Devilishly Wicked (2 page)

To be fair, some people didn’t give her dubious looks, but neither were they friendly. Everyone was too focused on their work to be warm and fuzzy. And she found that weird, too. The employees here had a shared interest—the love of fashion. And considering this was the number-one fashion magazine to work for, Georgia just thought there should be an excitement in the air. A wonderful creative vibe. Hell, she knew people who would probably sell their souls for a job like this, and yet, everyone seemed almost . . . depressed. It was like a hive of worker bees, going through the motions of keeping the queen bee happy.

The queen bee had even been replaced, and still the atmosphere hadn’t changed.

Of course, Georgia had her own mixed feelings about the shift of power from the supreme diva, Finola White, to her once assistant editor, Tristan McIntyre.

Finola had been pure hell to work for—demanding, irrational, often downright mean, but Tristan, well, he was a different type of difficult. Her main issue being that she was ridiculously attracted to the man, who was so not going to be interested in a woman like her. He definitely went for the supermodels and actresses, women with perfect faces and perfect figures who looked perfect with his own stunning good looks. It was all a bit nauseating.

But worse than her pathetic crush was the fact that he was totally aware of her hopeless attraction to him, and always seemed to be toying with her because of it. He flirted, but Georgia wasn’t delusional enough to think his interest was genuine. It was more a patronizing, “Aren’t you cute in your hopeless infatuation.”

Which was just another thing that made working at
HOT!
awkward and difficult.

But in the end, none of that mattered. She couldn’t walk away from this job, as lonely, demanding, and often ego-shattering as it might be.

“Peaches.”

Georgia closed her eyes.

Couldn’t she at least make it to her desk and get herself as mentally together as she could before she had to deal with him? The insincere flirting that still managed to make her stupid, wayward heart race was way too cruel a start to a Monday morning.

The little dog she still held in her arms squirmed, and she realized she was holding it too tight in her nervousness. She loosened her hold, stroking the dog’s soft fur, and pulled in a deep breath, telling herself, as she did every day, that she could handle this. Handle him. And handle her utterly juvenile reaction to him.

Slowly, she turned to find her boss, Tristan McIntyre, standing only inches from her. It was something he always did. She suspected it was only because he knew it made her uncomfortable. She automatically took a step back.

He smiled crookedly, again making her think he knew full well what he was doing to her. And he was enjoying it.

His eyes, the greenest gaze Georgia had ever seen, like new leaves in spring or freshly mown grass, so green that she often thought they couldn’t possibly be real, moved over her.

He raised a dark eyebrow, that smirking little smile still in place.

“You’ve gone with yet another interesting ensemble today, Peaches.” He, of course, pronounced
ensemble
with a French accent. Pretension was as natural to him as breathing. And stupidly, she even found that attractive.

Georgia never knew if his comments were a compliment or an insult, but she took her usual stance and tried to accept it gracefully.

“Thank you, Mr. McIntyre.”

He smiled again, this time a little wider. “When will you ever just call me Tristan?”

God, he loved to toy with her, but she again refused to give him the response he wanted.

As it turned out, he made answering unnecessary. His green gaze moved to the little dog in her arms.

“Why do you have that mutt?”

“Ms. White asked me to—”

“Ms. White should not be asking you to do anything. You no longer work for her. You work for me.”

“I understand,” she said, although she really wasn’t sure how she could disregard Finola White’s demands. Finola White was still Georgia’s superior, at least around here, and Georgia wasn’t about to challenge that. Finola White could still be scary and mean. But it was best just to agree with Tristan right now.

Play the game. Play the game
.

She leaned down to place the dog on the floor. The little animal scampered away, disappearing under her desk. Smart boy. She wished she could slip away and make herself scarce, too.

When she straightened, she got the feeling Tristan’s gaze had been on her rear end, but she couldn’t be sure. Still, that shivery feeling prickled her skin and made it hard for her to swallow.

But she cleared her throat and managed to find her voice.

“Do you have the lists of daily duties ready for me, sir?”

He studied her for a moment, those green eyes of his gazing over her slowly, making her feel that she wanted to shift under his scrutiny. To move farther away. But she stood fast on her red-patent, dolly platform heels.

“Yes, I actually left it on your desk. It looks like a relatively light day.”

Georgia would have laughed if she wasn’t so shaken. There was no such thing as a light day when it came to working for
HOT!
—even under Tristan McIntyre.

Under Tristan McIntyre. She felt herself blush at her own off-color train of thought.

He took a step toward her, and despite herself, Georgia crossed her arms in front of her. It was a not-so-subtle barrier between them.

Tristan raised an eyebrow, giving her an almost admonishing look; then he moved past her. His broad shoulder just barely brushed hers as he walked by.

“I’ll be in a meeting with Finola—or rather, Ms. White, if you need me.”

Georgia didn’t turn to watch him leave. She didn’t need to; everything about the man was committed to her memory. There was the stylishly mussed cut of his dark hair, the gait of his walk, the way his expensive clothing fit his lean, muscular body perfectly.

She remained where she was until she knew he was gone. And only then did she head to her desk, which took up a majority of Tristan McIntyre’s reception area.

She turned sideways to slip behind the large semicircular desk and dropped onto her desk chair. She sat there for a moment, willing herself to calm down, but her heart thudded almost painfully in her chest.

“Dippy,” she called, wanting something else to focus on to help calm her. But the little dog didn’t appear. He must have followed Tristan into the back office. She didn’t know if she should be offended that the little fluff ball had left her for the dark side.

Not that the little dog was any real protection. She took another deep breath, then pulled her chair in and focused on her list of duties. But her attention didn’t make it through the first few tasks.

Why couldn’t she just remain calm and not let this man get to her? She knew the flirtation was just a game for him. An amusement, because she was so easily flustered by his attention. She knew exactly what he was doing, so why did he still have this effect on her? Even after all these months working for him? Even before that, when she’d worked for Finola White, she’d seen him daily. And he’d been a flirt then, too. With everyone.

She reached for the legal pad with the list of handwritten tasks covering several lines. Tristan’s handwriting was neat, precise, but still had a certain flare.

Her skin tingled just looking at it.

And this, this was the real torture of her job. This ridiculous, uncontrollable, undeniable, and overwhelming attraction to her boss. To a boss who could be a model himself.

Talk about totally hopeless.

T
ristan McIntyre smiled as he made his way through the catacomb of glass walls to his office. He could always count on his personal assistant’s reaction to him to start his day off right. Since the first time he’d met Georgia Sullivan, her reaction had never wavered.

She wanted him. Her desire for him filled the air, and he drank it up like the morning’s first cup of coffee. In fact, he craved it just like a caffeine addict craved his coffee fix.

His smile widened as he recalled how her desire surged and intensified as he’d flirted with her. Making the regular coffee into a double espresso. Strong, dark, and hot.

Oh, yeah, he loved playing with her. As a demon of lust, he needed that kind of reaction. Thrived on it.

But his bliss faded as he realized someone was following close at his heels. His smile flipped to a frown. Damned Dippy.

One thing he’d learned, perhaps a little too late—hellhounds were relentless. And when it came to trying to get what he wanted, Dippy was like a dog with a bone, literally and figuratively.

But the pesky ball of fur didn’t say anything. He just settled on his haunches, watching with his beady little eyes while he waited for Tristan to open the office door.

Tristan did, pushing open the glass door, before he realized Finola White sat at his desk, the highly polished white acrylic command center that had once belonged to her. And from the way she lounged in the desk chair, she obviously thought it still did.

He sighed. Caught between a demon and a hellhound—so, so much worse than a rock and a hard place.

And this was another reason he needed the little moments of fun with his personal assistant. Because the truth was, being the leader of a demon rebellion was not all that it was cracked up to be. Especially when he had to work with two underlings who refused to accept they were indeed his minions.

He walked into the room, bracing himself for more complaints and defiance and general drama, and he wasn’t disappointed.

“Tristan, power doesn’t suit you. It’s clearly caused you to lose your mind.”

Tristan dropped his briefcase onto
his
desk, giving her a pointed look, waiting for her to move. She settled deeper into the chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

Dippy, who was technically her dog but also Tristan’s coconspirator, wandered to his doggy bed, watching the two of them. His doggy expression showed that he was no more pleased with Tristan than Finola was.

Ah, another fun day at work.

He gave her another look, this one filled with silent warning.

“You are in my seat.”

She made a face, one somewhere between a sneer and a smirk, but then slowly levered herself out of the white leather chair, making sure to keep her movements unhurried.

Tristan waited, not giving her the satisfaction of showing any reaction whatsoever. That was one thing he’d perfected to an art during his time under her reign: utter indifference.

Oh, he was irritated, sick of dealing with her insubordinate, often downright childish behavior, but she’d never get the satisfaction of seeing that. Because she would love it, if she could. She wanted to aggravate and annoy him. She wanted to make his life hell.

Finola White had not taken losing her position well. She was furious. But that wasn’t Tristan’s problem. If she’d done her job correctly, Tristan wouldn’t have been able to usurp her position.

But Finola had been more interested in herself, her indulgences, and living the high life than doing the work Satan wanted from her. Tristan wasn’t going to make the same mistakes.

Oh, he was definitely all about taking advantage of the luxuries and status and worldly pleasures that being the editor-in-chief of a prestigious fashion magazine could offer him. But he was also going to make damned sure the demon realm was invading the human one as he did so.

Finola had been a loose cannon, letting power go to her head. Tristan planned to stay grounded and focused, even while he was being decadent as hell. Which would definitely be a tricky balance for a demon of lust, but he’d figure out a way to handle his desires. A way to keep his focus on the task at hand.

World domination.

But the first thing he needed to do was get his insubordinate inferiors under control.

He moved behind the desk and collapsed in the chair, making a show of basking in the comfort of the cushioned, supple leather.

Finola grimaced again, but perched on the edge of a much less comfortable chair on the other side of the office.

“So,” Tristan said, “please do explain how you’ve come to the conclusion that my mind has been lost.”

Finola glared at him, and then finally leaned back in the chair, taking an indifferent stance herself.

“You know full well what I’m talking about.”

Tristan pretended to ponder the possibilities, and then widened his eyes with feigned realization.

“Oh, you are referring to the fact that I’m relocating you to the mail room.”

“I will not work in the mail room. In fact, I will not set foot in the mail room.”

Tristan again pretended to consider her words.

“Actually, you will. Because not only did I, your master, tell you that you have to work there. But I’m very certain that
my
master, the Prince of Darkness, will back me on this plan. After all, I’m not sending you down there just to make your life hell.” He smirked. “I have a very important job for you in the mail room.”

Finola rose, her usually pure alabaster skin actually flushed in anger. Her hands were balled at her sides, and for a moment, Tristan thought she was going to stamp her foot like a bratty child not getting her way. Of course, that wouldn’t be the first time he’d ever seen her do that.

But instead she said in a rougher tone, and her usually melodic voice took on a hissing quality, “This will never work. Don’t you think the mail room employees will be highly suspicious of the editor-in-chief of the magazine suddenly working down there?”

“The
ex
editor-in-chief,” Tristan corrected. “And yes, I’m sure they will. But that suspicion might work in our favor, putting any traitors on edge and causing them to make a stupid mistake. We already know a demon slayer was working down there. We have to make sure there are no other rebels working at
HOT!,
looking to stop our mission.”

Finola glared at him, but didn’t speak.

“So you see,” Tristan continued, “being sent to work in the mail room is actually an important task. And quite flattering, really.”

Finola didn’t move, nor did the rage flashing in her eyes lessen. In fact, she’d gone from looking like a petulant child to a murderous demon.

Tristan was unaffected.

“I do not deliver things,” she stated. “I’m the person things are delivered to.”

Tristan nodded. “I understand. But unfortunately now, you are the person who does what I tell you to do.”

If looks could kill, Tristan knew he’d be dead. But looks couldn’t, not even a demon’s. And frankly, he felt far too good to be concerned with her look of hate. Finola would be out of his office and out of his hair. Nothing could be any better.

He reached for the phone and pressed the intercom button.

“Georgia, could you come to my office, please?”

He released the button and then looked back at Finola.

“It really isn’t a punishment,” Tristan told her, even though they both knew that it was, but he also was serious about the fact that he wanted her paying attention down there.

In that regard, Finola wouldn’t have been his first choice. She was too self-absorbed to be aware of anything outside of herself. That’s how the demon slayer had infiltrated
HOT!
in the first place. But Tristan did need her away from him, and he did need someone down there, keeping an eye out for other disturbances.

So the mail room really was the best place to put her.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and Tristan waved Georgia into the room.

“Georgia, I’m going to need you to help get Ms. White situated in the mail room.”

Georgia’s dark eyebrows pulled together over the funky frames of her glasses. She clearly found his request odd and bewildering, but unlike Finola, she simply nodded.

“Of course, sir.”

Another reason he liked his assistant. There was no disobedience from her.

Tristan felt his body react, remembering her moments with Dippy this morning. Could she be both dominant and submissive? Damn, he’d love to find out. But he suppressed the thought, not any easy feat, and turned his attention back to Finola.

“The mail room manager, Eugene Saint, already knows that you are relocating down there, and he’ll get you situated.”

Finola didn’t respond. No sarcastic comment, or nod, or anything. Instead, she just looked at Georgia, and raised an eyebrow as if to silently say, “Are we going?”

Georgia, in turn, glanced toward Tristan, and he nodded.

Both women left the room.

Tristan sighed. “Eugene Saint—you really are going to have to be a saint to deal with Finola White.”

“I’m starting to think maybe I need to be a saint, too,” said a deep, growly voice from beside his chair.

Tristan looked down to see Dippy sitting at his feet. Finola still didn’t know her pet was actually a hellhound, so Dippy never spoke in front of her.

The dog narrowed his dark eyes. “You’ve managed to get rid of Finola, so when are you going to transform me to human, and introduce me as your new assistant editor?”

Tristan looked down at his cohort, who had been a major part of Tristan’s play to take control of
HOT!
and the demon rebellion. Now he was little more than a fluffy, white thorn in Tristan’s side. Not much more appealing to deal with than Finola, frankly. Maybe he could send Dippy to the kennel.

And to think, his day had actually been quite enjoyable for a minute there. Tristan sighed. He should have known that it couldn’t last.

 

“Do you need to stop by your office for anything?” Georgia asked tentatively, really wishing she didn’t have to speak at all.

“No,” Finola snapped, her usually melodic voice flat.

Georgia decided she didn’t need to say anything more, not if she didn’t want to get ripped a new one.

She did not like Finola White, but she had to admit, this must be very hard for the woman. The great Finola White was now going to be working in the . . . the mail room? Talk about a demotion. Georgia almost felt sorry for the woman. Almost.

Georgia looked at Finola out of the corner of her eye. The woman wore her signature white, today a draping, white blouse with white skinny jeans. On her feet were white snakeskin boots.

Georgia was sure that outfit had cost thousands of dollars and now she was supposed to go to the mail room, put on one of their royal blue smocks, and start sorting mail.

It didn’t make sense. But then again, there were many things that happened at
HOT!
that defied reason.

Finola White in royal blue. She couldn’t even picture it.

“I should be the head of
HOT!
“ Finola muttered.

Georgia instantly dropped her gaze to her feet and made sure she kept her face blank, not wanting to give the woman any reason to react to her. But Finola seemed focused on herself,
shocker,
and her comment had just been a lament to the universe in general.

“I will make his life a living hell,” Finola muttered, and her voice took on a strange, almost unnatural quality.

Or at least Georgia thought it did, but she must be imagining that, right?

She suppressed a shudder despite herself. She must have imagined it. Still, Georgia was not sorry to see Finola gone from the office. The woman scared her. She was . . . not right. And while Finola wasn’t her direct boss anymore, Georgia still felt as if she had to answer to the woman. It would be nice to not have to deal with her much at all.

But Georgia wasn’t about to celebrate yet. It was best to remain silent and stoic. The less interaction with Finola White, the better. She’d learned that very quickly under her employment. If she could just make it through this trip unscathed, she might be free of the super diva.

Now that idea almost made her smile.

As they walked through the offices of
HOT!,
Georgia noticed that all the employees still reacted to Finola in much the same way Georgia did by keeping their gazes downcast and scurrying out of her way.

Finola White had been a huge presence at the magazine. So huge that Georgia still didn’t see how Tristan’s punishment would really work. Finola would never do anything useful for the mail room. Nor would she fit in. And Georgia would be very surprised if she even stayed long enough to go down there. She had to be just leaving the building. Period.

But when they entered the elevator, it was Finola who hit the button labeled LL. The mail room was as far down in the building as a person could go.

Rather symbolic, Georgia thought. Finola White had fallen from her all-powerful position in the company straight to the lowest.

Neither said a word as the elevator shimmied and shuddered, not stopping on any of the other fourteen floors on the way down.

On the way down. Georgia again couldn’t miss the symbolism. This had to be Finola’s idea of hell. Or at least that was Georgia’s guess.

Finola, with her pale skin, white blond hair, light gray eyes, and all-white attire could sort of be seen as angelic. But Georgia knew Finola White was hardly an angel.

She risked a sidelong glance at the tall, elegant woman in white. But why was she actually going to the mail room? Why didn’t she just walk out? She could surely get a job at another magazine. She was an icon after all. But apparently Finola was as trapped as Georgia. Probably not for the same reason. Georgia highly doubted Finola had financial issues, but she was trapped by something.