A Valentine for His Secretary (His Secretary: Undone) (3 page)

When I walk up to the bar, a middle-aged man with an impish smile spots me immediately. He sets down the glass he's cleaning and comes up to me.

"You must be Meg," he says, extending his hand for me to shake. "Thanks for stopping by."

"My pleasure," I tell him, smiling back, because his happiness is infectious. "So I assume I don't have to explain myself."

He shakes his head. "But I'd love to serve you a drink before I send you on your way, if you have a moment."

"Sorry, I wish I could. Maybe tomorrow?" It does amuse me to imagine Adrian hanging out in a place like this. I might be able to drag him out of the room a few times before we go back home.

"All right, all right." The man pulls an envelope from under the register and hands it to me. "Good luck, sweetheart."

I rip the envelope open.

They named me after something they were supposed to remember...

I snort to myself. Too easy. The Alamo Drafthouse is right down the street. Did he actually think this was going to be challenging? Well - making the hike in these shoes would've been dangerous for me once upon a time, but I've gotten a lot better at rocking designer heels so I look the part of Adrian Risinger's girlfriend. And to be honest, I rather enjoy it.

Leaving Darwin's Pub behind with a little wave to the man at the bar, I step back out into the night.

The hardest part is finding an intersection that's not already packed with traffic to cross the street. While I wait for one of the walk lights to change, a teenager calls out to me from the curb.

"Hey, do you have any change?"

I dig in my pockets for some crumpled bills.

"Thanks," she says, as she takes them. "Hey - do you have any weed?"

Laughing, I run for the crosswalk as I see the red numbers start to count down. "No, sorry."

"Thanks anyway," she shouts after me. "Hey, you look really nice."

I do, don't I? I must be glowing. Ever since Adrian and I got together, I'm starting to notice the kind of attention from men that always eluded me before. I guess knowing there's an insanely hot boyfriend waiting at home for you does wonders for the old self-confidence. I'm feeling it particularly keenly tonight, as I sway down the sidewalk in four-inch heels that make me tower over half the population, but not my Ryn. Never him.

A passing hipster, probably ten years too young for me, smiles and calls me "cutie." I'm sort of glad Adrian's not here to murder him.
 

The neon lights of the Drafthouse glow like a beacon. I step inside, taking a moment to catch my breath. I didn't realize how quickly I was racing to get here, anxious to collect my prize.

After taking a second to finger-comb my hair so I look a little less crazy, I step up to the ticket counter.

"Hi," I say, into the microphone. "This might sound weird, but I'm doing a scavenger hunt."

Showing no sign that he thinks it's weird, the guy behind the glass smiles and nods. "That's cool, but nobody told me anything. Jared?"

He turns to the other guy behind the counter, who shakes his head. "Sorry, hon. You can look around if you want, but if you wanna go into a live theater you gotta buy a ticket."

"Okay, thanks." Now I'm stumped. After the hostess at the restaurant had my next clue, I figured they'd all be simple. There must be something I'm overlooking, but I have no particular memories attached to the Drafthouse.
 

Something to do with a movie, then.

My eyes scan the walls, looking at the many framed posters, but nothing stands out. What am I missing?

I feel like I can practically hear Adrian laughing over my shoulder. I almost give in to the temptation to look around and see if he's following me, but of course that's ridiculous. If he wanted to watch me fail spectacularly at this diabolical scheme, he'd just wire up some cameras around the whole city. He can do whatever the hell he wants.

Feeling lost, I turn to the list of showtimes. Maybe it's actually in one of the theaters, but how am I supposed to find a clue in the dark?
 

Then, something catches my eye. A listing on one of the theaters - PRIVATE BOOKING. It seems to be running through every time slot.

Oh, Adrian. Never afraid to inconvenience everybody else to fulfill his whims.

I approach the counter again. "Excuse me, do you know what's going on with that private booking?"

"Oh, right." The guy shakes his head. "Sorry, I forgot about that. They just told us not to let anybody in. Probably has something to do with your thing, right?"

"I have to assume so." Chewing on my lip, I think hard. "They really told you not to let
anyone
in?"

"I'm pretty sure," says Jared. "But I don't think anybody's in there, so...if you want to sneak in, it's the second theater on the left. I didn't see anything."

Well, this is going to be embarrassing if I end up crashing someone's private party, but my instincts drive me forward. The door creaks loudly as I step inside, praying that I really am alone.

A glance around the theater tells me I am. The house lights are up, the screen is blank, and there's no sign of anything telling me where to go next.

This being the Drafthouse, there are hundreds of little white cards intended for ordering food, tucked behind counters that run the length of each row of seats. He wouldn't be diabolical enough to hide my next clue
there
, would he? It'd take hours to go through them all.

Suddenly, I hear a rapid shutter noise, and the unmistakable hum of a projector firing up. I glance up at the back of the theater, but of course, all I can see is the blinding light. The projectionist must have been waiting there for me to come in.

The screen comes to life, and I immediately have to stifle a laugh. A young Colin Firth is on screen, brooding his heart out, in a scene that I once told Adrian was so crucial to my formative years.

"You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett, arguably the prototype for our relationship. While Lizzy indignantly tells him what an arrogant S.O.B. he is, I glance around the theater one more time, still at a loss to figure out what I'm supposed to be looking for.
 

Suddenly, the scene ends. For a moment it's just blank white on the screen and silence, then a song kicks in through the sound system, some old eighties ballad, which at first I think must be a reference to the "80's night" themed party we attended at the conference where we first discovered so much about each other. But I don't remember this song, and anyway, he's obviously trying to tell me something. I try to hone in on the lyrics. It's about finding love with someone you didn't expect, who's been around all along. A pretty apt description of our relationship, I guess, but I don't really see the point in reminding me that
the search is over, because he was with me all along...

Oh, shit.

Shit.

He's
not what was with me all along.

"God damn it, Risinger," I mutter to myself. I dig into my purse with both hands, searching for something that feels unfamiliar. I find it in moments. A little envelope with something flat and stiff inside.
 

A hotel key, of course.

With a string of more creative profanity, I slip the key out of its home and examine it. Of course, it's the same hotel where we stayed last time, but there's nothing indicating a room number. Luckily, I remember the numbers of our adjacent rooms from the conference. There's almost no doubt in my mind that he's arranged to get at least one of them again.

There's a little slip of paper in the envelope, too, which at first seems to just have the hotel rules and a copy of the free WiFi code. But then I notice something scrawled across it in Adrian's elegant hand.

For my brilliant Meg, who somehow always manages to miss the obvious. Come and claim your reward.

***

I slide the key into 606, but the light just flashes red at me. Frowning, I try again.

It must be 605, then.

Praying I've gotten it right this time, I walk over to the next door. My hand is shaking as I fumble the key into the slot.

Why am I so nervous?

The light flashes red. Shit. Could I really be so far off in my assumptions? If it's not either of the rooms we stayed at before, what could it possibly be?

Taking a deep breath, I try again.

The light turns green, and I hear the gentle click of the lock disengaging.
Thank God
.

Room 605 is eerily quiet. The first thing I do is explore the darkened corners, check the closet and the bathroom to make sure he's not here. But I can already sense I'm alone. There might be a clue in the room, but I suspect I already know what I'm supposed to do.

The huge curtains next to the bed are drawn closed, but I know what's behind them. Sliding glass doors, and a balcony that connects to Room 606. I pull them open, slowly.

My heart squeezes in my chest, thumping painfully hard when I catch sight of him. Just like the last time, he's facing away from me, leaning on the railing. The breeze ruffles his hair, and I'm frozen to the spot.

Being in this place reminds me of how it felt back then, when everything between us was fragile and unsure. I used the glass doors as an excuse to tease him, and while he was angry at the time, the payoff did not disappoint. This time, he's turning the tables on me.
 

I wonder how I'm supposed to signal him that I'm here. He might've heard the thunk of my door closing, if he were in the main part of his room. But I don't know how long he's been standing out there. Should I knock on the glass? Or have I accidentally circumvented the game by overlooking some clue that's hidden here?

As if on cue, my phone buzzes. I fumble it out of my purse and stare at the message.

Well done. You know what to do next.

Of course, when I look up, he's smiling at me.

With two feet of air and a quarter-inch of glass between us, it's tempting to yank the door open and tackle him to the floor. But I know that's not what this game is supposed to be, and I did promise to play by the rules. Clearing my throat, I give him a casual little wave and head over to the mini-bar.

He doesn't have to say what he's thinking. I can read it in his eyes, in the casual drape of his body as he leans against the glass. I can see it clear as day in the sinful curve of his lips as he watches me.

Put on a show for me. If it's good enough, you'll get your reward.

The last time I did this, I felt bold. But now I'm anything but, which is exactly what he wants.
 

I pour myself a bourbon and stir it with my finger, the way he once did in front of me. When I lick the sweet, smoky liquid off my finger, though, I make a much bigger show of it. At first I pretend that I've forgotten he's even there, but I do shoot a glance to make sure he's watching. As if he wouldn't be.

After that, I take a sip, swallowing deliberately and letting out an exaggerated sigh of pleasure. He can't hear me, but he can see my lips part and my eyes close, my chest rising and falling as I take in the air and let it out. I set my drink down on the end-table and step out of my shoes, one by one.

Then, I sit down on the edge of the bed, hiking up my skirt just enough to undo my garters. As I roll one stocking down my leg, I notice him loosening his tie.

He loves the garters. From here, he can't tell if I'm wearing panties or not, which is exactly how I want it. I have to weigh the sickening cliche of doing a
Basic Instinct
thing right now against the reaction I'm guaranteed to get...

As I roll down my other stocking, the decision is made. Obviously I've got quite bit more...
thunder
than Sharon Stone, so it's hardly going to be as subtle, but I have to give it a shot. And anyway, subtlety isn't the name of the game when it comes to flashing.

Reaching for my drink, I let my thighs part just enough to answer the unspoken question. It takes all of my self-control not to look at him while I do it. I smile to myself and cross my legs, taking another sip before I risk a glance at him.
 

His jaw twitches, his eyes widening slightly. He's keeping it together, more or less. A moment later he pulls out his phone again, and mine is soon buzzing with another message.

Check the drawer.

He must be talking about the nightstand. Curious, I lean over and tug it open.

A giggle bursts out of my mouth, and I try too late to stifle it with my hand. As if it matters. Adrian has replaced the standard fare with a copy of his very first book, beautifully bound and waiting for me.

I pick it up, and flip it open to the title page.

For my biggest fan. I thought you might
enjoy
this more than what the Gideons left for you.

P.S. Just in case that's not abundantly clear, I want you to show me how much my writing turns you on. I didn't plan on being so blunt, but I predict by now I'll be feeling a little impatient.

P.P.S. I can't stop thinking about you touching yourself while you read my book. God, I fucking want you, but it's a month before Valentine's as I write this and I know if I come to bed now I'll end up telling you the whole plan. I'm going to jerk off while I picture your fingers sliding into your pussy, and I'm going to come so fucking hard.

P.P.P.S. Remember the safe word is red.

P.P.P.P.S. Remember to hide this book and/or destroy it before we have guests. Or children.

I laugh - a little shakily, because his words have turned my little quiver of nervous excitement into a molten core of
holy fuck I'm turned on
. And I haven't even started reading the actual book yet.
 

This one, I haven't read in a long time. Not since before
us
. Not since before I even knew who the supposed author, "Natalie McBride," even was. I read what he writes now, of course, but going back in time like this is going to be a hell of a head-trip.

I already know what scene I'm going for. It's about halfway through the book, when the hero, Dirk, ties up the lovely ingenue Amanda while she's seated on the floor. He arranges candles around her legs so she can't move without risking the flames against her skin. Then, he blindfolds her, and proceeds to talk dirty.