The Boss's Daughter (10 page)

“I’m moving up here and opening a very special fashion boutique. I’ll have high-class ready-made clothing, but I’ll also offer special designs.” The more she said, the faster she talked, her enthusiasm taking over. “Ladies will be clamoring for a Cassandra original. All word of mouth, of course. Mrs. So-and-so will be seen at the opera wearing a fabulous ensemble and everyone will ask who designed it. And she’ll say, why
Cassandra
did, with just that perfect little flair on the name.”

What was he supposed to say to all that? Several lines ran through his mind.
That sounds wonderful
. Or
I’m sure you’ll make it happen just like that
. Or
You’ll be the toast of San Francisco
. All he said was “I’d be honored to help you pick the place.” And he meant every syllable.

She smiled. Cassandra never simply
smiled
. Her face lit up. Her eyes sparkled. Her white teeth gleamed. As if she had some inner light.

He realized she was giving him what he’d asked, a bit of herself. Beyond the sex.

“That’s why you can’t go home yet. I’m not done with you.” She slid a hand beneath the rumpled bedclothes and closed a fist around his cock.

They’d fucked or screwed or made love—or whatever the hell you called it—twice before they’d fallen asleep. Then she’d blown his mind. And damn if he wasn’t ready
again
.

She
hmmmed
as she stroked him. “Let’s have breakfast in bed. I’ve never had breakfast in bed.”

He rolled fast, pinning her beneath him. “I’m hungry right now.” Then he crawled down her body, planted himself between her delectable thighs, and started on an early breakfast.

Jesus, he
could
get used to this.

* * * * *

He’d never known breakfast in bed—all the different courses including the one ordered from room service—could taste so delicious. But he needed to get his mind on point.

“This place looks like it’ll do the job nicely.” Ward considered the boutique’s layout, a large showroom in front for her off-the-rack creations as she called them, a smaller annex which could be used for one-on-one client conferencing, changing rooms, fitting area, et cetera, and beyond that, a storeroom and small office.

“Let’s not look eager,” Cassandra said out of earshot of the real estate agent, “but this is my favorite so far. I love the feel of old San Francisco about it. And there’s a little nook back there perfect for serving tea and scones while a client is reviewing styles and choosing fabrics. It’s marvelous. The little issues can be fixed.”

He was pathetically thrilled that she’d wanted his opinion. The boutique fronted Geary a block down from Union Square. Close to Neiman Marcus and Macy’s, the location saw plenty of foot traffic.

Cassandra held up her finger and signaled the agent. “It needs a lot of work before it can be occupied. Let’s discuss what the landlord is willing to do and whether or not that’s acceptable.” She began her laundry list of
little issues
.

She wasn’t your stereotypical gorgeous airhead. She was smart. She’d given him the rundown of her business plan on the drive. Well thought-out, she’d obviously been working on it for some time. For every question, she had an answer. For every pitfall, she had a solution. The only problem he had with it was her lack of advertising. She planned on one big opening event, and after that, it would basically be down to word of mouth. In his mind, you had to have a hell of a lot of mouths before you created effective word of mouth. But fashion wasn’t his industry, and perhaps courting a few select influential society matrons was the way to do it. Cassandra’s answer to the question was that if you advertised—magazines, TV, even the Internet—it automatically labeled you as strictly department-store variety. He’d argued that she did plan to sell off-the-rack.

In the end, they agreed to disagree on the issue.

Today she’d outfitted herself in a green dress that hugged her hips then flared wide just above the knees and ended at her calves. Black hose and spiked heels made him ache to kiss her from her toes, up those gorgeous calves, and places beyond. She’d topped it all with a red hat that should have clashed with both her hair and the green dress, yet somehow appeared classic and chic. Betty, the real estate agent, eyed the ensemble, including the hat, enviously. Which was no wonder considering the staid blue blazer and matronly polyester skirt she wore.

Cassandra turned, catching him in the middle of a daydream about her legs. Smiling, she crooked her finger at him. “You’ve just
got
to see this.”

Like the typical wimp who followed a woman’s crooked finger, he let her lead him through the middle annex and back into the storeroom, which he’d already seen. Bbefore they lost sight of her completely, Cassandra waggled her fingers at Betty. “We’ll be right back.”

Ward was sure the woman was seeing dollar signs.

Cassandra led, he followed. Like the good boy he was. Back through the fitting/changing room into the storeroom.

She shoved him up against the wall just inside the door. “We need to christen this place.” She cupped the bulge in his pants.

“You want me to fuck you right here?” His heart began an irregular beat.

She shook her head, her eyes unnaturally bright. “This calls for a blow job.” She grinned. “Think I can do it without smudging my lipstick?”

“I’ll bet you can.”

She hunkered down in front of him the way she’d done with the kid in the parking lot, her high heels giving her the necessary leverage. The linoleum was old, scarred, and sticky. It would need a good cleaning. Cassandra didn’t dirty herself on it.

“Betty,” he said.

Cassandra fluttered her long eyelashes. “She thinks we’re back here discussing whether to sign or not. She’ll give us all the time we need.”

His skin was suddenly hot as she slowly unbuckled his belt and pulled down his zipper. By the time she was done, he was sweating. His cock sprang out of his slacks right into her open palm.

“Baby, baby,” she crooned. “You are so ready.”

“Christ yes.” He put his head back and flattened his hands against the wall. His blood pumped faster at the thought of the real estate agent in the front room, that she could walk back here at any moment, that the sounds they made would echo through empty rooms, drifting straight to her. His senses were alive, registering everything, the drip-drip of the bathroom tap, the musty smell of wood that had been wet and dried out again, the sticky linoleum beneath his shoes, the stains on the old wallpaper. He recognized the charm Cassandra saw, the go-to, fashionable boutique she would turn it into. And he gave himself up to the warmth of her breath on him.

She sucked the crown of his cock in her special way, tonguing the slit, licking away the pre-come that was already gathering.

“Baby,” he encouraged.

She reached up, tossing her hat onto the sticky floor. She wasn’t the kind of woman to regret it later. If it was ruined she wouldn’t care. This was her moment.

“Suck me,” he whispered. “Please.” She loved it when he begged. He’d begged a lot last night. He was her slave.

She gave him what he wanted, taking his cock deep into her luscious mouth. He closed his eyes, groaned. The sound bounced off the walls. He didn’t give a damn.

Faster, sweeter, one hand cupped his balls, the other gripped the base of his cock, sensation centering right there, between his legs, his whole being focused on all the points of contact, everywhere they were connected, the pads of her fingers, the lines of her palm, the scrape of her teeth, and her tongue along the underside of his shaft.

Her hands and mouth, the friction threatened to burn him out. His body climbed, stretched, reached, and finally exploded straight through the roof, up into the sky, and the stars that weren’t even visible during the day.

He came back to earth to find his fingers thrust through the tangled curls of her hair. There wasn’t a single smudge on her lips. She was perfect.

“Did I shout?”

“You screamed like a girl.”

“Witch,” he said. She was the sexiest combination of lady and slut he’d ever met.

In one smooth motion, he took her arms, hauled her up, and pushed her against the wall, holding her there with his upper body as he yanked her dress to her waist.

“Betty,” she said mildly. It wasn’t much of a protest.

“Will wait while we
discuss
”—he finger-quoted—“whether to sign.” He insinuated a hand inside her silk panties. “You’re wet.”

“Swallowing a delicious mouthful of come always makes me wet.”

He smelled it on her, the scent of come, but she put her hand over his lips when he leaned in to taste. “Don’t muss the lipstick. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Far be it from me to ruin your reputation.” He was sure that reputation concerned keeping her lipstick flawless while she sucked cock, not that she was prudish and didn’t suck or swallow at all.

Then the room was silent except for the bathroom drip and her sigh as he found the bead of her clit. He circled, picked up speed. She was so wet, it didn’t take long until she began to shudder.

When she bit her lip, he whispered, “Don’t muss the lipstick.” When she opened her mouth to cry out, he murmured, “Don’t make me kiss you to shut you up.”

She came silently in his arms, her body quaking, the climax harder because she couldn’t let it all out.

“Bad boy,” she said when it was over, a triumphant smile on her perfectly painted lips. They’d known each other just over a week, and yet he could read her mind. It was the unexpected that Cassandra loved, the fact that he didn’t run to the front room in embarrassment, hoping the agent hadn’t heard, and had instead turned the tables on her.

He picked up her hat, brushed it off. She didn’t put it on as they made their way to the front room, marching with an I-don’t-care-if-the-woman-knows-what-we-just-did attitude. She was actually quite smug.

She’d gotten what she wanted, a little hot sex, a little risk, a brief interlude. The blow job had been fantastic, but despite that, despite last night, despite her request for his opinion on the boutique location and her business plan, he knew exactly what he was to her: just a toy. Another Joe Average. Another Samson. Another vibrator.

Chapter Eleven

They stopped for a late lunch before heading back down the Peninsula. Ward found a sleepy little Italian place on a less heavily traveled side street. Long past the lunch hour, the tables were sparsely occupied. Candles set in old jelly jars flickered in the center of stereotypical red-checked tablecloths. Mason jars served as water glasses. The scents of garlic, fresh basil, and tomato sauce made her mouth water. She could still taste Ward on her tongue, and she hated to lose the piquant flavor. But she was hungry and there would be other days and nights to taste him.

“Lasagna,” she begged. “Will you share with me?” The waiter had described the portion’s size, and she was sure she couldn’t eat all that on her own.

Ward smiled his agreement. The man was utterly perfect. The night had been one long sexual escapade, sleep, sex, sleep, sex, sex, sleep, breakfast in bed, sex in the shower.

She didn’t
sleep
with men. She didn’t dine in bed with them. Once the sex was done, so was she. But Ward made her want more. When he’d used her vibrator on her, Lord. The device would never be good enough on its own anymore. He played her games, then he did the unexpected and raised the heat level to blazing. She’d told him not to get used to it, but honestly
she
could get used to it.

“Bread?” He offered the basket.

Cassandra dipped a chunk in the dish of balsamic and oil, and the tartness made her taste buds shiver with delight. Just the way his come did. Her body was still humming with that fast little orgasm in the back room. She was bad, and she knew it. The estate agent had given them a look, something halfway between boredom and jealousy.

It was just that she’d neglected her needs far too long. Or maybe it was that Ward seemed to bring out these needs in her more than anyone else ever had.

“It’s a good location,” Ward said as if he wasn’t as consumed by sex as she was.

She played along. “I’ll come up with a list of things the owner needs to agree to fix before I sign and email that to her.” There was such possibility in the place.

“The bathroom faucet leaks.”

A lot needed to be done. The linoleum in the back room had to be replaced. The hardwood in the front rooms required refinishing and polishing. The whole place needed a good paint job and the tacky wallpaper removed. One of the mirrors in the fitting area had a small crack in the corner, although that she considered keeping. The glass was antique and added to the charm.

They discussed the requirements until the lasagna arrived. They ate out of the same dish. He wasn’t a sloppy eater and chewed with his mouth closed. But there was that long string of cheese. She touched his mouth to clean him up.

She experienced the oddest sense of enjoyment that was beyond mere sex. She
could
get used to this.

“It’s delicious,” she said.

“Mine is better. My mother’s recipe. Easy and tasty.”

She hadn’t thought about the fact that he had a mother, which of course he did. “You cook?”

“I’ve been divorced for thirteen years. You don’t think I’ve eaten take-out in all that time, do you?”

She hadn’t thought about that either. It was almost as if he’d been hatched fully grown on the day he’d walked through Holt’s front door. No history, no messy baggage. She hadn’t questioned where he came from. And suddenly she wanted to know everything. She didn’t do overnighters, she didn’t date like normal people, and she certainly didn’t do relationships. But she would love to try his lasagna. “Maybe you’ll make it for me sometime.” She recognized the hesitation in her voice.

“It would be my pleasure. But only if you help me make the salad to go with it.”

“Is that a subtle test to see if I can cook?”