Liar Liar

‘Because you kissed and told about the baguette.’ She pulls an unremorseful duckface. ‘But use condoms,’ she adds as somewhere in the distance, a baby begins to cry.

‘A baby named Beryl?’

She nods. ‘We still can’t agree on a name. But hark,’ she adds, cupping her ear with her hand, ‘from yonder window, the fruit of my loins is playing my song.’

‘You are such a dag,’ I say, using an Aussi-ism I know she’ll appreciate.

‘I feel like a dag, but that’s sleep deprivation for you. Unless you want to look like this,’—she points at her face—‘bulk buy prophylactics.’

After we say our goodbyes, I pull myself together for my first afternoon of work and basically get over myself. So it’s not an ideal situation, but it could be worse. Much worse. My new boss isn’t demanding I be his personal sex slave. Plus, he’s super easy on the eyes. Maybe I’ll make him my sex slave instead.

I snort at the ridiculous thought; I can’t see the man taking orders from anyone. Not even if I whip out my trusty purple dildo and hit him upside the head. Which, by the way, is still in my case. Don’t judge—it was a gift! It has sentimental value as well as being lightly used. In fact, it’s been used only once. On a sexy French tourist, who later turned out to be a man in a suit so sharp, it’d probably eviscerate his enemies on sight.

First a snort, and now I’m smiling to myself? I must be going soft in the head. Which is probably why I keep thinking about him. He was cute when he didn’t speak my language, but out here in his element, the man is dynamite.

As in, dangerous to handle.

I can’t help but think of what that very proper exterior conceals.

And I’m not just thinking about his ink. I’m also thinking about his mad sexy-times skills.

I drop my low heels on the bed, swiping my lightweight jacket from the back of the elegant chair, the tactile fabric just calling for the brush of my fingers as I pass. I slide the doors to the balcony open just to breathe in a little of the scant breeze. The sun is shining, and the air up here sweet. All is right with the world, or as right as it can be for a woman in my position.

Stepping back into the bedroom, I shake out my jacket and slip it on. This fine Tuesday sees me swapping my braid for loose hair and my Mango linen shirtdress for a pair of black pencil pants and a sleeveless cream shell. And the jacket, of course.

I slip on my shoes and study my reflection in the mirror.

It’s just a job, I intone, pulling on my lapels. Whatever today brings, it has to be better than waiting tables at the Pussy Cat any day of the week. It’s not like I’m doing anything critical. I’m not brokering peace in Yemen, for goodness’ sake.

‘I can do this.’ My reflection looks back at me, unconvinced. ‘I have a super-hot boss that I’ve had sex with. Things could be worse.’

15

Remy

‘Why don’t I just bend over for you? Right here over this desk. We’ll just get it over and done with here and now, and you can just shove it hard up my ass.’

Stifling a sigh, I allow my eyes to wander around the room. The panelled walls. The elaborate drapes. The mid-century decanter sitting on the credenza near the door. The glass that has already been used today. My gaze slides to my watch. Barely ten o’clock.

‘Because, let me tell you, by my age, I ought to know the difference between being on the receiving end of an enema and being royally fucked over.’

‘Monsieur Hayes, please.’ Pelletier, the newest member of my legal team, uses a conciliatory tone, unused to the brash address of a man on the edge. ‘There really is no need for such vulgarity.’

‘Fuck off and fuck you,’ the American retorts. ‘This is my office, and I’ll say what goes in here. Anyway, I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to him.’

I bring my bored gaze back to the men sitting at the head of the table. The grandson being groomed to take over looks like a Californian surfer. The other points an arthritic finger my way. ‘There’s no way you’re getting your hands on this company. I’ll raze it to the damn ground before it comes to that.’

‘Mr Hayes, I understand your frustration. You requested finance, finance that has been denied to you, and now your operation is in dire straits.’

‘Because you’re in cahoots with the bank!’

To a certain degree, this is true, not that I’ll admit it. ‘I am the solution, not the problem.’

‘You’re a parasite—’

‘Grandfather, stop.’ His hand grasps the older man’s arm, his eyes burning with contempt as his gaze swings my way. Contempt and revenge.