A Kept Woman (14 page)

Iris smirked and angled her head backwards and took him deeper into her throat, and Michael groaned. Somehow it was no longer quite so important to keep one eye on the clock. Damn. Feel that sucking. His cock was always more awake than he was in the mornings anyway. ‘I gotta go,’ he breathed.

‘Not right yet, baby.’ She broke off and lifted those puppy-dog eyes to his.

‘Stop talking,’ Michael growled. He pulled her lips back on to him and spread his thick, hard thighs on the bed. Her bleached-blond hair was bobbing up and down in an amazingly distracting way.

Wasn’t he doing something new at work this mor.ning?

He didn’t remember. He didn’t remember anything. He didn’t even know where he was. There was nothing, on his mind but his hard thickness, and Iris’s clever, eager mouth surrounding and sucking him.

Michael gasped and abandoned himself to the moment. This was better than an alarm clock any day.

He got out of the subway on Sevemh and Fiftieth an hour later, washed, shaved, newly suited, and with his mind cleared and body relaxed. Iris and he had a date that night, but he wasn’t thinking about her any more. She was filed away in the back of his brain. The commuters around him marched past up the grimy steps and pqured out into midtown, everybody intent on the day’s hustle ahead, gel:ting those dollars, making that sky-high rent roll. How was it that he’d signed a deal that upped his compensation to sixty grand a year, Michael asked himself, and yet his financial problems were worse than ever?

He pushed open the door to the Blakely’s building and exchanged morning greetings with the security guard. Michael made a point of asking how people were doing. When he’d been a doorman as one of his four jobs working through college, people had treated him like a piece of furniture, even people he saw day in, day out, for months. Cicero never let people push him around, but he reckoned politeness didn’t cost a dime. And in Manhattan, politeness made you stand out, too.

The elevator came and he looked over his half-decent suit. The first thing he’d done wheiq the money came in was to get a bank loan and invest in some clothes. Shoes and suits did not come cheap. Then there was the new apartment; for two thousand a month he got a tiny, first floor, one bedroom TriBeCa walkup with a minute alcove that served as a den, but it was in a good location. From now on he was going places, and he should start

with a good address, personal comfort was secondary. The apartment had space for one double bed, and that was about all he needed. His bills were already starting to mount, so he had very little stuff. Hell, minimalism was supposed to be fashionable anyway. Not that Michael really cared. It suited him to live where he did, so everybody else could whistle. Iris had expressed surprise the first time he took her home, but when she saw his expression, she’d wisely concluded that maybe she should shut up.

The fourth floor was deserted, as usual. Michael racked his brain. Something was meant to be different today. What was it? He asked Joey to ride up with the keys, and remembered as he unlocked and switched the lights on: Diana Foxton was meant to be here. Michael grinned privately to himself. What was more likely, he wondered, that she’d be late, or that she wouldn’t come at all?

The sooner she realised that it was a foolish idea, the better. He really didn’t need a time waster in the office.

Diana swung her heels delicately out of the back door of the Bentley which Richard was holding open for her. She smiled and tipped him her usual ten dollars, and looked up at the Blakely’s building. This was a first, wasn’t it? To come here and not be picking Ernie up? She pushed through the heavy glass doors, speed-dialling Felicity on her cell phone as she did so.

‘Darling, are you awake? No?’

Diana punched the elevator button as Joey Petano, on the front desk, drank in the itsybitsy heels and clinging silk dress.

Felicity sat up in her bed, cell phone pressed to her ear. When Diana called, she had to be awake. Even at this ungodly hour.

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‘For you, of course I am, Di, sweetie. What’s new? More bad behaviour from Ernie?’

‘No, no. He’s being a lamb. He said it was a man he met the other morning. Anyway, I have got myself a job, working for an affiliate company in the Blakely’s building.’

‘Really.’ Felicity’s heart sank. If Ernie had got her a job so that she could be close to him, actually in his office, maybe the marriage wasn’t shaky - maybe their intelligence was all wrong.

‘Yes. Not on his floor, about twelve storeys below… and he had nothing to do with it, I got it myself.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Felicity said, her face creasing in a genuine smile. She twitched open her curtains to let the morning light in. ‘A new start for you, dear. What does Ernie think of all this?’

‘He thinks I’ll quit, but I won’t. Anyway, must dash, the elevator’s here and it’ll cut me off.’

‘Do call me later, sweetie,’ Felicity suggested kindly, as her friend hung up.

She relaxed against her pillows. That meant Ernie would be at home on his own right now. Languidly, Felicity punched the speed-dial for the Foxtons’ private number.

Diana stepped off the .elevator at the fourth floor. The office lights were on; maybe some inefficient cleaner had left them on the night before. The door had a small, unostentatious plaque next to it. Green Eggs Books. A Blakely’s Affiliate Company. Not very impressive, frankly. Nothing like the bronze etched plate and statuary that greeted the visitor to the main Blakely’s office, with her husband’s name emblazoned all over it. She would have to see what she could do about that.

She pushed open the door and looked around, disappointed. Judging from the way Cicero was dressed she

assumed he would at least have come into a little cash. These offices were clean, spare, functional and little else. Architectural plans were mounted on the walls, which were cream and, as she peeked into the individually locked offices, she noted that the furniture was some kind of plain, rather old-fashioned brown wood. Sure, it was light and airy, but couldn’t they have been a little more extravagant, a bit more imaginative? She’d soon persuade Cicero that her touch was needed to brighten the place up and—

‘Nice to see you, at last.’

Diana jumped out of her skin and spun around. There he was, lounging against the only open door in the whole place. He looked relaxed, confident and cocky. One dark eyebrow was raised as he examined her outfit.

‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped. ‘You scared

me.’

‘I scare a lot of people. I don’t see why I should scare you, though. It’s eight twenty-five.’

‘I’m not late,’ Diana said defensively, wondering how long he’d been standing there. Had he watched her raising herself on tiptoe peeking in through all the windows? She blushed. ‘You said eight thirty.’

‘I said I would be here at eight thirty, and therefore you should be in at quarter past. You’re ten minutes late.’

Normally she’d have about an hour an a half left to lie in bed right now. Diana swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

Michael registered somewhere deep down that she hadn’t offered him an excuse, but he wasn’t all that mollified. The girl was outrageously, scandalously beautiful. What did she think she was doing, turning up to his office looking like that? It was a good thing Iris had been busy this morning, he told himself, or he’d very definitely have his concentration shot all day.

‘Can we talk about your clothes, Mrs Foxton?’

‘You can call me Diana. And yes, you can.’ She waited proudly for the compliments she knew were about.to flow almost against his will. It must kill Cicero to give her compliments. ‘Go ahead.’

‘They aren’t suitable for the office.’

Diana started. Had she heard him right? But yes, he was standing across from her with folded arms and a direct, frank black stare.

‘What’s wrong with how I’m dressed, Michael?’ He paused. Actually, he hadn’t taken the time to stop and analyse it. Her neckline wasn’t low-cut, and her skirt reached to below the knee. The silk fabric clung sensuously to every inch of her, but you couldn’t see anything. Maybe she was actually old-fashioned enough to wear a slip, or mybe she just wasn’t wearing panties. Oh hell. Now his groin was starting to miraculously recover. Stop thinking’like that, Cicero, he lectured himself sternly. Cut that out.

‘Your shoes,’ he said, grasping at a straw. ‘Strappy sandals aren’t good for office attire. And I prefer Mr Cicero, Diana.’

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Diana struggled to keep her cool. ‘You prefer to be called what?’

‘Mr Cicero. This is my company, and I’m the president. I like a formal attitude; it promotes respect.’

The big brute was staring her down. He was deadly serious. Diana wondered angrily if she should go back to Mrs Foxton, but she didn’t want to look childish: Blast him!

‘If you have a formal office dress code, Mr Cicero, you should have told me that before I got into work. Then I could have conformed to it,’ she shot back.

Michael suppressed a smile of admiration. She was quick on her feet for a spoiled brat. But he wasn’t going to give her her head - Michael was the boss here, and he had guys ten years older than he was reporting to him now. It was vital to maintain control, otherwise things would start slipping. And he didn’t like it when things started doing that.

‘We do have a formal dress code,’ he replied, ‘but you’re right, we don’t have it written up. You can bring a dictation pad into my office after you’ve made my coffee. And that’ll be your first task as my assistant. You’ll meet the other people you’ll be reporting to later.’

‘Other people? I thought I was your assistant,’ Diana said, bleakly.

She had the most awful feeling that this job wasn’t going to be nearly as much fun as she’d anticipated. ‘You’re one of them - the most junior, as I said, a Girl

ii8

Friday. Susan is my senior assistant, so you’ll answer her phones when she’s busy, make her coffee, and do whatever filing and photocopying she needs. She’ll show you where all of that stuff is.’

‘Great,’ said Diana, with heavy sarcasm that Michael totally ignored.

‘Follow me. I’ll show you the kitchen.’

Diana made a face at Cicero’s broad back as she teetered behind him towards the kitchen. It was functional like the rest of the space and absolutely tiny. She hadn’t seen a kitchen this small since she was sharing a flat with her girlfriends back in London.

‘Here’s the kettle, the coffee machine, tea, coffee, and cookies. I keep milk and half and half in the fridge, employees c, an put their personal foods in there too, if they have bagels, or whatever. One of your duties is to keep the kitchen clean and nicely stocked. Our budget is forty dollars a week for everything, so keep within that. Mugs are up here.’

‘Where’s the dishwasher?’ Diana asked, horrified. He was telling her she had to clean up a kitchen?

‘There isn’t one. You’ll do all that yourself. Mostly you

won’t spend much time in the kitchen, though.’ ‘Good,’ Diana said faintly.

‘You’ll be too. busy filing and typing.’

Diana steadied herself. Was it her imagination, or were her shoes already starting to hurt? She couldn’t take much more of this, and the day hadn’t even started yet. But Cicero was looking at her in these heels, he was maybe an inch shorter than she was, but it still felt like he was looking down at her - like he was trying to hide a smile at her dismay, like he expected her to quit any second.

Diana was spoiled and lazy, but she was also extremely stubborn. Her pride made her lift her head as she smoothed down her dress.

‘Sounds good.’

‘So we’ll get to it. Fix me a coffee, and one for yourself, if you want, and then come down to my office at the end

of the hall, and we’ll make a start.’

‘Right,’ Diana agreed.

She watched him as he turned sharply on one heel and marched off down the corridor. I hate him, she thought. Resentfully, she switched on the percolator and started to fish around for the filter cups. Thank God Felicity could not see her now. It was all too humiliating.

Ernie had invited her over out of curiosity. He dealt with prying industry reporters every day, and he knew veiled insinuations when he heard them. This Felicity woman, a good-looking bird, one of Diana’s crowd, he vaguely remembered her. It was weird for a woman to call a man out of the blue, wasn’t it? Anyway, Ernie enjoyed gossip. He had closed some good deals from indiscreet tidbits from wives. Who was this Felicity hitched to? He couldn’t recall. But Mira had not called this morning probably disciplining some other guy, the hot little slut so Ernie had time to muck about.

He had Consuela prepare a lavish breakfast and serve it out on Diana’s recently landscaped terrace. He dismissed her, and settled down to wait. You didn’t need the servants listening in when business was being discussed. Little bastards might go out and place orders with some online broker and make money off your insider info. Ernie didn’t know if Consuela’s English was up to that, but he didn’t propose to take any chances. He had got rich by following a number of principles, one of which was to never take anything for granted, and another of which was never to trust a soul.

Felicity was ushered onto the roof terrace about forty minutes later, and Ernie was not disappointed. She was a lean little madam, much more in the standard New York

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style than his Diana, whippet-thin with glossy platinum hair, and a sharp, short dress in cranberry silk matched up with - nice - steep stilettos. They could do some serious damage walking up and down his back. Ernie could almost feel the sharp heels in his skin. His groin stirred mildly. He was intrigued.

‘Felicity, nice to see you again. Take a seat.’ Dreadful accent, Felicity thought, sitting down and making sure to leave him a high view of her thighs, grasped at the top by viciously strong holdups. She was wearing panties, if you could call a see-through Calvin Klein thong panties. What a delicious pad they had here. Quite wasted on an English country lass like little Diana.