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“Why are you still here?”
Lucy whirled at the sound of the voice and drew in a deep breath. Ah yes…the dreaded Lucifer. He’d forgotten his devil’s fork somewhere, but still looked the part with that fierce red fury in his eyes. He’d changed, and now wore a pair of loose drawstring pants and a semi-sheer white cotton shirt that was possibly his sleep attire.
He looked haggard, tired and angry. Even so, he managed to exude a blatant sex appeal that shouldn’t pull at her—but unfortunately did. It left her wondering if maybe she was a masochist of sorts, because he seemed to be bothered enormously by her presence, while she, on the other hand, seemed to want to tear off her clothes for him.
She really ought to see a shrink about this.
She cleared her throat to answer him. “I was told that every afternoon we should review your activities for the next day as well as your social calls for the upcoming weeks,” she said in a professional, no-nonsense tone. Walking toward the briefcase she’d earlier set atop a lion-pawed coffee table, she briskly opened it and pulled out her notepad, flipping it to the first page.
“Tomorrow—”
He put up a hand to silence her. “Stop.” He massaged his temple with his other hand, his forehead furrowed. “I want you to leave.”
“I…apologize, Mr.—”
“I want you to leave now.”
Because he spoke with the authority of a man who clearly believed himself to be God, Lucy stifled the urge to rush to do his bidding and bravely stared into his expressionless black eyes. “May I ask why?”
“No, as a matter of fact, you may not. Now, good night, Miss…”
“Divine. Lucy Divine.”
Dropping his hands to his sides, he pursed his already-stiff lips. “That’s just perfect. Freaking perfect.”
“Is there something wrong with my name?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level but it came out just a bit haughty, and though she thought it impossible, he visibly hardened even more.
Now he was so still and emotionless he could have been part of the wallpaper. “I don’t like your hair, I don’t like your name and I don’t like your attitude. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a phone call.”
No doubt to Mr. Phelps so he could fire her immediately.
Getting fired because she was blonde was a throwback to Neanderthal days, and she needed this job badly—this was her first step in a master plan and if she failed at this, she failed at everything. Lucy fumed, and instead of leaving, found herself following. She had to hand it to herself—she was keeping up with his long, de
termined strides quite well.
“Excuse me, but you have no grounds to fire—”
She suddenly slipped on the fringe of a hallway rug and, trying to regain her balance, reached for the console nearby, grabbing the polished wooden edge.
She quickly discovered the console wasn’t nearly as sturdy as she’d thought. It was probably vintage. The table didn’t support her weight and dipped toward her—along with the huge white and blue vase on top of it. Lucy fell in a graceless heap on the floor, absorbing the impact of the console on her ribs, and clearly heard the loud, crashing sounds of glass—along with an exasperated, “What the fuck?”
That’s when the lights went out.
Personal assistant, like hell, Holden thought furiously.
The woman looked like a porn star with that long blonde hair and tempting fuck-me body. When he’d bent over her limp form to check for bruises, he’d been shocked to find her skirt had risen up all the way to her waist, and outraged to discover she was wearing silk lace panties—red, no less! At work! What did Phelps think Holden was made of, freaking stone?
He circled the elegant Persian rug in his bedroom for the fiftieth consecutive time while considering the possibility of not only firing his new personal assistant—which was a given—but Aaron Phelps as well. The man had clearly not been thinking with his head when he’d hired her—at least not with the head above his neck. She looked too young to be experienced—she couldn’t possibly be over thirty—and she looked too damned hot to be able to assist anyone with anything except the possible exception of an orgasm.
Now, to his chagrin, the woman was incapacitated in the guest bedroom, being tended to by Mr. Pimwick, moaning in pain ever since she’d woken up from wherever she’d been only minutes ago. Holden had to leave her in Pimwick’s hands, since he was sporting a huge, mountain-sized erection from his glimpse of her smooth thighs and therefore didn’t trust himself to touch his blonde, unconscious, look-at-me-I’m-a-stripper assistant—wearing freaking red panties to work—without doing anything stupid. Hiding in the sanctity of his bedroom had seemed a much wiser choice. And yet, just knowing she was currently in the same zip code had hot air steaming from his ears like an overheated pot. Plus, the fact that he could hear her moan and groan from the room next to his was wreaking havoc with his brain, which was already picturing all sorts of triple-X images starring Holden and his new assistant. Somehow, the woman managed to make every moan and groan louder than the last, and hell, she sounded on the brink of a very potent, very pleasurable orgasm. It was sheer hell to have to listen to her without wanting to participate.
He had to get rid of her as fast as he could—because Patrick did not screw around with his employees. With renewed determination, he pounced toward the nightstand, grabbed the phone and punched some numbers in.
“Phelps, send Carlos to my apartment asap. I need him to drive Miss Divine home now. And start looking for a new assistant. Oh, and Phelps? I want black hair and experienced. Preferably fat.” He hung up, already feeling much better.
He jerked his eyes toward the door when he heard a light knock.
“Yes?”
