Divine Assistant
Red Garnier
Contents
Introduction
1. One
2. Two
3. Three
4. Four
5. Five
About the Author
Also by Red Garnier
Copyright © 2017 by Red Garnier
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Introduction
Dear Readers,
This story was a part of the Tarot series I wrote for Ellora’s Cave and one of my all-time favorites. I’m thrilled to rerelease it including a brand new gorgeous cover. I hope you enjoy!
One
Lucy’s new job did not come from heaven.
It was no stroke of luck, either.
She had earned it, after years and years of study and dedication. If she owed her new job to anyone or anything, then she owed it to herself and to her hard work. This was the first step among many, many more she’d need to take, since it was still a long way up the tall corporate ladder of the complicated and exciting world of business.
Imagine the things she could learn from her mysterious, formidable new boss. A man who’d started out as an account representative at Merrill Lynch and climbed to the top of the Forbes 500 list in less than a decade, now the owner of one of the most prosperous investment firms in America. He was a business genius in Lucy’s book. And yet, after listening for a long, interminable hour to what her position as his personal assistant would require her to do, Lucy discovered that the fact that Patrick Holden was rich and powerful didn’t exactly make him an ideal person to work for. Far from it.
In fact, she was now realizing that this Patrick Holden seemed very different from the one the magazines and numerous newspapers so frequently mentioned. The clippings unfailingly flattered him to hero-size proportions, and because of the articles, Lucy imagined him to be a young, single, no-nonsense, driven workaholic with a prospering business in the investment arena—and the man who had purchased the single most expensive piece of real estate in the whole of Manhattan. Now, she realized quite drearily, after carefully absorbing the exacting requirements listed by the reed-thin, spectacled Mr. Phelps across the leather-topped desk from her, she couldn’t help but think that Patrick Holden sounded like a very strict, very mean, very self-centered asshole.
One who couldn’t even choose his own tie for the next day, and one who couldn’t make a single phone call without having someone dial it for him. It seemed that the money and the power and the fame had caught up with Patrick Holden, because Lucy clearly remembered reading about his middle-class upbringing, and she doubted the man had been born with those sorts of privileges—not with a father who’d served in the army and a mother with a home-based cookie business.
Lucy wouldn’t meet her new boss until next week, since he was currently in London on “very important business matters”, as the pale-faced Phelps pointed out. The clearly overworked Mr. Phelps also stressed that if Lucy was the “right person” for the job, then one week was more than sufficient for her to learn everything about Mr. Holden’s needs and requirements to perfection—as Mr. Holden preferred things to be done. He also couldn’t stress enough how highly important it was for her to meet the rest of Mr. Holden’s staff, including his personal chauffer and bodyguard, his numerous maids, his three secretaries, and yes, to her disbelief, his English butler.
When Lucy, her eyes widening like saucers, had asked what kind of man had a butler in this day and age, Mr. Phelps had merely given her a dry look and simply said, “Mr. Holden, of course.”
Of course! Silly Lucy for not having realized. Rich people in Manhattan employed butlers all the time. Mr. Phelps also pointed out that she had to—he’d cleared his throat dramatically—improve her wardrobe, since Mr. Holden preferred his employees dress in clean-cut black and white outfits. During the rest of the conversation, Lucy quickly realized that when Mr. Phelps spoke of what Mr. Holden preferred, in reality he meant what Mr. Holden demanded. And of course, measly little Lucy was not to question or challenge any demands, so she’d just have to follow orders “perfectly”.
One week later, she received Mr. Phelps’ call announcing Mr. Holden’s much-awaited and almost holy arrival to Manhattan territory. She understood the message right down to the last insinuation when he explained, ever so slowly, as if she were a child, “Mr. Holden will be landing in La Guardia in less than an hour, however he would prefer you meet him in his apartment instead of the airport. On this occasion, I myself will have the honor of greeting him in the airport, a task which you, in the future, will learn to do yourself.”
As if Lucy were inept and couldn’t be trusted to perform a meager task like meeting His Majesty at the airport.
Stepping off the elevators into the palatial penthouse at Mr. Holden’s prestigious Columbus Towers, situated at the heart of Manhattan’s busy Columbus Circle, Lucy straightened her spine in order not to feel tiny among such overwhelming splendor. She was wearing Mr. Holden’s preferred tailored black outfit and had barely set foot on the jet-black granite floor when she was greeted formally by Holden’s butler, the gracious Mr. Pimwick, who was as impeccably formal and courteous as when she’d met him a few days ago. She still wasn’t certain whether it was his fluid bow or the fact that he addressed her as “Miss” that made the whole experience of being in Holden’s home almost surreal.
“Hello again, Mr. Pimwick,” she acknowledged with a smile.
“Allow me,” he said as he briskly proceeded to dispense her of her jacket, leaving her still quite presentable in a black pencil skirt and a soft, silk cream blouse she had recently purchased for the occasion. If anything, all Lucy wanted today was to make a good first impression.
“Thanks. I assume the rest of the staff is ready to greet Mr. Holden?”
“Your assumption is correct. We are most eager for his arrival.”
The eagerly awaited arrival of Mr. Holden took place a good hour later. Patrick Holden arrived with a burst of authority and a trail of fumbling individuals in his wake. The man hauling his suitcases seemed awfully exerted when he stepped out of the elevator, which opened directly into Holden’s foyer, and Mr. Phelps seemed to be flushed and eager for his boss’s attention. Mr. Holden, on the other hand, seemed calm and full of it as he walked into his apartment with an attitude that clearly said “you can all just kiss my ass”.
The staff, including the three maids with the preferred black uniforms and white aprons, stood ramrod stiff in soldier-like positions forming a perfect line next to Mr. Pimwick. Across the line, Lucy stared at them in puzzlement, to which Mr. Pimwick arched his eyebrows in a slight gesture that told her quite efficiently she should have formed the line along with them. But it was too late. All Lucy could do was stand as erect as a flagpole on the opposite side of the foyer and watch Mr. Holden easily walk past them without even the slightest acknowledgement of anyone present.
Mr. Holden was speaking on the phone, and while he barked ten-dollar words into the speaker, Lucy seized the opportunity to recover from her initial shock over seeing him in person.
She had seen his face in magazines before, yet she now realized the pictures had blatantly missed portraying one itsy bitsy detail—the sheer, overwhelming size of his ego. It filled the room like a shroud, fairly choking her. And to watch people scurrying to and fro to do his bidding, including Mr. Pimwick—who briskly assisted him in removing his jacket while His Royal Asshole kept talking on the phone—was quite comical.
Yet Lucy was not laughing
. She was more than a little preoccupied with his extreme, overwhelming, totally unfair good looks. Tall and dark and solemn, the man had clearly just stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. Narrowed eyes with sleek black eyebrows, a firm nose and a dominant square jaw—he was magnificent.
He’d been wearing a pitch-black jacket that perfectly matched the color of his hair. Judging by the tailored fit that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow hips, Lucy was certain it was designed by a world-famous label and made from a very fine material. Yet when Pimwick helped him remove it, Lucy had to admit that the body underneath was even finer.
Rolling his shirtsleeves to his elbows while he spoke on the phone, he seemed oblivious to everything else, even Lucy’s startled gaze, which was now helplessly glued to his person. Her lips curled into a smile when she saw the way he tiredly tugged at his crimson tie then briskly unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. His hands were tanned, and although big, they were sleek, his fingers long and elegant. His hair was slightly long, reaching his collar. It was dark and silky and temptingly curled at the ends, and the expression on his face was that of pained concentration as he listened to the person on the other end of the line. Some other investment-savvy genius like him, no doubt, and for a moment Lucy fervently wished she could listen to their conversation.
Ending the call with a brusque click, Holden finally turned, assessed his employees in one sweeping motion, and to Lucy’s mortification, his narrowed black eyes, the color of a starless night, settled on her—where they remained for several long, unnerving seconds.
Lucy had never before known someone with eyes that could pin a person to the spot with a mere look, like he was doing to her now, skewering her there like an onion in the middle of the foyer for everyone to see. She felt the color rise to her cheeks, partly in embarrassment and partly from the sheer pressure and intensity of his gaze.
A winged black eyebrow slightly rose in question. “Who the hell are you?”
“I—”
“She’s your new personal assistant, Mr. Holden,” Mr. Phelps quickly interjected. “The one you instructed me to hire.”
Holden pursed his lips in distaste. “Didn’t I say experienced, Mr. Phelps?”
“Yes, well…she is a bit young, but she’s smart. She holds an MBA from Stanford.”
“Jacket, Phelps?” Holden said, his eyes falling and resting uncomfortably on her breasts. To her surprise, Lucy found that she couldn’t breathe and she felt her face redden even more so with this dilemma. It seemed like an eternity before his gaze lifted to her face once again.
“I don’t like blondes,” he finally said, in a tone as passionless as the domed foyer ceiling. And as if that was that, he carried himself down the hallway, only to disappear into the first door to the left—probably the master bedroom, for Master Holden, as she assumed a jerk like him would demand to be called.
The eyes that had previously remained idle in the foyer—five pairs, including Phelps’ and Pimwick’s—suddenly landed on Lucy, and the looks in them made her so uncomfortable she wanted to flee. This was not a good way to start her new job.
Mr. Phelps let out a deep, audible breath and for the first time ever, Lucy saw a hint of a smile on his slim, pale face. “That went rather well.”
“Are you kidding me?” she hissed in a whisper, her eyes narrowed into slits. “He hates my guts already!”
“Take my word for it, Miss Divine. It went well. Now…” Lifting his briefcase from where it stood at his feet, Phelps’ gaze skimmed from one individual to the next. “My business is done here. I assume everyone knows what to do?”
The maids and butler nodded and Lucy felt an inexplicable urge to wail and whine, because she knew full well—had been told so about a thousand times during the last week—that her duty as Holden’s personal assistant required her to remain here until Holden himself dismissed her. And at this time she’d rather chew cement than face him again. Lucy did not like being made to feel like shit!
“Fine. Good luck then.” Mr. Phelps marched toward the elevator and before boarding, turned on his heel and eyed her over the top of his glasses. “And do yourself a favor and buy a jacket, Miss Divine.”
Suddenly, all her dreams of climbing the corporate ladder assisted by a few years in the shadow of Patrick Holden seemed to vanish right before her eyes—and she didn’t like it one bit. Not her faltering dreams or her new boss. He could have been Lucifer himself, up from the confines of hell just to make Lucy’s life and her not-so-wonderful-now-that-she’d-met-him new job a little more difficult.
For what seemed like hours, Lucy paced the living room. She absently studied the gilded baroque mirror above a mother-of-pearl encrusted console, memorized the pattern of the Tabriz Persian rug, ran her fingers along the soft, silky fabric on the sofas and finally paused at the tall, wide windows and marveled at the view. He did have the most marvelous, breathtaking view from the fifty-fifth floor. No wonder he’d paid, yes, fifty-five million for the penthouse, plus a state-of-the-art gymnasium which surely didn’t come cheap, and furnishings that must have cost hundreds of thousands more. That whopping amount, of course, had included a complete and undisturbed view of Central Park—as if it were the “master’s” very own back garden. The tops of the trees crowning the park had the rusty orange look of fall, every single one in a different shade, and the beauty of it soothed her.
At least until he appeared.
“Why are you still here?”
Lucy whirled at the sound of the voice and drew in a deep breath. Ah yes…the dreaded Lucifer. He’d forgotten his devil’s fork somewhere, but still looked the part with that fierce red fury in his eyes. He’d changed, and now wore a pair of loose drawstring pants and a semi-sheer white cotton shirt that was possibly his sleep attire.
He looked haggard, tired and angry. Even so, he managed to exude a blatant sex appeal that shouldn’t pull at her—but unfortunately did. It left her wondering if maybe she was a masochist of sorts, because he seemed to be bothered enormously by her presence, while she, on the other hand, seemed to want to tear off her clothes for him.
She really ought to see a shrink about this.
She cleared her throat to answer him. “I was told that every afternoon we should review your activities for the next day as well as your social calls for the upcoming weeks,” she said in a professional, no-nonsense tone. Walking toward the briefcase she’d earlier set atop a lion-pawed coffee table, she briskly opened it and pulled out her notepad, flipping it to the first page.
“Tomorrow—”
He put up a hand to silence her. “Stop.” He massaged his temple with his other hand, his forehead furrowed. “I want you to leave.”
“I…apologize, Mr.—”
“I want you to leave now.”
Because he spoke with the authority of a man who clearly believed himself to be God, Lucy stifled the urge to rush to do his bidding and bravely stared into his expressionless black eyes. “May I ask why?”
“No, as a matter of fact, you may not. Now, good night, Miss…”
“Divine. Lucy Divine.”
Dropping his hands to his sides, he pursed his already-stiff lips. “That’s just perfect. Freaking perfect.”
“Is there something wrong with my name?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level but it came out just a bit haughty, and though she thought it impossible, he visibly hardened even more.
Now he was so still and emotionless he could have been part of the wallpaper. “I don’t like your hair, I don’t like your name and I don’t like your attitude. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a phone call.”
No doubt to Mr. Phelps so he could fire her immediately.
Getting fired because she was blonde was a throwback to Neanderthal days, and she needed this job badly—this was her first step in a master plan and if she failed at this, she failed at everything. Lucy fumed, and instead of leaving, found herself following. She had to hand it to herself—she was keeping up with his long, de
termined strides quite well.
“Excuse me, but you have no grounds to fire—”
She suddenly slipped on the fringe of a hallway rug and, trying to regain her balance, reached for the console nearby, grabbing the polished wooden edge.
She quickly discovered the console wasn’t nearly as sturdy as she’d thought. It was probably vintage. The table didn’t support her weight and dipped toward her—along with the huge white and blue vase on top of it. Lucy fell in a graceless heap on the floor, absorbing the impact of the console on her ribs, and clearly heard the loud, crashing sounds of glass—along with an exasperated, “What the fuck?”
That’s when the lights went out.
Personal assistant, like hell, Holden thought furiously.
The woman looked like a porn star with that long blonde hair and tempting fuck-me body. When he’d bent over her limp form to check for bruises, he’d been shocked to find her skirt had risen up all the way to her waist, and outraged to discover she was wearing silk lace panties—red, no less! At work! What did Phelps think Holden was made of, freaking stone?
He circled the elegant Persian rug in his bedroom for the fiftieth consecutive time while considering the possibility of not only firing his new personal assistant—which was a given—but Aaron Phelps as well. The man had clearly not been thinking with his head when he’d hired her—at least not with the head above his neck. She looked too young to be experienced—she couldn’t possibly be over thirty—and she looked too damned hot to be able to assist anyone with anything except the possible exception of an orgasm.
Now, to his chagrin, the woman was incapacitated in the guest bedroom, being tended to by Mr. Pimwick, moaning in pain ever since she’d woken up from wherever she’d been only minutes ago. Holden had to leave her in Pimwick’s hands, since he was sporting a huge, mountain-sized erection from his glimpse of her smooth thighs and therefore didn’t trust himself to touch his blonde, unconscious, look-at-me-I’m-a-stripper assistant—wearing freaking red panties to work—without doing anything stupid. Hiding in the sanctity of his bedroom had seemed a much wiser choice. And yet, just knowing she was currently in the same zip code had hot air steaming from his ears like an overheated pot. Plus, the fact that he could hear her moan and groan from the room next to his was wreaking havoc with his brain, which was already picturing all sorts of triple-X images starring Holden and his new assistant. Somehow, the woman managed to make every moan and groan louder than the last, and hell, she sounded on the brink of a very potent, very pleasurable orgasm. It was sheer hell to have to listen to her without wanting to participate.