Page 5 of Dark Holiday

When will he understand that I’m just going to keep tormenting them, tearing them down until they finally quit and I get what I want? The doors open, and John and I step out. All smatterings of laughter and merriment stop as I walk into the foyer of my floor, and instead, furious sounds of working take their place. Good. That’s how it should be. These people aren’t getting paid to sit around and laugh all day.

Storming over to my office, I pause at the desk near the glass doors, lips pulled down into a frown at the empty chair and untouched surface. “Well? Where is she?”

John slides up next to me, his frown mirroring my own. “Mr. Robinson said she’d be starting today.”

“Let me guess. You already have an intimate knowledge of what makes her so wonderful and such an asset to this company in general and me specifically.”

His grin widens as he crosses his arms. “Not this time. He had several meetings yesterday, and any one of them could be your girl. He just said she’s highly qualified, smart as a whip, and sure to be a good fit for you.”

Groaning, I wipe a hand over my face, wishing more than anything to take my hair down out of its quasi-professional ponytail and rake my fingers through it. The firm wanted clean-shaven, short hair, just like them. This was the best they were going to get. Settling for rubbing my free hand over my face and sliding my fingers over the clean-cut beard and mustache, I stare at the empty desk, my anger rising.

Nothing really looks out of place except that stupid welcome envelope that everyone gets when they’re hired. Hi, welcome to the family and some such nonsense. This isn’t a family, and they need to stop regarding their employees as such. I pick up the thick envelope, so I can read the name.

As long as it’s not Bunny or Vixen like my last two, she may actually work out. Cynthia. Practical, to the point, and way too familiar. An icy tendril of dread creeps down my spine as I read the name again, sending memories I’d rather repress back up to the forefront. Only one Cynthia that I know was applying for a job. Cynthia Lewis. My Cynthia. But she was supposed to be a lobby receptionist…

How the fuck many Cynthias are there? There’s got to be a lot, right? There’s no way that can be her. There has to be some other explanation because I know her work history, and nothing she’s done could ever warrant her a position in my office. It can’t be. Occam’s Razor states that the simplest explanation is usually the right one. Well, what’s more simple than another Cynthia?

Turning it over, I run my finger along the sealed seam, arguing within myself the merits of just ripping it open and knowing once and for all, but that might be a little much. Besides, there’s really no way in hell that this is my Cynthia.

Still, it doesn’t matter what her name is; she probably isn’t qualified - not if Hank Robinson hired her. Once she gets in, she’ll just have to pack her bags. How competent can she be and still be late on her first day? Tapping my toe, I turn to go to my office when a soft voice pierces the silence.

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry! HR needed me to stop by before I came up. Apparently, I was missing a -.”

Her words are cut off by a screech and the sounds of both her body hitting the floor and papers scattering everywhere. Needing a moment, I pinch the bridge of my nose as John turns around.

“Well, well, well. Look who it is.” John exclaims, his tone a little too cheerful for my liking. Fuck. He did know her, after all. Another personal assistant lured in by the likes of John Nash. He’s the poster child for nepotism at its finest, “flourishing” in a job he didn’t earn, getting pussy left and right with his job title and loads of cash.

I don’t completely fault him; I’m the exact same way, only I worked my way up the ladder. I earned the right to be a jackass. He’s just a kid playing at being a monster. I’m the real deal. He slides away from the desk, and I finally turn, watching in abject boredom as he kneels next to her prone form, helping her to her knees. Same song, different verse. It’s like I’m cursed at this place.

On the one hand, I have a paralegal that’s not horrible at his job but loses his focus when a pair of tits walks by him, and a never-ending barrage of women who think they can actually submit to the level of excellence I demand but always manage to fall short. I lean against the desk, setting my coffee down and crossing my arms.

Her mass of golden hair covers her face, but nothing would be able to hide the hideous nature of her clothes - a frumpy, threadbare jacket that looks about a size or two too big, a skirt that should end at the knees but looks like it will hang down to her calves, and shit brown shoes to top it off, completing the full spectrum of crap colors draping her body. Nothing on her is fashionable or stylish, to say the least. At least her hair is pretty.

Looking back over the office, I glance at the pressed suits and shirts of those working around me. At least she had the decency to iron her clothes before coming in. As she lifts her head, her hair slides back away from her face, revealing enormous, light blue eyes. The same eyes that peered up at me all those years ago, guileless as she lied to my face.

Fucking hell. It is her. Damn it, Occam! I blink a few times, just to make sure it’s really Cindy and not some mirage. Seeing her in the flesh and not through the cameras I have peppered about or the piss-poor images my PI gives me hits me in the gut. Here she is in front of me…

Arousal sweeps through my body as she stays there on the floor, on her knees, a position that’s haunted my dreams for years after I left. How many times had I wanted to order her there, to force her to kneel for me as I defiled her mouth, claiming her as mine? And now, the lying little minx managed to get a position in my office, no doubt using her deception yet again.

Even though her eyes are wide with what I assume is shock at seeing me, that’s probably fake too. For her to be here, she would have to know who she was working for. What the hell would be surprising about me being here? None of this makes any sense. By all rights, Cindy shouldn’t be in my office.

She should be downstairs with all the other women, checking people in, taking down basic information, and directing them to where they need to go - simple jobs. Something that can’t really fuck up an office. Or, more importantly, fuck up my office. There has to be some sort of trickery involved.

There’s no other way it could have happened. She had the receptionist job in the bag. Hell, even Hank should have been able to concentrate on her resume if that’s the type of outfit she wore in her interview. It does absolutely nothing to show off the figure I know is hidden beneath all that second-hand frumpery.

Even after I moved to New York, I kept tabs on Cindy. She was an itch I never could scratch, so I watched her from afar. I knew each and every job she worked at. I knew about the men she brought into her home or went on a date with. Hell, I could probably even find out what color panties she was wearing right now if I wanted to. And I do. I want nothing more than to drag her into my office, draw the blinds, and rip away those awful clothes before turning her over my lap and wearing her ass out for all the torment she put me through.

I thought I was getting over my obsession. In fact, once I settled back in after getting back from this most recent business trip, I was going to cancel the PI and actually force myself to find another girl to lust after. How in the hell am I supposed to do that when here she is in front of me?

John extends his hand, helping Cindy to her feet. His other hand slides over the top of hers, clasping it as one would a lover, and my vision goes from red to black.

It doesn’t matter that she’s not officially mine; I’ll be damned if she ends up with that snot-nosed little punk. She doesn’t need someone like him. What she needs is a firm hand and an even firmer sense of control. John doesn’t have any of that. He’s like a dog going after the next best scent. It would take him all of what, a week to get bored with Cindy?

“Don’t you have something better to do than fawn over my assistant, like, oh, I don’t know, preparing my briefs?”

Humor dances in John’s eyes as his lips quirk up into a smirk. Turning his body towards Cindy, he places a finger over his lips, looking me up and down as if deep in thought. “I kinda pegged him for a boxers guy, but what do I know?”

Her lips purse into a thin line as red brightens her cheeks. I know that look. It’s the same look she got when one of my guys told a raunchy joke, and she tried desperately not to laugh. She always acted like she was better than us, above us, but deep down, Cindy still found us funny; she still flocked around us whenever she could.