Falling for Sir (10 page)

All these years she'd waited for uncomplicated
desire—for a man to come along and sweep her off her feet so that she forgot
everything and just let go. The only place she'd ever found it was at The Club
in the hands of her boss, Jack Marchetti. As usual, there was nothing simple
for her, nothing straightforward.

She definitely could not afford to fall head
over heels for Mr. Marchetti. But boy did "Sir" know how to pleasure
her pink.

* * * *

On Monday she met with the notorious Mrs.
Bracknell. Chattering Christie had warned, "She's a sly old goat who knows
everything about everyone. You'll remember her - she probably handed you your
security pass when you started and made you fill out some forms, which are, by
the way, obsolete. My theory is she does some sort of handwriting analysis on
them for Marchetti. I'm surprised she doesn't ask for hair samples. She was old
man Marchetti's personal secretary. Rumor has it she had a crush on him,
carried a torch for thirty something years while he made his way through a
procession of trophy brides. She's loyal to a fault. Make sure you don't say
anything bad about the store or the brothers Marchetti. She'll turn your ass in
to the big boss before the elevator makes it back to our floor."

Marianne assured her that she wasn't afraid of
Mr. Marchetti.

"Well, you should be," came the
anxiously whispered reply. "I've heard he only bothers to learn your name
if he's planning to fire you."

She thought of his threat in the coffee shop.
"He wouldn't dare."

"He wouldn't blink an eye. Everyone's
terrified of that man. Why do you think Bob Dickwad Rawlings keeps his office
door closed at the moment, even if it means he's missing whatever goes on out
front? Just in case Marchetti comes down to the 16th and catches him chatting
to teenagers on Zoosk." Christie shook her head. "Just be careful.
Give him whatever he wants and mind your ps and qs as my granny used to
say."

She supposed that was the way everyone treated
Jack Marchetti. Again, she thought, must be nice.

Duly prepared, Marianne entered the sanctity of
the 27th floor and looked for the skull and crossbones she fully expected to
find pointing to Mrs. Bracknell's office. Instead she found a petite,
smartly-dressed, elderly lady with sharp eyes and a tightly puckered mouth,
waiting for her in the reception area.

"Miss Miller. There you are at last. Do
come with me and we'll get started."

Marianne checked her watch three times, not
aware that she was late. Nope, she was punctual.

They passed through the main floor and into what
appeared to be nothing more than a filing room with a skylight.
 

"Please do sit." The other woman
gestured to a chair beside a dusty potted plant that, upon closer inspection,
turned out to be faux. "Mr. Marchetti tells me you require my assistance
with this party planning committee."

"Yes, that would be great."

Mrs. Bracknell adjusted the dimpled cushion in
her chair and sat. "I don't generally approve of office parties. Too much
giddiness and license for bad behavior."

"Oh, I agree."

The woman looked at her sternly. "You
do?"

"Definitely. Mixing work and play is a
recipe for trouble."

"Well...since this is something Mr.
Marchetti wants.... He always gets what he wants, of course."

"No doubt, that's what
usually
happens," Marianne replied crisply, already sick of
hearing how Jack Marchetti got his own way and scared the pants off everyone
else in the process.

"He's given you quite a task to pull it all
together. I daresay you're feeling overwhelmed. I wonder how you happened to
get the short straw."

"I think I was merely sitting in his line
of sight. I learned my lesson." She gave a dry laugh. "It won't
happen again."

"Most would envy you for being noticed,
Miss Miller."

"Sure. Now I'm even more of an outsider,
when I was just the new girl trying to fit in and keep her head down. I don't
find it flattering that he delegated this to me."

Mrs. Bracknell shuffled papers on her desk. The
angles of her face seemed to have lost some of their sharpness. Marianne had
evidently surprised her. "Certainly got your work cut out for you. Can't
please everyone, of course and anything goes wrong it will all be your
fault."

"Exactly. But when it goes right Mr.
Marchetti gets the credit." She smiled to take some of the sting out of
her comment.

"Haven't been in the city long have
you?"

"Since September."

The elderly secretary nodded, her eyes shrewdly
observing Marianne through the top half of her bifocals. "Finding your way
around?"

"Slowly. My brothers live in Queens."

"Queens?" The old lady turned her nose
up. "Never mind."

"You live in Manhattan, Mrs.
Bracknell?"

"I inherited a lovely old brownstone with
three sub-tenants from Mr. Giacomo Marchetti senior. I have a full set of rooms
on the ground floor."

Must have been more than a torch she carried,
Marianne thought wryly.

"Now, let's see," Mrs. Bracknell
flipped open a thick binder. "You'll need caterers and a location."

"Yes, but I'm supposed to put together a
party planning committee. I don't know what the budget is yet."

"Trust me, you'll be better off making most
of the major decisions before you put a committee together. Committees only gum
up the works and delay everything. You tell them what you want, divide them up
and assign them the legwork. That's the best use for a committee. Never let them
actually make decisions or you won't have a party ready by next July." The
elderly woman whirled around in her chair, picked up her phone and dialed one
number. "Mr. Marchetti, what do we have to spend on this shebang of
yours?" She listened, shaking her head. "Fine, if you think that.
Yes. Yes she is."

Mrs. Bracknell stared at her with those small,
beady eyes and Marianne clasped her fingers over her knee.

"Yes. I'll do what I can...Now why on earth
would you ask me that?"

Marianne tucked her feet under her chair and
pretended to find the dusty, plastic plant interesting. Her fingers curled
around the narrow metal arms of the chair as she knew she was being discussed.

"I have nothing to say to that Mr.
Marchetti. No, I will not. You'll have to find out for yourself."

It was suddenly very hot and close in that small
office.

"I can't imagine, Mr. Marchetti. But I'm
sure she'll manage. She seems capable," the other woman snapped sharply
into the phone and hung up. She looked at Marianne. "He says you can spend
whatever you want. Use your judgment. I have no idea what he's thinking, but
there we are. It seems you have carte blanche. That's men for you." She
sighed heartily. "Marchetti men in particular."

"He's here today?" Marianne asked,
pulse beating like a pastry chef's egg whisk.

"Yes." Head jerk toward the wall.
"In his office."

Shit. He was on the other side of those filing
cabinets?

She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs.

"Everything alright?" Mrs. Bracknell
demanded, peering over her lenses.

"Yep. Fine." She cleared her throat.
"So...lets take a look at all those files and see what we can come up
with. I'm really going to need your help to get through this. If you can spare
some time to work with me, of course. I'd appreciate it very much."

The old lady looked surprised again. Then her
lips—formerly pressed tight, ready to disapprove—reluctantly eased apart into
the beginnings of a smile. "I'm sure I have the time. Don't worry. We'll
manage. Women like us always do, don't they?"

Chapter
Seven

The
Proposition

He was waiting outside the room as she made her
exit from Mrs. Bracknell's.

"Could I have a word?"

She shot him a sideways look that glanced off
his cheek like a red-hot bullet. "Sure."

He signaled toward his office door and she
walked through it, notebook held close to her chest, one hand flicking a pen
nib in and out at staccato speed. Before Mrs. Bracknell could follow her
inside, he shut the door. He'd asked the secretary what Marianne was wearing
today and since she wouldn't tell him he had to find out for himself.

"I've been thinking about what you said
about the staff holiday party and I hope I haven't put too much into your lap,
Ms. Miller."

There again, another of those shifty-eyed
glances. "No. It's fine. I can manage. Mrs. Bracknell has been
great."

"Good." He strode around his desk.
Suddenly he wished he had more papers on there to fidget with, but it was
cleaned off, polished. The desk of a man who didn't really need a desk but had
one to look important behind. He caught her looking at it and saw the hint of a
smirk, as if she shared the same thought. "I understand you're something
of a whiz kid in Interior Design." Naturally he'd called Bob Rawlings
earlier to get his take on the new hire.

"I wouldn't say I'm a whiz kid at
anything." She flushed. Clearly she hadn't yet got the fever for banging
her own drum. It was a welcome change to meet someone modest about her talents,
but that would change eventually after a few years in the city. It would have
to. He looked at her thoughtfully, reminded again of her youth and
inexperience. She was smart yes, but not street smart. What she needed was
someone to look out for her, guide her through the shark tank. He could
actually be useful to her not just the pain-in-the-ass, old man she seemed to have
labeled him.

"Bob Rawlings is very impressed with you.
Says he's getting excellent feedback from clients."

"That's great." She managed a stiff,
half smile. Anyone would think it cost her money. She was all closed up,
knotted tight. On her guard.

 
Jack felt
the urge to walk over to her and untie that tight ponytail. Then unbutton her
blouse. Slowly. Licking each inch of skin as it was bared. Tasting her scent
again. Nibbling on her silky lusciousness, making her moan again and come
undone. All over his cleaned off desk. He'd spent his entire weekend missing
her, he realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. How could
that be when he'd only met her on Thursday evening and spoken briefly to her on
Friday? How could he miss her already?

"It's nice to be appreciated," she
added, very prim, very professional.

Another clear vision of the two of them together
on his desk suddenly flashed through his mind. He saw himself covering her like
a stallion over a mare, nipping her neck gently as he mounted her and his cock
pushed slickly into her tight, hot, wet pussy.

He scratched his ear. Rather than sit, he'd
walked behind his leather chair so that she wouldn't see his massive hard on.
"Truth is, I thought I'd ask you to do something for me." Looking up
he caught a sudden flare of panic cross her face. It was gone as quickly as it
came. "To redecorate my apartment."

She stared at him. Aha. Eye contact at last.
"Oh."

"Think you can fit me in?"

Her cheeks sucked inward slightly. "Fit you
in?"

"If you're not too busy." He coughed,
glanced down at his desk and then back at her again. "It's in the Park V
Building, Fifth Avenue. I bought it a few years ago and the decor is probably
out of date already." He smiled slowly. "I like to keep on top of...
things."

 
Her eyes
were sharp now. "I'm sure you do."

"Keep abreast..." he stared at the
notebook she held to her chest and remembered the taste of her puckered
nipples, the way she writhed and arched under him, "of the trends, etc.
For resale, of course. I don't need you to touch the bones of the place, just
the surface."

She finally stopped clicking that goddamn pen
nib in and out. "Are you planning to sell soon?"

"Not yet. But you never know. It's time for
a change. I figured you could look it over with a fresh pair of... eyes, a head
full of new ideas. Lots of energy."

"I see." She paused, licked her lips.
"And will Mr. Rawlings be working with me?"

"No. Just you. I only want you."

Ah, thus resumed the pen nib clicking.

"Thing is," he added, "I'm on a
tight schedule and need it done by the end of the month. I know it's a tall
order, but —"

"Will there be a fee, or am I doing this as
part of my job? That will weigh heavily on whether or not I have the time, Mr.
Marchetti. I'm sure you can understand that."

Jack leaned his forearms on the back headrest of
his chair. "Why don't you go up there, take a look, get back to me with an
estimate. If I like your figures, we'll take the other arrangements from
there."