Chapter Eight
Bastian
Fancy Meeting You Here
My date is saying something about her acquisitions editor, and some new manuscript that’s just come their way, but I’m bored shitless. Her words fade into a low-grade hum as my eyes focus on the shadowed features of the girl across the room. The lighting is purposely dim to minimize flaws and mask details, but I don’t think there could be any imperfections even if a high-powered searchlight was directed at her.
She’s stunningly sexy in that summery little frock with delicate shoulder straps, the skin of her arms and neck no longer disguised by the conservative office attire of long-sleeved, high collared blouses and jackets. What is she doing here? This club has a fifty-dollar cover charge and frequented mostly by Wall Street wannabes with more cash than charm.
Mara.
She’s looking straight at me, and it sends a welcome jolt of arousal straight to my cock, the mental movie of my bathroom fantasies starting to roll. Then she looks away and bows her head a little. No, don’t stop, baby. Damn, she’s fucking gorgeous in that dress and with her dark hair loose around her shoulders. I want to touch it, feel its silky length sliding through my hands, trace the line of her delicate collarbone with my fingertips.
“Bastian?” A hand touches my thigh. I reluctantly turn my head back to the woman sitting next to me. Belinda James, managing editor of Eros Publishing. Thirty-eight, five-foot five-inches, one hundred and twenty-two pounds. Divorced, no children. Her stats roll like movie credits in my mind. I’m very good at memorizing data, and the material that Liam Dunnigan presented to me was no exception.
She publishes erotic literature. I guess he thought that would turn me on, but I feel nothing. I watch her glossy, peach colored lips moving but it seems like a digital animation. The sound comes out, but the motions don’t quite match. “Yes?”
She smiles. “You seem a million miles away. Your mind on one of your overseas projects, I’m guessing?”
I return the smile and take a sip of my drink. A project? Not exactly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be thinking about work,” I say in apology.
“That’s quite alright, you have a multi-billion-dollar corporation riding on your shoulders. All I have to worry about is correcting typos and filing submissions into YES or NO piles. Hardly on the same level,” she says with a light laugh.
She tilts her blonde head in an alluring manner. Belinda’s a good-looking woman, accomplished and established in her industry; not to mention age-appropriate. So why am I not interested? I remind myself it’s only my first date. It might take a while to get into the habit again.
Her words echo in my head. Hardly the same level. Yes. A different level indeed from a fresh-faced, recently graduated intern with a passion for rocks, who has a whole world of experiences, ambitions, and dreams yet ahead of her. Whose resume is still being written, instead of a re-released, four-page historical novel. That excites me more than any porn paperback ever could.
“Well, it sounds much safer than my line of work. I envy you, having complete control over what and whom you choose to work with and the quality of your end product. No TRIF stats to worry about or a NCSO Safety Officer dogging your every step like the grim reaper. I can’t say the same.”
Belinda looks a bit put off at my stream of industry-related jargon but rallies an understanding smile. “I suppose not.” She stirs her cocktail with purpose, apparently drawing a blank for a response.
I have a feeling this date has reached the equivalent of the “saggy middle” in a first-draft manuscript.
“Will you excuse me?” I ask, setting down my now-empty glass.
“Of course. Hurry back.”
I nod and slide off the padded barstool, intending to make my way to the men’s room, but I can’t help throwing a glance toward Mara’s table as I move through the crowd. She’s not alone. Two interlopers have appeared on the scene, positioning themselves like opposing lions seeking dominion over the pride; jockeying for the privilege of impregnating the lionesses for generations to come. I’ve watched it happen on the African savannah and know it doesn’t end well. Annoyance burns in my chest. Neither of them is fit to graze on the same grass as a creature of perfection like Mara Snow. My feet change trajectory on instinct.
As I approach the table, Leo1 and Leo2 suddenly get up from their chairs. That’s it, whelps. Step aside. They move off toward the shooter bar, leaving the girls unguarded. Mara’s head swivels in my direction, a look of both amazement and relief in those lovely jewel-toned eyes. “Good evening, Mara. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Mr. Kingsley,” she says, almost as a question, her lips curving into a tentative smile. “Not at all, I, we, were just having a few drinks,” she continues, gesturing to her friend. I spare a polite acknowledgment to the girl. She’s attractive too, but what blonde twenty-something isn’t, in the empirical sense? This one’s no innocent cub, however. She’s giving me the “blow jobs for beer” look, which will probably work wonders on the two jerks who just left, but it barely registers on my jaded, discerning sensors. I prefer my women less obvious; more of a challenge than the shallow climb to the summit of Mount Skank.
“Hello. Bastian Kingsley,” I say with a nod.
“This is my friend and roommate, Lacey Strudwick,” Mara says.
“Hel-lo,” Lacey says, extending her hand in a ‘kiss my ring’ fashion. I stifle a chuckle and accept a handshake. “I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Kingsley.”
Her voice is low and somewhat gravelly, the air of a performer about her. Under other circumstances, I might be intrigued.
“Have you now? Don’t believe everything you hear, and only half of what you read,” I say with my signature, emotionless smile. I’ll save the real one for better things. I turn back to Mara. God. She’s like a drink of water in this stifling desert of parched, corporate corpses; a graceful crane at the edge of an oasis, fending off poisonous scorpions and treacherous reptiles. “Are you finding the service here satisfactory? If not, I’ll have a word with the manager. He’s a professional acquaintance.” I feel Lacey gaping in awe even without looking at her.
“Oh, no... no. Everything’s fine. This place is amazing. I’d never have dreamed of coming here if it weren’t for Lacey. She’s in the entertainment business,” Mara says by way of excuse, as though deeming the club somehow above her social station. My mind briefly queries what sort of entertainment her friend supplies, but I don’t want the conversation veering away from Mara. That may not be possible unless I lure her aside from the electric blonde and the two trip-switch dudes just waiting to capitalize on her energy. I see them returning from the bar with a tray of shooters. Christ, grow the fuck up, assholes.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve found time to relax and enjoy yourself outside of work. It’s good to unwind and de-stress. It keeps you healthy,” I say, preparing to make an exit. “And I like my employees to stay healthy.” Mara smiles and nods. If she perceived any double entendre from that statement, she didn’t show it. My guts churn at the thought of abandoning her to these incompetent predators; or worse, watch her succumb to their witless tactics and potentially leave with one of them. “Why don’t you stay and have a drink with me before you go? I’ll be at the main bar.” I motion my head ever so slightly, already thinking about how to vacate Belinda’s chair. “And tell your server to send me your tab,” I add, glancing between the two girls to make sure they know the gesture is meant to include the entire table. I’m not above stealing my competition’s thunder by flashing my wallet. With the added benefit of making the aspiring “players” look like chumps in the process.
Mara looks even more beautiful with that look of dreamy gratitude in her eyes. I’d like to keep it there. Say yes, Mara.
“S-sure, Mr. Kingsley,” she stammers. “That’s very generous of you, you don’t have to do that,” she says with a shake of her pretty head. It makes her shiny brunette locks skim over her bare shoulders, and I want to feel the same sensation—her hair brushing over my chest as she tosses her head in the throes of orgasm.
“It’s my pleasure,” I say. “And since we’re off the clock, there’s no need to be so politically correct. Call me Bastian.”
Watching her open smile spread across her face is more beautiful than a sunrise. For the first time in a while, it feels like the dawn of a new day, and that I have something to look forward to. “Alright... Bastian.” The sound of my name on her lips sends a vibration straight to my cock again and, if I’m not careful, I’ll bar up right here.
I nod and turn away with the curt professionalism ingrained in me. She’s my employee. It’s just a drink. I haven’t crossed a line. Yet.