Fuck. My night went from great, to complicated, to even more complicated.

With my MacBook in hand, I sink down onto the large, overstuffed sofa in the grand penthouse suite of the Plaza, my home away from home while I stay in New York. It’s nice here, very accommodating, but the color choices are God awful. Blue and gold? It looks like a lot of the hotels I’ve stayed at in the South of France. Frilly, overdone, and just plain gaudy.

Surfing the latest stock portfolios, I narrow my eyes as I come across Masters Consulting Firm. I click on Katy Vanderlin’s link and stare at the picture. Tight body, fiery eyes, and red, plump lips. Reading about her slew of top clients and hard work ethic is overshadowed by the way she felt coming on my cock.

The idea of seeing her again makes me smile, but I need to tamper down the school-boy crush and focus on my main objective. And it sure as fuck isn’t falling for an executive at Masters.

No, that’s the last thing on my agenda.

It's probably best not to see her again, but, I need to be at that picnic. Hell, I need to be anywhere Craig Kendall, president of Masters, is. I’m finally making progress with my plan, and I won’t let some smoldering temptress persuade me otherwise.

What's my plan? I’m a corporate raider, for lack of a better word. Sounds kickass, huh? Well, it is. I buy companies, tear them apart, and resell off the parts for big money.

Right now, I have my sights set on one of the top consulting firms in New York. Yeah, you guessed it...Masters.

I’m still unsure what I’ll do with it once I buy it. Tear it apart? Sell it whole? Run it myself? That’s why I want the inside scoop. I want to get a vibe for the employees. Not only how they work, but how they function as humans.

This is how I operate. It’s how I work. Some may think it’s not a traditional approach, not old-school, but that’s the beauty of it all. Being unconventional is how I’ve become so successful.

Staying incognito to achieve my objective is the main reason I threw out a fake name. Seemed fitting, a gala to save a pony...so I chose Pollux, the Greek patron god of horses.

At thirty-four, I’m a beast in the boardroom. And an even bigger one in the bedroom. Katy Vanderlin just made things even easier for me.

* * *

Sunday morning rolls around, and I smile at my new plan, and maybe a little bit because I get to see Katy again. This is the first time in years I've felt a spark of excitement. She’s fun. I’m sure she won’t be too happy to see me, and it makes it all the more fun. I keep it semi casual in black Armani. Trim button down shirt and slacks. Can't go wrong with Armani.

I step off the street corner, weaving into the throng of people rushing to the Subway on this brisk afternoon in Manhattan. I hit the stairs and slip inside the closing Subway doors to grab a seat. I don’t think I’ve been on the Subway in well, ever. I’ve never ridden this hunk of junk. And now I see why. I'm shoved in between an earbud wearing yuppie and a religious zealot trying to give me a pamphlet on how to get to heaven.

“No, thanks,” I tell him. “Hell has a spot reserved for me.”

The sub pulls in at Grand Central Station, and I hop out, passing by the panhandlers with cardboard signs and street artists trying to get attention. Ninety percent cons. Like me, I guess. Pretending to be someone you’re not.

Fuck, it's cold. My breath hangs in the freezing air, and I wonder how great this “picnic” is going to be. The people last night don't strike me as the type to picnic. When I think of a picnic, I imagine summer green grass, a wicker basket, and sitting on a red and white gingham blanket. Like the kind I used to take with my kid sister, Harper.

Not the large white tent up ahead with the company logo for Masters.

I step inside the chatter filled heated tent, removing my jacket and handing it off to the coat check girl by the front. How is this a picnic? The only ants at this picnic are the army of black clad servers circling the white linen covered tables. Ice sculptures of the board member’s heads sit on each table surrounded by a moat of crystal glasses. I almost laugh. I’ve been to many corporate functions, but this may set a new bar for pretentious.

“Oh, Pollux, you showed up,” Katy’s sultry voice trills from beside me.

I look down at her. “Yeah, of course.” I try my best to smile, but, honestly, my body freezes as I gaze at her.

A small red flower is tucked inside the dark curls on top of her head. It matches the short red dress she’s wearing that hugs her curves.

She grabs my arm, leading me to a less crowded area. “Why are you here?” she whisper-yells at me. “I didn’t think you would really show up.”

I rub the tension in my neck. “Well…”

James is my saving grace when he spots us and rushes over. “Pollux, so glad you could make it.” He shakes my hand. “Let me introduce you to a few people.”

“Uh, sure.” I smile at Katy as I walk away.

He stalks through the crowd, leading me to a table of old guys with thin gray hair and thick glasses.

They exude wealth and old money, wearing designer suits and chatting over bourbon and some fancy leafy shit in a crystal bowl. Fucking perfect. I know who these men are, and the jobs they do, before James even rattles off the next line, “This is the board of directors for Masters,” James says. “Gentlemen, this is Katy Vanderlin’s boyfriend.”

At the perfect moment, Katy slips her arm through mine and plasters on a huge smile.

The men pull their attention from their lunch and all smile, welcoming me.

John Gilmore, the youngest at the table, and that’s an overstatement cause he’s still like eighty or something, speaks, “Katy’s a valued employee. I’m glad to see her settling down so soon after her divorce. We like people we consider for partner to be solid.”

Solid. Divorced. Things click into place. Katy’s not getting this partnership unless she lives up to the family standards on their logo.

“Yes, Pollux is, well, he's great. He’s really something else.” Katy smiles beside me.

He nods. “That’s very well. Why don’t you join us?” the man asks.

“Oh, thanks. But I need to speak to my wonderful boyfriend here about a few things. Please excuse us,” Katy says, grabbing my arm once again.

“Actually, I’d like to sit and chat with these fine gentlemen.” I wink.

She rolls her eyes and turns away, and I chuckle as I watch her hips sway all the way to the bar set up in the far corner.

I pull out a chair and redirect my attention back to the men at the table.

The server slides a bourbon in front of me, and I wrap my fingers around the glass.

“Pollux, what do you do?” Frank Peters asks. He’s only been on the board for less than five years, but they all worship him like a God. And maybe they should, he did graduate MBA Harvard.

“A little of this, a little of that.” I straighten my grey silk tie.

Their craggy eyebrows pull down in disapproval of my answer, and I smile with the confidence I’ve always exuded in these types of situations.

“Pollux, what’s your last name?” a bow tie clad Harold Porter asks.

I see the game they play. Pedigree. Am I from a well-connected family. Next, they’ll ask about my college and where I vacation in the winters.

I tug at my cufflinks. I’m half-tempted to blurt out who I really am. That would wipe the smug glares off their faces.

“Clark,” I answer. “But not like Superman. Batman is way cooler.”

They chuckle. And holy shit. A hand wearing a platinum band on the ring finger lands on my shoulder. The owner. Craig Kendall. At thirty-five he landed this company by marrying Gabi Masters, daughter of the now retired founder, Phillip Masters.

“I like this guy,” he says, taking a seat in the white wicker chair beside me.

If I play my cards right, I won’t even need Katy.

As we converse over politics, I make mental notes. I’m a hit with the board. I’m not sold on them, though. The more we chat, the more I realize if I want to get inside this company, really get a feel for the character, I need to up my game.

After a few more minutes, Katy returns, tugging at my arm. “Honey, I really need to talk to you.”

I gaze briefly at her, and then back at the men of the table. “Women.” I shrug and rise from my seat. “Nice meeting you.”

We head to the bar. When we’re seated, she orders a Moscow Mule, and I do the same.

After the bartender slides the copper mugs to us, she redirects her focus on me, narrowing her blue eyes. “What are you doing here? Please start answering some questions.”

“Fine,” I say, “ask away.”

“Why were you at the party?”

“Horses. I thought there’d be some for sale. You?”

“Very funny. Do you take anything seriously?” She sips her drink, gazing at me from over her copper cup.

“Sure, I do. Don’t you?”

“Do you answer every question with a question?” The red sole of her Louboutin flashes me as her foot bobs in agitation.

“No.” The urge to ramble off another question is nixed when she re-crosses her legs, and I get a glimpse of her inner thigh.

“To answer your earlier question, I take this job very seriously.”

“Why?” I lean back, getting more comfortable in the high-backed barstool. Why does she? It's not hard to figure out these guys are in the wrong era. Based on what I've learned about her, she should have made partner long ago.

She gazes out at the mingling crowd, then focuses her soft eyes back on me. “It’s my livelihood. I love working here, most days. What about you? Do you work?”

“Yeah. I have a job. What do you do here, Katy?”

“Wait. You’re turning everything around.” She holds her hand up, stopping me from going any further. “You’re supposed to be answering my questions. Why won’t you leave me alone? You kind of put me into a predicament here. Now I'm going to have to explain why you're not around.”

Well, we can’t have that. I grab the silverware from the bar, clanking it against the hard copper of the mug.

“Can I have everyone’s attention,” I say, rising from my stool. The drone of chatter stops, and all eyes land on me.

I smile and capture Katy’s hand. The place is silent, waiting. “Katy, my dear. I’m the luckiest man in the room. No, world.” I get down on one knee. “My shooting star in a sky full of constellations, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

Her jaw hits the makeshift marble floor. Figuratively, not literally. Hope that comes later, because I could think of a few ways to give her jaw a workout.