Filthy Rich (Filthy Rich 1)

Three

Aidan

* * *

Samantha Riley had worked for me for three months, and I’d never seen her quite like this. She was… flustered. Actually flustered. By me.

She was right—it was my ego talking. My ego and maybe some wishful thinking. The assistant I’d had before her had been fifty-eight and a grandmother; she was tough and entirely competent, but there was no denying she looked nothing like Samantha. Definitely not.

Samantha was sitting across from me now, her legs crossed, her notebook on her thigh. She wore a dark gray pencil skirt and a light blue blouse. The skirt came exactly to her knee and the blouse covered everything it was supposed to without being dowdy. Her dark blonde—some would say dirty blonde—hair was tied up neatly off her neck. Her makeup was expert and understated, as was her jewelry. She knew exactly how to dress as the professional she was.

Except for the shoes. She was wearing low black heels—with an ankle strap. It was subtle and it was very, very sexy. Every pair of heels she wore to work had that ankle strap—the black ones, the brown ones, the ones with the open toes, the ones with the closed toes. Samantha never wore ultra-high spike heels or flats. She wore low heels, expensive and feminine. And every pair had an ankle strap.

I shouldn’t be paying so much attention to my assistant’s feet. But fuck it. I was.

Maybe it was so that I wouldn’t be tempted to pay too much attention to the rest of her. Samantha was a genuinely beautiful woman, with blue eyes offsetting her blonde hair, a small, straight nose, and her mouth… No, I definitely wasn’t looking at her mouth, the lush softness of it, the way the top lip curved just so. Her body was perfect beneath the skirt and blouse: slim waist, sleekly rounded hips, small high breasts cupped neatly in her bra. I didn’t look at those either, because when I did, I imagined what they would look like in my hands while she rode me.

I sound like a pig, but they say the average male thinks about sex every seven seconds. I was no exception.

I had control. I never let Samantha know what I was thinking. She was too important, and we worked too well together. She was very fucking good at her job—intelligent, focused, impossible to rile. A good executive assistant is worth her weight in gold, which was pretty much what I paid her. So I kept my thoughts in line, my mouth shut, and my dick down. Besides, in three months she’d never given the slightest hint that I affected her any more than the vase of palm leaves in the front lobby did.

Until now.

It had been brief, but it was there. Her cheeks had flushed and for a second she’d squirmed in her seat like a teenager. Then she was in control again. It was the gala—something about my attending it had set her off. I wondered what.

“It was an impulse, you know,” I said.

She blinked at me, back to business now. “I beg your pardon?”

“My going to the gala last night. I’d forgotten I even had the invitation. I decided to go because I was bored.”

Bored and restless, dissatisfied. But I didn’t tell her that.

“Oh.” Samantha smoothed a small lock of hair behind her ear. “I see.”

“When I go to these events, it’s free publicity for Tower VC. I found the invitation last night, and I was at loose ends. So I went.”

She nodded. “Aidan, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

I did, though. Something about the gala was still bothering her—I could see it in her expression. Instead of pressing, I decided to change the subject. I tapped my laptop awake. “So Noah wants a partner meeting?”

“Next Tuesday in Chicago.” She sounded relieved to be talking about something else. “I think I can clear off your schedule. Should I make the arrangements?”

“I suppose so.” I was surprised Noah wanted to leave the roster of actresses and models he was dating in L.A. to come to Chicago for a meeting. My old friend had slept with half the women in Ho

llywood; it would have to be important for him to take a break from womanizing. “I’ll fly in Monday, and I’ll spend an extra day. Book me back on Thursday morning, first class. And book yourself to come with me.”

Samantha had been writing in her notebook, but she went still. She looked up at me in surprise. “You want me to come?”

Very much. Shut up, brain. “Yes, I think so,” I said. “It’s the perfect chance for you to meet all of the partners in person. That is, if you’re available to take the trip?”

I was fishing. Samantha didn’t wear a wedding ring. I wanted to know if she’d say I’ll check with my boyfriend or, hell, I’ll check with my girlfriend. At this point I had no idea. And it was petty, and completely over the line, but I wanted to know.

“I can go,” Samantha said right away. “It’s no problem at all.”

Which didn’t mean she was fully single. Maybe she just really wanted to go. She straightened a little in her chair, her eyes quietly sparking with a hint of excitement. Then I remembered something that had been on her CV.

“You’re from Chicago, right?” I said.