Under His Command (For His Pleasure, Book 17) (3 page)

“And you
were
good at it, apparently. We have no idea if you can be good at this.”

“I know I can be good at this.”

“It might seem like advertising would be a cakewalk compared to the complicated math coursework you’ve pursued at MIT, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Easton smiled, but she sensed somehow that he was patronizing her with his response.

“As an assistant, I think my skills will translate quite well.”

“You’d be wrong.” His smile faded. “You know, I went to school at Yale and studied physics my first two years. I was top of my class, just like you. I even published, just like you. I made that comment about the Nobel Prize earlier to see if you’d correct me or keep your mouth shut. The fact that you had to correct me shows how much you have to learn about the world of big business.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was lying about my qualifications.”

“Who cares? You don’t get points here for being right. This whole world we exist in is about satisfying people.”

Her nipples stiffened and she suddenly got wet as he said the last sentence. His voice had even changed. It was lower in register, throaty, and his eyes had captured her attention completely.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have a lot to learn.”

“You do.”

“But I’m a very fast, eager student.”

His eyes flashed. “I’m not interesting in being your professor. I need someone who knows this world, understands people and how to please them, how to say the right things at the right time. And I need someone who can take meeting minutes, make coffee, and do all the normal assistant stuff the right way.”

“I can do all of it. Everything inside of me tells me this is the right thing. I’m so passionate—“

Easton put up his hand. “Hold that thought a moment. I actually just remembered that I need to make a phone call.” He slid backwards and took out his shiny black leather wallet and then removed from it what looked like a credit card. But it wasn’t any credit card that Kennedy had ever seen before.

The card was completely black, like obsidian, and there was no name of a bank or any credit card company on the front. Instead, there was a series of numbers—fourteen of them to be precise. They were silvery, flashing momentarily at her, but just long enough for her to remember every single one of them in order.

Below the numbers was a pair of symbols:

∞ >

And below those symbols, a street address without a zip code, city or state attached to it.

The image from the card was burned into her mind as she pretended not to watch or listen to him.

Easton stood up and dialed his cell phone, leaving Kennedy to sit wondering why he would have decided to make this call in front of her. “Hello,” he said into the phone.

“Yes, I do.” And then he proceeded to read off the numbers from his card. “Thanks.” A moment went by and he turned his back to her. “Yes, eight o’clock works for me.

Thanks again.”

He hung up his cell phone and put it away, slipped the card back into his wallet and sat down near her once more. For some reason, she felt like she’d been privileged to see something incredibly private, something she really shouldn’t have even known about.

But then again, maybe she was reading into it too much. Easton Rather was a wealthy businessman with some kind of membership to an exclusive organization. There was nothing that out of the ordinary about it.

Easton rolled up one of his shirtsleeves further, displaying his well-muscled forearm before he fixed his attention on her once more. “Let’s get back to our discussion,” he said coolly. “We were interrupted just as you were about to say how passionate you are about this position.”

She nodded, having regained some composure. “That’s right, I am passionate.

I’m incredibly passionate about doing this work.”

“About being a glorified secretary?” Easton said. “Or passionate about Red Jameson?” He snorted. “I’m sorry, Kennedy, but the moment I told you that you’d be working with me instead of Red, it was obvious what really brought you here. And I can’t have someone like that working closely with me. I need a different kind of assistant, and I simply don’t think this is the right field for you.”

“Well I disagree.”

“I’m being honest with you because I want to help you. So just take some friendly advice. Go back to Cambridge, get your old job back. And forget about advertising and New York City. You’re life will be a whole lot easier.”

“I didn’t come here for an easy life. I came here to make a new life.”

Easton stood up and extended his hand. “Best of luck to you in your new life.

Maybe our paths will cross again someday.”

***

As Kennedy left the building, she felt completely confused by everything that had happened. She replayed the interview over and over again in her mind, but none of it made any sense.

He’d never really even given her a chance. From the beginning, he’d said that her resume seemed like a joke, and then he hadn’t let her explain anything or talk about her enormous skillset that she would bring to the table as an assistant.

Maybe that’s because you simply don’t have social game to pull it off, and he saw
right through you. You’re an academic, sheltered and naïve, and he wasn’t impressed by
your high IQ.

If she’d had a chance to research him, she would have known in advance about his educational background—she would have instantly realized that a man who studied physics at Yale wouldn’t instantly be floored by her achievements at MIT.

But Easton Rather had just been sprung on her, and she hadn’t been flexible enough to roll with the change of plans. Instead, she’d gotten knocked off balance, had become defensive and brittle and…well…lame.

“God, what an idiot,” she whispered, putting a hand over her face as she continued walking towards the train station.

Now she would be heading back to her tiny, unfurnished New York apartment with no way of continuing to even pay for it. That apartment was expensive and she’d been banking on getting this job to continue living in the city.

Her whole plan, her whole reason for being here rested on getting hired to do the job.

But that had all come crashing down in a matter of minutes, and Easton Rather had not been impressed or swayed by her—she’d made virtually no impression on him whatsoever.

Other than maybe he seemed to feel kind of sorry for her.

It was humiliating, and Kennedy spent the whole train ride home feeling more and more pathetic. She began to see the ridiculousness of her plan, of running away from her life in Cambridge and MIT to pursue this new existence.

As she climbed the stairs to her apartment, she imagined herself calling Professor Lang and explaining to him that she’d freaked out, but now had come to her senses. She pictured saying the words, “I want to come back if you’ll have me.”

And she knew that he would say yes.

And more than that, she knew that if she went back to MIT now, she’d never leave. Her entire life would be mapped out for her; a series of meaningless classes taught, papers written, books published and dull faculty parties attended.

Kennedy didn’t want to go back.

As she looked around her apartment at the clutter of unpacked boxes and bare walls, she realized that she was still genuinely happy to be there. Her decision to leave MIT wasn’t just some foolish, crazy attempt to shirk her responsibilities. It wasn’t just about coming to New York to stalk Red and Nicole Jameson.

She was here for herself—here to begin to find out who she really was.

The thought made her smile. Easton Rather hadn’t crushed her spirit—she wasn’t going to give up that easily. She recalled how he’d told her to go back to Cambridge, judged her so quickly as lacking what it took to succeed in advertising.

He hadn’t really even given her a chance. Maybe he was sore because he hadn’t done well studying physics at Yale—maybe he was the one who couldn’t cut it. Perhaps he was trying to get back at all the “nerds” who’d outperformed him in college by shooting her down.

As she got to the business of starting to unpack her boxes and trying to set up the new apartment the best way she could, her thoughts drifted. In that mental state, she’d often found herself solving complicated mathematical problems that had eluded her throughout the workday.

Now, while she worked away at the mindless task of unpacking, her mind started to solve another problem. It was a problem she hadn’t even realized was a problem to be solved.

She flashed back to the strange credit card that Easton had exposed to her when he’d made that phone call during the middle of the interview. Why had he chosen that exact moment to make that call? He could have done it after their meeting had concluded, or he could have done it without showing her the card at all. He’d intentionally exposed the card to her, knowing full well that she had a photographic memory.

And hadn’t he done it just after mentioning that he wanted to “test” her claims?

Kennedy was holding a few textbooks that she’d just pulled from one of the boxes, and now she was kneeling on the hardwood floor, books in hand, as if frozen. Her mind worked furiously.

You’re being insane. He told you flat out that you didn’t get the job.

But then another voice whispered:
No. He said he was going to test me. And
maybe everything from that point on was just that—a test. How badly do I want the job,
and just how smart am I? That’s what he wants to find out. That was the point of the
strange credit card.

She couldn’t make heads or tails of those symbols she’d seen on the card. One was the symbol for infinity and the other was a greater than symbol. Infinity is greater than…what? The equation wasn’t complete, the symbols apparently meaningless to her.

The series of fourteen numbers was probably some kind of account number, but that didn’t help her if she didn’t know what company it belonged to.

But there had been one very simple clue on the card.

She’d seen a street address, and it likely went to a street somewhere in the vicinity of Manhattan. Even if it were somewhere in New Jersey, finding the address wouldn’t be all that difficult.

But what will you do, assuming you can even find the place? What does that
card, and whatever company it belongs to, have to do with anything? Do you really think
that showing up at some random address is going to score you points with Easton
Rather? More likely, he’ll simply assume you’re insane and try and hit you with a
restraining order.

Kennedy knew that was a distinct possibility. Maybe he really hadn’t intended her to see the card or to use it as a means of testing her. She might be totally wrong about all of it.

But she was going to try anyway.

With renewed energy, she got her laptop and left the apartment, walking to a nearby hipster coffee shop where she could use the free WiFi. Sitting down with a small coffee, she began searching the address she remembered seeing on the card. That exact street address existed in five cities in the surrounding few hundred miles of Manhattan.

But as she researched further, Kennedy soon realized that four of the locations made no sense at all. Two were private residences, one was a pet store in New Jersey, and one was just a vacant lot that she was able to see in a Google Earth search.

The final possible location was a bar called The Church in Soho, and she imagined that perhaps there was a special VIP card for certain high-powered people who could get special seating or that kind of thing.

Having found the location, she called The Church, while sipping her coffee and watching a young tattooed couple canoodling at a table nearby.

“Church, how may I help you?” answered a gruff sounding man.

“Yes, I was told there was a meeting of the…uh…Infinity…uh…the Infinity Club tonight at eight o’clock?”

There was a long pause on the other end, just long enough for Kennedy to think she’d struck gold. But then the man said, “Excuse me? The what?”

“The Infinity. The group that meets at your bar. I have my account number if you need it,” she said, trying to sound confident.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I think you’ve got the wrong place. This is The Church, and we’re a bar that serves food and liquor, and we have live music. We don’t have anything else going on here that I’m aware of, no private parties or anything tonight.”

Kennedy felt totally deflated. “Okay. Well, thanks for your time.”

“No problem.”

There was a click and then the conversation was over.

She sighed, putting her phone away and mulling over the options. She had a hard time believing that this exclusive club Easton Rather belonged to took place at some random little house in New Jersey or Connecticut. She went as far as to get online and check out the satellite pictures of the other addresses just to make sure—and the houses weren’t mansions or anything of the sort. They were small, middle class homes—

nothing that someone like Easton would have anything to do with.

No—despite the denials from the man on the phone—Kennedy felt certain that this club Easton belonged to was meeting at The Church in Soho, at eight o’clock that night.

And one other thing she was certain of—she would be there.

***

Dressed in high heels and a tight blue sweater with even tighter jeans, Kennedy waited in a short line to get in the door of The Church. She’d tried to dress attractively enough that perhaps she could convince a crabby bartender or manager to dish some dirt on the ultra secret club that she was certain would be meeting somewhere in the bar that night.

Maybe they had a back room where they hosted private events. The Church was a fairly large building, and she thought it possible that there were places that could accommodate that sort of thing.

When she got to the door, an unfriendly guy with a Mohawk and beard checked her ID.

“I’m here for the meeting,” she said, smiling furtively at him.