Текст книги "The Good Assistant"

Автор книги: Cynthia Sax

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I take a deep breath, count to five, and exhale. “I’m tired of being alone, John.”

He opens one of his eyes. “Mr. Powers.”

“I’m not speaking to my boss. I’m speaking to you.” I lift my chin. “I’ve been alone for the past three years. I won’t be alone any longer.”

John curls a strand of my hair around one of his fingers. It’s brown, plain, unlike the golden hair he favors. “Are you threatening to quit?” His voice is scary soft.

He’s worried about losing his assistant. He doesn’t care about me as a woman. I swallow hard. “No, I’m not threatening to quit.” I turn my head toward the window and gaze at the blackness, not seeing anything other than heartbreak.

“Grant.”

I’m Grant, not Trella, never Trella. I grit my teeth. Stacie was wrong. John doesn’t want me and I was a fool to think he did. I was an idiot to love him for so long. “It was nothing, sir. I’m just tired.”

“Then sleep.” John gathers me closer to him, folding me into his hard body. “We have a lot of work tomorrow and I’ll require you to think rationally.”

I haven’t been thinking rationally around him, not since that first interview. Tomorrow, this will change. I close my eyes. Tomorrow, I’ll get over John Powers.

 

Chapter Three

Getting over John Powers would be easier if I didn’t wake in his bed, with his body spooning against mine. I’m wearing a camisole and boy shorts I don’t remember changing into. John sports his briefs and he’s hard, his cock pressing against my ass cheeks, one of his palms curved over my left breast.

His bedroom, and this must be his bedroom, is massive, filled with dark wood antique furniture, Tiffany lamps, a Rembrandt and other oil paintings hanging on the beige walls. The space is warm and inviting and overwhelmingly masculine, like the man holding me.

I wiggle, brushing against John, and he groans into my ear, squeezing my breast in retaliation, my nipple tightening instantly. I’m wet and ready. If he saw me as more than a convenient lay, as Trella rather than Grant, I’d take him right here, right now.

He doesn’t see me this way yet I can’t leave him in this uncomfortable state. I care too much about him. “Roll onto your back.” I turn in his arms and push on his shoulder.

He frowns, lines furrowing on his forehead. “What are you planning?”

This is John, always wanting to be informed. “I’m your assistant.” I reach under the white bed sheet, slide my hand underneath his briefs and curl my fingers around his shaft. He jerks in my palm, his body stiffening. “I’m assisting you.”

“Grant.” His voice is low and strained. “This action will have consequences.”

“I’ll accept those consequences.” He needs this. He needs me. I move between his spread legs, under the sheets, and I push his briefs downward. “And when I have my hands on your cock, I’m Trella, not Grant.” I grip his base, savoring his girth, his length. Short brown hair curls around his base. I pump him slowly, my clasp loose. “Relax and let me take care of you.” He can’t see my face, can’t see who is pleasuring him. If he wishes, he can pretend I’m someone else.

My boss doesn’t desire this ambiguity. He needs to know who has his cock in her hands. He pulls the sheets away from us and studies me, his expression grave. I stroke him up and down, up and down, my rhythm constant and controlled.

Silence stretches and my cheeks heats. Does he want this or am I forcing him?

“Harder,” he instructs. “Faster.”

He wants this. I tighten my grip and increase my tempo. John groans, rocking into my hands, the grooves around his mouth deepening, his lips flattening. I control his satisfaction. With one squeeze of his balls, I can make him come.

I don’t want him to come, not yet. His veins pulse under my fingertips. I want to make this encounter last. I’ve waited years to touch him and I don’t know when he’ll allow me to touch him again. A dab of pre-cum forms on his tip. I graze my thumbs over him, spreading his essence. His dark skin glistens.

My tough-as-nails executive shakes and a sense of wonder, of womanly power fills me. I’m causing my powerful billionaire to lose his renowned control. He’s at my mercy, unable to resist the pull of my hands. I stroke him, watching his face as I work his cock. He gazes at me, his eyes black with need, his focus on me alone.

“Soft,” he rumbles. “Your hands are softer than I imagined.”

He has thought about my hands. My chest warms. “What else did you imagine, John?” I lick my lips and his cock bobs, his gaze moving to my mouth. “Did you imagine my tongue on you?” I lower my head and brazenly flick my tongue over his tip, tasting him.

He thrusts upward, bumping against my lips. “Yes.” John buries his fingers in my wild curls, holding me to him, not allowing any retreat. “Use that ever moving tongue on me, Trella.” He breathes my name.

I’m Trella, not the sexless Grant. I lick over his cock head, exploring his slit, skimming his rim, and I lave down his shaft, tracing his hard length. His grip on my hair intensifies and pinpricks of pain shoot over my scalp, exciting me. I play with his balls and explore his body, inhaling his musk, the manly center of him. He pushes his hips upward, silently asking for more.

“Do you know what I fantasize about?” I peek at him through my lowered eyelashes. John watches me, his expression thunderous. “I dream I suck you dry.” I push my lips over him and a strangled sound comes from his throat. He wants this, me. I pause, tugging gently on his tip, and he lifts into me, pushing more and more of his cock into my mouth.

My lips are wrapped around my boss’ shaft. I sink down on him, the slide slow, sensuous, mind blowing. He’s seen me masturbate and now, I’m sucking him off. John might be able to compartmentalize sex and business, separating the two. I can’t. Our relationship will never be the same. I’ll never view him with detachment.

If this sexcapade ends my employment, I’ll ensure I have no regrets. I take as much of his hard, hot cock as possible, drawing him inside my mouth. His scent fills my nostrils. His coarse brown hair tickles my chin. I can’t take all of him. He’s too large, his tip tapping against the back of my throat. I cover his remaining shaft with my hands.

“Perfect,” John groans, massaging my scalp with his fingertips. “You’re perfect for me.”

I suck, my cheeks indenting around him and he moans, twisting his hands, winding my hair around his fingers, the pain exquisite. His chest rises and falls, his breathing ragged, his body lifting.

I release John and he falls back into the mattress. The muscles over my boss’ stomach ripple, a sheen of wetness covering his golden skin, his silver scars. Bracing against his hips, ensuring I maintain the same depth, I bob over him, gliding my lips along his length, varying my suction.

He pushes me down and then pulls me off him, guiding my movements. I allow him this illusion of control as I allow him to believe he sets his own schedule and manages his own time. This is what a great assistant does and I’m a great assistant. I’m also great at sucking cock and I’m applying all of these skills now. He clenches his jaw, a tic of emotion pulsing in his cheek, his eyes black, gleaming with desire.

He desires me. I reach upward and rake my fingernails along his torso, leaving a trail of pink on his tanned skin, marking him. He’s mine. I claim him.

John doesn’t talk as I pleasure him. My boss doesn’t believe in uttering unnecessary words, his guttural sounds and frantic thrusts expressing his pleasure. I long to tell him how I feel, how I’ve yearned to touch him like this, to taste him, smell him. My mouth is busy, filled with his hard cock. I can only think the words.

My boss’ toes curl, his balls hug his shaft and his thighs quiver. If I wish, I can push him over the edge now.

This might be the end of our relationship. I tighten my grip on his base, holding back his release, prolonging this sweet torture. My lips hum and my cheeks ache. Teardrops trickle down my cheeks.

“Trella.” John’s voice stretches with need.

I look upward, my teeth skim against his shaft, and all hell breaks loose. John shoves me off his cock, his roar temporarily deafening me. I shriek, thrashing my arms, airborne for one agonizing second. The sheets tangle around my body, slowing my flight, and I land dangerously close to the edge of the bed, bouncing on the mattress.

John drives his hips upward. Hard spurts of cum arc from his cock head, splattering on his stomach, his upper thighs, wasted.

I fold my fingers into fists, furious. “What did you do?” I fume.

“Protect.” My control freak boss stills, his eyelids lowering.

“I’m clean.” I grab four tissues from the box on the nightstand. “I haven’t had sex in…a while.” Since I started working for him. “And I’ve been tested.”

“I know.” John opens his eyes, his gaze meeting mine.

He knows. He wasn’t protecting himself. He was protecting me. My anger dissipates. “I would have taken that chance.” I dab the tissues over him, cleaning him, caring for him as I always do, with a tenderness no assistant should ever feel for her boss.

“I would never put you at risk.”

This almost sounds like he cares for me but I know my boss. He would never put any of his employees at risk. I toss the tissues into the wastebasket.

John pulls me upward, sliding my body over his, and he pushes my face into his heaving chest, his heat, his scent engulfing me, his palms curving over my ass.

I rest against him, listening to the sound of his breathing and the beating of his heart. A Turner hangs near the bed, the painting depicting a ship at sunset, the colors warm and rich.

“You like antiques,” I comment, wishing to know more about him.

“Are you making small talk, Grant?”

I’m back to being Grant, his androgynous assistant. I sigh. “It was an observation.”

There’s a long pause.

“Antiques hold their value,” John shares. “If I lost everything and needed to sell them tomorrow, they’d be worth something.”

I gaze up at him. “Do you worry about losing everything?” Is this why he works so hard?

“It could happen.” His lips are flat, grim. “Anything is possible.”

Are we possible? I touch the scars around his neck. The grooves are deep. “You’d rebuild.” I would help him, forgoing my salary, investing my own meager savings. He’d need those savings. He’d need me.

John catches my wrist and moves my hand lower. “It wouldn’t be easy but yes, I’d rebuild.”

There’s no doubt in my mind he’d be successful. I swirl my fingertips into his chest, watching his muscles ripple under my palms. My boss is intelligent, driven, the type of man who achieves whatever he wants.

“We should work.” John reaches for the tablet resting on the nightstand, transitioning into business mode, ending our more personal conversation.

“I should take a shower.” I slip out of the bed, not yet ready to resume my duties as his assistant.

* * *

When I exit John’s massive bathroom, he’s gone. The bed is neatly made, my clothes are folded on a Chippendale chair and my overnight bag is placed between the finely carved chair legs. I dress quickly in a black suit, twist my crazy curls into a semblance of order, and forgo the urge to snoop. My boss trusts me in his personal space. I won’t abuse his trust.

I open the door, hear the TV, and follow the noise downstairs, navigating the wide wooden staircase. A huge chandelier sparkles over my head. Every inch of the house is filled with antiques, with warmth, with John’s scent.

I find my boss in the kitchen, his black suit jacket draped over a chair. The décor is French country and the tiled floor is immaculately clean. A TV hangs on the far wall, displaying the business network. Coffee drips into a carafe on the counter.

John, clad in a crisp white shirt, blue tie, and dark dress pants, stands between a center island and a gas range. He dices a green pepper into small precise cubes.

I now understand where the specks of color on his cuffs come from. “You cook?” I move beside him, clasp a block of gruyere cheese and the hand grater.

“It’s a life skill.” His gaze flicks to me and returns to the green pepper. “We need a cup of cheese for our omelets.” Drops of moisture glisten on his brown hair. He must have taken his shower elsewhere.

I grate the cheese into a small white bowl. “Did your mom teach you how to cook?” His mom, a single parent, raised him. I know this from the interviews he’s given.

There’s a long pause. “We didn’t have these fancy ingredients.” John slices an onion. “Toward the end, when she was sick, we’d stretch the eggs with water.”

I wait. He says nothing more. His mom died from cancer when he was sixteen, leaving him alone. I know all about being alone.

“I taught myself how to cook,” I volunteer. “My parents were always working. They didn’t have time to teach me.” They didn’t have time for me. I’d be left to my own devices for hours, locked in our small house, where I’d be safe yet solitary, cut off from everything and everyone.

“My mom had time,” he bluntly states. His mom worked two or three jobs, struggling to support them, and she had time for him. She loved him.

“They didn’t care enough to teach me,” I amend. I suspect my parents had been relieved when I moved out. I hadn’t contributed to the household, hadn’t been needed.

John steps closer to me, his body heat soothing some of the pain inside my soul. I’m not that little girl any more. I’m not alone and I’m not a burden. My boss might not need me but I do help him. I’m helping him right now.

“That’s enough cheese, Grant.” John moves the bowl. “The Pittsburgh deal is going forward.” He reverts back to business, a safe, emotionally neutral topic of conversation, and I’m glad. I don’t want to talk about my painful past. “Read me the specs.”

I unclip the phone from my waistband, search for the information and recite the numbers. John tilts his head as he listens. He then asks questions. I find the answers for him. We do this every morning but today, we’re in the same room. We’re together.

While John cooks, I set the kitchen table, pour the coffee into mugs and address more of his concerns. My mind needs coffee to function. His brain doesn’t, his thinking fast and his attention to details keen.

I sip from my mug as I scan through the files. His management team sends me the information. My job is to find it, my boss not having the time to read each document.

“You don’t know?” John plates the omelets and places one in front of me.

“I’ll ask for the answer, sir.” I set the phone on the table. “You’ll have it by noon.”

He sits beside me, pressing his leg against mine. “I need the answer earlier.” John turns his wrist and gazes at his silver Rolex. “This morning has been surprisingly efficient.”

Is this what I am? An efficiency? Sexual release and business support rolled into one being? “Are you pleased?” Does this arrangement satisfy him?

John frowns. “It isn’t like you to fish for a complement, Grant.”

“It isn’t like me to spend the night with my boss.” I bite into the egg and flavor explodes in my mouth. Hot damn. I moan, my eyelashes fluttering. My billionaire can cook.

John bumps against me and I gaze at him. His eyes are dark with passion. “I’m very pleased.” He doesn’t sound as though he’s talking about business. “I’ve wanted this for years.” My boss reaches over and steals a forkful of my omelet.

I divide the dish into two equal pieces, transfer one half to his plate. “You’ve wanted me for years?” I do the same with his omelet, placing one half on my plate. My boss prefers to share food with me. It is one of his more adorable quirks.

“Yes.” John eats slowly, his gaze fixed on my face. “You’re a very desirable woman.” His eyes glow. “And I’m a man.”

He thinks I’m desirable. Heat spreads across my chest. This is not a vow of undying love but it’s a start. “You are a man.” I allow my gaze to drift down his body, over his shoulders, his arms.

John straightens. “Eat your breakfast, Grant,” he instructs, turning his attention toward the scrolling ticker tape on the bottom of the TV screen.

My attention remains on the man I adore. I’m a convenience for him. I might never be anything more. Is this enough for me?

My heart says this isn’t.

 

Chapter Four

The drive to the office is one long moving meeting. The conference call is streamed into the limousine though speakers embedded in the walls. We can’t hold a private conversation as there are mics situated around the interior. Instead, John texts me and I text him back as we sit beside each other.

I listen quietly while John grills the European team, his commanding tone moistening my pussy and tightening my nipples. He’s dominant, very much the boss I know, love and desire. I fight the urge to drop to my knees, unzip his pants and—

John pulls me onto his lap, this unexpected action interrupting my fantasy. I squeak, surprised. He covers my lips with his palm and shakes his head. I close my mouth and nod, communicating that I’ll remain silent.

He releases my mouth and folds me into his body. As my boss lists his expectations for the next quarter, his voice strong and true, he casually slips his hands underneath my jacket, skimming his course palms along my bare skin, setting off tremors of desire within me.

I tremble, pressing my thighs together. He ruthlessly pries my knees apart, hooking my legs over his, opening me completely to him. I’m at his mercy, unable to speak, unable to move.

John returns his hands to my chest, splaying his fingers dangerously close to my breasts. I wait for him to touch me. He doesn’t move, his chin resting on my shoulder, his cloth-covered erection nestled against my ass.

This is a new form of torture. I wiggle. He pushes down on me, forcing me to remain still. Power and heat and musk radiates from him. His management team asks questions. He answers, unaided, the information given to him before this call. John’s memory is faultless.

I glance toward the front of the vehicle. The partition is lowered. Can the driver see us, see my legs spread wide, the flash of my red lace panties? I breathe heavily, a band of arousal winding around my chest.

My fingers twitch. I want to touch myself, to find release. John flattens my hands against my legs, silently commanding me to remain still. I swallow my protest and obey, the tension inside me escalating.

As a reward, he cups my small breasts, the roughness of his skin felt through the thin fine lace. My spine bows, his grip decadent, perfect. He squeezes and releases, squeezes and releases. I need more, more, more. I bite my bottom lip, suppressing my cries.

John’s voice rumbles as he addresses another concern. I can’t grasp his words, all of my attention on his hands, on my breasts, on the need building inside me. He ignores my nipples, spreading his fingers around the sensitive peaks, and I ache for his touch, his neglect crazing me.

He plays with me as though he has all day to claim me. No man has ever concentrated so much focus, so much time on my small curves. But then John is like no other man I know. He flicks the front clasp of my bra and releases my breasts, the skin on skin contact spiraling my need upward. My panties are soaked, my musk scenting the small space, and I shake.

He grazes his scarred knuckles under my breasts and I writhe, fighting to escape, to free myself from his delectable torment. I want to moan, to plead, to demand, and staying silent is killing me. I worry my bottom lip with my teeth until the tang of blood fills my mouth.

John circles my curves with his fingertips, the circles growing smaller and smaller. Tremors roll over my body, the waves of pleasure decimating my restraint, my thinking, everything except my desire. I rub my hands over my lace-covered pussy, seeking release, needing to come.

John’s fingertips reach my nipples. He brushes over them once, twice, pushing my closer to the edge. I need more. I need—

He pinches my nipples and I scream, bucking upward, my world exploding with noise and color. I twist and turn, trying to break his hold. John squeezes harder and a second rush of ecstasy flows over me, a dark tunnel forming around me, a spinning vortex dragging me down, down, down.

I fling myself forward and then slam backward. Nothing dislodges his fingers. He clasps me tightly, pressing down on me with his arms, not allowing me to hurt him, to hurt myself.

The pleasure eases, I still, and he releases me. The vehicle is quiet, not moving.

And I remember. “The call.” My voice is strangled. Did they hear me moan, scream? My face heats.

“The call ended before you broke,” John assures me. “I wouldn’t hurt you like that.” He swings my legs to the side, turning me to face him and his countenance darkens. “What did you do to yourself, Trella?” He sweeps one of his thumbs over my bottom lip.

I’m Trella again. “I stayed silent.” I smile at him, lightheaded, in a post-orgasmic stupor.

“You’re a stubborn woman.” He captures my face between his big hands and lowers his head. His breath wafts on my cheeks.

My boss is going to kiss me. I tilt my chin upward, eagerly awaiting his embrace.

John licks my abused lips, slowly, tenderly, tasting me, pain mixing with an exquisite pleasure. I want to taste him also. As I think this, my body reacts, my tongue darting between my teeth. We tentatively touch. He growls softly and covers my lips. Skin presses against tender skin as he claims me.

All hope of surviving this relationship with my heart and job intact evaporates with his kiss, the connection between us shifting, strengthening. John surges into my mouth, dominating me as he dominates every conversation, every negotiation. Our tongues entwine, tangle, tumble.

He cups my head, holding me to him, as he plunges deeper and deeper, exploring me. John tastes of black coffee and passionate man and I suck on his tongue as I sucked on his cock this morning, inhaling as much of him as I can. He rumbles into my mouth and tilts me backward, lifting my feet off the floor. I grip his shoulders, off balance physically, mentally and emotionally.

My phone buzzes, dancing across the leather seat, and he pulls away from me. “Who is calling you this early in the morning?” he demands.

He calls me every day at this time. My lips twitch. “You have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

“With New York?” John pushes me off his lap and reaches for his phone.

“With New York.” I gather my overnight bag.

“Leave that here,” he instructs, opening the door. My boss exits first and then clasps my hand, assisting me. I straighten and he releases me. I conceal my disappointment, feeling like a fool for expecting him to acknowledge our relationship publicly. John Powers doesn’t mix business and pleasure.

I stride toward the bank of elevators, my head held high. My boss walks directly behind me. “Do you have their latest numbers?” he asks.

I scan the information and recite the highlights. He presses the button and the doors open. Stacie, the new marketing hire, stands in John’s usual right rear corner. “Mr. Powers.” Her eyes widen as she sees me. “Miss Grant.”

“Good morning.” John chooses our floor and claims the spot next to Stacie. I’m surprised and I shouldn’t be. She’s a beautiful woman, exactly his type. I stand in the left rear corner, a hard knot of jealousy coiling in my stomach.

John moves to the left, standing partially in front of me, his wide shoulders restricting my view. “Do you have historicals?”

“Historicals, Mr. Powers?” Stacie replies.

“I’m speaking with Miss Grant.”

His bluntness makes me smile while his returned focus pleases the woman in me. I murmur the comparable numbers from the previous quarters, my voice soft, my words meant for his ears only. The elevator stops numerous times, more and more employees filling the small space, everyone wishing to take the same car as the boss.

John shifts, blocking me into the corner. Soon, all I see is his black fabric of his suit. I whisper the information he should know into his left ear, his head tilted toward me. The elevator doesn’t empty until it stops at the floor below ours, and then everyone exits.

“Where the hell are they all going?” my boss mutters. “Isn’t that floor being renovated?”

I laugh. He doesn’t understand his appeal.

John turns, glares at me. “Are you laughing at me, Grant?”

“I wouldn’t dare laugh at you, sir.” The doors open and I slide past him, brushing my breasts against his arm. He stiffens and his eyes flash. I scurry into the hallway, wave at Nancy as I pass her desk, the receptionist talking on the phone. Five men and one woman wait in the leather chair.

John trails behind me, his tread silent. “Don’t turn off your phone.”

“I never turn off my phone, Mr. Powers.” I nod at Mr. Zanetti, the company’s young CIO. He smiles at me, his white teeth flashing in his tanned face.

John places his palm on the small of my back, the contact sending sparks down my spine. Mr. Zanetti lifts his gaze and his smile fades.

“We have a lot of work to complete today.” John’s voice has a hard edge.

That my boss feels obliged to warn me says it will be a very long day.  He enters his office, I sit behind my desk, and my phone buzzes against my hip. This is the first of many texts, John keeping me completely occupied for hours, requesting information, seeking status updates on projects, asking me to set up meetings.

Nancy calls me at eleven twenty. Rexton Bass, the brass young developer John is considering partnering with, has arrived. I return to the reception area to collect him.

Nancy speaks into her headset, her head turned toward the lobby’s leather chairs, her attention snagged by Bass. The budding entrepreneur is oblivious to her admiration. He sits with his back to the wall, his blond head bowed over the phone in his hands. His skin is a perfect shade of golden brown and I suspect this shade doesn’t vary over his trim physique, his tan being the product of a salon.

Rexton Bass is young, handsome, Harvard educated, and destined for success. Any other woman would lust after him. I feel nothing, no flare of arousal, no spark of interest. He’s not John. He’ll never be John.

“Mr. Bass.” I stride toward the developer.

He glances upward. His eyes are a startling sky blue. “Call me Rexton, Miss Grant.” Rexton slips his phone into his inside jacket pocket and rises to his feet.

Although Rexton’s gray suit and black cotton crewneck shirt are well designed and trendy, the garments clinging to his fashionably fit form, they’re wrong for this appointment. I hide my grimace. My more traditional boss will view his casual outfit as an insult, as a form of disrespect.

“I’m pleased to see you.” Rexton extends his hand, his movements graceful, almost beautiful.

I grip his fingers. His palm is smooth, not one callous marring his skin. He’s a baby. John’s voice echoes in my mind. I release his hand. “If you’ll come with me.” I cross the threshold into the main floor and walk along the hallway.

“Powers told me you promoted my project, Trella.” Rexton saunters beside me, matching my shorter stride, treating me as though I’m his equal and not merely an assistant. “May I call you Trella?”

I hesitate. No one in the company calls me by my first name. I turn my head, studying Rexton. He gazes at me expectantly. It’d be rude to say no. “Of course, you may.”

He smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “Thank you for defending me.”

“I defended your project,” I clarify, Rexton’s gratitude warming me. He welcomes my help. He needs me. I can help him. “Don’t repeat anything covered in your previous calls.” I lower my voice and slow my pace. “Mr. Powers is a busy man. He doesn’t tolerate any rehashing of information.”

“That’s a good insight to have.” Rexton’s hand brushes against mine.

I don’t like him touching me. At all. I drift to the left, subtly putting more distance between us. “Don’t mention his personal connection to the neighborhood,” I coach. They are developing the block where John lived as a child. “This is a business decision for him and he won’t appreciate it.”

“Ahhh…that’s why he walked away during my first pitch.” Rexton’s lips twist. “I didn’t know.”

“You should have known.” After years of working for John, I no longer have any sympathy for sloppiness.

“I guess.” He sighs.

He’s a couple of years older than me yet I feel ancient, wise, needed. “Do more research next time.” We reach my desk. John’s door remains closed. “You can wait here for Mr. Powers.” I tap one of my guest chairs. The red light for John’s conference call line remains lit. I sit behind my desk, conscious of the handsome man lounging before me.

“Trella–”

My phone buzzes. “One moment.” I hold up my right index finger. John wants the sales comparables for the Wilmette project. I search the database and send him the information. “Sorry.” I turn to Rexton. “You were saying?”

“Was that Powers?” he asks. I dip my head. It was John. “He relies upon you, doesn’t he?”

He’s the second person this week to say this. “I’m his assistant.” I’m a resource for my boss, nothing more.

“I need an assistant.” Rexton shifts in his chair. “I tried to hire an assistant through an agency. The people they sent didn’t add any value.”

“You either have to train an assistant.” As John trained me. “Or you have to hire an experienced assistant already at the level of competency you require.”

“I don’t have time to train an assistant.” He holds my gaze.

He can’t be asking what I think he’s asking. My boss, the man he hopes to partner with, sits in the next office. To pouch his assistant would be rude, a declaration of war. “This isn’t a discussion you wish to have.” It isn’t a discussion I wish to have. Ever.

“We won’t discuss it here,” he concedes. John’s door opens and Rexton leans closer to me. “Are you free for lunch?”

“Bass,” John barks and I jump in my seat. My boss’ eyes flash, his face hard. He’s furious. This doesn’t bode well for his meeting with Rexton.

“Powers.” The developer leaps to his feet. The men’s palms smack together, the skin whitening around their grip. Rexton pulls his hand away first, conceding to John’s greater strength, and they move into the office, the door slamming shut behind them.