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Out of all my assistants, Natalie is my favorite. She’s intelligent, quick-witted, has lots of sass, style, and a splash of sophistication that most girls her age seem to lack. And aside from the fact that she’s a sexy piece of eye candy, she’s proven herself trustworthy over the three years she’s been with me.
I take her in, admiring her flair for fashion. Today she’s wearing a vintage arc-hemmed, shoulder-baring flower power tunic dress that clings to her hips and C-cup breasts.
“Save the secret,” I say, dismissively. “The only admirer I’m interested in is my husband. Hand over the card.”
She sucks her teeth, dramatically rolling her eyes. “Oh, what a dream killer. Where’s the scandal in that? Here.” She pokes her lips out, sliding the card on my desk. “I’ll be at my desk,” she says, heading for the door.
“Bye, Natalie,” I say cheerfully. She gives me a stiff beauty pageant wave. I shake my head, chuckling to myself. “Oh, you can leave the door open.”
I eye her as she walks out, then pick up the card from my desk. A light feminine scent wafts out as I pull out the stationary note card. My brows draw close as I read the cursive that flows across the card in black ink.
I still taste you on my lips. Still feel you deep in my ass. Thank you for making love to me like no other woman ever has. I’ll never forget it or you.
—Anonymous
I blink, blink again, then reread the note for a second time. I can’t believe this! How did she even know where to send this? Easy, fool. Look who you’re married to.
I shake my head. I don’t want to make a big deal about the gesture. After all, the flowers are gorgeous. But this note card…what if Natalie or someone else from here had read it? Then what? Couldn’t this bitch simply written a simple “thank you” for the other night, instead of being so goddamn descriptive?
I mean. Where the hell is the discretion in this?
Better yet, how about not sending anything at all?
Relax, Marika, girl. Don’t blow this out of proportion. It’s just a card and some flowers. Accept it for what it is and move on.
Just as I’m pulling out my cell to call Marcel, Shayla buzzes me. “Lenora Samuels is on line two for you.”
“Thanks,” I answer absently. Thoughts of this Anonymous chick start to take space in my mind. What if she’s a lunatic? What if this ho starts harassing us? What if she tries blackmailing us?
The last thing Marcel and I need is drama.
And that’s why you never, ever, fuck anyone who doesn’t have anything to lose.
I shake the unnerving thoughts from my head for the moment, clearing my throat as I pick up the phone. “Hello. This is Marika.”
“Marika, darling, Lenora Samuels here.”
“Yes, how are you, Lenora? Forgive me for not getting back to you. Life has been ridiculously crazy.”
“I’m fabulous darling. No worries. Now let’s cut through the cheese and get right down to the meat, darling. You know I have no time for idle chitchat. The manuscript. You’ve read it. And you loved it, no?”
I can’t help but chuckle at her brashness. “Yes, of course I did. And I loved it. I actually forwarded it to Andrea.” Andrea is the senior editor for our erotica imprint. “She should be calling you in a few days to discuss an offer.”
“Oh, fabulous. I’ll be going to the prison later this afternoon to share the news.”
“Wait. I thought you said your client was released.”
“Oh, yes. She was. But she’s had a minor slip-up.”
I blink. “Minor as in what? A traffic violation?”
“No, not exactly. She sort of violated her restraining order.”
I frown. “Define sort of, please. The last thing I want is to sign someone to…who hasn’t been fully rehabilitated, or is mentally unstable.” I glance over at the floral arrangement, then down at the card on my desk. I still taste you on my lips. I flip the card over, cringing. “We don’t need that sort of publicity here.”
“Oh, Marika, darling. Don’t go getting all Judge Judy on me. It’s simply a case of a broken heart. Heaven loves hard, that’s all. And she has a hard time letting go. And, yes, she’s a little extreme and, maybe, even a bit touched.”
Translation: she’s fucking crazy!
