Unleashing the Receptionist: ...the Receptionist, Book 3 (7 page)

Then I activated the security camera in the upper corner of the file room. It would feed into a special software program on my computer. I’d be able to see him watching me. If he did.

I was just…curious. How much did Peter Standish like to watch? I had a feeling that I’d stumbled on his personal fetish. Would he be able to ignore the monitor, or would he surrender to the temptation to watch me?

I shoved aside my guilty conscience by promising myself I wouldn’t do anything to cause problems for Standish. This was a simple information-gathering mission. Hey, the guy was gathering information on us, after all. Going through our every little email and financial transaction. Time for a little turning of the tables.

Chapter Seven

“Our Dana has something up her sleeve,” said Simon as he spread cheese on a cracker.

“I’ve noticed the same thing.” Ethan popped an olive in his mouth. We were in my living room. Simon had spent a quick fifteen minutes preparing a delicious feast of appetizers. Out of all of us, he was the best when it came to food. Me, I’m fine with a Happy Meal. But they both have more refined tastes.

I hid my face with a swig from my beer bottle.

“A woman with secrets is a dangerous thing,” mused Ethan. “Though we could probably tease it out of her.”

“We have the power,” agreed Simon. “But do we have the will?”

“I think not,” said Ethan. He rolled the olive pit around in his mouth while scrutinizing me carefully. “I assume she’ll put us in the picture when she wants to. I assume she has a very good reason for her reticence. After all, if we don’t have trust, what do we have?”

“Not much.” Simon crunched his cracker. “At least, not much of interest.”

I swallowed hard. They were double-teaming me, and it wasn’t fair. “It’s nothing you need to worry about,” I said. “Ethan’s right. I’ll tell you at the right time.”

“But you’re being good, right?”

I hesitated. “What are the rules again?”

Simon snorted. Ethan laughed. “Oh, Dana, what would we do without you? The rules are, behave yourself. Pretty simple, really.”

Pretty impossible, if you asked me. “I am behaving.” I was behaving outrageously, shockingly, unacceptably.

For two days in a row, I’d gone into work wearing clothes that would be easy to play with. And I’d let myself play. I unbuttoned my gray jacket to show a black lace bra with a bit of nipple peeking through. I kept crossing and uncrossing my legs so the slit exposed my thighs, bare above a garter and stockings. I felt like I was in an all-day, nonstop burlesque show. I couldn’t go too far in case Simon and Ethan happened to walk in. But I could go far enough to tease Standish with provocative little glimpses and flashes of intimate flesh. And to get myself so turned on, I felt like humping my desk.

I imagined a soundtrack, something with a slow, sexy beat. Marvin Gaye singing Sexual Healing followed by Barry White singing just about anything. It helped me move in the right way—sensually, teasingly, as if I was lost in a world of my own pleasure. I’d seen my friend Brandi’s stripteases back when she bothered with a job, and I modeled myself after her. Her laziness always worked really well on the stage. She practically yawned when she dropped pieces of clothing, as if staying dressed was just too much of a burden.

I was constantly aware of the camera on me. But until I opened the security-camera program on the computer, I had no idea if he was seeing my performance. And somehow I didn’t want to. It felt wrong to spy on him without his knowledge. So I hadn’t yet opened the program.

Instead I put on my little shows, lived in a constant state of arousal, and kept my eye on Mr. Yellow Button-Down Shirt.

But I got no clues. He came and went as usual, always with a pleasant word of hello or good-bye. Nothing had changed as far as I could tell.

Did it really matter anyway? Cowell & Dirk was screwed. And definitely not in the fun way. There was all too little of that happening.

“There’s something we have to tell you.” Ethan’s rumbling voice penetrated my haze. “Simon and I have talked about it, and we feel you should know.”

I sat bolt upright on my fluffy-pillowed couch. “Really?”

“Don’t get excited. It’s nothing fun. It’s the reason Standish is here.”

“The Caper deal?” As soon as I said it I regretted it. Ethan’s gaze sharpened to ultra-blade razor strength.

“What do you know about the Caper deal?”

“Nothing. That’s when Margo left, that’s all. You took over the company right after that.”

“Do I want to know how she knows this?” Ethan directed the question at Simon, who shrugged.

“She’s a smart girl, that’s how she knows. Let’s leave it at that.” Simon, looking tense, got up and paced toward the bank of windows that looked out over a park.

I held my breath while Ethan analyzed the situation. “Fine. Let me fill in the rest of the story. Margo set Simon up. She stole funds from Caper and made it look like Simon did it.”

“So what happened?” I was dying to know the whole story about the crazy bitch.

“Ethan to the rescue,” said Simon. “Again.”

“Not exactly.”

“Yes, exactly.”

I looked from one to the other. Both men were strong and powerful, but Ethan had that extra edge of danger. He was more ruthless.

“I bought her out, that’s all. I paid Caper what was owed to them. I made Margo sign a confidentiality agreement in return for retaining a twenty percent share of the profits. If she ever repeats her lies about Simon or the Caper deal, she forfeits her twenty percent. It’s very clear and ironclad. We thought that was the end of it.”

I frowned. “So why is she back? And why did she contact the IRS if she signed a confidentiality agreement.”

“She didn’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

Simon turned to face us, leaning against the windowsill and crossing his arms over his chest. “Peter Standish isn’t from the IRS.”

My mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”

“Margo must think we’ve gone soft in the head.” Ethan shook his head in disgust. His elbows were braced on his knees, his body bent forward like a lion ready to spring. His sheer animal magnificence always took my breath away. “He’s such a nervous little bloke, I knew right away something was off. So I immediately called the IRS and they have no auditors named Standish. We think Standish is here on a fishing expedition for her, though he’s clearly working in the dark.”

“That…” I jumped to my feet and planted my hands on my hips. “That little liar! All this time we’ve been treating him like some kind of king, with his special tea and I’ve been fixing his tie and being nice to him, and…”

“And that’s exactly what you’re going to keep doing,” said Ethan. “He doesn’t know that we’re on to him. And technically, I don’t believe he ever told us he was from the IRS. It’s possible that he’s just Margo’s tool. The important thing is to let him continue what he’s doing while we watch his every move. I’d even consider setting up the security cameras, but I’m not comfortable with that. Simon?”

“Not yet.”

I swallowed. I should tell them what I’d done, right now. “I’ve…actually…”

“And another thing. Since we don’t know who this man is, I want you to stay very far away from him, Dana. We can’t trust him. And I don’t want you to get hurt or be threatened in any way. If he works for Margo, we can assume he’s a weasel with no ethics.”

“But he’s not like that.” My protest sounded weak, even to my own ears. How did I know what he was really like? He’d been playing a part all this time. Lying to me from the second he’d stepped through the doors.

I felt very naïve—not something I’m used to feeling. I grew up fending for myself in the worst neighborhood in Low-Life, which is saying something. But I suppose I wasn’t used to criminals who hid behind paisley ties and tan day-of-the-week chinos.

I sank back down on the couch and dropped my head into my hands. I knew they were right, but I still couldn’t see harmless, dweeby Peter Standish as some kind of criminal mastermind. I’d always had good instincts about people. That’s how I’d survived Low-Life without getting pregnant, hooked on crack or serial-murdered. If I couldn’t trust my own instincts, what could I trust?

Ethan put a warm, heavy hand on my back. “Sorry to upset you like this, luv.”

“It’s okay. I’m glad you told me,” I mumbled into my hands.

“Now do you want to share your secret with us?”

I thought for a long moment, then shook my head. Peter Standish had lied to me. Now I had a score to settle with him. I had my own little sting operation already set up—I’d done it, not them. They knew nothing about it. So if anyone got into trouble it would be me.

“All right,” said Ethan softly. “We trust you, Dana.”

“And we love you,” added Simon. His eyes glowed tender green at me, like newly mowed grass.

When I looked from him to Ethan, I saw a slight smile play across his lips. He looked softer than normal, more open. He reached out one long finger and lifted my chin. “Everything will be okay, luv. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

He gathered me into his arms and held me close. I nearly burst into tears as I relaxed against his strong chest. A sense of safety spread through me like warm honey. I snuggled against him and clutched at his broad back, the back that took on so many burdens. He lifted me, carried me into the bedroom and undressed me, so tender, as if I were a baby. But he didn’t touch me like a baby. He trailed his big hands across my body, stroking my skin so little starbursts of arousal came to life wherever he touched. I sighed into the darkness. Simon came in and lit some candles. When he undressed, his skin glowed gold in the soft light.

“Our girl needs some loving, I believe,” Simon murmured. “Too much stress.”

“Perhaps we’ve been working her too hard. I say we temporarily suspend our ban.” Ethan took one of my feet in his hands and propped it against his pelvis, next to the lump in his trousers. He rubbed each toe, one at a time, until I purred with delight. Simon lay down next to me, head propped on one elbow, and stroked my shivering sides, the slope of my neck as it joined my shoulder, the outer edge of my thigh. For such powerful men, they could be so very gentle when they chose. I lay on my synthetic down comforter printed with yellow duckies—on sale at Target—and drifted into a bliss-stupor.

My body hummed to their four-handed rhythm. My role was simple. Moan, open, relax. My legs fell apart like the pages of a book as Simon danced his fingers up my inner thighs. My head lolled back on my pillow, my neck unable to do its job anymore as Ethan found more sensitive spots on the bottoms of my feet. If you’ve never had a four-handed, full-body massage administered by two unbelievably hot men, well, you should put it on your before-I-die list.

I barely noticed when some of those hands began to stray between my legs. I’m not even sure how many went there, because at some point someone blindfolded me. I sank into delicious darkness and surrendered my body to them. Redundant, really, since it was already theirs and we all knew it. Someone poured oil on my belly. The scent of sandalwood pricked my nostrils, stronger than usual, the way smells always are when you can’t see. Everything felt more intense than usual. The sensation of the oil soaking into my skin, for instance. It felt cool at first as it spread in little droplets across my tummy. Then strong hands rubbed it into my skin and it quickly warmed.

The hands lifted one of my thighs. A strong thumb ran across the tendon that stretched from my knee to my groin, thrumming it like a guitar string. My sex twanged in response, and I pushed my hips upward. Another pair of hands met me, slick fingers spreading me apart, oiling the tender skin on either side of my pussy. A demanding burn grew in my sex. My poor clit wanted those fingers, wanted the long strokes lavished on my inner thighs. I shoved my groin higher, chasing after the mysterious, elusive hands that kept dancing away from me.

“Please,” I whispered from behind the blindfold.

“Turn over,” someone whispered.

I moaned in protest. No relief for me yet. I turned over, feeling the soft fabric of the comforter brush against my swollen lips. Then I groaned deeply as powerful hands massaged the cheeks of my ass. They went deep, down through layers of muscle and tissue, finding every little knot of tension. Who knew I stored stress in my ass? My bosses knew, apparently. Someone was tending to the backs of my calves with long, soothing strokes. I stretched out to my full length, arms by my sides. I undulated my hips against the comforter, seeking out friction wherever I could find it. The damn thing was too soft and fluffy, it did nothing for me. Maybe a sheet, I thought frantically. My new cotton sheets in pale aqua. If I could just grind myself against them for a while. But not even four-hundred-thread-count cotton can compare to the calloused hand of a man. When someone—one of my someones—worked his hand underneath my groin and pressed his finger against my throbbing clit, I nearly came right then and there. I clamped my hips against the hand, little whimpers dribbling from my lips.

But neither Ethan nor Simon was in the habit of letting me control my own orgasms. No matter how hard I pushed into that hand, it danced to its own tune. The hot finger on my clit rubbed me slowly, leisurely, taking its time, waiting for a large thumb to make its way into my pussy.