Masked Desires

MASKED DESIRES

An erotic novella

Elizabeth Coldwell

Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2012

ISBN 9781909335851

Copyright © Elizabeth Coldwell 2012

The right of Elizabeth Coldwell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

Chapter One

When the boss called me into her office, I thought she was going to tell me off for staring at Calvin Blake’s ass again. Frankly, I wanted to tell her, it would have been rude of me not to. Calvin might have been everything I disliked in a man – loud, brash, and self-serving, all personality traits that made him ideal for his job in ad sales but would have had me bailing on him in minutes if we’d been out on a date – but his behind was a force of nature. Sculpted into taut, round perfection by his regular lunchtime workouts, it was caressed by his slate-grey slacks as he bent over the desk next to mine, drawing my eye away from my computer monitor. I stared for a good couple of minutes; I may even have drooled a little. Only Mary Lou’s nasal voice in my ear dragged me back to awareness that I was sitting in the middle of a busy sales floor, rather than some intimate boudoir where I could strip Calvin of his lower garments and admire those buns of steel in the raw, before landing a hard, satisfying slap against his bare, white flesh …

‘Hey, Summer, are you even listening to me? I said Rebecca needs to see you right away.’

Rebecca Haynes’s PA, Mary Lou, always breezed into the sales department with the confidence of somebody who knew she didn’t have much in the way of power, but could use the little she possessed to make your life considerably more miserable. The thin smile on her over-glossed lips didn’t reach her eyes. It never did.

‘Yeah, sure, Mary Lou. Be right with you.’ I clicked my mouse, closing down the spreadsheet whose figures I’d been updating before Calvin’s ass had provided such a welcome distraction. Then I followed her across the floor to Rebecca’s corner office. No one looked up as I passed, all too busy chasing the sale that would help fill the remaining couple of pages in tomorrow’s
Reporter
.

Rebecca was on the phone as I entered, gesturing to me to take a seat. I did so, admiring as always the panorama of Lower Manhattan, revealed through the floor-to-ceiling window. Tall fingers of steel and glass pointed up toward the sky, glittering in the afternoon sun, each one higher and more imposing than the next. The more important you were in any company, the better the view you had, though I sometimes wondered quite how much time Rebecca spent appreciating this magnificent skyline.

At last, she put the phone down and turned her attention to me. If Mary Lou’s smile had been cold, the one greeting me now was positively glacial. Rebecca Haynes and I had never had any time for each other. She thought I was a slacker who could find a thousand ways of filling her day before even thinking about attempting to sell any ad space, and I thought she was a flint-hearted bitch, only interested in the bottom line. In the past, she’d expressed her displeasure at everything from the blood-red streaks in my dark hair to my occasionally erratic timekeeping. I always promised that things would change, and for a while they did, though I never went so far as to get rid of the streaks. I loved them too much.

Another boss might have attempted some small talk, maybe even offered me a coffee, but not Rebecca. She cut straight to the chase.

‘As you know, Summer, these are tough times for the
New York Reporter
.’ Of course I did. Rebecca sent out a memo to this effect at least one a week, exhorting us all to work harder and help claw back some market share. ‘We’ve seen our print sales fall by nearly 20 per cent over the last six months. Of course, our online version has tripled its number of hits in the same period, but that isn’t really making up for the shortfall in revenue. So, we’ve had to make some tough decisions, particularly regarding staffing levels … And I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.’

How had I not seen this coming? I knew I’d missed my sales targets the last couple of months, but I’d never dreamt this was putting me at risk of losing my job. Would I have worked harder, kissed more corporate ass if I had? I honestly didn’t know.

‘I’m sure you’ll find the severance package you’ve been awarded very generous,’ Rebecca continued as I sat in silent shock, trying to take in what she’d just told me. ‘And you’ll have a few minutes to clear your desk …’

Somehow, I found my voice. ‘You mean you want me to leave now?’

‘Of course, Summer. What else did you think? That we’d let you stick around long enough to poach our client list, maybe sneak some virus into the computer system? Please …’ Behind me, the office door opened. When I looked round, Mary Lou stood in the doorway, that same unfriendly smile on her face, a sturdy brown cardboard box in her hand. Alongside her was Tim, one of the company’s security guards. It always seemed to me he’d been hired for his charming manner on the front desk rather than as serious muscle, seeing as how he stood barely any taller than my own five foot five, and looked swamped by his navy blue serge uniform.

Even though I knew this was standard procedure, it didn’t make me feel any better as the guy escorted me to my desk and stood watching as I started packing my few personal possessions, just to make sure I didn’t try any clever ideas like downloading files on to a flash drive, or forwarding any confidential information to my personal email address.

Everyone had noticed what was going on, heads poking over the top of their cubicles like a mob of curious meerkats, but only Delia came over to say anything. Delia, my best friend in the company – hell, probably my best friend anywhere.

‘Summer, what’s happening?’ she asked, a startled look on her pretty, heart-shaped face.

‘Company cost-cutting,’ I told her, ‘and the cost they’ve decided to cut is me.’

‘But that’s just awful. You’ve been here – what, five years? Whatever happened to last in, first out?’

I shrugged. That might have been an effective policy, if it hadn’t been for the fact almost all of the people who’d joined the department after me had already been promoted at least a grade higher. When I’d started here, I’d been at the bottom of the pile, and even after all this time, though I’d never intended it, that’s where I’d managed to stay.

Delia laid her slender fingers over mine, and gave them a reassuring squeeze, letting me know everything would be OK, even if it didn’t feel like it right now. ‘What will you do?’ she asked.

I hadn’t even thought about it. ‘I don’t know. Go home. Cry. Punch the wall. Play Bon Jovi so loud the neighbours complain.’

‘Well, at least you haven’t lost your sense of humour, honey.’ Delia grinned. She glanced round the floor. The initial excitement over, people were beginning to return to their work. ‘Tell you what, when the dust’s settled, we’ll all go out and have a few drinks. Kind of like a belated leaving party. What do you say?’

‘Maybe.’ Apart from Delia, I didn’t want to see any of my co-workers again once I walked out of here for good, not even to take a last, fond peek at Calvin’s ass. Not able to bring myself to tell her that, I finished my packing.

The last of my things stowed in the cardboard box, I made to log off my computer, but Tim shook his head, warning me not to touch it. Instead, I gave Delia a quick hug, promising her I’d ring her very soon, and made my way to the elevator.

Tim and I rode down 32 floors in silence. It seemed like he didn’t quite know what to say to me, and I wondered whether I was the first employee he’d ever had to escort from the premises. The way Rebecca had been talking, I guessed if sales of the
Reporter
didn’t pick up soon, I wouldn’t be the last. God help the guy if he ever needed to make sure the likes of big, athletic Calvin left the building without making a scene.

Only when we were outside on the sidewalk, my company identity pass clutched securely in his meaty fist, did he wish me luck. ‘Thanks, Tim, take care of yourself,’ I said, and stood watching till he’d disappeared back inside through the revolving doors of a building in which I no longer worked.

The warmth of the spring air was like a caress on my skin, with none of the oppressive humidity that could make being outside in high summer so uncomfortable. Rather than take the subway back to my apartment, I decided to walk the 20-odd blocks. I needed to clear my head, try and make sense of what had just happened to me. And like I’d told Delia, when I got home maybe I’d just have a darn good cry.

Or maybe I’d get roaring drunk. That thought popped into my head a block from home, as I passed the bar on the corner, Eddie’s. In all the time I’d lived in the Village, I’d never been inside. Somehow, I’d managed to gain the impression the place was a dive, somewhere guys hung out to watch sports and discuss their most recent bedroom conquest. If I went out with Delia and the girls from work, we tended to frequent the latest upscale cocktail joint that had been featured in the
Reporter
’s pages, somewhere Wall Street types hung out. Delia harboured fantasies of marrying a man with money, but only ever succeeded in meeting jerks. She hadn’t yet learnt the two things so often went hand in hand.

Yes, I decided, I’d have a drink or two; enough to soften the blow of getting laid off, not enough to get maudlin. Though the more I analysed it, the more I realised self-pity wasn’t high on the list of emotions I was feeling right now. Indeed, if I’d been in Rebecca’s position, needing to lose a staff member, I’d have picked myself as the one who should go. I’d never been cut out for a career in sales, not really; when I’d left college, I hadn’t had a clue what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, so I’d sent out a bunch of résumés, responding to any advert that had taken my interest. A friend of a friend had happened to mention there was a vacancy in the
New York Reporter
’s ad sales department, so I fired off a quick application and a week later, after an interview where I’d convincingly managed to overstate my credentials, I’d landed the job. I only wished I hadn’t gone on to lose it at the point the economy had gone into freefall. It wouldn’t be so easy to bluff my way into employment a second time round. If I wasn’t careful, I might begin with all the right intentions – updating my résumé and sending it to only the most reputable employment agencies – but soon find myself reduced to scanning the adverts on Craigslist for any part-time and seasonal work that didn’t require me to take my top off.

Just as I was about to push open the door and go inside, a hand appeared in the bar’s mullioned front window. It clutched a large sheet of white paper, with something printed on it. A second hand joined the first, and pressed the notice firmly to the glass, adhesive tape securing it in place. In bold block capitals, the sign read “BARMAID WANTED. APPLY WITHIN”.

It felt like a message from above. On my walk down from the
Reporter
office, mulling over my options – or lack of them – in my mind, I’d never considered working in a bar. It kind of seemed like a good few steps down from my cosy office job. But now, thinking about the bills that were due at the end of the month, and the rent on my apartment that no severance package, however generous, could cover indefinitely, it might turn out to be the perfect solution, at least on a short-term basis. The notice hadn’t specified that experience was necessary, which helped, as I didn’t have any. But working in a bar meant taking orders, fetching drinks, smiling, and being nice to people, and I could do that. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I walked into the bar.

It being the middle of the afternoon, the place was quiet; only a couple of guys propping up the bar and what I took to be a pair of middle-aged tourists sitting in a booth, if the guide book resting on the table between them was any reliable indication. The place felt a little run down, with its battered wooden booths, and fly-spotted glass-shaded lights hanging from the ceiling, but in a good way, as though the memories of a thousand nights spent in the company of good friends and sociable strangers had leached into the walls and floorboards.

‘Hey, what can I get you?’ the bartender asked as I approached.

My confident intended reply died in my throat. I could only stare at the guy who’d addressed me. Whatever I’d been expecting the owner of the want ad-clutching hands to look like, it wasn’t this combination of height and breadth, shaggy dark hair and scruffily bearded chin that had me taking an awestruck breath. The T-shirt he wore, emblazoned with the bar’s logo, stretched tight across his chest, like he might burst out of it at any moment. When he smiled, the creases at the corners of his hazel eyes crinkling, my insides seemed to turn to warm syrup, and my pussy clenched with need. It took me a little while to collect myself enough to speak.

‘I’m here about the barmaid job,’ I told him, glad the tears that had threatened to come as I’d cleared my desk hadn’t tumbled down my cheeks to ruin my make-up.

He gave a soft whistle. ‘Wow, that was fast. I only just this minute put the sign up.’

‘Well, I happened to be passing, and I hate to let an opportunity slip by,’ I offered by way of explanation. ‘Who do I need to speak to?’

‘That would be me. Eddie Quinn. I own this place.’ He held out a big paw of a hand for me to shake. I did so a little awkwardly, cradling the box containing everything I’d brought from my desk at the
Reporter
in the crook of my arms. The fuzzy leaves of the purple passion plant I’d received as a present from Delia the previous Christmas drooped forlornly over its rim.

‘Summer Kerrigan,’ I replied, feeling a sudden tingling as his skin touched mine. The sweetness of the contact reminded me of how long it had been since my last relationship had ended. I’d met Todd on a girls’ night out with Delia. We’d had one of those three-week flings that burns hot as fire at the start, then fizzles out as soon as you realise you have nothing in common outside the bedroom. Nice as it had been, I wasn’t looking for any more of the same. Next time, I wanted to meet someone who was in it for the long haul; someone who shared the same goals in life as I did. Though what those goals were, I wasn’t exactly sure any more, not now my former career path had so unexpectedly come to an end. Which reminded me of why I was standing here, still feeling the subtle pressure of Eddie’s hand against my own even though we’d long since broken the physical contact.

I couldn’t help noticing Eddie’s gaze had moved from the box I held. It took a slow up and down trail of my body, appraising me; assessing me, I hoped, as a suitable employee. Unless he was just checking me out, of course.