Dirtiest Lie Read online

  That doesn’t happen, at least not outside of my overactive imagination, where worst-case scenarios continue to play on a continuous loop, the horrors so crisply vivid that they would put even the most technologically advanced television screen to shame.

  I pull a mirror out of my purse to check my makeup. Pale blue eyes stare back at me as I swipe honey-flavored lip gloss over my mouth.

  Finally the limo stops in front of the skyscraper where I worked. Work.

  Because even though I quit over a week ago, my bosses weren’t inclined to accept my resignation.

  Two weeks’ notice, they said. They threatened me with legal action, which they know damned well I can’t afford—not the lawyers and especially not the publicity. If I still want to leave after those two weeks, they say they’ll let me go.

  Of course, I never wanted to leave in the first place, and now… I never want to go. This desire is at odds with my self-preservation instincts.

  But if Romeo, Slade, and Hawthorne can keep me safe, I’ll stay. I’m twenty-three. I’ve never had a relationship. I haven’t had friends in years because I’ve been on the move. My birthday is coming up, and I don’t want to celebrate by picking up a hot guy in a bar for meaningless, tepid sex.

  Here is where I belong.

  I just can’t imagine how my bosses plan to get my grandfather to back off. He’s not a backing off sort of guy, and the battlefield is filled with the bodies of his foes.

  Unfortunately, I don’t mean that figuratively—a detail I haven’t shared with anyone.

  On the other hand, my bosses aren’t backing off sorts of guys, either. They’re rich, and they’re strong, but if they’re as ruthless as my grandfather, isn’t that a sign that I’m not any safer with them?

  I feel like my entire body must be trembling visibly, but when I look down, I can’t see it.

  Perception is all that matters. It’s a strangely comforting thought, one that sends a small but warm tendril of confidence shooting down my spine.

  ~

  When the limo comes to a stop in front of the office, Romeo finally gets off the phone.

  “Don’t open the door,” he tells me.

  By now I’m sitting with my shoulders back, my chin up, my fingers loose and relaxed. I surely appear calm and poised.

  A moment later, three men in dark suits approach the limo.

  They’ve got identical haircuts—short, tidy, every strand flowing obediently in the same direction and gelled into submission. They wear dark sunglasses that reflect the towering skyscrapers.

  Romeo instructs the driver to disengage the locks, and one of the men opens the door.

  “Miss Yorker,” he says, extending a large hand.

  For a moment, I don’t move. Yorker is my legal last name, but I haven’t used it since I was sixteen. The last time I heard it was a little over a week ago, when I was abducted by one of my grandfather’s henchmen.

  Before that? When I was sixteen, before I learned how to set up a decent alias.

  Sadly, my first impulse upon hearing the sound of my name is to knee someone in the nuts and run in the opposite direction.

  Not that kneeing these guys would go far. They have the smooth, plastic faces of fashion dolls, and I wonder if all their bulges are smoothed over in the name of practicality.

  I give the man my hand, and he helps me onto the sidewalk. Romeo comes around, and the four of us walk into the office building.

  I’m boxed in by big, muscular men.

  People stare. Eyebrows go up. Someone says to a friend, “Do you know her? I think she’s from a reality show.”

  The men come all the way up to the office, where they install themselves in the chairs near the elevator. Their cool efficiency makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  “You’ll be with Hawthorne today,” Romeo says. “Good luck, and see you after lunch.”

  My heart sinks into my stilettos.

  I knew I was going to get some mysterious training in the morning, but I hoped Hawthorne wouldn’t be first.

  Stiffly, I walk down the hall and knock on Hawthorne’s door.

  “Mr. Tarraget isn’t in yet,” Andrea says. “The door’s unlocked.”

  She’s telling me that I can go in, which means Hawthorne has added me to his official schedule.

  Which means Hawthorne has cleared his morning just for me. 8:00 to noon, he might have written. Train Lindsay sexually. Whip her into shape.

  Should I be flattered or terrified?

  ~

  Hawthorne’s office isn’t quite as large as Romeo’s. In fact, it’s exactly the same size as Slade’s, which is down the hall. Hawthorne has a much bigger office in another building, but I don’t think he uses it much these days.

  But what do I know? I haven’t been around for the last week, and before that I was swamped with work.

  The office is furnished in the standard rich guy way. He really could have ripped a page out of a magazine expo on any random CEO and used it as a template.

  The room’s focal point is the massive desk, an intimidating monstrosity of dark wood. The padded chair behind it might as well be a throne. The bookcases lining the walls and the black sofa sitting on a shaggy black rug almost seem like afterthoughts, like props to give the impression that it’s really an office and not a pulpit from which the executive can hand down life-and-death decisions.

  But maybe I’m projecting based on what I know of Hawthorne’s personality. Romeo’s office isn’t so very different, but it doesn’t give the same impression.

  There’s also a freestanding wardrobe.

  Curious, I open it and see a simple black dress and a pair of classy black shoes. No heels. It must be my outfit for the afternoon.

  It’s a nice dress, though not my style. I wonder what would happen if I hid it.

  I cross to the window and peer out. From up here, it’s impossible to see the street, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.

  For the moment I’m safe, but that does little to assuage my worry. After all, I was abducted from this building once, and I can never let my guard down again.

  My thoughts wander to the night before. Slade said he has a secret, and he wants me to guess it, but I don’t even know where to start. I assume it’s about sex—I was naked, my arms and legs restrained, when he teasingly brought it up. The only thing I’m sure of is that it’s not something bad or scary; he was too upbeat for that.

  Muffled footsteps approach the office, then stop.

  I hear the deep growl of Hawthorne’s voice. Andrea says something in return.

  Hawthorne steps into view, holding a coffee mug.

  He’s wearing one of his many conservative dark suits and a red tie with blue dots. He looks like a candidate for president, right down to his perfectly styled dark hair. Only his eyes, which are a piercing, icy blue, suggest deep, dark secrets.

  His face is expressionless as he stares past me and out the window, and I wonder what he’s thinking. He certainly doesn’t seem excited that I’m there.

  “Good morning,” I say finally. I make myself uncross my arms. When did they get crossed? I have no idea.

  His cool gaze abruptly swings toward me. “Get out,” he says flatly. “Out of my office.”

  It takes me a second to process the words. “Why?”

  “Employees aren’t allowed in executive areas without supervision.”

  “But Romeo told me—”

  “Out.” He doesn’t need to yell the word for it to have the air of finality.

  Throwing my hands up in frustrated surrender, I leave the office at the snail’s pace dictated by the tight skirt.

  Hawthorne practically slams the door behind me.

  Chapter 3

  Stunned, I stand outside Hawthorne’s door.

  Andrea is gone, her computer dark. Her purse is missing, too, and I wonder where she went.

  Smoothing my hands down the front of my tight skirt, I pull myself together. So Hawthorne is being a dick.
Why am I even surprised?

  His door swings open. “Go to conference room A,” he says, and he slams it again.

  “What happened to making an effort to get along with me?” I ask.

  Walking to the conference room takes an eternity. I have to take three steps to cover the distance of one normal step. The outfit might be sexy, but I look like a fool.

  The conference room door is open, and I hear a commotion long before I’m close enough to see what’s going on. Inside, half the office is crowded around the table, which is covered in messy piles of paper. A delivery guy with a hand truck brings in sealed boxes and stacks them in a corner.

  He checks me out, then offers me a stick of cinnamon gum. I politely decline.

  “Lindsay,” Tamara says, flustered. “Glad you’re here. There was a problem with our printing company, and we had to use someone new. They did the printing but neglected to actually make the booklets.” She glances at her watch.

  “Ok…” I say, confused. My job is to evaluate the employee situation at companies we’re thinking of acquiring. It’s not that stapling pages is below me—I do most of my own admin work. But this simply isn’t part of my job description.

  Tamara shoves completed folders at me. “You can check the pages. It’s imperative that they’re all complete.”

  “One second.” I totter out of the room—goddamn these shoes—and into an adjoining conference room, where I dial Romeo’s extension.

  He doesn’t answer, so I try Slade. No luck.

  Reluctantly, I dial Hawthorne.

  “Hello, Lindsay,” he says.

  “Is there a reason you’re…” Being a dick. “Why are you squandering valuable company resources?” I demand.

  He clears his throat. “You should contact HR, but I suppose I can spare a moment to address the concerns of an employee.”

  “Your magnanimity is noted,” I grit out.

  “I’m guessing you’re the valuable resource in question?” He’s so smug, I’m surprised it isn’t clogging up the phone line.

  “Last night I was told that I wouldn’t be demoted.”

  “You haven’t been. Your job title and pay are unchanged. We’re merely treating you like any other employee. Let me know if you need me to go over the rules for breaks and personal time.” He hangs up.

  I have to place the phone very, very slowly into the cradle to avoid slamming it down.

  What can I do except totter back into the room and do what Tamara asks?

  ~

  The assembled employees are putting the folders together faster than I can check them. Someone gives me a purple sponge to dampen my index finger.

  It makes flipping through the pages faster. It also turns my finger wrinkly. Painfully so.

  The phone rings. Andrea answers it. “I’ll send her right down,” she says. Hanging up, she catches my eye. “Mr. Tarraget would like to see you in his office.”

  “When?”

  “Immediately, I assume.”

  Eyeing the mountain of folders, I push to my feet. Knowing Hawthorne, he just wants to waste my time.

  But I’ve been summoned, so off I go.

  Slowly. My toes are pinched, starting to ache.

  Hawthorne’s door is open. Feet propped on his desk, he’s flipping through a car magazine. When he sees me, he stands and reaches for his coffee cup.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment.” He walks out, leaving me standing there like an idiot. “Ms. Yorker?”

  I turn. “Please don’t call me that.”

  “You’re not allowed to be in executive areas—”

  “Got it,” I snap, and I move outside his office.

  Of course I know I got special treatment before, but I really hope Hawthorne doesn’t act like this with the other employees.

  “Ms. Yorker,” he says when he finally returns, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. “Thank you for coming down. I realize you’re busy this morning.”

  I don’t bother rolling my eyes. He doesn’t deserve a reaction.

  “My sister called about fifteen minutes ago,” he says, and my heart skips a beat.

  “Is Bandit—”

  “Your cat is fine. He’ll be picked up today, and you’ll have him back by tomorrow night.”

  “Oh.” That seems like a long time, but I don’t really have a choice, do I? I wonder if this is part of Romeo’s plan to keep me from running again. “Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate it. What about my dry cleaning?”

  “Taken care of.” Hawthorne crosses the room with relaxed but confident strides and sits at his desk. “Close the door,” he says.

  “Why didn’t you shut it?” I snip. “You were just there.”

  He opens the desk drawer and takes out a ruler. He places it across the desk, and I get the impression it’s a threat.

  “No employee handbook nearby?” I ask, referring to the first office object he ever used to spank me.

  “Go close the door.”

  This time I do roll my eyes, but I make my slow, mincing way across his office and close the door.

  “Lock it,” he says.

  I swivel back around and push in the button to lock the door. “Anything else?”

  A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. “Today is your first day of training. We all wanted to go first, but I won the coin toss.”

  “A three-sided coin?” I ask.

  He stands. “You’ll want to rethink your insolence,” he says. “The purpose of your training is to lay out rules. By following the rules, you’ll gain our trust.”

  “Rules?” I feel my nose wrinkling. “Surely you can be more specific at this point?”

  “Logical rules. Arbitrary rules. It’s up to me. Remove your skirt and blouse and hang them neatly.”

  Sex? I can definitely get on board with that.

  As I unbutton the blouse, anticipation warms me. There hasn’t been much room in my life for surprises, at least not the fun kind.

  ~

  Hawthorne comes around to stand in front of the desk.

  I expect him to take a long look—after all, I’m in my underthings—but instead, his icy blue gaze fixes on mine.

  “How did you sleep?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I say.

  His raised eyebrow says he doesn’t believe that. “Do you have any questions for me?”

  It sounds like a trick question, so I stick to the topic at hand. “What do you think of my clothing?”

  His gaze skips down my body, and to my horror, he shrugs as he leans back to pick up his coffee cup. “Who do you think picked that out?” he asks before taking a sip.

  “You?” I ask, thinking he’s disappointed with how I look in it.

  He shakes his head. “No. And most certainly not Romeo. That’s Slade’s idea.”

  “Slade?” I wonder if that’s Slade’s secret—that unlike the others, he doesn’t mind the sexy lingerie, the padded, lacy bras and the ultra-feminine shoes.

  “He’s the one who likes all the…” He agitates his hand. “Frills and straps and pantyhose.”

  I feel my face start to heat. It’s inconceivable that after all this time, despite everything we’ve been through, Hawthorne can find a way to send my self-esteem crashing to the floor with just a lift of one dark, disapproving brow.

  “Well,” I say as I cross my arms over my chest, “if you don’t like the frippery—”

  He cuts me off with a laugh. “Frippery? You’re so sensitive when it comes to your appearance. I admit that I shouldn’t wind you up, but it’s hard to resist.”

  With the morning sun slanting through the window, I can see the color variations in his eyes, the gold flecked throughout the blue.

  “So immature,” I say, and when I inhale, I catch the scent of his spicy aftershave.

  “No one is disagreeing with you,” he says. “Do you have any other questions? Maybe something of greater importance?”

  “What’s your master plan to get rid of my grandfather? Romeo says we’ll s
it down and figure it out together, but surely you have something in mind?”

  He frowns. “We have a plan, true. We’re still hammering out the details.”

  “It would be foolish not to run it by me.”

  “Of course. We’ve learned a great deal about the man over the last few weeks, but you lived with him.” His frown deepens. “That’s something we’ll discuss at a later time. You’re not in here to discuss your grandfather. Right now, you’re here because of your trust issues. And while you might think they’re due to the things you had to endure when you were younger, the truth is that if a hundred different women experienced the same events you did, very few of them would have chosen your path.”

  I try to smile, but my face feels strangely frozen. “And what path might that be?”

  His sigh, warm and sweet with the scent of coffee, drifts toward me. “The mood seems to have changed. Are you trying to pick a fight, Lindsay?”

  “No,” I say. “I want to know what you think I’m like.”

  This makes him smile, and even though he’s gorgeous, smiling in the sunlight with his arresting eyes and perfect hair, I feel that familiar irritation that never fails to surface when Hawthorne and I inhabit the same zip code.

  “I hate you,” I say, and if my hands aren’t clenched into fists, it’s because my arms are clamped across my chest and folded so tightly that my shoulders and elbows hurt.

  He moves closer, his expression serious. “Lindsay,” he says gently. “You don’t hate me, and I wish you’d stop saying that.”

  All of a sudden, I get it. He’s being nice because he thinks I’m damaged, emotionally stunted.

  It’s even worse than when he’s going out of his way to be a dick.

  “Whoa,” he says. “You look like you want to kill someone.”

  “Fuck you,” I hiss between clenched teeth. My pulse has skyrocketed and I feel dizzy, like I’m being whipped around in circles. The high heels aren’t helping.