Rescued & Ravished: An Alpha's Conquest (A Paranormal Ménage Romance) (18 page)

Around one she had to field a Skype call from her busybody grandmother, a hawkish old woman who spent the whole time rhapsodizing about Ginger’s brother, Brody, and how well he was doing working for Pfizer in Shanghai.

“He’s just getting on
amazingly
,” she’d enthused, pointedly, her cockatiels screeching behind her. “I think it’s wonderful the way he’s taken to China. It’s so
foreign
, isn’t it?
So
foreign. But that doesn’t bother your brother. No, not at all. He’s making us all proud, Ginger.
All of us
.”

By the time Laila got home, around seven, Ginger was curled into a world-hating ball on their couch, staring glassily at the TV. TLC had been on for hours, but she’d barely noticed it, much less watched any of the shows. The stress was too much.

“Hi, hon. Did you have dinner—or lunch?” Laila asked cannily, shucking off her coat and throwing it over the sofa back. “I got takeout.”

Ginger had had neither. “You’re a saint, Laila. You know that, right?”

“Yep, I know. It’s Thai, come on. There’s bean thread soup, shrimp salad, and chicken himmapan—good stuff. Oh”—her voice was still casual—“and I got you an interview, too.”

Ginger sat bolt upright, lightning-struck. From the mischievous twinkle in Laila’s eyes, she’d intentionally kept Ginger in suspense; she grinned.

“Shut up!” Ginger hissed.

“No, I did! Really!”

“For what position?” Ginger scrambled up onto her knees on the sofa cushions.

“The personal assistant one. It fits best with your resume.”

Ginger grabbed one of the couch pillows and swung it at Laila, giddy. “No! Way!”

Laila squealed, dodging. “Yes way! Put that down. Let’s celebrate. I got us cupcakes from the Royale, not just dinner. And some wine!”

“That’s a little premature, isn’t it?” Ginger asked, laughing. “I’m not hired yet.”

Laila gave her a long, piercing look.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just—I wouldn’t worry too much.” Laila smiled, slightly. “You’re exactly his type.”

“Shit!” Ginger turned her leg to observe the damage: she’d pulled the tights on so fast that she’d made a run in them. “Fuccck.”

Furiously, she shimmied them off, then tore through her dresser looking for another pair. “Aw, man… do these
all
have runs?” Why hadn’t she thrown them away, if they were no good?!

Her interview was at eleven; it was nine thirty now. She was running late to get from Fremont into the business district.

Laila was telecommuting today, advising a client in London via video chat and compiling some personal papers. Ginger rushed over into her room, sliding on the wood flooring.

“Laila!”

“Ginger!” Laila looked up from a handsome folder full of documents, sitting cross-legged on the edge of her beautifully made bed. “What’s going on?”

“My tights—they’re all—I need to borrow some.”

Laila stared at her hard. “You can’t go like that.”

“I know! Bare-legged, I know. I need some tights. I—”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean you can’t go in wearing your little off-the-rack J. Crew suit. I thought you had something nicer.”

There was a pause. “What?” Ginger asked, stung. “What’s wrong with my—”

“It’s an important firm. You understand me? We advise corporate clients. Corporate. Clients.”

“I
know
that—”

“Microsoft. Corbis. Amazon. Starbucks. White Pages. Redfin. Zillow. Vulcan. F5.” Her eyes were burning a hole in Ginger’s face. “You can’t wear something like that. You have to look the part.”

“But—you said it yourself—that it’s not like I’m interviewing to be a lawyer.” Ginger knew she was flushing: she could feel her face getting hot. The Irish glow, her mother called it. It had always embarrassed her. “So—it’s… I don’t… so…”

“So you can borrow something of mine.” Laila set the folder aside. “Come on—strip down. Let’s make you presentable.”

Ginger stared at her, blankly.

Laila snapped her fingers. “I mean it! Everything off! We’ve got a lot of work to do!”

As soon as the elevator doors closed, Ginger used the mirrored walls to check her outfit: pulling down the skirt, readjusting the shoulders of the jacket, pinching her pantyhose to resettle the inline seam. She felt grossly underqualified to be wearing a Burberry suit, borrowed from Laila or not.

The receptionist on the ground floor had told her the other candidates had already gone up: she was just—
just
—on the right side of late. Another two minutes and she would have been out of the running. As it was, she’d had to splurge on a cab to get here in time; parking around Pioneer Square was a fucking nightmare, and she knew she wouldn’t have the thirty-five spare minutes to deal with it.

She willed herself not to sweat through her deodorant as she studied her face in the brassily reflective doors. Men told her it was an attractive face; to her, it just looked like her face.

Laila had ended up wiping off and redoing her makeup—lining the hazel eyes in soft, natural brown, brushing the lightest bronzer imaginable onto the pale cheekbones, thickening the brows ever so slightly with a pencil. She’d also redone Ginger’s hair. Ginger’s instinct had been to go severe, so she’d clipped it into a low, tight ponytail, but Laila had insisted she should keep it feminine and pretty instead. So Laila had taken out the clip—freeing all those orange-gold waves—and left Ginger’s hair down, adding only a Dutch waterfall braid to the back.

“Trust me,” she’d said, smiling cattishly. “It will go over well.”

Ginger hoped so.

There was a
ding
, and the elevator opened.

Cautiously, she stepped out. To her right was a sort of waiting room, outside what was obviously an office, but all the waiting chairs looked like they were made of Italian leather. She swallowed.

Trying not to wobble on her borrowed heels, and trying not to look too nervous, she went to one of the chairs and sat down.

The other candidates were young men, both of them. She glanced at them; they looked like typical rich-kid pukes, social climbers. One of them smirked at her.

She looked away, ignoring him.

It was very quiet. There was nothing for Ginger to do but consider her surroundings surreptitiously. The walls were mahogany-paneled, the carpets expensive orientals; the magazines on the side table next to her chair were
Forbes
,
Jurist
, the
Wall Street Journal
,
and
Businessweek
.

Everything was so upscale. She’d worked at fancy businesses before, but not like this. This was a multibillion-dollar firm, and it showed. Shaken, Ginger crossed and recrossed her legs; she heard a snide chuckle from one of the boys seated across from her. As far as they were concerned, they were only competing with each other.

And maybe that was true. She certainly felt out of her depth.

In her head, she ran through everything Laila had told her about the man needing an assistant. She knew he was successful, almost the most successful attorney at the firm; that he was young, just thirty-four; that he had degrees from Harvard and Berkeley; that some people found him intimidating, even difficult; and that Laila, for whatever reason, was dead certain Ginger was perfect for his needs.

But was she? Her pulse throbbed with anxiety.

There was a smooth click; the door to the office had opened. Instinctively, Ginger jumped to her feet—as did the two young men.

She heard a snatch of conversation—a rich voice saying, “Let’s keep on top of it. Now, I’ve got to review these applicants”—and saw two men step out of the office, one of them striding off to other work.

And the other man—the
other
man
.

She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a more attractive man.

He was tall, taller than her: just over six feet, the perfect height. He was broad-shouldered, too, and she could tell—even wearing a suit, a suit even
she
could tell was Armani—that he was muscular, hard-bodied, strong. Proud nose. Impeccable, commanding posture. Strong-jawed, with light brown hair and designer stubble. A Rolex flashed on his wrist.

But it was his eyes that fascinated her the most. Their inner ring was hot gold, their outer ring bright, piercing hickory-brown. She’d never seen eyes like that.

Obscenely, irrepressibly, she was turned on.

He came closer to the candidates—he had a firm, authoritative way of moving—and let his eyes sweep briefly, almost dismissively over the men. They settled, with interest, on Ginger.

She gazed at him, as coolly as she could. He gazed back.

“You’re Laila Majumdar’s friend, are you?” he asked, his voice deliciously masculine. It was deep, confident—
alpha
.

Yes, that was what he was: alpha.

“I am,” Ginger heard herself say, with surprisingly calm considering how gorgeous he was.

“I’m—”

“Dane MacAlister, I know,” she cut him off impulsively. Instinct was telling her to show a little moxie, so she listened. Not
too
much moxie—just enough to hook him, to convince him she could handle his undoubtedly complicated affairs. She wanted this job.

He smiled; her stomach flipped. “Yes. Come in, why don’t you?”

She followed him into his office, noting with satisfaction the thunderstruck faces of the two young men who had been waiting to interview.
Suck it, losers! Suck it hard!

Dane closed the office door behind her politely—and she was hard put not to gape at his amazing space.

Both walls were lined in beautiful cherry-oak bookcases full of legal tomes, and she was standing on a tapestry carpet over treated wood flooring. The back wall of the office had an expensive aquarium full of luminous tropical fish, diaphanous-finned, with his collection of diplomas hanging overhead. The “wall” behind his desk was pure glass, showcasing a view of the Seattle skyline with the Olympic range in the distance, half-obscured by clouds.

“Have a seat,” he said smoothly. If he noticed that she was gobsmacked, he ignored it.

Recomposing herself, she slid into one of the fancy chairs in front of his desk, while he sat behind it. She scanned the desk for family photos—
Wife? Girlfriend? KIDS?!
—but there was nothing.

She was glad there was nothing.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ginger,” he said, snapping her back to the present. “Or should I call you Miss Graham?”

Hell, he could call her Melvin von Helperdink III if he really wanted. But he expected a serious answer.

“Call me Ginger.” Her own boldness surprised her a little.

“Ginger.” He smiled slightly; a flawless smile. His teeth were white and even. “Alright.”

She held his gaze. Instinct, again, told her what to do: Don’t blink.
Be confident.

“Hm.” He made a satisfied sound, staring at her. “Let me be direct, Ginger. Miss Majumdar recommends you very highly, and I respect her opinion. She is an asset to this firm. She is convinced you would be of use to me.”

“I would be.”
Damn! Where’s this nerve coming from?
Not that it mattered—she needed the work.
Needed
it. She’d impress anyone to get a crack at twenty-five dollars an hour.

“I see you have had some experience as an assistant.” His gold-and-brown eyes bored into hers, almost
unbearably
penetrating. “Tell me about it.”

“I was the personal assistant to the senior designer of a Seattle-based fashion house,” she said cleanly.
Keep it together.
“In that position, I scheduled her consultations, screened and returned her calls, took dictation at her meetings, managed her working time, helped her plan presentations, and—got her coffee.” She smiled, as charmingly as she could.

He chuckled. “I see. You listed her as a reference. When I call her, what will she tell me? Will she tell me that you, Ginger, did this job well?”

Ginger held his eyes. “Yes.” It was the truth. She had been
very
good at that job.

“Why should I hire you, Ginger?” His voice sharpened; little shivers ran up her back.

What should she say?
Because I need the work? Because I’m competent and organized? Because I look cute in a sheath dress? Because I want to stare at you every day? Because… you should?

“Why should I hire you,” he added slowly, “and not them?”

Them. The two young men waiting outside. Her neck prickled. Why
should
he hire her and not…

The right answer came to her suddenly, in a cold, crisp flash. Of course.

“Because you don’t want to hire them.” Her voice was level.

That pleased him, she could tell. His eyes narrowed, and he made a satisfied sound low in his throat.

“You’re right. I don’t.” He tapped the desk expressively. “I’m drowning in silver-spoon idiots. I don’t need more.”

Should she drive home her ordinariness, then? Tell him about the Barnes and Noble gift certificate and the charm bracelet? Family vacations in Spokane? How she’d never been abroad until high school, when the French club went to Provence? That she’d been called
Graham cracker
as a kid, because kids think food names are funny? The biting part hadn’t been funny, though. She hoped no one tried to eat her ever again.

“I don’t need you to manage my business affairs,” he said, reclining into his executive’s chair. “I need you to manage my personal affairs. Do you understand?”

I was a nanny
, she almost said,
so yes. Dry cleaning. Groceries.

But she held it in, let him finish. What she’d done before was small fry stuff, she knew. This would be harder. If he gave her the chance to try, though, she’d do it—she’d do just about anything for solvency.

“I need you to organize my home, my incidentals. I need you to deal with the domestics, the deliveries, the upkeep. I need you to safeguard my free time. I need you to make my phone calls, write my congratulations and condolences and invitations, schedule my nonprofessional appointments. I need you to do anything I might need you to do.”

“So—nothing to do with the firm?” she asked, a little surprised and a little relieved. “Just—your life?”