Play with Me

“I looked over the press for the event last year,” I say as we dig into our halves of the sandwich. “It’s very generic. Can I write a piece about your personal attachment to this project, which I assume exists or it wouldn’t be your pet project?”

“Nothing personal about me ever. I don’t do press.”

“Oh. Okay. Because you got burned when you took over the casino?”

“Because I don’t. Talk to Dehlia at the shelter. She runs it. Find an angle with her. We funded five college scholarships for kids living in the shelter last year. Profile the program, though, not the kids. I don’t want them labeled homeless sympathy cases.”

There is something in the way he says this that has me narrowing my gaze on him, and the minute he realizes it, he reaches for the phone and punches in a number. Conversation over. I’ve hit a nerve. I don’t know which nerve, but I’m certain there are many reasons we are drawn to each other, one of which I’ve now confirmed in my mind: namely, that we are both bruised but not broken.

Another hour passes and Damion leans back in his chair. “That’s it for the night. Go home, Ms. Miller.”

I’m Ms. Miller again. The name is a wall, a way to put distance between us. “What about you? You’re exhausted.”

His lips quirk up. “And I look like shit, right?”

I don’t laugh. “You look tired. Let’s both leave.”

“No.” His expression darkens. “You should go up before me.”

I swallow hard. “Oh.” I push to my feet.

He stands, too. “If I ride up with you, everything we tried to achieve will be destroyed.”

A wave of unexpected emotion rushes over me and I lower my head, letting my eyes shut. I want him to come upstairs with me. I want to know him, to understand what his bruises are.

“Kali,” he murmurs softly.

I inhale and force my gaze to his. “Good night, Mr. Ward.” And I turn and head out of the office, wishing he’d stop me. But he doesn’t.

Part Nine

Running…

On Friday, feeling confident in a fitted emerald-green dress that contrasts with my long blond hair, I head into Mr. Ward’s office. Glancing up from his desk, he gives me a hot, heavy inspection and scowls.

I back-step, all too aware of why he’s cranky. I have, after all, been living the problem with him all week. “I’ll be right back,” I say, and head to the kitchen to pour him a cup of coffee. We’re both going crazy. Every accidental touch of bodies seems more energized, every brush of our eyes more electric. It doesn’t help that neither of us has slept, spending our days working on the regular needs of the properties and staying late to work on the charity event that he clearly cares about deeply.

Coffee in hand, I walk back in to his office, only to be reprimanded. “You do know I was about to say something to you and that most people don’t walk out on their bosses like you just did.”

“Sorry, Grumpy.” I set the coffee in front of him. “Please drink it so I can survive the morning.”

He stares at me, and I’m not sure if his steely look means he wants to fuck me or throttle me. I think maybe both. He scrubs his jaw and reaches for the coffee. I notice it has spilled over the edge to pool on the desk, and I reach for it. “Wait.” It’s too late. Our hands collide.

Our gazes lift and do the same and we both freeze, the turbulence and heat between us damn near combustible. I start to yank my hand back. He grabs my wrist and looks first at the “V” of my dress, which at this angle has to be revealing, and then at the sticky wetness on my hand. “Do you know how bad I want to lick that off?”

I have a memory of his tongue in certain places, and my nipples tighten. “I, uh … should I say please, Mr. Ward?”

He grimaces. “You’re fucking killing me.”

“Back at ya.”

“Hello, hello.”

We jerk apart at the sound of Maggie’s voice. Damion inhales sharply, and I turn away. “Morning, Maggie,” I say.

“Morning.” She walks toward Damion, and I head out of his office and try to get to work, which requires that I first squeeze my thighs together and count to sixty.

At sixty-one, I attempt to check my email. The first thing I pull up is a message from the accounting manager, and the heat lingering from my interaction with Damion is quickly chilled. It seems that several accounting clerks have looked high and low for the missing donations I’ve claimed exist. They need proof of deposits. Not good. I decide to go through every file in the desk, piece by piece, and pray I find the evidence I need. Asking donors for proof of payment is a scandal waiting to happen. I grab my files and open them to check my work first.