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"No, you hold on a second." Lord Alan glowers at me, "This woman is all that’s standing between a good campaign and a brilliant campaign that’ll put the wind under your wings and sail you right into number ten."
I raise my hands. "I defer to your wiser counsel, sir." I allow my lips to quirk. "Of course, if Ms. Chopra doesn’t want this opportunity—"
"Ms. Chopra would relish this opportunity, but I have a few conditions."
"Oh, good, I can leave the two of you to sort out the details then?" Lord Alan pushes up to standing, then glances between us with a thoughtful look on his face. "Of course, I don’t have to warn the two of you that anything beyond the lines of what is proper could be damaging to not only the two of you, but also the party?"
I blink. Lord Alan is the chairperson of the party, and as such, it’s within his right to ensure that all of us toe the line. Indeed, anything that could harm the Party’s image comes under his purview. But to hint at the possibility of anything that isn’t within the margins of being 'proper' is surprising, to say the least.
I exchange glances with Zara, who has a similar confounded look on her face. I signal to her with my eyes that we need to agree and that we can sort out what he meant later. She nods subtly. "Of course, Sir Alan, nothing I say or do will hurt my client’s image."
"And you know me, Sir Alan, I’ll only ever do what is in the interests of the Party."
"Good." He raps on my table. "I’ll take my weary bones out of here and let you two thrash out the rest of your agreement."
He brushes past Zara, and the door snicks shut. For a few seconds, we look at each other. The silence stretches. Then she places her bag on the chair closest to her, reaches for a book on my table and hefts it in her hand. "So, you had no idea this was coming, did you?"
I glance at the book, then at her. "You mean about Lord Alan asking you to join as Communications Manager for my campaign? Of course, not."
"Liar." She raises her arm and pitches the book at me.
37
Zara
He ducks, and the book flies past him. Anger churns my guts. "You think I’m going to believe you when you say you didn’t know Lord Alan was going to ask me to become your PR manager?" I shoot out my arm and grab the paperweight. Who keeps a paperweight on a desk anymore? This stuck up, privileged prick does, and isn’t that helpful? I pitch the paperweight at him. He moves so fast, he’s almost a blur. The paperweight misses him and crashes to the wooden floor and rolls away.
"Zara!" he growls.
"Don’t even start." I reach out blindly. My fingers encounter a ceramic mug which he must have drunk coffee from earlier. "You knew he’d ask me, and that I wouldn’t be able to refuse. You told him to keep your name out of it so I wouldn’t know it was you he was talking about; not until I walked into this office and saw you." I launch the cup at him. This time, he swoops out his hand, catches it, and places it on the table.
The slow burn of anger erupts into flames of rage. The blood pounds at my temples, and my heart catapults into my throat. I grab a book from the table and chuck it at him. Then snatch up a pencil, a pen, a stapler, and throw them at him, one after the other. He easily evades them and slaps his hands on the table. "Zara, stop that. You’re acting unreasonable."
"You think this is unreasonable? You haven’t seen anything yet." I reach for his phone, and he rushes around the table. I raise my hand, but he reaches up and circles my wrist with his fingers.
"Let me go."
"You need to calm down first."
"Don’t tell me to calm down, you twatworm!" I burst out.
He chuckles. "Where do you pick up your gutter language, baby?" He grabs my other arm, then twists both of my hands behind my back.
"Don’t you dare ‘baby’ me, you conniving piece of shit." I try to pull free, but his hold on me tightens. He squeezes my wrist just enough that I loosen my fingers. The phone slips from my hand. He releases my wrist and catches the phone before he places it on the table. At the same time, he draws me flush against him so I can feel all of him from chest to groin to thighs.
"Hunter, don’t you dare."
"You know I can’t stop myself from rising to a challenge." He thrusts forward, and the unmistakable bulge in his crotch stabs into my arse.
"Fuck you," I spit out.
"I will, but only if you ask me nicely." He leans his weight into me so I’m pushed up against his desk. Then he circles my wrists with the fingers of his one hand; the other, he plants in between my shoulder blades. He applies pressure, and I find myself folded over his table, my arse jutting out and flush against the column in his pants. He’s even more aroused than a few seconds ago, if that were possible. Heat spurts in my lower belly. A shudder of need ladders up my spine. He must notice, for he pulls the hair back from my face and drapes it over one shoulder. Then he bends and nips on my exposed earlobe.
I shiver. "Hunter, stop."
"Do you remember your safe word?"
I swallow.
