5
Several Years Earlier
“Mr. Davis.”
The blonde woman with the slicked back hair nodded curtly at him as Rowan rushed into the lobby. He pulled at his tie, straightening the dark fabric against his chest, and cleared his throat.
“Morning, Dawn,” he called distractedly, lifting his briefcase to signal a quick hello. The secretary’s lips twitched slightly, and she fitted him with a stiff smile.
“We’re getting in rather late this morning, aren’t we,” she commented, forcing the words through her red painted lips. He halted and turned to her, adjusting the tuck of his shirt so that he became the very picture of professionalism. He stood to his full height, tossing back his shoulders, throwing his dark hair back from his face.
“Are we?” he asked, staring her directly in her icy gray eyes. “Hm, I hadn’t noticed.” He twisted his wrist so that he could glance at the oversized silver watch that snaked around his arm. “Ah, I suppose we are.” He grinned at Dawn with unsmiling eyes. “You are ever so attentive, Ms. Clearwater. That must be why they keep you around here, hm?”
Dawn’s lips tightened, and a vein in her left temple trembled slightly. She folded her manicured nails upon her desk and smiled back at him.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Davis, I am sure you are correct. Have a great day now,” she said.
He shouldered the door open and raised his cup of take-out coffee towards the secretary in a salute of cheers.
“Ah, yes, you too,” he yelled as he walked through the door. And then, beneath his breath, he muttered. “Have a fucking wonderous day.”
He made his way through the maze of cubicles, ducking his head in salutation as his co-workers raised their hands in silent hellos, phones pressed to their ears. He passed Adam’s desk, and Adam grinned at him.
“Hey, big guy,” he said, emptying the contents of three packets of sugar into a milky looking coffee. “How’s it hanging on this fine, fine morning?”
Rowan snorted at shook his head.
“Your choice of phrasing is always so on point, Adam,” he chuckled as he continued onwards to his own cubicle.
Rowan dropped his briefcase onto the floor, and it sounded with a satisfying thump. He fell into his chair and slapped his take out coffee cup onto his desk. He leaned back and booted up his computer. While it whizzed and whirred to life, Rowan massaged the dark leather of the chair with his hands. He grinned as he spied the triangular peak of his newest tattoo, a great, roaring mountain, done entirely in blackwork, peeking its head from the top of his dress shirt sleeve. He smiled and scooted his chair forward, punching at the computer keyboard to log himself in for the day. Rowan had not even opened his email before he heard the voice behind him.
“A little late today, are we not, Mr. Davis?”
Rowan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, steadying himself for the conversation he knew lay just ahead of him. He gripped the arms of the leather chair and slowly spun himself around, a pleasant smile carefully plastered across his clean shaven face.
“Ahh, hello Isla,” he purred, his chair coming to a swiveling stop in front of his boss. Her tight skirt stretched appealing across her legs, and her blouse dipped low down her chest, revealing ample cleavage. He grinned more genuinely, pleased to find her dressed so attractively.
“Mr. Davis,” Ilsa said sharply, giving him a look filled with knives. Then she dropped her voice and leaned forward slightly, speaking rapidly in whispered tones. “You are not to call me by my first name here at work, Rowan,” she said. “And you know better than that. It would totally undermine my professionalism if anyone found out, so seriously, cut it out.” Ilsa cleared her throat and stood back up to her full height, yanking at her impossibly tight skirt to straighten out its lay across her supple thighs. “As I was saying,” she continued, her voice escalating back to its normal, assertive pitch. “We are a little late today, are we not?”
Rowan dropped the grin from his face and executed a half turn in his wheely leather chair. He grabbed his coffee cup and swiveled back around smoothly. “Hmm,” he said, arching a single eyebrow up his forehead, pursing his lips in mock contemplation. “Well, actually, I would say that we are a little provocatively clad today, are we not?” He tilted back his coffee cup and sipped, never taking his eyes from Ilsa’s own eyes.
Ilsa blushed deeply, crimson filling her round cheeks. She squeezed her manicured fingers together and rolled her eyes at the man wheeling around in the oversized leather desk chair. Then she cleared her throat again, flattened down her hair, and adjusted the top button of her blouse. Rowan watched, captivated by the slow, deliberate movement of Ilsa’s fingers around the top button of her impossibly tight dress shirt. Staring him down, she slowly slid the top button of her blouse free, revealing the tops of her large breasts, pressing hard and full and round against the tops of her lacy bra. Rowan swallowed, swiveled his chair back around, and placed his coffee cup back on his desk.
“It does not, in fact, matter how I am or am not dressed,” Ilsa began, slowly walking across the room towards his desk, her high heels dragging teasingly across the floor. “What does matter, Mr. Rowan Davis, is that you. Are. Late.” She dragged a painted nail across his desk and flicked him against the arm. “And I figured,” she said, her voice dropping several octaves and falling into that deep, gruff tenor voice she reserved specifically for workplace propositions. “That you might want to, you know… make it up to me.”
Rowan glanced at his boss from the sides of his eyes, filling his gaze with a tantalizing view of her perfectly shaped breasts rising and falling against the lacy bra. He felt his crotch begin to harden and he drummed his fingers against the sides of the empty take-out coffee cup, trying to focus. Finally, he let out his breath in a rush, knocked over the coffee cup, and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his dress pants.
“Alright. Fine,” he agreed, standing up carefully and walking out of the cubicle. “I’ll help you out with that special project you want me to help you with.”
Ilsa quickly snapped the top button of her blouse back together and followed closely behind him as they wound their way through the maze of cubicles.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Davis,” she said loudly, so that everyone they passed could hear her. “Yes, you really are the very best when it comes to the work I require. It demands a very particular type of expertise, and I dare say you that, in this special department, you are truly the best we have.”
Rowan snorted and rolled his eyes at her words, which succeeded in winning him a sharp slap against the lower back, courtesy of Ilsa. They arrived at the heavy steel door that guarded her office, and he stepped aside to allow her wide hips to sidle past him. She pressed her key card to the door’s keypad and it chirped in mechanical approval. The door slid open, and she strutted into the room, her hips swaying hypnotically back and forth.
Rowan stepped through the entrance way, and the steel door immediately slid shut behind him. Without thinking, he began to slide his arms free from his suit jacket, and loosen the tie that hung around his neck. Ilsa turned and stared at him, a single laugh dropping from between her thin lips, her face curling with amusement.
“Alright,” she said, nodding his way, her eyes gleaming with power and devilish joy. “Let’s get started.”
***
Ilsa leaned over a mirror, reapplying deep maroon lipstick to her skinny lips. Rowan, his back turned to her, adjusted his tie so that it hung more neatly down his freshly buttoned up shirt. He slipped his arms back into his finely pressed suit jacket and snapped the lapels. Finally, Ilsa turned, finding her gaze falling upon Rowan, the image of professionalism but for a few scraggly hairs peeking out from behind his ears.
“Thank you again for your help with the project,” she said, standing before the door.
“Absolutely,” Rowan returned, fixing his tie more tightly around his neck. “Do let me know if you require any further assistance.”
Ilsa nodded, her face straight, but her eyes electric with icy humor. “Oh, of course,” she said. “I’m sure I will not hesitate.”
Rowan nodded, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and began to make for the door. He approached the steel entranceway, but Ilsa still stood in his way. She held her key card aloft, several inches away from the computerized pad.
“And, Mr. Davis,” she added, her voice returning to its boss like assertiveness once again. “That snake you have got curling around your middle is absolutely atrocious. Do see that you don’t make a habit out of this wild man and tattoo thing. It will not do so well for your professional image,” she said. Her face was smiling, but her eyes had clouded over with a wintry warning.
Rowan’s eyes darkened, and he forced a grin across his face.
“Right,” he said. “Of course.”
Ilsa stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded, apparently satisfied and pressed her key card against the computerized recognition pad. The chirp sounded with a flash of green light, and the door slid open again.
“Have a good day, Mr. Davis,” she called as he walked past her. “And remember your professional image.”
“Absolutely,” Rowan said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, and Ilsa,” he added, turning back around suddenly. “Don’t fret about me turning all no-pro on you. The upkeep of my professional image is precisely why I was late this morning. The new Harley I purchased before work certainly does wonders for my image, wouldn’t you say?”
Ilsa’s jaw dropped open, and her eyes burned with anger. She made as if to run after him but stopped herself when she realized the eyes of half of the office were trained upon her. Instead, she swallowed her words and, over the burning of her rage, cried out,
“Mr. Davis! Mr. Davis!”
Rowan was already tucked back safely inside his cubicle, toying with the keys for his new ride, laughing to himself.