Dirty Secrets (3 page)

CHAPTER

Zoey woke up and stretched, a slow smile spreading over her face. Her butt felt like she
’d fallen down a flight of stairs, but the delicious satisfaction that was all through her was a completely fair trade. It was like the morning she got her first tattoo. Stung flesh, and a strong desire to do it all over again as soon as possible. She had to twist around like a dog chasing its tail to see her backside, and finally dragged a chair from the small table in her kitchen into the mouse-sized bathroom so that she could stand on it and see the damages in the tiny mirror above her sink.

For the most part, her flesh was reddened, but there were a few bruises, clearly shaped like fingers and a hand. Heat rushed through her, just seeing it again. She was incredibly glad they hadn’t traded phone numbers last night; she’d be debating right now whether or not to send him a picture of his handiwork. Never a good decision to make when you were this euphoric.

She showered and got dressed. Today was not one of her days in the office, but she did have a Skype meeting with her editor. Yellow news at the
Downtown Voice
wouldn’t wait. She slid into jeans that made the sore skin on her butt twinge when she bent over, and grinned a little. She’d be thinking of Andy every time she shifted. Fun.

Then she turned on her laptop, and tried to turn the webcam to show the least cracked portion of the wall of her studio.

When she’d moved to New York from just outside Covington, Louisiana, she’d told herself that she knew what she was getting into. She’d had some success selling freelance pieces from where she was, and the offer for an in-office position had seemed completely legitimate. Only once she got to the city, the apartment allowance she’d been promised never surfaced, and the rents in New York City were four and five times what she’d been paying at home, but she’d spent her nest egg to get here, and there was no way in hell she was calling home and begging for plane fare back. She strongly suspected that Mama knew what was going on, but understood that Zoey had her pride. So they kept silent about it. Mama only asked about the writing, and Daddy only asked that she was safe, and if she’d met anyone nice, and they didn’t talk about the money part. It was just easier.

It wasn’t a horrible job, working for the
Downtown Voice
. The offices were incredibly small, so the staff writers rotated office days and web-commuting, and she did get bonuses when her articles got good views. And she could still freelance in her spare time, what there was of it. So she could pay her bills. She just wasn’t going to get out of this studio any time soon.

Helen kept promising her that she’d get a call soon, that someone at a bigger publication would notice her work. Zoey just wasn’t sure if anyone would be able to see past the click-bait headlines to see the work she put into research and the actual words. One thing she’d learned very quickly: between local writers and the resources available to editors on the internet, hot shot writers were a dime a dozen. The way you made a name for yourself was to show up, day after day, and do the work without making more work for your editor. It meant that sometimes the language took a backseat to the message. It meant that sometimes you compromised just how controversial you were willing to be. It meant that you made your headline as sensational as possible, even if it had nothing to do with the actual message of your article. It meant that you gave up the dream of being the great American writer, and you pretended that only losers wanted a Pulitzer.

Focus, sha
, she told herself. The words she’d given to Andy, that she was a dirty little girl, echoed in her mind. She hadn’t expected them to be so true, either.

The way he’d called her princess, though. It still made her shiver.

Devin, her editor, logged onto Skype, and a moment later, the incoming notification for a video chat flashed on her screen. She accepted it, and flashed her débutante smile at the screen as the chat connected.

“Zoey,” Devin said, all business. Of all of the staff she’d met around the
Voice
, Devin was the one who took the work most seriously. He either didn’t realize that they all worked for a gossip rag, or genuinely didn’t care. He pushed at the bridge of his nose, a gesture she figured he’d picked up as a kid with heavy glasses. He either wore contacts now, or had gotten Lasix. They weren’t friendly enough she’d ever inquired.

She’d been interested in him, briefly. He was the kind of geeky handsome that usually turned her crank, with strong features, warm green eyes, and deep olive skin, but if he was even remotely interested in her, he’d never given any indication. “Morning, Devin,” she replied.

“Great numbers on the piece about the Subway Wanker,” he said, and Zoey had to fight that damned blush rising in her cheeks again. The first major story to have her name on it, ever, was about a dude jacking off on the subway. No, this was not the journalistic career she’d envisioned as a kid, watching old Katherine Hepburn movies. “I have the perfect follow up for you.”

“Really?” Zoey said. A flare of excitement lit her up. “I wanted to talk to you about an idea I had. I was doing some research on AEGIS after I read about the death of their CEO in the
Times
, and something seriously is not adding up there—”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” Devin looked excited and animated for the first time in ages. “A profile piece on Alexander is exactly what we need.”

The excitement dropped like a stone. “What?”

“Alexander Blankenship, son of the CEO and presumed heir to the fortune and AEGIS.”

“The filthiest playboy on Wall Street.”

“That’s the one. Find out everything you can. Who is he, what’s his plan for the company, how broken up is he about Dear Old Dad. The old man was supposed to be quite the playboy in his day, and everyone has said for years that he had spent his own fortune when he married Olivia Cunningham just to keep his company from growing broke. Total money match. I’ll send you some links to pieces we’ve run in the past, and I got an interview with the man himself this afternoon.”

Her lips felt numb. She forced her lips to keep smiling, but she knew the light had gone out. “So we’re going to follow up the Subway Wanker with a standard profile on a Wall Street playboy? And I’m going in to find out his favorite color and who he’s fucking this week?”

Devin’s lips tightened. “Look,” he said, and Zoey braced herself. “If this isn’t what you want to do with your life, I can find someone else. I’m trying to help you out, Zoey. You’re good, but you’re not irreplaceable. No one is, not anymore. Not you, and not me. I have to keep my numbers up too, remember.”

She rubbed at her temples again, and then smiled like Mama had taught her. “I know, Devin. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I just thought we were going in a different direction, that’s all. I’ll get the profile, and it’ll be great. For both of us.”

Devin nodded. “Make sure. Wear something low cut to the interview. He’s a tits man.”

It wasn’t exactly possible to hang up on someone with Skype—there was no satisfying thump or the buzz of an empty line—but he didn’t bother to say goodbye before he disconnected the chat.

She knew she was being ungrateful. There wasn’t really any question about that. But God—this wasn’t what she wanted to do for the rest of her life. She was sick of gossip pieces and trashy exposes. Hell, at this point, writing about a congressman who was screwing his aide would be a step up in the quality department.

If only there was a way to go home without looking like a dog with her tail between her legs. If there was a way to handle the inevitable sniffs of satisfaction. Local girl heads to city and can’t hack it, laughs all around. If she could get one good piece under her belt, one serious article, she could tell everyone that she was going to continue to work on her career from home, where she could get good jambalaya and the music made sense. Where the town didn’t stink all summer long, even if it was hot and sweaty.

Her inbox blinked with a new message. She clicked over, and saw a series of forwarded articles and links from Devin about AEGIS, Philip Blankenship, and Alexander’s playboy life style. She got out the tablet that Daddy had sent her last Christmas, and starting making notes. Background information, likely questions, all of it. Maybe she’d get enough to put together the piece on AEGIS she’d been thinking about. It wouldn’t be something Devin could use, but Helen might be able to make it work. It was worth thinking about, anyway. She already had the interview scheduled, and she’d found over the years that getting the facetime with the source was sometimes the trickiest part.

CHAPTER

Everything about AEGIS put Zoey on edge. The building was sky high, with an opulent entrance and someone in uniform to push the elevator button for her, so she wouldn
’t bruise her wee girly finger by pressing one whole button. It was New York decadence all wrapped up in one steel and glass package. People were starving, but this building had marble floors, and a dude who rode in the elevator all day long, just pushing buttons for business people.

She’d taken Devin’s advice to show off what tits she had. Her initial instinct had been to be stubborn, and wear a turtleneck and boot cut slacks, but whether she liked it or not, there was something to what he’d said. They both needed this piece. Anyone could break one story; she needed to build a history of being a writer who was “good to work with,” who “delivered to expectation,” who had “diverse topical interest.” Being a primadonna about her assignments wouldn’t do her any damn good, even if it would feel satisfying at the moment. She’d dressed in the most enthusiastic of her push-up bras, a charcoal gray blouse that didn’t even bother to have buttons around the neck, and a deep burgundy pencil skirt. Sensible black pumps were the only thing keeping this outfit from looking like she was actually a very high class hooker.

Elevator guy let her off at the penthouse office suite, and she stepped out, feeling entirely outclassed by the receptionist. The woman had a haircut that probably cost more than Zoey’s entire outfit, even with the pink streaks threaded through her blonde curls. She very studiously did not give Zoey a once over, which was somehow more embarrassing than actually being scrutinized from head to toe.

Three years in the city had still not gotten her used to the way this worked. Back home, if some blonde haired blue eyed beauty thought she had more gorgeous points, she would straight up tell you to your face, usually with some nasty nice comment that drove home just how much better she was than you. Zoey had learned early on to give as good as she got, with no real guilt. It was all part of the game. But the way northern women just casually disregarded anything that didn’t line up with what they wanted to see—that still stung.

She found that bright smile she’d relied on so much lately, and pasted it across her face, forcing it to glitter up into her eyes. She strode across the floor like she owned the place. “Hello,” she said. “I’m here to see Mr. Blankenship.”

Zoey got that once-over then, and she fought the urge to flinch. She kept her smile in place as the receptionist tapped at her computer. “I’m sorry,” the woman said.
Brianna
, read the name plate on the desk. Seriously, the receptionist had a nameplate? Zoey didn’t have a nameplate. Of course, she shared her cubical with three other writers. “Mr. Blankenship has a meeting.”

She resisted the urge to shift feet like a kid that needed to pee. “Yes, he does. I’m Zoey Gardener from the
Downtown Voice
.”

Brianna took in Zoey’s uninspiring cleavage, the outfit that suddenly seemed like the least professional thing that she’d ever put on, and the leather messenger bag that contained her tablet. The receptionist’s eyes focused on the bag for a longer moment than necessary, her perfectly threaded eyebrows sketching pale shadows across her artfully even skin. “Yes,” Brianna said, her tone as dry as west Texas. “Yes, I can see that. I’ll let Mr. Blankenship know that you’ve arrived. Have a seat, please.” she replied as she gestured at a gorgeous upholstered sofa—something this gracious would never be referred to as a mere couch. Possibly, it was even a settee—was ‘don’t piddle on the rug.’ Zoey bit down on her sharp irritation, and went and sat on the furniture. Whatever it was. At least this skirt kept her knees together without her having to worry about it. She daydreamed of spending a day in her pajamas. Or jeans. Jeans would be amazing. She missed jeans.

A phone buzzed on Brianna’s desk, and the woman glanced down, then stood. “Mr. Blankenship will see you now,” she said, and Zoey stood herself, following the other woman to a frosted glass door framed in steel. She opened the door, and Zoey thanked her, walking into the office. Brianna closed the door, and Zoey turned to meet the businessman who was walking across the floor with his hand extended.

And then her heart stopped.

She’d seen pictures of Alexander Blankenship before. Living in the city, writing yellow news for a trashy gossip paper, it was impossible to avoid. He was damned good looking in photos,  but in person, his eyes were stellar, sparkling and deep, and his smile seemed both broad and sincere, as if he wasn’t just greeting a journalist who was here to write some nasty article about him. He appeared to be genuinely happy to see her.

But that was not why her heart was currently frozen in place.

The domino mask last night had hidden just enough of his features that she hadn’t realized who he was. After all, who expected a Wall Street playboy, who could have any woman—or man—that he might find interesting to frequent a kink club, no matter how exclusive the membership? But now, with the mask gone, she both recognized him for who he was—and who he’d been last night. “Oh holy Christ in heaven,” she muttered, falling back on the Christian exclamation, even though she’d stopped believing years ago.

For what it was worth, the realization seemed to have run him straight through as well. “You’d better sit down,” he said. “Let me get you a drink.”

Sitting was good. “No drink,” she said. “The last thing in the world that I need is a damn drink.”

“I’m having a drink,” he said, as she flopped into the chair on the other side of his desk. “Coffee? Water? Anything? Please. Let me do something.”

“Coffee,” she said, without much thought.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“No, thank you,” she said. He had one of those foul, trendy, automatic coffee makers on the same wall as his row of decanters. He popped a pod in and pressed brew, then poured himself two fingers of amber liquid. Still, as offensive as the brew method might be, the smell of caffeinated gold was delicious, and when he passed her the cup, she took it without complaint. He leaned against the edge of his desk.

“Well,” he said, after a while. “Just how awkward will this be?”

“Excuse me?”

He shook his head. “You’re here to write a gossip piece on me, aren’t you? Your editor wasn’t specific, but the mag has a reputation that I’m sure you’ll uphold. Should I expect a tell all on our event last night?” His dark eyes were cold, all the sparkle gone.

“What? No. Of course not.” Marie had been extremely clear, and Helen had backed up the zero-tolerance policy of the club. And besides, if she didn’t to be known as the hack who broke the story about the Subway Wanker, she really didn’t want to be known as the tramp who got famous by fucking the Blankenship heir. “Andy, you have my word on that. Last night—was amazing. But private. I won’t share that with anyone.”

He studied her for a long moment, but it was nothing like Brianna’s calculating stare. He wasn’t ranking her in comparison to himself, and he wasn’t even considering her as a friend or foe. He was just—seeking the truth. And she had a funny thought, all of a sudden, that he was smarter than he let on, and much more aware than people gave him credit for. She thought that not much got past him at all. “Alex,” he said, after a little bit. He gave her a small nod, and his arms uncrossed, his hands settling on the edge of the desk. “They call me Andy at the club, but I’m Alex. Always have been.” He held out a hand again.

She slipped her fingers into his, carefully pushing the frisson of interest to the back of her mind, where it couldn’t bother her. “Zoey,” she said. “Zoey Gardener. From the
Downtown Voice.
”
Dammit, he knew that.
“I’m sorry to hear about your recent loss.”

“Did I leave bruises?” He hadn’t let her hand go yet, and his index finger trailed out and caressed the sensitive skin inside her wrist. She fought to keep her shiver strictly internal.

“I’d like to talk to you about your father’s influence on AEGIS. With Philip gone, how do you think the direction of the company will be affected?” Her voice was shaking. She had to look away from his eyes. She’d never felt lust rush through her like this, especially not with someone who was essentially a stranger. And he was still holding her hand, still tracing her wrist with his fingertip. She’d worn sensible panties today, but they were going to be soaked inside a few minutes at this rate.

“I ask, because you’re squirming. Just a little bit. Does it still hurt?”

She pulled her hand back and cleared her throat. “I woke up with the marks of your fingers in technicolor all over my ass and thighs, and I loved it so much that I considered finger fucking myself in the shower just so I could think straight. Okay? The readers of the
Downtown Voice
are desperate to know if the unfortunate passing of your father means that you’ll be under pressure from your board to settle down and get serious about the business.”

He brushed away the comment with a smooth gesture. “Your readership would be heart broken if I had to get serious about anything, they’d have to find someone new to talk about. Why didn’t you touch yourself this morning?”

Zoey had reached down into her bag to grab her phone and her tablet to record and make notes, but she let her hand fall away from them. She wanted to answer him—she wanted to see where answering him would lead—but everything inside of her was turmoil. Writing the gossip piece would be no big deal, she didn’t even need quotes from him to do it, but the more detailed AEGIS piece she’d been taking notes for this morning? There was no way. If the fact of their dalliance last night ever got out, she could kiss any shot at a real journalistic job good bye. Everyone would assume that she wrote the piece to spin it, whether it came out favorable or not to AEGIS. It was just one story, just one idea, but this morning, it had felt like a lifeline. It had felt like a way out of the hole of a studio in a shitty walk up. “I’m sorry,” she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could manage. Which wasn’t much, all things considered. “This isn’t going to work. Do you have a PR person I can contact for a couple of quotes?”

He reached out, his fingers brushing over her shoulder, and she had the strongest urge ever to twist her head over and bite into his skin. Not enough to hurt, just enough to see what he would do. Would he sweep everything off his desk? Push her up against the wall? Take her on the floor? “Why won’t this work?” He sounded almost sad.

“Because you’re a Wall Street tycoon bad boy, and I’m—” She couldn’t think of anything to say. She shrugged. “Just look at me.”

To her serious frustration, he clearly did, his eyes gliding over her outfit. She could see him taking it all in in fits and starts, his lips pursing here, his eyes narrowing there. “Not bad, overall,” he said, “But you can do better. You did better last night.”

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Last night, you were all casual contact only, now, you want me to tell you about why I didn’t touch myself in the shower?”

He cocked his head slightly to the side. From the way he was leaning, she could see the outline of his dick, lying down along his right leg. She wouldn’t put him at fully hard, but decidedly interested. “Is that so strange? Dirty talk not your thing?”

Zoey stared up at him, at Mr. Alexander Blankenship, who looked so calm and in control. He was still leaning back against the desk, every line of his body carefully placed to maximize his influence and power and ease in the situation. Afterward, she wasn’t sure exactly what possessed her to lean forward and mouth his cock through his suit pants. Maybe just that she wanted to see how he reacted to someone turning the tables on him.

He let out a low groan in response to her hot breath ghosting over him. She loved taunting men like this. She could use her teeth with abandon, go full out erotic eye contact, and generally enjoy herself. “Is this what you want?” she asked, tracing his belt, running her index finger down his fly.

He let out a sound that was raspy and low. “If you’re offering, I’m sure as hell not going to turn you down,” he said. “I’d love to see what you can do with that talented mouth of yours.”

She worked his zipper and belt with quick ease. He wore silk boxer briefs underneath his pants, and where the tip of his cock lay, there was already a spot of creamy wetness. She pulled him free from the top—he was harder than she’d guessed already, and took the tip of him in her mouth. One of his hands clenched hard on the edge of the desk, the other came to her hair. She’d left it down today, and he wound a length of it up in a tail, and around his palm. It was enough that he could direct her head, if he wanted to, and it wouldn’t pull. “Don’t bother trying to take the whole thing,” he said. She could hear him striving for that voice of command and control he’d had the night before, but he was in a very different place now, she suspected. “It doesn’t feel that great, even if you do pull it off. The tip—you can use your teeth—”