Page 1 of Devil In A Suit, Vol. 1

Chapter 1

Everyone wantsto fuck Jared King.

It’s all I’ve heard about for the three weeks I’ve worked at King Advertising.

My co-workers talking about how they want to sink to their knees beneath his desk, be pressed up against the back wall of the elevator, or frisked against the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. There was even a particularly dirty conversation involving what they imagine he might do to them with his expensive silk ties.

That one made me blush so bad I had to run to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.

Not that I blame them. Jared King is probably the sexiest man on the East Coast, and a billionaire to boot. He’s dark and broody, with smoldering brown eyes and broad shoulders.

But as I’ve also learned while covering for his assistant, Jared King is cold and calculating, a complete and total jerk.

Every day from noon until 1pm (when Alec is at lunch) I answer phones, take messages, and pray that Mr. King doesn’t return from lunch before Alec can relieve me.

“Jared King’s office,” I say now, only half-achieving the smooth-as-butter professional phone voice that I’ve been practicing since I started at King Advertising. Of course, I was hoping to use that voice with my own clients or in pitch meetings, not answering the CEO’s phone. But as the lowest level copywriter, I’ve been tasked to take all the jobs no one else wants, and that includes covering Jared King’s assistant’s desk when he’s out of the office.

I doubt even the women who want Mr. King to ride them like show ponies would want this assignment. But as a newly minted business school graduate with only two suits to my name, I can’t be choosy.

I can’t just take opportunities, I have to make them.

Of course, I didn’t account for the fact that Jared King would barely look at me, much less speak to me.

I’ve been here three weeks and the only word he’s said to me so far has been, “Messages?” And not in a friendly tone that said he was grateful for my service. More in a cold, distant tone, somewhat irritated tone that implied that he wished he could just train a Labrador to do my job and be done with me entirely.

Every day I’d hand him the printout of names and phone numbers I’d taken down during the last hour, and then, without ever pausing to even look me in the eye, he’d disappear behind his office door.

Which he’d then slam shut. Hard.

Thinking about my oh-so-brief and not very friendly encounters with the elusive billionaire makes me shiver as I come back to the present. As much as I’m intrigued by Jared King, I can’t wait for the lunch hour to end, so I can scurry back to my typical role, tucked safely away from any possible interaction with this intimidating person.

“Jared King’s office,” I repeat into the receiver. There’s a low, crackling buzz underlying the connection that spikes every few seconds, completely obscuring the words of the person on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry, Mr. King is away from his desk at the moment. Can I take a message?”

I can’t tell if the sound coming through the phone is more static or an epic sigh. “Tell him … Rochester … version two … needs approval account immediately … version one … Dubai … 417-620.”

It takes me a beat to realize that he is attempting to tell me a phone number, so I quickly scribble down the numbers I can make out.

“I’m sorry sir, your phone is cutting out, can you please repeat that?” I ask, gripping the pen so hard my knuckles turn white.

“Flight to Dubai … unreachable for the next 12 hours … 176 … 32…”

I’m frantically trying to piece together the numbers. Was the 176 part of the 417-620? And did he mention a name even?

“Can you please repeat that?” I ask again, my voice rising over the static like I’m yelling through a tin can and a string. But then the static disappears. There’s a moment of blessed silence, nothing but a slight ring in my ear from the earlier connection, but the peace is quickly overtaken by complete and total dread.

Shit.

I replace the handset on the cradle and stare at the phone, like I can will the guy to call back and fill in the blanks. I glance at the computer where I’d attempted to take a message, but all I have are fragments that look more like clues to catch a serial killer than a coherent phone message.

Shit shit shit.

The glass door of the suite flies open, and a tall figure in an impeccably tailored black suit strides through it. The heels of his large, polished leather shoes — probably Italian, but what do I know from designers— clack menacingly on the tile floor. Just the sight of him standing there, broad shouldered and brooding, his jawline so sharp it could cut glass, makes my eyes go wide and my stomach flip.

Jared King.

Fuck.

My stomach does an epic drop, twisting and turning, feeling like it falls out my feet and through the floor below.