Her New Boss: A Rouge Erotic Romance (2 page)

‘I still have a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, the vampire wine Ryan brought me from Transylvania.’ Kat lowered her tone. ‘Hey, Zoe?’

‘Yeah?’

‘You’re a great cook and you didn’t deserve to be fired. Contiello is an ass.’ Kat sighed. ‘You know that, right?’

The fact that her sister could support her unwaveringly without knowing what had happened made her feel better. ‘I know, Kat.’

‘Great! Now get your butt over here. I’m in the kitchen and I’m trying to turn on the oven. Stupid thing won’t work and I’m not sure where to throw this match.’

‘What? Why?’ Zoe waved her arm at a passing taxi. ‘You don’t need the stove to chill wine. Kat, stop, you’ll burn your penthouse down. You don’t use matches in electric ovens.’

Kat merely laughed. ‘Then you’d better hurry.’

Two months later

‘Two sisters happily settled and all I have is you, Prince Falke.’ Zoe Matthews sighed, staring at the indecently clad man refusing to look at her. Too bad he was made of paper, about five inches tall and didn’t have anything under the
waist
where the edge of the book cover cut him off. ‘Megan was right. Romance novels rot the brain.’

Even as she said it, she flipped open to the page marked by her finger and continued to read. She’d just have to avoid telling her police-detective sister about this story, like she did all the others. But, really? What else was she to do? She worked all the time – either at her new part-time job or hunting for a better one. Real-life romance never really fitted into the equation. She was too busy for love and too timid for one-night stands. That left novels.

Zoe frowned, again lowering the book. Did slinging drinks at the Phoenix Arms count as work? It hardly seemed like a credible job. Bartending gave more the impression of a ‘working your way through college’ kind of a gig. Unfortunately, it was the closest anyone in town would let her get to a kitchen.

Chef Contiello wouldn’t give her a recommendation for another cooking position and her options had dwindled down to the pathetic. It didn’t matter if she could cook. No one wanted to give her a shot without a culinary degree, loyal cult following or a glowing recommendation from the last employer.

‘I can’t believe I called my boss an arrogant, no-talent jerk-off.’ Moaning softly, she leant her head back, hitting it lightly against the worn headboard in repeating thumps.

In the long hours alone in her bedroom, in an apartment she called home but really had no firm attachment to, Zoe had developed the habit of talking to herself to fill the silence. She had no television, and couldn’t afford cable if she did. Since being fired from
Sedurre
, her meager savings had depleted to the point that another month’s bills would have been the end of her crappy, so-not-dream apartment.
She’d
been forced to find work at a small, old brewery in Greenwich Village.

Since not even her favorite author could take her mind off her troubles, she set the book aside and stared at the sparse bedroom. The furniture, covers, even the sheets, had been with her since high school, taken from her childhood home until she could afford her own adult things. That had been almost ten years ago.

Zoe traced a worn flower pattern on the sheet. The brewery was only part time. If she didn’t figure out something better soon, she’d be mooching off her sisters and parents. Her neighbor, Cindy, had offered to put in a good word at a cousin’s diner. But bussing tables didn’t sound much better than bartending.

Sighing, Zoe crawled off the bed. She’d have to get going if she was going to be in work on time for her seven o’clock shift, at the tail end of happy hour. As it was the beginning of the weekend, she’d be there all night. Legally, the bar could only stay open until four in the morning, otherwise the owners would probably keep the party going. With an hour of clean-up, she’d hopefully be back in bed in time to skip breakfast.

Slipping the pair of red polka-dotted pyjama shorts from her hips, she walked across the small room barefoot, kicking them off as she moved. Inside the closet, a strange combination of chef uniforms and formal gowns hung on the rod. Zoe kept the gowns because of the occasionally elitist nature of her old job. Whenever there was a fundraiser or cocktail party with some of the more well-known chefs, Zoe needed to look her best while hobnobbing.

‘Not that it matters now,’ she mumbled, running her fingers along the crinkled gold sateen skirt of her favourite Vera Wang gown. On impulse, she gently grabbed the
hanger
and unhooked it from the rod. Turning to the tarnished full-length mirror on the door leading to her bathroom, she held the gown over her white tank top and lacy pink panties. Her blonde hair, cut straight just below her chin, spiked around her face in a messy, unkempt disarray of waves.

The last time she dressed up, she’d been at a museum fundraiser that Kat and Vincent put together for his entomology department. One of the historians, a stately gentleman with a dry sense of humor, had tried to pick her up with lines from the sixteenth century. Though not exceedingly handsome, he’d been charming and sweet, smelled of cologne and wore a nice black suit. And there had been something about his crooked smile. Zoe had been completely uninterested. All she could think about was how she would have made the shrimp puff hors d’oeuvre differently.

‘I should have gone on one date with him. At least he had a job and a car and was sober.’ Zoe turned, hung up the dress and opted for a T-shirt more suited to her new career. Her current dating pool consisted of men who reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. Even though cigarettes were banned from the bar itself, the specially ventilated room designated for their use tended to trap more smoke in than it let out. Not that she cared if someone was a smoker. Zoe could care less what someone else did to their lungs. What she didn’t like was the watery eyes and stuffy nose she got when exposed to it for hours a night.

Throwing her T-shirt onto the bed, she walked to the folded pile of laundry stacked in the white basket on the floor. Her favorite pair of faded denim jeans was clean. As she picked them up, she again caught her reflection in the mirror. Maybe Kat’s constant teasing about her weight was
right
. Maybe Zoe was too skinny to be a chef. She’d gladly gain fifty pounds in order to live her dream. It wasn’t her fault that her metabolism paralleled that of a hummingbird, or that she had a natural abundance of energy flowing through her veins. Her normally thin frame was skinnier than usual. At least as a chef, she’d always had food to eat.

The dusky hue of her nipples through the white tank top drew her notice. She dropped the jeans on the bed next to the T-shirt. Studying her frame, she lifted the tank over her head. Her small breasts were flushed with heat, the nipples peaked from the caress of the material running across them. Thin ridges pressed along the right side, indenting the soft flesh with the pattern of her ribbed tank top from where she’d lain against the bed.

Taking a slow, deep breath, she ran her fingers along her stomach. It had been a long time since she’d had a lover. Sometimes she wished she was confident like her sister, Megan, or free-spirited like Kat, adventurous like Ella, even self-assured like Sasha who seemed to have both her love life and future under her own control.

Zoe glanced at the bed, where the prince stared out from the book cover. Sadness overwhelmed her and she longed for his world, a magical world where there were always happy endings and true love existed. She closed her eyes, vividly imagining a palace bedchamber. He was there, a prince – perfect, built, seductively handsome and confident with a surprisingly tender side he would show to no one but her.

Licking her lips, she lightly ran the pads of her fingers along them, imagining a kiss. It had been so long since she’d been touched in passion. She needed a man, someone to hold her and watch movies with, someone who smelled
nice
and knew how to kiss, who would laugh and look at her like she was the only one in the world.

Moaning softly, she drew her fingers down her neck, rolling her head back slightly. Her pulse quickened and she clung to the image of a magical prince in her head. She wished it was his hands in place of hers, warm and strong. As she cupped her breasts, rolling the nipples delicately between her fingers, she moved to sit on the bed.

She imagined green eyes, deep and penetrating, staring into hers. Naked muscles, glistening with exotic oils, would move in streamlined grace, crawling over her, forcing her back onto the bed so her limbs sprawled over the expensive silk comforter. Zoe rolled back, keeping her eyes closed, ignoring the stiff brush of her blue jeans against her bare leg.

Her heart longed for this daydream to be real. She refused to open her eyes and return to reality. Running her hands down her flat stomach, she wiggled her hips. How would the prince smell? Sound? Spreading her thighs, she ran one hand down between them to stroke her sex through the lace of her panties. She brushed lightly at first, a gentle caress. A little jolt of pleasure traveled up her stomach. With her free hand, she massaged her breast.

She kept the magical prince in her head, imagining his mouth kissing her hard nipple. If she stopped to think about how this fantasy was all she had, she’d start to cry, so she pushed it from her mind and ignored the ache of loneliness in her heart. Instead, she concentrated on her fingers, dipping them beneath the lace of her panties. The slick folds of her sex parted easily and she rubbed along her clit, massaging the sensitive bud as arousal continued to build.

Though Zoe knew how to touch herself, there was still
a
terrible emptiness deep inside. For some reason, she’d always been too shy to buy a vibrator, and perhaps too cheap, though there were times she wished she owned one. The image of the prince had slipped from her mind as real life tried to invade. She pulled him back, focusing on his long brown hair, his illusory kiss.

Zoe gasped as she stroked herself harder, moving her hips against her hand. He had firm lips, a war-hardened physique and a thick cock ready for action. Knowing no one would hear her, she let a soft cry escape her lips. The first hint of an orgasm caused her to stiffen in anticipation. Almost desperately, she cupped a second hand over the panties to cover the first. She pressed down, jerking slightly as she reached climax. After, she let her legs drop to the side, and weakly drew her fingers from her sex. Her heart beat fast, but her breathing only rasped a little.

Turning her head to glance at the clock, she exhaled noisily, ‘I’m going to be so late.’

Chapter Two

‘IF ONE MORE
guy asks me to dance on the bar, tries to put a cheap-ass one-dollar tip down my shirt, recites me a poem or even so much as looks at me with interest, I swear I’m going to rip off his manhood.’ Zoe forced a smile so none of the bar patrons would see her anger – not that a bad attitude mattered in this place. In fact, rudeness was almost encouraged by the owner. It gave the bar atmosphere. Turning her attention back to her sisters, Kat and Sasha, and her brother-in-law, Ryan, she frowned. They had come to visit and all three sat at the bar as Zoe provided them with generous mugs of draft beer.

‘Only you would threaten someone’s manhood.’ Kat giggled. ‘You and those damned novels. Why don’t you try a threat that isn’t so “nice”-sounding?’

‘Drink your beer,’ Zoe ordered, making a face at Kat as she swiped Sasha’s mug to refill it without being asked.

Loud music pumped from the speakers, forcing everyone to speak even louder to be heard. The songs in the jukebox were a mix of classic and modern rock. The Phoenix Arms dated back to the late 1800s and looked as if the decor hadn’t been updated too much since then. Old photographs had been added to the plaster-covered walls. The red bricks underneath showed through in some places. Wooden booths with worn tabletops lined one wall, with smaller tables and chairs along the other, reaching all the way to
the
far back wall. There was no room for bar games or pool tables, except for an old dartboard that hung on the wall and was only played on weekdays when the bar wasn’t crowded.

Surviving more on its landmark status than anything, the bar filled to capacity almost every weekend when partiers came out to play – mostly yuppies blowing off steam. Muscled hard bodies in tight shirts and even tighter pants hit on young things in short skirts and the latest trend. Women air-kissed their girlfriends, making sure to hit each cheek, and men shook hands and postured like they were all rock stars.

The atmosphere seemed to both reflect and reject the bohemianism of the surrounding Greenwich Village. Business stayed steady throughout the week with the usual gathering of troubled writers and poets who claimed to be more creative when drunk. Zoe didn’t know anything about that, as she thought their drunken limericks quite horrendous.

‘Can you believe that guy actually licked his finger, pressed it to my shirt and asked me if I would like to get out of my wet clothing?’ Zoe grimaced, nodding her head toward the young man at the end of the bar. His boyish smile made him look seventeen, but his ID said he was of age to drink. The sad thing was she’d, for a brief second, considered taking him up on his cheap come-on. Pleasuring herself earlier had left her feeling a little … empty.

‘Oh, hey, look at that, my pager,’ Ryan said, pretending to glance at his waist. He wore his customary jeans and T-shirt, the easy style perfect for his relaxed nature. When he looked up, chin-length brown hair framed his face and he gave Zoe a lopsided grin. ‘Hand me my camera?’

She arched a brow.

‘Sorry, sis, but this looks like it’s turning into a girls’ night and the last time that happened I woke up in a dress and my oestrogen levels skyrocketed.’ Ryan held out his hand. Zoe handed him the camera bag from behind the bar, unable to help laughing.

‘Don’t even go there,’ Kat said, looking very chic with her navy-blue-streaked bangs and matching silk voile shirt with contrasted piping along the seams. A thick band around the waist showed her trim stomach. Kat had been one of those women who looked gorgeous pregnant and who other pregnant women tended to hate because of it. ‘It was a kilt, not a dress, and it was for a Halloween party.’