The Stopover Page 9

His eyes hold mine, and I know he wants to ask about Robbie and me but is holding his tongue.

  “How was your weekend?” I ask.

  “Great,” he replies as his eyes drop to my lips. “I had a great weekend.”

  I frown. Does great mean just generally great, or does great mean “I had great hot sex with a gorgeous, great woman all weekend”?

  Stop it.

  “Sorry about that,” Tristan says as he breezes into the room. He smiles warmly and shakes my hand. “I’m Tristan.” He’s slightly younger than Jameson, and his hair is a lighter brown and has a curl to it. His eyes are big and brown. He’s very different from Jameson but has that same power thing going on.

  “I’m Emily.”

  His eyes hold mine. “Hello, Emily.” He and Jameson make eye contact, and at that moment, I know that he knows Jameson and my history together. I swallow the nervous lump in my throat.

  Why would he have told his brother about me?

  Tristan glances at Jameson’s scotch. “What time is it? Has happy hour started?”

  “Four thirty, and yes,” Jameson replies.

  Tristan goes to the bar and pours himself a glass of the amber liquid. He holds a glass up. “Would you like a drink, Emily?”

  “No thanks. I’m working,” I reply nervously.

  Amusement crosses Jameson’s face as he lifts his drink to his lips.

  Okay, what the hell is that look? Is it a condescending smirk or nearly a smile? I can’t read this man at all.

  Jameson sits still and stares at me. Our eyes are locked, and the air swirls between us.

  “You wanted to see me?” I ask. I really don’t know what kind of meeting has scotch involved. Maybe I should have had a glass. God, no. Remember what you did last time you got drunk with this man. You tried to suck all the blood out of him.

  “As we just discussed, we have a special project we would like you to work on,” Jameson says.

  I nod as I look between them.

  “Yes. In light of what you told me this morning, we want you to write a story for us to publish.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.” I look between them. “What’s the story on?”

  “Name a subject.” His tongue slips out and runs across his bottom lip, and I feel it all the way to my toes. “We have a secret project coming up, and I wanted you to be involved, but I need to know if you can report on a subject.”

  “You know I can. I’ve worked for regional papers for five years as a reporter.”

  “This is strictly off the record,” Tristan says. “You cannot tell a soul. It’s imperative.”

  “I won’t,” I say as I look between them.

  “For some time, we have thought that somebody on your floor is selling our stories to our competitors so that they are breaking before us. What you told us this morning all but confirms it.”

  I frown. “How do you know?”

  “Trust me; we know,” Jameson replies. “Our stocks are falling and so is our credibility. It needs to stop.”

  I frown as I listen.

  “We want you to make up a fake news story and submit it through the normal channels, and we will see if it turns up in our competitor’s papers.”

  I stare at him as I try to get my brain to keep up. “What would I write about?”

  “Something worth selling. It doesn’t have to be real. The faker the better—then it’s more easily traceable.”

  “Who do you think it is?” I ask as excitement runs through me. This is my chance. If I do well here, I can prove myself as a valuable employee. Imagine if I cracked the case. I bite my bottom lip to hide my smile. I need to act as if exciting things like this happen to me every day.

  “We have no idea, but we know it’s not you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because it began before you started,” Jameson says as he stands and goes to the bar.

  “Okay.” I think for a moment. “I could do that.” I look between them. “When do you want the story by?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, if possible.”

  “Okay.”

  A voice comes through the intercom. “Tristan, you have London on line two.”

  He stands and pushes the button. “Give me a moment to get back to my office.”

  “Okay,” the receptionist answers.

  “Sorry, I have to take this call. We are settling today on a new company. We’ll talk more tomorrow afternoon,” he says.

  “Sure.” I smile. Oh, I like him. He’s friendlier than his brother.

  He shakes my hand. “Remember, not a word to anyone. I would hate to have to fire you.” He gives me a playful wink, but something tells me he’s not joking.

  I frown. What the hell? “Okay.”

  “I look forward to reading your story,” he says. He turns and walks out of the office and closes the door behind him.

  I turn to Jameson. His eyes are dark, and he’s holding his glass of scotch. He sips it in slow motion, and I smile nervously as my heart begins to race.

  He raises his eyebrow and sips his scotch again. The electricity in the air between us is palpable.

  “I should get back to my desk,” I whisper.

  His eyes stay fixed on me as if he wants to say something, but he remains silent.

  “Is there anything else you wanted, sir?” I whisper as I stand.

  He puts his drink down on the desk and walks toward me. “Yes, actually. There is.”

  He stops in front of me so that our faces are only an inch apart, and I stare up at him.

  His close proximity steals my breath, and like a wave in the ocean, arousal swims between us. “Can you feel that?” he breathes.

  I nod because it’s undeniable.

  “I’m so sexually attracted to you that it’s insane,” he whispers. “From the first moment I saw you on that plane.”

  I stare at him as I get a vision of him throwing me across his desk.

  He trails his index finger down my face, over the center of my chest between my breasts, and then lower to my stomach, and then he skims it over my pubic bone before resting his hand on my hip. “I have a request.”

  “Yes.” I close my eyes as I feel myself melt under his touch.

  He leans forward so that his lips are almost touching my ear. His breath tickles and sends goose bumps down my spine. “I want you to wear your gray skirt tomorrow, the one with the split.”

  I frown as I listen to his whispered words.

  “Your white silk blouse, and the lace bra that you wear underneath it.”

  Holy shit . . .

  “No stockings.” His hand grips my hip bone, and I clench my sex.

  He licks my ear. “I want you to wear your hair in a ponytail so I can wrap it around my hand.”

  I get a vision of him wrapping my ponytail around his hand, and I nearly combust.

  This man is a god.

  I stare up at him. “Anything else?” I breathe.

  “Yes.” His eyes darken, and he reaches up and rubs his pointer finger over my bottom lip. “Tonight, I want you to take your vibrator.” His voice is deep and hushed and doing things to my insides that I didn’t know were possible.

  My eyes widen as he slightly parts my lips with his finger. Then he puts it in my mouth, and I find myself sucking it. His eyes darken as he watches me, and a slow, sexy smile crosses his face.

  “I want you to fuck yourself. Long . . . deep and slow.”

  Oh . . . Lord have mercy.

  “Why would I do that?” I breathe.

  “Because I know it will be my face that you will see when you come.”

  He bends and licks up my neck, and then he bites my ear, and my legs nearly buckle underneath me. “Do your homework, and you will be well rewarded,” he whispers in my ear before tenderly kissing my neck with an open mouth.

  I’m like putty in his hands. I can’t even pretend to fight this . . . whatever this is.

  He dusts his lips across mine but then steps back, an
d my body jerks at his withdrawal. I pant as I stare at him.

  “Do your homework, Emily. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I stare at him for a moment; he’s dismissing me.

  I frown as he turns and goes back to sit at his desk as if nothing ever happened.

  He picks up his scotch and sips it as his eyes hold mine. He slides a security key across the desk. “This will get you to this floor.”

  Huh.

  What in the hell was that?

  I snatch the key and leave his office in a fluster. I get into the elevator with my heart hammering.

  For fuck’s sake. I need to find some self-control, and I need to find it quick.

  Because he has it all.

  Chapter 6

  I sit in the café across the road from the Miles Media building. I told myself I came here to get some takeout for dinner. But the truth is, I want to see him leave. I want to see his face, to see if it’s as flushed as mine. I’m so close to orgasming in public; it’s not even funny. How can one finger through clothes arouse me so much? This man turns me into a puddle, a wet, soppy, pliable puddle. I have absolutely no resistance when he touches me.

  For twelve months I’ve dreamed about Jim, the funny, carefree man I spent the night with. And now that I’ve met another version of him, I’m not sure that I like him. I mean, he’s hot, hotter than hot. Blazing fucking inferno.

  Who is Jameson Miles?

  I sit on the bench seat by the window and stare across the street, and then I see the limousine arrive and pull into the parking bay.

  I sit up. My stomach flips, and I hold my breath as I watch the door open. In slow motion he walks out; he’s like a rock star, and everyone turns to watch him.

  Mr. Orgasmic.

  I watch as he gets into the back of the limousine and the driver closes the door behind him, and then it slowly pulls away.

  I watch it all the way up the street as it disappears, and I feel a wave of disappointment roll over me.

  I wonder what he’s doing tonight. It’s late, nearly six thirty, and the Miles Media building is emptied out for the day. I can’t believe I waited around to get a glimpse of him leaving . . . what a loser. I guess I may as well order something to eat here. I’m only going to go and eat alone at home anyway. I pick up the menu and scan the choices, and then the front doors of Miles Media open again, and Tristan walks out. I frown as I watch him. He’s with a woman; she’s blonde and beautiful and wearing a gray woolen fitted dress and high-heeled short black boots. She has a trendy vibe about her, and her hair is in a bouncy ponytail. She says something, and he laughs out loud. They walk around the corner but are still in my view, and he puts his hand on her behind and leans in and kisses her.

  Who is she?

  He then takes her hand in his, and they disappear up the street together.

  Does she work in the building? I would have thought they had some no-dating-the-staff kind of rule. Maybe not?

  Maybe it’s a free-for-all, and they’re fucking their way through the floors?

  Am I the only girl he’s flirting with? Does he summon anyone else up to his office?

  I close my eyes in disgust.

  Stop it.

  God, I need to get a grip.

  I go through my wardrobe and take out my clothes for tomorrow. It’s late, and I’ve been working on that story that they want. I hope it’s all right. My preparation is different this time. What should I wear tomorrow? Do I do as I was told?

  I lay out the clothes Jameson told me to wear, and I stare at them on my bed.

  The gray skirt with the split, the white silk shirt. How does he know that I wear a white lace bra with this shirt? How does he even know about this outfit?

  He watches me.

  A sick thrill runs through me. Fuck, this guy is playing with my head.

  I’m walking around, a raging mass of hormones, and he hardly touches me.

  Imagine if he did.

  I think back to this afternoon and the way his finger traced my body and then how he put it in my mouth and I sucked on it.

  His words come back to me. I want you to fuck yourself. Long . . . deep and slow.

  I close my eyes as arousal begins to heat my blood. He wants me to think of him while I come.

  I go to my bedside and take out my vibrator, and I hold it in my hand and look at it.

  “It’s a very cold substitute, Mr. Miles,” I whisper into the silence. I have a good mind to call him and tell him to come over and get the job done in person.

  But of course I won’t. I turn off the light and crawl under the covers, and my hand brushes across my naked breast.

  I close my eyes and open my legs and imagine Jameson Miles is here with me.

  “Do you guys want to get some dinner after work?” I ask Molly and Aaron.

  “Yeah, all right. Something healthy, though,” Molly replies as she types. “I’m never going to get laid if I don’t start working on this fat ass.” She types some more. “I have to be done by eight, though. I have to pick up the kids.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Aaron sighs. “Sounds good.”

  “I have training this afternoon,” I reply as I try to sound casual.

  They both look up from their work. “Where?”

  “In the management offices.”

  “Oh my God.” Molly smirks. “Did he say anything?”

  I drop my head. I glance up at the cameras. “I’ll tell you tonight.”

  “God, I live for these stories,” Aaron whispers. “Please tell me you fucked him on his desk?”

  I giggle as I finalize what I’m doing. “No, don’t be stupid.” I grab my manila folder with my fake news story. “I’ll see you guys later.”

  They both look up at me and smirk. “Good luck.”

  In five minutes, I find myself on the top floor with a ferociously beating heart. I decided not to wear what he told me to wear; that’s just way too eager.

  What makes him think he can tell me what to wear, anyway?

  Sammia smiles when she sees me. “Mr. Miles, you have Emily Foster here to see you.”

  “Send her in,” his velvety voice replies.

  I walk through the marble hall on my tiptoes as I make another mental note to buy rubber-soled shoes. How do I keep forgetting to do this? I knock on his door.

  “Come in,” he calls.

  I open the door and find him sitting at his desk on the phone; his eyes find mine.

  “Hello, Emily,” he mouths.

  “Hi.” I smile as I clutch my folder.

  “Please take a seat.” He gestures to a chair and holds up his finger. “One minute,” he mouths.

  I smile and nod as I sit down.

  “I understand that, Richard. Yes, I know.” He listens. “I don’t care if she’s hardworking. She broke protocol, and there are consequences.”

  I frown. What the hell? Who’s he talking to?

  “Richard,” he snaps. “You will fire her this afternoon, or I will. And we both know who’s going to make it less painful.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “Tristan is aware, yes,” he snaps. “But as the CEO I have the control. You have two hours to escort Lara Aspin from the building, or I’ll come down myself.” He hangs up angrily.

  I stare at him, wide eyed. What did she do?

  He bites his bottom lip angrily as his eyes hold mine.

  “I’ve got the story you requested,” I murmur.

  “Good.” He takes the folder from me and rolls his chair back as he opens it and begins reading.

  He’s different today, angry. But maybe it’s just that call he came off from.

  He inhales deeply and flicks the pages, clearly frustrated.

  “Is it okay?”

  He raises his eyebrows as if unimpressed.

  I frown.

  “A seismic weather event is hardly breaking news, is it?”

  “Well, what do you want me to write about?” I stammer. “I can’t name a person or place or anything be
cause it’s fake news. I don’t want to get us sued.”

  “I am well aware of what it is, Ms. Foster,” he snaps.

  “What’s wrong with you today?” I whisper.

  He flicks the pages as he reads. “Nothing.” He reads on. “This won’t do. I’ll write it myself.”

  I frown. “I spent four hours on that last night.”

  He looks up from the papers, and I wither under his glare.

  “Well, what do you want me to write about, then?” I ask.

  “Anything but fucking weather.” He closes the folder as if disgusted and places it on the table.

  He pushes the intercom. “Tristan, come in here, please.”

  “Yep.”

  I shrivel in my chair a little. God, he’s mean when he’s angry.

  Tristan comes into the office, and Jameson exhales heavily. “Ms. Foster has written her story.” He gestures to the folder.

  “Good.” Tristan smiles, and he picks it up and begins to read.

  “A seismic weather event won’t do,” Jameson barks.

  Tristan twists his lips as he reads on. “It’s very good, though,” he comments.

  Hmm, I’m totally crushing on the wrong brother . . . my one is an asshole.

  “Thank you.” I fake a smile. “With all due respect, Jameson,” I state, “if we name this weather event and hype it up as coming in the next four months and that it’s going to cause extensive damage, it will have legs. No names to trace, people, or places. I don’t see how I could have written a story about something else without jeopardizing our integrity.”

  “We are not here to prove our integrity,” he growls. “We are trying to withhold it.”

  I sit back in my chair, annoyed.

  “I want a story on an FBI murder case.” He narrows his eyes as he thinks. “Make up a fake murder and name and a fake investigation and how close they are to closing it.”

  My anger bubbles. “If you knew what you wanted me to write, why didn’t you say that yesterday?” I snap. “You told me to do what I wanted, and I spent four hours writing that for you.”

  Tristan rolls his lips to hide his smirk. “I have things to do. Let me know what story we’re going with,” he says as he walks toward the door. “Thanks, Emily. Great work.” He closes the door behind him.

  I glare at the asshole in front of me. “So what do you want me to do?”