Page 3 of The Roommate Subtext

His command was nearly enough to push her over. This tease-and-denial dynamic had brought them together, and he knew how much she loved and hated it. As she quivered at the very edge of completion, he groaned his release, shuddering inside her. Her muscles twitched around him as he pulled out, leaving her empty, reminding her of her own desperate, unfulfilled need.

The bed shifted again as he got up. A sharp pinch on each nipple pulled a gasp from her. Then he freed her wrists. “I’m going down to the bar,” he said. “When this door closes, untie yourself and get dressed. Come down to the hotel bar and ask me to please make you come.”

She shivered, seeing the dilemma.

“Oh, you don’t know what I look like.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “I hope the bar isn’t too busy. It would be a shame if you asked the wrong man to make you come. Of course, he might take you up on it. You look especially beautiful when you’re desperate.”

She bit her lip and whimpered.

“See you soon, sweetheart.” The deadbolt unlocked and the door slammed behind him.

Blake skimmed over the doc, making a few grammar edits here and there. Some formatting later, he posted it on his blog and shared it across his socials. Finally, he let himself relax, momentarily reveling in the arousal before heading to his room.

TWO

The Baystate Entertainment Corporation building was easy to spot, housed in one of the tall metal-and-glass almost-skyscrapers towering over Boston. Maggie loved her city. She loved the mix of new and old, the historic architecture alongside the new construction, the quirky people and myriad Dunkins. She had a love-hate relationship with other aspects of Boston living, like the late-summer heat, the erratic drivers, the endless construction.

Maggie’s phone buzzed right as she was digging out her identification for the front security guard. The caller ID was for James Holt, her finance manager. Weird. He never called her out of the blue. She checked the clock and calculated, but she didn’t have time to take this call now and still be on time for her meeting with Chauvel. Reluctantly, she let it go to voicemail. She had to leave her phone behind in exchange for credentials—actual credentials—to let her into the building.

Security delivered news of her arrival into a telephone, and she was sent up to the tenth floor. It was all very austere, the secretary working behind an empty desk: only a computer, a single legal pad, and a steel cup of disposable pens. Two generic black chairs marked the rest of the waiting area. The door behind her bore a placard reading “Arnold Chauvel: Chauvel Enterprises.”

The door opened and Arnold Chauvel entered, tanned and glowing like he’d just stepped off a yacht. He was younger than she’d expected—maybe late thirties or early forties, a few strands of gray threading through his dark brown hair, but with the commanding presence of someone much older. “Marguerite!” He took her hand in both of his, bringing her forward, and she was in his office before she’d realized it. “May I call you Marguerite, or would you prefer Ms. St. Claire? It’s lovely to meet you face-to-face. I’m a big fan of your work.”

“Really?” She hadn’t expected him to have read any of her articles. Business owners didn’t concern themselves with the individual journalists under their employ, did they? “Marguerite is fine,” she added after a moment, although she couldn’t think of him as Arnold. He didn’t seem like an Arnold. He seemed like a Chauvel: powerful, confident, compelling. By the time she got her bearings, he’d already taken a seat behind his large desk. He had a breathtaking view behind him, the corner office looking out on downtown Boston through floor-to-ceiling windows.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” He spun in his chair to look at the view, then turned back around to face her again. “I get so used to it, I forget how it looks to others. Please, sit.”

Maggie sat in the plush leather seat, sinking in slightly. The entire office had the aura of professional elegance, from the broad mahogany desk with filigree accents to the sitting area off to one side with a chair, ottoman, and reading lamp. Large potted plants filled out the space, too. His monitor was off to one side, and a neat stack of paperwork rested in a single tray, held down by a heavy-looking pen. Something was unsettling about the space, though, and Maggie looked around but couldn’t get a good sense of it.

“I appreciate your coming into the office today.” He folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward slightly. “I know most people conduct these conversations online, but I’ve never been a fan of too much screen time. I think it’s bad for business, don’t you?”

Maggie opened her mouth, but Chauvel kept talking. The question must have been rhetorical.

“I think I can get a better understanding of a person by sitting with them. It’s more personal.” He smiled. “Although I know quite a bit about you already.” His smile broadened, getting toothier, suddenly more predatory than welcoming. If he was the predator, she was the prey.

“Oh?” She tried to keep her tone neutral.

“Yes. You probably don’t know this, but your father and mine were business associates back in the day.” Chauvel kept his hands folded as he spoke. There was no fidgeting or unnecessary movements, the kind that made a person seem relaxed. Instead, he kept watching her with that unnatural stillness. “Co-investors in a few different projects. I found records of their partnerships when I inherited Chauvel Enterprises.”

“Interesting.” She wasn’t sure it really was interesting, but that seemed like the right way to respond.

“Yes, you see, we have a number of connections.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Your job here as one of our journalists, our shared family business legacy, and your sister Coralie’s research job as well.”

Maggie didn’t like the sound of Cora’s name in his mouth. “What about my sister’s job?”

He inclined his head. “We received a sponsorship request from her lab. It seems their grant funding has fallen through, and they’re searching for donations to keep their research afloat. Another way in which you and I are connected.”

Cora hadn’t told Maggie the grant funding had fallen through. Something else they’d have to discuss at dinner.

Chauvel seemed pleased they had all this in common. Why list these connections between them, if not to take advantage of them in some way? To take advantage of her? She had barely met Chauvel, but she didn’t trust him. “I see,” she said, although she didn’t.

“I’ve called you in because I wanted to give you fair warning about some … challenges you might be encountering in the next few weeks.” He paused for a moment before the word “challenges,” like he was considering other options. “And to offer my help.”

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “What kind of challenges?”

Chauvel picked up the heavy pen from the stack of papers and began spinning it over his knuckles, catching it each time it looped around the back of his hand. “My lawyers have let me know that there’s a forensic accountant who’s taken an interest in some of the shared investments of our past.”

Maggie frowned. “A forensic accountant?”