I have an informal lunch in”—he checked his watch, an expensive Swiss piece with creamy gold plating—“forty minutes. I’m going to leave in fifteen.”

Fifteen? Fifteen minutes for him to communicate what he expected of her?

“We will get to know each other over the coming week,” he went on coolly. “You will have a perfect idea, by Sunday, of what my needs are and what I demand from you. And I will have a perfect idea of your competency. Impress me.”

She knew better than to interrupt and say anything. He went on.

“Today I want you to engage a new maid service. The last one sent me a woman who stole.” His gaze was hard. “That is something I do not tolerate.” Did he think she, Ginger, was going to steal? Unconsciously, she bristled—and he smiled, very slightly. “And neither do you, I see. Good.

“I also want you to book me a flight to Berlin for next Wednesday, as well as engage a German car service and hotel. Can you do that?” Automatically, Ginger nodded, feigning unperturbed confidence. “Good. I won’t accept less than first-rate accommodations—remember that. Similarly, next month I have a meeting in Shenzhen. You will put together the application packet for my business visa; my last one has expired. The materials you need will be in my home office.” He gestured down one impeccable hall; the office had to be that way.

“I also expect you to purchase a new peanut plant for my home garden.” He had a home garden? “One of fine extraction. You also need to direct my grocery delivery service in what foods to send this week. I expect you to plan the meals in doing so—I don’t have time. I have no allergies.

“One of the daughters of a senior partner at our firm, Davidson, is graduating from Duke. Write a congratulatory note; I’ll sign it when I get home.” He stood. “Did you get all that?”

Inside, she was terrified; outwardly, she managed a calm smile. “Yes.”
Maid service! Berlin! China visa! Peanuts! Groceries! Congrats on Duke!

“Good.” He seemed satisfied. “I’ll be home around nine-thirty. I anticipate all the things I’ve requested will be done.” Nine-thirty… ten hours. It didn’t seem like enough.

“They will be.”

“Excellent. Walk with me to the door, Ginger.”

She stood and followed him back to the apartment’s door. He shrugged on a well-made coat and favored her with a smile.

“Please, feel free to show yourself around. You can order meals; mention my name when it comes to the bill. I’ll pay them this evening.”

She half-smiled, the nerves starting to disrupt her show of calm. His eyes went right through her—they were so bright, so gold-and-brown; totally irresistible.

“I’ll see you this evening.”

He had to collect himself in the elevator.

Ginger was so lovely, so
intoxicating.
Her scent dizzied him—enticed him—aroused him. He’d thought he could handle it, but no—he couldn’t. He’d have to buy her some perfume if he retained her as his assistant. Something strong, to cover her natural fragrance. Hopefully he’d hidden from her the effect she had on him.

Even now, closing his eyes, all he could see was her beautiful face, her thick, coppery hair, her pretty little body. His imagination suggested obscene things: what it would be like to strip her tasteful dress off, pare her bra away—inhale the achingly sweet, feminine scent of her skin—kiss that skin—nip her creamy breasts, bite her soft, tender neck, bite it
hard
—

His eyes snapped open. Bite her?

He was fantasizing about biting her?

That wouldn’t do. He would have to buy her that perfume. For both their sakes.

As soon as he was gone, she hopped around, yanking off her heels, and then went racing into his home office. It was a beautifully appointed room with a commanding view of the city and the mountains; she imagined it would be luminously sunny on a clear day. She scrabbled for a pad on the double-pedestal desk and found one. Grabbing a pen from a cup next to a bear-shaped paperweight, she wrote down everything he wanted before she forgot it.

It certainly seemed like a lot.

She stared at the list. It was quiet, almost eerily quiet, in his apartment; she sighed.

“He said to look around,” she murmured to herself finally. “I’ll just start with that.” It would center her. All her life, she’d liked to investigate her surroundings. Naturally nosy, her mother called her.

She set down the legal pad, ran a hand through her hair—Laila had fussed at her to leave it down again, with nothing but a halo braid—and then wandered out of the office, back into the hall.

Even the hall was nice. It was lined with high-quality art prints: she recognized Remington’s
The Bear at Bay (Roping a Grizzly)
, a couple of
John Muir’s Yosemite photos, and Bierstadt’s
Grizzly Bears.
Did he have a bear fixation or something?

Well, who was she to judge? She’d always liked tigers.

She investigated the other rooms off the hall. One was a kind of home library, large and handsome, but most of the books seemed to cover matters of the law—
boring
. Another was a well-appointed den, with a faint scent of tobacco lingering on the attractive leather chairs. The last was a little bathroom, minimalist and gleaming.

Then she was back in the living room. For a long moment, she stared out the huge windows onto the toothy outline of the city; then she moved on, exploring the apartment’s other wing.

On that side, off a second hall (hung with more Muir prints), there was a broad, glass-enclosed balcony, with a filtered pool inlaid in a floor of Tuscan stone. This was the home garden he’d mentioned—but the plants he had chosen to grow were, in her opinion, very strange.

It was almost like his fascination with bears had spilled over to his gardening. She’d made money as a camp counselor outside Tacoma in high school, and she recognized a lot of the plants as typical bear browse. There were shrubs heavy with bearberry, cranberry, and blueberry; there was cow parsnip, sweet clover, thistle, fireweed, and dandelion; and there was a sheaf of soybean, peanuts, and peaked sunflowers. He was right about the peanuts—they needed replacing. She fingered a leaf, and it broke off, brittle, under her gentle fingers.

I’ll get him a good cutting. Better than this.

She brushed the sedge growing in the pool—
Healthy stuff
—and went on to the rest of the home.

There was a guest bedroom—she could tell it was a guest bedroom, it was so devoid of knickknacks, so scentless—comfortable but impersonal, with another lovely view, this time of the bay. She opened its closet, nosily, but found nothing: just hangers. The room also had an en suite
bathroom, small but pristine, with a spotless mirror. There was a ceramic bear by the sink, full of redwood-smelling patchouli.

She found a sort of study, smaller than the library and full of normal, readable books on various subjects. There seemed to be a lot dedicated to ecology and forestry, but that wasn’t too weird: it
was
the Pacific Northwest, after all. There was also a flat-screen TV and a drinks cabinet against the wall. It had some pine-carved bear figures on top, guarding a bottle of Scotch.