Sneak Peek: The Playboy’s Secret Virgin
Chapter One
Jane
“Taxi!”
I tuck a long strand of chestnut brown hair behind my ear with one hand as I fight to flag down a cab with the other. Just my luck that there aren’t any Ubers available when I decided to splurge on a ride to my new job so I won’t arrive all flushed. I wave my arms to get the attention of one of the many passing cabs, but it’s no use. After only a few months in the city, I haven’t yet learned the art of making a cabbie notice me.
“I guess it’s the subway,” I mutter to myself and try not to curse. There’s still plenty of time. I’ll even get there early.
Nothing can get me down today. Sure, it’s Monday, and the faces of the people I pass on the way to the station reflect their total lack of excitement over starting another week. But I’m not starting just another week. I feel like announcing to everybody that this is my first day of work at a job that isn’t retail. Maybe they’ll wish me luck. Then I catch the eye of a lady with a stroller, and she shoots me a dirty look before hurrying off. Okay. Maybe I shouldn’t bother.
My first day working at one of the fastest growing ad agencies in Manhattan. I still can’t believe my luck. I only went to the job fair because I had nothing to lose. I was hardly making anything in my first job out of college, and to say I was bored working as a mail room clerk would be a drastic understatement. I figured since I had good grades in school and a decent resumé—an advertising major, strong references, knowledge of graphic arts, expertise with design programs like Photoshop—that I had a pretty good shot, and I was right. The HR representative from James Enterprises called three days later to offer me the position as assistant to Anthony James, the son of the founder.
Anthony James. I’m sure panties dissolve at the mention of his name all the time. I’ve heard a thing or two about him, but nothing concrete. He’s sort of a bad boy, but aren’t most rich kids who never have to work for a thing in their lives? They grow up too fast and get into trouble. I guess that’s his story, but I don’t exactly pay attention to the social pages. I have better things to do than follow a rich boy’s antics.
Still, I can’t walk into the job with any preconceived notions of who he is. I have a bad habit of doing that, letting my imagination spin out of control, and generally in the worst way possible. One of my foster moms used to tell me I’d have an ulcer before I turn twenty-five. Four more years to go before that happens but have my fingers crossed that she’ll be wrong.
I’m not letting myself down that road with my new boss. I’ll give him a chance so long as he’s signing my checks. I’ve never had a job that pays as much as this one—my last job barely paid enough for me to afford my shoebox of an apartment. Then again, that’s the way life goes in New York. Pay through the nose for a closet-sized apartment and just be grateful for the chance to live in one of the biggest, most incredible cities in the world.
I sigh as I step onto the subway car and immediately pitch forward when a big, burly guy in a Mets sweatshirt slams into me from behind. No apology, no anything. Go figure. I grab onto one of the metal poles and fix my gaze somewhere off in the distance, the way everybody does when they’re on the subway. Don’t look directly at anybody, just sort of gaze out at nothing. Eye contact might be misconstrued as an invitation to chat, and this isn’t like back home where most people already know everyone else and it’s rude to not want to have a three-hour conversation about the weather. Talk to the wrong person here and it can lead to trouble.
Big city life has many rules to remember, and I still have trouble keeping it all straight even after living here for almost eight months. Manhattan is not far away from where I grew up in rural northeastern Pennsylvania. Less than two hours by car, but it might as well be the other side of the planet. Maybe on another planet entirely.
The frantic energy, the honking horns, the constant activity like bees in a hive. The people, everywhere, packing the streets and sidewalks. And the way they somehow manage to ignore everybody else around them! The first time I saw a group of people crossing the street on a red light without even looking to see if cars were coming, I screamed. The craziest part? Nobody looked around to see what I was screaming about.
I’m okay with the noise, at least. That’s one thing I had to get used to at an early age, living with up to four or five other foster kids at a time. I’m already a pro at ignoring noise filtering through thin walls, so living in a crowded apartment building and hearing everybody else’s business is no big deal.
Neither is living in a small space. I never had a bedroom of my own until I moved out of the college dorm—my entire life, I’ve had to share. Living in a shoebox is actually a step up. So what if the bathroom is really just a tiny walled-off section of the apartment, which is really just a single room with a sink and small stove? I learned early on that “studio apartment” means “we took a single room and now pretend a person can live there comfortably.” I’ve also learned how much food I can fit in a very tiny fridge.
I catch sight of my reflection in one of the grimy train windows. The waves I took so long to curl this morning are still looking good, spilling over my shoulders and onto my chest. I’m wearing a long black Chanel coat I could never have afforded anywhere other than at the consignment shop where I found it. The gray suit and light pink blouse are new—I don’t know how the office runs, what the dress code is, but there’s no way to go wrong in a suit. I can always dress down if I need to. Besides, the pink brings out color in my cheeks and makes my gray eyes sparkle. I figure I can use all the help I can get to make Anthony like me.
Speaking of people liking me, Mr. Mets Sweatshirt is nudging me a little more than he needs to be. We’re not even shaking back and forth, yet he keeps making contact. I let it go for a stop or two, but when he flat-out rubs up against me, I turn to him.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask in a clear, loud voice, looking him straight in the eye.
He shrinks back, cheeks staining red. “No.”
“It’s just that you seem to be having trouble keeping your balance.”
“No, I’m good.” He looks down at the floor. I roll my eyes and go back to staring out the window. That’s the thing about most creeps. Once you stare them down, they back off.
I suppose growing up where I did have its advantages when it comes to dealing with creeps.
The train lurches to a stop at my station, and I manage to elbow my way out the door and hurry up to the sidewalk. After a quick look around to orient myself, I head over to the nearest Starbucks. A little kissing up never hurt anybody, I tell myself as I wait in line. What does he like, this Anthony James? I try to picture him in my head, based on the few pictures I remember seeing. Tall, with a strong-featured face. Square jaw, deep-set blue eyes, dark hair wore swept back from his forehead. I saw him once in a picture from a cycling race, and he had a body to kill for. Broad shoulders and long, muscular legs. He’d be at home on a billboard advertising underwear. I’d look at that billboard. I’d stare at it all day.
Shut it down. I shake my head to clear my thoughts. The last thing I need to do is get all googly-eyed over my boss. I won’t be that pathetic.
“I’ll have a venti non-fat mocha…an iced venti soy latte...” I rattle off the names of four drinks, four being the most I can feasibly carry in one of those cardboard carrier things. Eight-thirty. Thirty minutes until I have to report to the office, and it’s only a block away. Things are looking good.
Until I wait twenty minutes for my drinks. I didn’t take that into consideration before stopping in. I nearly run the rest of the way to the office in my brand-new shoes, and I can just about hear blisters popping up on my feet along the way. Between that and the way I zigzag through other pedestrians—why are there so many?—I’m a total flustered mess by the time I reach the tall glass doors of the building James Enterprises calls home.
I can’t get my ID card to work when I swipe it over the sensor by the door no matter how many times I try. There’s no way to get inside.
Unbelievable. I try to catch the eye of the receptionist, sitting behind a desk along the marble wall. Just my luck there isn’t anybody coming in or out while I’m standing there feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.
When she sees me, she buzzes me in. I open the heavy door and hurry through the lobby with a sheepish grin. “Thank you,” I breathe. “You’re a lifesaver. It’s my first day working for Mr. James, and I don’t want to be late.”
Instead of smiling back, the way a civilized person would do, she rolls her eyes. “Oh. Another one.”
Another one? What’s that mean? I almost want to ask, but bite my tongue and keep my eyes on the floor the rest of the way to the elevator instead. So much for a friendly welcome on my first day. It shouldn’t surprise me, though. I’ve never had a warm welcome anywhere.
But I’ve never given up before, and I’m not going to start now.
I muffle a curse as someone else jostles me. I need to remember that people aren’t always friendly in the city, and what better way to remember than by fighting my way onto the elevator? There has to be three dozen people trying to squeeze their way onto one car, but since I’m near the front I manage to secure a spot. Then, I get squished as everybody squeezes on behind me.
“Oh, no,” I whisper, horrified, as I realize I feel wetness running down the front of my brand-new blouse. I look down to confirm that I’m spilling coffee all over myself. My blouse is now nearly see-through—I can just about make out the lace of my bra. My cheeks burn hotter than the surface of the sun. What a great first impression, and all I wanted to do was make my boss smile on the first day. Instead, I’ll always be the girl who walked in on her first day with coffee all over her shirt.
I’m alone by the time I reach the top floor, and so miserable I could cry. The inside of the elevator doors are shiny enough to let me see my rumpled, stained self in the reflection. It couldn’t get worse than this.
Or so I think until the elevator doors open, and I find myself standing face-to-face with none other than Anthony James himself, and I see that yes, things can get worse. Especially when I realize the photographers who took the photos I’ve seen should lose their jobs. Anthony James is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in person…and he’s looking me up and down with an expression of boredom and disgust.
Great first impression, Jane.
Chapter Two
Anthony
It’s not even lunch time yet and already I’m bored to death. Different day, same story.
My whole fucking life.
I sit behind my desk pushing papers around, trying to muster up the desire to do something. Anything. Anything that will get my father off my back and make him believe I won’t have a negative impact on his wonderful political campaign. I wish it were as easy as looking good—never a problem for me—and showing up at the office. It isn’t. Why would it be? When has he ever given me a break?
I know, I know, listen to the poor little rich boy. When in my twenty-eight years has my life ever been difficult?
I stand up and go out to the empty desk that will soon seat my assistant. I roll my eyes just thinking about the charity case Dad’s saddling me with. An intern, technically, since he isn’t sure yet that I won’t completely fuck things up. It’s all just another part of the image he wants me to fulfill. Successful businessman, in love with the family business, nose up his father’s ass. The perfect son. Totally rehabilitated from his bad boy, whoring ways.
It’s all such a joke, but nobody’s laughing. Least of all me.
It’s not just the job that needs to change, either. No more late nights out on the town. No more clubbing. No more photos of me shit faced in the newspapers or tabloids, which is usually where I end up. My dad even hired me a driver, just in case I have a small drink and wanted to get behind the wheel. Anything that could affect his chances of getting elected. Forget about wanting me to be safe. I’m what I’ve always been to him. A means to an end.
He might as well take my balls while he’s at it. I can’t remember all the times I’ve told him to get himself a new son if I’m not good enough. Going all the way back to when I was a kid, I could never understand why he always found something wrong with me.
I notice the nods and smiles from the various female employees as I walk past their desks and open office doors and it just pisses me off even more. Another one of my father’s new rules: lay off the women, or at least have the decency be discreet. And absolutely nothing inside the company. Like I would ever do that? I’ve never had any issues with the women working here. Not once.
I swear, the old man comes up with new rules every day. It’s like he sits up all night pondering on how to ruin my life the fastest way.
Naomi gives me one of her “come hither” smiles as I approach the reception desk. I tell myself to ignore it, along with the way she’s wearing her sweater dress. Not worth the headache, no matter how nice her tits are.
“Have you seen my father walk past yet this morning?”
She nods. “Oh, of course. He went straight to his office.”
Of course.
I can’t look at her anymore without giving in to the urge to ask her out for a drink just to spite my father, so I turn away in time for the elevator doors to open on an interesting sight: a girl with coffee soaking the front of her shirt. She’s a stranger, too, and staring at me with a horrified expression, which tells me she’s probably my new assistant. Only I would get that lucky.
I shake my head at her. I have no words. Then I go straight to my father’s office, determined to tell him that faking my way through a job I hate is one thing, but saddling me with the mousey little thing in the elevator is something else.
Marta sees me coming and holds up a hand to stop me at her desk, just in front of the tall double doors leading to the inner sanctum. “He’s in a meeting,” she says with a shrug.
“Good thing, since I really came here to talk with you.” I place both hands on the edge of the desk and lean in. “When are you going to stop this game you’re play with me? You know we belong together.”
She fans herself while rolling her eyes. “Stop. You’re too much.”
“I want to marry you and take you away from all this, Marta. Don’t you know I’ve been saving myself for you all these years you’ve been working for Dad?” I give her my best sultry smile.
“Oh, now I know you’re pulling my leg.” She draws back with a smirk and pats her silver-streaked hair. “You haven’t saved yourself for a minute.”
I put my hands over my heart. “Those women didn’t mean anything to me. I had to console myself during those long, lonely nights without you.”
She shakes her head, and I decide to drop the banter. The truth is, even though we have our little jokes and I swear she’s the only one for me, she’s the closest thing I’ve had to a mother since my own died when I was two. Dad’s the disciplinarian, while Marta doles out advice and gently lets me know when I’m being an idiot. She’s the only person who can get away with it.
“Isn’t your new assistant starting today?” she asks in a knowing tone of voice.
“Yeah. Let’s not talk about her, okay?” Marta knows how I feel. She ought to, anyway, since Dad and I weren’t quiet when we argued about it. “What time is his meeting scheduled to end?”
She scrolls through a schedule on her laptop. “There’s no scheduled end time. Conference call with the CFO and his team. Who knows how long it’ll take?”
“Great.” Not like I have anything better to do, but I’d rather eat my own face than go back to my office and deal with coffee girl. Not the sort of mood I’m in.
My phone’s in my back pocket, and I pull it out when it buzzes. It’s my best friend, Tyler Gaines, and he’s been needier than usual lately after breaking up with his girlfriend. He pretends he doesn’t care and he’s only texting because he’s bored, but I know it’s either text me or text the ex. I’d rather be the one, if only so he’ll save face. Besides, she’s a real bitch.
It’s five o’clock somewhere. Let’s blow off work and go out.
I shoot him a quick text back. It’s still morning. Are you serious?
He replies immediately. Hell yes. I’ll go either way. Thought you’d be up for some fun.
Am I up for some fun? Of course, especially since Dad’s had me on a short leash. I’m sick of pretending to be a good guy. I’m even sicker of pretending to follow his rules when it never means getting his approval.
What will he think? I glance at his office doors and imagine how he’ll flip the hell out when he finds out I left, and to go out with Tyler on top of that. He needs to remember that I’m not some underling he can order around. And I’m not a child anymore, no matter how much he tries to treat me like one.
“You know what, beautiful? Forget about it. I’ll catch him later.” I drop Marta a wink and a smile before turning around and heading straight for the elevator. Screw Dad and his rules and his election. I’m my own man, and it’s time he realizes that.
Chapter Three
Jane
When Anthony James walks away with a disgusted expression on his face, I hate myself just a little more. Pretty impressive all right, I think with a sinking heart. Could this day get any worse?
The receptionist here looks sympathetic. “You must be Jane.”
“Guilty.” I manage to smile. At least she seems nicer than the woman downstairs.
“Let me show you where you can put those.” She pushes back from her desk and leads me down a short hallway to the kitchen, where I ditch the coffee carrier.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. I have myself under control now, but it’s a close thing.
“The employee restroom is two doors down on the right.” She points. She takes a step, then hesitates before adding, “Don’t let it ruin your day. That could happen to anyone.”
Sure it could. I smile and thank her before heading for the restroom in attempt to make myself at least semi-presentable. Of course, I’m not a miracle worker, so there’s only so much I can do. The blouse is a total wash. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get cited for indecent exposure thanks to the now see-through fabric.
While I’m standing in front of the automatic hand dryer and holding the blouse out to dry after washing it, a tall, leggy blonde walks in. The kind you hate on principle. Instead of pretending not to see me and hurrying to a stall like most women would, she leans against the sink, giving me a wry smile.
“You’re the new girl, huh?”
I sigh. “Am I wearing a sign? Did somebody slap it on me in the elevator when I was busy making a mess of myself?”
I try to sound upbeat, but I’m too heart sore for that. I can’t forget the look of disgust on Anthony’s handsome face. All the hope I have for this job and what it means to my future is fading fast. I try to hold on to it, but I’m not sure I can, not when things are starting off so badly. Having spilled the coffee on Anthony is the only way things could have been worse.
“Think of it this way: the day can only get better from here. Right?” She smiles warmly. “I’m Chloe. Administrative assistant to the head of HR for the past ten months. I saw you come in here and thought you could use a friend.”
She’s completely disarming and seems genuine. For the first time since reaching the building, I relax enough to be able to breathe. My past tells me that I should be wary, but something about her makes me trust her to be as nice as she appears.
“I’m Jane Ward. Anthony James’ new assistant.”
“Uh-hmm.” Her dark eyes go wide.
That’s all she says, and I don’t particularly feel like asking her to elaborate. I wish I never had to see him again, and he probably feels the same about me. Maybe I can convince someone to transfer me. I would be willing to take the mail room here.
“Come on.” She checks herself out in the mirror above the sink. She’s beautiful and clearly confident in who she is; the type of person I’ve always wanted to be.
Confident and secure of herself.
The closest I can come to that is pretending that I know what I’m doing, and as this morning proved, that never works.
“I’ll show you around before taking you to your desk,” she says as she gestures toward a stall.
I quickly step inside, pull off my jacket, and put back on the shirt. My bra is still a bit damp, but I’m hoping the stain will come out. Those things are expensive, and I’m a little too curvy to go without. I button up my jacket to hide most of the stain and then follow Chloe out the door.
The first day at a new job is always a blur. I’m sure I’ll never learn everybody’s name, but I’ll do my best to try. I’ll never remember the layout of the floor, either. So many faces, so many turns through the maze of cubicles and glass-walled conference rooms. It’s a beautiful place, for sure, with high ceilings and plenty of windows letting natural light pour in. Even as my nerves knot in the pit of my stomach, I know I want to work here.
When the tour ends, we’re standing next to an empty desk. “Well, I guess this is you,” Chloe says, and I notice the way she runs a hand over her hair. Like she’s fixing it.
Then I realize what she said. My desk. That means Anthony James’ office is behind the dark wooden door. He could come out at any moment and give me that disgusted look again. Tell me to go home because he needs someone far more presentable than me. I have to sit or else risk falling over on my shaky legs.
“Here’s your computer and all that jazz. Your login info is probably on a sticky note in the top drawer because nobody around here has any imagination or respect for security. I’ve gotta get back to my desk, but I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
Before I get a chance to thank her, she’s gone, racing down the hall on mile-high heels.
I do what I used to do whenever I was put in a new home—never more than three years in one place—I allow myself thirty seconds of fear before pushing it down.
Okay. Time to learn the ropes and prove I’m not just some idiot bumpkin with a coffee fetish. Chloe was right about the info for my computer being in the top desk drawer, so I log in and go through my inbox. Lots of welcome messages, and a single request to visit the CEO, Anthony James’ father, later this afternoon.
Shit.
My mouth feels dry all of a sudden. He wants to meet me face-to-face? How many employees get that special honor? I have the feeling he wants to look me over to be sure I’m right as the assistant for his son. Here’s hoping he’s a little more forgiving than his offspring, or at least more understanding of accidents.
***
It’s time for my meeting with Mr. James, and I still haven’t seen Anthony since the disaster this morning. It’s a relief, for sure, but I feel like I’ve wasted the day. It didn’t take me long to check my email and read every single page of the employee handbook. After that, there wasn’t much to do. What’s the point of sitting at my desk, wondering what’s expected of me? I could do that at home.
An older, extremely sophisticated woman who reminds me of Meryl Streep sits outside the big guy’s office. “You must be Jane. It’s nice to meet you. If you would follow me?”
I’m sure she notices the still-visible stains on my shirt, but she has enough class to pretend she doesn’t.
She leads me into Mr. James’ office and I try not to gawk. The walls on two sides are entirely made of glass providing a breathtaking view of the city. Mr. James sits at a massive desk with his back to the windows. He’s tall, handsome, with a mile-wide smile and perfect salt-and-pepper hair. He’d make a great anchorman for a news show.
“How’s my son been treating you today?” he asks after a firm handshake. I feel his eyes travel over me, taking inventory. I must pass muster, even though he looks somewhat bemused by the stain that’s still visible. I keep my head high and remind myself to exude confidence, even if I’m not feeling it.
“I haven’t spoken to him yet, actually.” Even though I keep my voice light, his expression darkens. Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t be honest, but I’ve never been a good liar.
“And why is that?”
When I shake my head, his voice gets louder as he says, “Marta? Where’s my son?”
“He took a client to dinner,” she calls back.
I suddenly feel impossibly awkward as tension fills the air. Mr. James isn’t happy. Not even a little. His mask slips slightly, and I see the man underneath: one seriously pissed-off father. If what Marta says is a lie, she delivers it smoothly, but Mr. James sees right through it, making me believe this isn’t the first time she’s offered it.
He walks me out of the office, and I wonder if he really wanted to meet me or if he only wanted to get dirt on his son. What could I possibly tell him after one day that he wouldn’t already know? He shakes my hand again, then turns to Marta.
“Please let Anthony know that I expect him in the office bright and early tomorrow morning. Otherwise, there’ll be hell to pay.” With that, he turns on his heel, marches back inside, and closes the door.
I can feel my cheeks flushing as I look at Marta for some clue on how to react to this. She only shakes her head. “It’s a father/son thing. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”
Sure. No problem.
***
It’s a pleasure to slide out of my heels the second I get home. My next priority is taking off my blouse and throwing it in the trash. Stupid blouse. Stupid me for thinking that I could make anything other than a mediocre impression. My lot in life isn’t to be exceptional, but rather fade into the background. I hang up what’s left of my suit and put on sweats and a tee. There’s nothing like the joy of putting on comfy clothes after a day at the office. I can at least have the simple pleasures in life.
I curl up on the futon and am ready to nurse my first day sorrows with a bottle of wine and trashy TV when there’s a knock at the door. I frown. Nobody ever knocks at my door. Ever.
I get up and glance around to see if anything in here can be used as a weapon.
“Who is it?” A girl doesn’t just open the door on a stranger. Not even a country transplant like me would do that.
“Chloe.”
Chloe? I mouth, suddenly ashamed of my poorly-furnished shoebox of an apartment. I’m sure she lives in a beautiful loft apartment somewhere with charm and character and all sorts of other buzz words that translate into high rent. She’s probably standing out there, already regretting being in this neighborhood. Sure, it’s not the worst, but it’s far from New York City’s best.
I figure I have nothing to lose by answering the door, so I do. If we’re going to be friends, which maybe we are, she’ll eventually find out how I live and where I come from.
She’s still wearing her work clothes, and she still looks fantastic. Meanwhile, I’m wearing a t-shirt which is basically a series of holes with strips of fabric here and there. Only slightly more embarrassing than my coffee-stained blouse.
“Why are you here? Don’t tell me you live in this building.” My joke falls flat.
She smiles. “I wanted to take you out for a drink after work, but you bolted out too fast for me to catch you.”
Yes, because I wanted to get the hell out and pretend the whole messy day never happened.
But I’m not rude.
“Do you want to come in?” She nods, and I step aside, however reluctantly.
“This is cute!” she exclaims as she looks around. “You’re so creative, making such great use of your space.”
That’s probably the nicest way I’ve ever heard someone describe something this small. When I first saw it, for once I was grateful that my childhood had left me with very little in the way of possessions.
“How did you know where I live?” I motion to the futon where she manages to perch delicately without looking snotty about it.
She shrugs. “It’s in your personnel file.”
My jaw drops. “You looked at my file?”
“Yeah. Why not?” She shrugs again. “Anyway, I figured you need a drink after this morning. More than one drink, maybe.”
I laugh and try not to let her see how nervous the suggestion makes me. “I’m pretty tired, to be honest. And I’m not much of a social butterfly. I go to bed early, too. I’m basically the cover of a AARP magazine.”
Her laugh is rich and throaty. The sort of thing men would want to listen to for hours on end. “Come on, Jane. It’s still early. Happy Hour is barely even over yet. One or two drinks won’t keep you out too late. We can get something to eat, too. I promise, I won’t keep you out too far past your bedtime, Grandma.”
I have the feeling she’s going to be a bad influence on me, but maybe a bad influence is just what I need. And it’s not like I have many friends to fall back on. Maybe I could use a work friend, someone to go with the new start I hope to make.
“Okay. Give me a quick sec to get dressed.”
“No,” she says as she gives me a once over. “The homeless look is super in right now.”
Chloe manages a straight face for about three seconds before bursting into laughter, and this time, I join her.
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