Sheikh's Revenge (2 page)

Kind brown eyes evaluated her, even as Cécile pulled a brush out of her desk and started combing Addison’s thick red curls back up into the bun she’d had it swept in that morning. Under the best circumstances, her hair tended to have a mind of its own, but a run from Second Avenue had left it in disarray. Mr. McDermott wouldn’t like that. God, there was a manual the size of a phone book out there somewhere, she was sure, of all the things that Mr. McDermott didn’t like.

“Honey, you’re a mess. What happened? It’s almost 8:15!”

She nodded and swallowed hard. Addison set the takeout carton on the desk. The other staff could grab their labeled drinks. She had to deliver the cappuccino to Mr. McDermott and hope it wasn’t stone cold or anything else embarrassing. Maybe he’d just reduce her salary for the lateness. Maybe she wouldn’t really be the latest secretary with her head on the chopping block.

Sure, and I might sprout wings and fly out of this office right now.

“It was the worst line ever. Is he mad? Did he say anything? Wait, maybe he got into a traffic jam!”

Cécile shook her head and moved on to straightening Addison’s blouse. “No, you know him. He’s on time no matter what. I…good luck. Try and tell him you twisted your ankle. He might possibly buy an injury.”

“Great, I’ll try and hold on to that,” she said, hobbling anyway to the door.

Cécile mistook her actual pain for faking. “See, that’s good. Walk like that and he might not fire you. Once, a girl passed out at her desk so she was late delivering his lunch. Since she had a 103-degree fever and had to be taken to the ER, he just sent her back to the mail department.”

“See, that’s a bright spot,” Addison said, wincing inside.

She’d never been silver tongued—the type like her twin brother, who could talk his way out of any situation. If she were a better liar or smarter or quicker on her feet, then maybe she’d save herself.

Maybe.

Arriving at his door, she knocked on it.

“Mr. McDermott, it’s Addison. I have your coffee.”

“Finally. Did you go to fucking Colombia to get the beans and fresh grind them, too?” he demanded as he opened the door and shouted at her in front of the whole office.

It was so quiet that Addison imagined she could almost hear everyone’s heartbeats in the room as they gaped at her. A flush colored her cheeks, and she fought down the urge to cry. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Besides, the whole office would gossip about that for the rest of her life.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

He glared down at her, his blue eyes blazing. “Well don’t be sorry. Just come in here. I have some things I’ll need you to polish before e-mailing contacts anyway. Get in here now, Morgan.”

“Yes sir,” she said, giving Cécile one last look over her shoulder before he shut the door behind them.

She reached up and tried to hand him the coffee then, but her ankle twisted under her and the blisters on her feet made her wince so badly that she stumbled, spilling the liquid all over his shirt. The only blessing was that she’d been so late that the cappuccino was barely warm. Addison’s eyes grew wide with horror as the brown, sugary mess spread over her boss’s expensive suit.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to trip.”

Mr. McDermott didn’t yell at her this time. Instead, when he got quiet, she knew she was in for a world of trouble. She’d seen him do that once at a meeting before sending a senior partner at the firm packing a few minutes later.

Mr. McDermott swiped at the mess on his chest and shook his head. “You’re sorry? You ruined a two-thousand-dollar Perry Ellis, and you’re sorry?”

“I have a twisted ankle from running back…” she started lamely, trailing off when she saw that it was making no impression on him whatsoever.

“Then maybe you’ll have time to go to the hospital and have it checked out. Right now. You’re fired and I’ll be sending you the bill for the suit you destroyed. Be grateful that tepid mess you call coffee barely qualified as warm or I’d have you sued for burning me, too. Now, Addison, get the fuck out.”

***

“It was horrible!” she said, drinking some of her brother’s Pabst Blue Ribbon and trying to pretend it didn’t taste like utter piss to her.

Overall, Addison wasn’t much of a drinker. She would get something like a cosmo or a mojito if she were out with the girls, but harder stuff or just plain beer wasn’t her style. However, she had thousands to pay off—tens of thousands—and had just been fired from her first job. Even the bitter taste of the Pabst was helping soothe some of that bite. Now, if only she drank about six more and passed out, at least she’d get some sleep.

William rubbed at his goatee. She hated that look. It didn’t fit his round face and it made his freckles somehow stick out even more. While being a pale redhead and one with some curves worked for her (she dated quite a bit in college), her twin had gotten the short end of the stick. He was pudgy, short, and had a look that could best be summed up as a Ron Weasley. The goatee made him look that much weirder, like a used-car salesman for Satan.

Still, he loved her and he’d rushed home to comfort her when she’d called with the news. Hell, he’d even been able to interpret all her cries and mumbled speaking over the phone in the first place to figure out what had happened.

If only he’d use a razor again.

“I’m glad you got fired, sis.”

“What?” she asked, spilling ale on the carpet. “Why? Now we’re out half the rent we were sharing. Now I’m just some awful mooch who lives on your sofa.”

“You have your own room,” he said, winking back at her. “He was awful to you.”

“But I was getting paid, and I was doing okay, and now I don’t know what to do. Mom’s sick and I can’t ask them to help.”

“I’m here. I’m not going to kick you out.”

“But…”

“I have a bit saved up, and if we need to sublet to a third roommate or make this an Airbnb, or whatever, then we will. I’m serious. That McDermott guy was a creep. He was only interested in lording over you. He made you come in at five in the morning on weekends and he made you cry so many times. I’m very glad. That kind of environment isn’t good for you.”

“Then how will I get a new job? I look like a big failure.”

Her brother snorted and drained his beer in three huge gulps. Show off. “I bet there are a ton of people in the Boston Metro area who’ve worked with McDermott Steel or know him from other business dealings. I’m sure everyone knows that guy’s an egocentric dickhead.”

She chuckled. “As opposed to the other kinds of dickheads.”

“Oh, they definitely come in varieties,” he replied. “My point is, some people will probably be amazed you lasted eight months with the ass and will then nominate you for sainthood.”

“If that would pay the bills, then that would be great.”

“I’ll put in a good word at the bank. We could always use another teller.”

“Thanks. I’ll start on the classifieds on Monday, but I feel like such a failure. I mean, I studied art and design, and it wasn’t like my life goal was to fetch coffee every day and guess and hope that the cup I bought was the correct one. That wasn’t my dream, but what kind of idiot just spills coffee on her boss?”

“One who had to wear heels because of the dress code and ran like half the city in them. I can understand how you’d have blisters for days. Jeez, sis. Don’t put all the pressure on yourself,” Will said, setting down his beer can. “I know you’re probably not in the mood for this at all, but maybe you could use something more than moping back here in the apartment. Besides, you’re clearly not having fun with just my ironically delicious beer and the TV on
Judge Judy
reruns.”

“I could be very into the legal system,” she quipped, rubbing at her stuffy nose. “But what are you suggesting?” Addison asked warily.

She loved her brother, but besides his hipster leanings, he’d actually been a wild man in college and had been to pretty much every big party in Boston for four years due to his frat. He still sometimes dabbled in extreme nightlife living while she was more likely to be at home watching
Saturday Night Live
until she conked out.

Will regarded her gently. “One of the guys who was a Chi Sigma when I was a freshman pledge…he’s hit it pretty big and has some ties to these guys who run the Club Rouge. They’re having some huge costume party there tonight, and it’s supposed to be the biggest thing going in Boston. I wasn’t feeling it at first, because when you’ve been to one supposedly hot club then you’ve been to them all.”

She snorted. “That does not sound like you at all.”

“Okay, then caught. What I meant to say was that I wasn’t really into costumes and crap. I think I can run down to this one place and grab a crappy mask, but that theme isn’t my idea of a good time. However, you tell me, oh fashion goddess sister, that you can’t just whip up something in a pinch or have a cool costume back there in your room.”

Addison blushed. She’d started getting into fashion as a teen but in an unusual way. She’d been a huge convention goer and gotten into cosplay, creating amazing designs based on comic books and anime. Then she’d taken that interest into design and other things in college. There just wasn’t a huge job market for it. Even while she slaved away for Mr. McDermott, Addison worked at night creating dresses and other fashions under her own style. She actually had something that would be great for a masquerade party, both a dress and a mask.

“I do, but I’m tired and drunk already.”

“So what? It’s only two o’clock. Crash for a bit then get prepped to go and have a party.”

“I should probably be restructuring and fluffing up my resume,” Addison admitted.

Her brother grinned and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Nah, sis, you should party and make a huge thing of it. After a day like this, the drinks should never stop flowing.”

She rolled her eyes but nodded. Drinking wasn’t her style, but it had been the worst day of her life. If she just let go a little bit tonight at Club Rouge, then what was the worst that could happen?

Chapter Three

Zahir had no idea why he’d bothered to go out to Club Rouge that night. He was still rip-roaringly pissed off from what had happened earlier that day with Clayton, and now his brain was twisting with ways to lure former employees from McDermott’s group to his own company. He should be at home with some of his best executives over Skype—damn the time difference—and figuring out exactly what needed to be done in order to finally stick it to one Clayton McDermott.

And yet…

He was frustrated and angry. In the past, the sheikh had found that the best way to relieve his stress and to get himself back into a focused mood was to find a more effective way to spend that pent-up energy. What he wanted was a good hard fuck, a woman to spend the night with, and to make the trials of the day fade away. Associated with Clayton McDermott’s friends or not, Club Rouge had a reputation all its own. He’d Googled it after the meeting that imploded and been intrigued by both the beauty and design of the club, as well as the stories about its debauched reputation.

Perhaps he’d find something here, especially under masquerade.

His wasn’t that extravagant. He hadn’t put much effort into his look. He had chosen to wear the ceremonial robes of his people. He always traveled with them should he be called on to perform official state duties for Dubai. However, the small domino mask was something he’d been able to secure at a local costume shop, a simple piece of white velvet that fit snuggly over his eyes and brow.

He was impressed with the overall look of the club, something that screamed vintage 1880s French dancehall aesthetic (and the designer had a clear love for certain Baz Luhrmann films), but he hadn’t found any women to attract his attention. It wasn’t that there was a lack of them, but he wasn’t feeling in the mood for all the bubbly blondes with the brassy, peroxided hair who kept coming up (and on) to him.

Sipping on his Scotch, Zahir looked down at his watch and realized that, as pathetic as it was, he might have to call it a night before the clock had even struck midnight. Nothing had appealed. As he took another swig, he groaned inwardly as a far too familiar person showed up beside him at the bar.

Clayton McDermott was obvious even behind his own masquerade mask. That bouffant of blond hair and that ridiculous dimple—maybe even a canyon—in his chin couldn’t be mistaken.

How lucky I am, indeed
.

“Well, Zahir, you did come out after all. I thought after you stormed out of the meeting, you’d already be back to the land of camels and sand.”

“That could describe many places, and we happen to have skyscrapers now. It was hard, but we came into the twenty-first century just fine,” Zahir replied drolly even as he finished his drink.

“Too true,” Clayton responded. “However, you were in such a sour mood that I didn’t expect you to come out to Club Rouge to have a good time. I guess I was half right on this. I’ve been with my frat brothers in the VIP section.”

“Of course you have.”

“But I can see you nursing drink after drink here and rebuffing all the girls. What, are they not your style? Is there something deficient?” Clayton prodded, pulling out the words on that last question in such a way that it took everything Zahir had to keep from slugging the other man.

Oh, I’ll show you deficient, idiot.

Taking a deep breath, he shook his head. There was no point in playing into Clayton’s games now. He had his strategy, and in a month or so, he’d find the dirt he needed to blackmail the other CEO into doing exactly what Zahir needed him to do. Let the ass be smug and condescending now. This victory lap wouldn’t last for long, not at all.

“I just haven’t seen a woman worthy of my attention,” he said, looking over his shoulder where a trio of at least three of those vapid so-called beauties were preening and waving toward Clayton. Well, that didn’t bother at least one man here.

“Maybe you just have too high standards. Everyone here is great, the beauties of Boston. Zahir, get that stick out of your ass and see what you can really do,” he finished, slipping back off of the stool and extending his arms, gladly accepting the tri into them.