Serving HIM Vol. 3 Page 8

  “Ms. Rittenour. How are you?”

  She didn’t even have the courtesy to respond.

  “Fetch Dominic.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” I sat down in his chair and fought the urge to breathe in the scent that immediately surrounded me. Picking up a pen, I started to sketch out Penelope Rittenour—as an Afghan hound. The long, gleaming coat…er…hair, the elegant long face…

  She’d make a lovely Afghan hound, and she’d probably be more pleasant too. Those were beautiful and very sweet dogs.

  “I need to speak to Dominic,” she snapped. “Put him on the phone now or I’ll have your fucking job.”

  I pulled the receiver away and eyed it narrowly. Then I put it back to my ear. “I’m uncertain as to how you can have me fired simply because Mr. Snow isn’t here at the same time you called, Ms. Rittenour. I’d be happy to take a message though.”

  Her hiss of breath was audible. Then, coolly, she said, “Give me his cell phone.”

  “Now that would likely get me fired. I’m afraid I can’t pass out personal information without Mr. Snow giving me the authorization first.”

  “I’m a close personal friend.”

  “Then I’m certain you understand that he’s a very private man. Once he tells me it’s okay to give you his cell phone number, I’ll be happy to do so, Ms. Rittenour.” I added a little diamond collar to the dog’s neck and diamond earrings. She had Penelope’s big eyes and thick eyelashes and maybe I was being catty, but I made sure that snide light shown in her eyes. I used to love to do caricatures, but I never had the time anymore. This was fun.

  “Dominic is going to hear of your rudeness…what was it, Aleena?”

  “Yes, Ms. Rittenour. If you like, I’d be happy to call him as soon as we hang up and let him know about our discussion.” I paused and then added, “His home office is set up to record all incoming calls. Shall I play the conversation back for him to ensure he knows everything we discussed?”

  There was a long, weighted pause and then she said, “You think you’re smart, don’t you?”

  “Of course not, Ms. Rittenour. I’m just trying to be helpful.”

  She hung up.

  I leaned back, stared at my image of Penelope as an Afghan hound. If I were trying to be accurate, I would have drawn her as a succubus. Out to drain the life out of whatever man she’d set her sights on, and it so happened to be Dominic she’d chosen as her prey. I shouldn't care, not after he was making it clear that, no matter what we'd said, he was going to keep me at arm’s length.

  I pulled the sheet of paper free, and then, to be safe, I tugged out the next two and put them in the cross-cut shredder.

  That done, I sent a text to Dominic.

  Ms. Rittenour called. She would like to speak with you and she’d also like your cellphone number. I’m afraid she’s not happy with me. I wouldn’t give her the number without your permission and that made her angry. Shall I give her the number? Please advise.

  I double-checked to make sure the phone call had been recorded. I’d told a white lie. He didn’t record all calls. I think it was illegal to record things without permission, but he did get a lot of business calls—those he did get permission for and it was simply because he didn’t like forgetting details.

  I suspected he also had less than pleasant phone calls. Perhaps calls like mine, where people tried to levy threats against him, although I don’t know who’d be stupid enough to threaten a man like Dominic. Blackmail, maybe. The ability to record anybody that stupid would be useful.

  I’d never asked. I hoped he wouldn’t be mad, but if he was…

  I sighed.

  His response came back before I made it back to my desk.

  Don’t worry about Penelope. I’ll get back with her when I see her or she can call the office and leave a message here. And no, please don’t give her my number. You did the right thing. Thank you.

  Biting my lip, I considered it a moment and then sent him one more message.

  She tells me that she going to have me fired since I didn’t give her the number. She’ll be sure to tell you how rude I was. She was even more pissed off when I mentioned that you have your phone set up to record incoming calls. I might have told a little white lie there. I’m sorry.

  This time, the response was immediate.

  Good thinking and don’t be sorry. Don’t worry, either. You’re not fired, Aleena. Why don’t you take the day off? You could probably use a break. You’ve done nothing but work all week. Take the day off. Go see Molly. Go shopping. I’ll deal with Penelope.

  I blew out a relieved breath. If he’d been angry, he would have said something. He was holding back, but he wasn't being rude.

  I responded with a quick thank you and then studied my pile of work. I could always put in a few hours tomorrow, but I really could use a break. I had been working a lot lately.

  Chapter 12

  Dominic

  “Really, Dominic. You let your employee talk that way to friends?”

  I looked up over the rim of my wineglass toward my mother. Slowly, I put it down and then got up, heading over the bar. I poured myself a double of Macallan. It was twenty-one years old and I brought it to my nose, breathed it in and forced my shoulders to relax for a moment as I took one small sip.

  “Dominic…”

  At my mother’s chiding voice, I turned to face her.

  Mom was sitting next to Penelope and I had to fight not to clench my jaw at the sight of her. They'd both been there waiting when I arrived and I’d almost left.

  My mother had set this up. I had no doubt about it.

  I looked back at Penelope to answer her question even though it was probably meant to be rhetorical. “Well, my mother talks to my employees in a far worse manner,” I said, shrugging. “All Aleena did was follow my instructions and not give out my personal information without my permission.”

  I took a small sip of scotch as my mother’s face went red, then white. While she struggled to come up with a response, I added, “Should I discipline her for it, Mother?”

  Her eyes widened and, for a moment, I thought she was going to choke on her drink.

  Penelope, unaware of the double meaning, laid a hand on my mother’s arm. “Jacqueline, I’m sure the girl didn’t mean to be so rude,” she said, a gentle—and completely false—smile on her face.

  “She wasn’t.” Tired of the bullshit, I headed back to the table and eyed the remains of the dinner. Étienne, my mother’s chef, had prepared a wonderful meal. He always did. But it had tasted like sawdust and it now sat like a rock in my stomach. Slumping in the chair, I eyed Penelope for a moment. I was too pissed off at my mother’s obvious machinations, and Penelope’s manipulations, to care if she decided to fuck with Trouver L'Amour. If she did, I’d just deal with it. It wasn’t like I didn’t know how to play the game too. I was sure most people wouldn't have a problem seeing Penelope as a conniving jealous bitch.

  When Penelope started to argue, I cut her off. “I listened to your phone call, Penelope. You called, demanded to speak with me and she said she couldn’t put me on the phone. You told her to either do it or you’d have her fucking job. She said she couldn’t get me on the phone since I wasn’t there and, rightly, it wasn’t likely she could be fired over that. Then you demanded my phone number and when she wouldn’t give it to you, you yelled at her again.”

  With a cold smile, I added, “She texted me right away to let me know you’d called and asked if she should give you my number.”

  “Tattling on me, is she?” Penelope’s cheeks were pale, save for two red spots riding high on her cheeks.

  Now it was my mother’s turn to reach over and pat Penelope’s hand. “Simply covering herself. That’s what girls…”

  My gaze left Penelope and went straight to my mother.

  Jacqueline cleared her throat. “That’s what a professional is supposed to do in this case, Penelope. Check with her superior and make sure she’d taken the rig
ht steps. Isn’t that right, Dominic?”

  “Yes.”

  Penelope continued to stare at me. “Then why didn’t she contact me back with your phone number?”

  “Because I told her not to.” I tossed the rest of my Macallan back and debated on another. I wanted it. Almost craved it. And because I did, I deliberately pushed the glass away. Self-control. Denial. Always.

  “But I…” She licked her lips and, for the first time that evening, she looked uncertain. Her gaze fell away and she stared at the window that faced out over the elegance of the gardens. They were lit with small white bulbs threaded through the trees and carefully placed lights on the ground. “Dominic, I wanted to speak with you.”

  “Then you could have called the office or left a message. I’m a busy man, Penelope. I don’t have time for idle chit-chat. Surely you know that.”

  My mother’s laugh, light and practiced, broke the strained silence. “Of course you’re a busy man. Penelope, Dominic…this is all such a silly matter, and over a new personal assistant.” Her gaze darted to me and then away. “I’m sure Aleena is doing the best she can and she handled the matter as she felt was best, yes?”

  “Of course.” Penelope gave me a tremulous smile.

  I didn’t smile back.

  The way Mom acted, you’d think I had.

  She clapped her hands. “Wonderful. We won’t speak of it again. Why don’t we retire to the drawing room?”

  I managed not to roll my eyes.

  The drawing room…where she could have another drink without looking like she was tossing it back.

  ***

  “I am sorry, Dominic.”

  Mother spoke to me softly as Penelope played the piano.

  I didn’t look at her. “Are you?”

  “You know I am.” She laid a hand on my arm. “I hate to have anything come between us and this has.”

  “Then why are you apologizing to me instead of the woman you insulted?” Now I turned my head and stared at her.

  “I…” Her hand fluttered up to her throat, then back down to her drink. Finally, she took a sip of her cognac and sat there, head cocked as she listened to the lovely strains drifting from the piano.

  It might have been Beethoven. I liked music well enough, but I’d never focused on it as much as my parents would have liked.

  “Lovely,” she called out as Penelope brought the music to a close. “Can you play another?”

  Yes, don’t overhear something unpleasant, Penelope. I smirked and settled more comfortably into the couch, staring up at the mural painted on the ceiling.

  “How did I insult her, Dominic? Surely she realizes you’re from different worlds.”

  A headache started to pulse behind my brows.

  When I didn’t answer, she sighed. “I know you think I’m terribly unfair about classes and money, but she’d never fit in here. It’s just not money—”

  “She’s not white.”

  I said it loud enough that Penelope heard and the music clattered to a halt, a horrified expression on her face. I stood up and strode out of the room. Penelope stared at me and Mom followed.

  Fortunately, she was the only one.

  “Surely you’re not implying that I…” She made a face like I’d shoved a lemon in her mouth. Then, lowering her voice, she added in a hushed tone, “I certainly have no issue with her being…being…ethnic.”

  “She’s mixed, Mom,” I said, turning to face her. Crossing my arms over my chest, I gave her a hard look. “I believe one of the PC terms is biracial. Her mom's black. Her dad is white. She’s from a nice, middle class family out of Iowa. As she pointed out, she wasn’t plucked from one of the zoos here in New York.”

  “I hardly implied she was!”

  She looked so offended that I almost laughed.

  Jabbing a finger at her, I said, “If I’d had a white woman there with me, you wouldn’t have felt the need to point out that I could find exotic sex anywhere. Yeah, I get that we don’t come from the same world…although…you know what? For all I know, my parents were middle class and maybe they are from Iowa. Or Detroit. For all I know, my real mother was some hooker from Harlem.”

  “Dominic!” She jerked her head back, covering her mouth. She looked like I’d slapped her.

  Guilt and misery flooded me and I swore. “Fuck…Mom. I’m sorry. I…I don’t want to hurt you, but I want to know more about where I came from and every time you throw class up at me, it reminds me about how little I do know. But that’s not what this is about.”

  “Then what is it?” she asked, her voice stiff.

  “It’s about the fact that you don’t even see what you are,” I said softly. I looked at her and shrugged. “But I can’t really blame you. I didn’t see it either. I didn’t see what I was. Aleena had to point it out. Just because someone isn't wearing a white hood doesn't mean they aren't racist.”

  “I’m not a racist.” Jacqueline St. James-Snow drew her shoulders back and glared down her nose at me, which was saying something since I towered over her.

  “Yeah?” I cocked an eyebrow. “Okay. If Penelope was black, would you be so eager to push her at me?”

  Her gaze fell away. Almost immediately, her eyes came back and she gave me a polite smile. “Of course. I’ve chosen not to see color.”

  “You don’t see color, huh? That’s a load of bullshit. If you don’t see color, sounds to me like you’ve chosen not to see people of color. But what do I know…I’m just your rich white son. People like us? We’ll never have to deal with people looking past us or through us simply because we’re not white enough. Guess we’re lucky.”

  I pushed past her.

  “Dominic, wait.”

  I shook my head. “It’s late. I’m tired.” I paused, though, and looked back at her. “I do love you, you know. You’re my mother and you have always been there, even when I wasn’t an easy kid. But I need to know who I am. I’m going to find my birth mother.”

  She staggered and fell back.

  I held out a hand, guilt swamping me.

  “Please go,” she whispered.

  Slowly, I lowered my hand to my side, clenching it into a fist. Moving back out into the hall, I saw Penelope.

  She had been standing there, listening the entire time.

  Her face was pale, eyes dark.

  I simply nodded at her. I didn't think anything else was necessary.

  Chapter 13

  Dominic

  If I were smart, I would have gone to the club.

  I was burning inside and the need to empty all the anger, all the frustration was riding me hard.

  But I didn’t go to the club.

  I went home.

  Aleena was curled up on the couch in the living room—on my couch where I’d first fucked her—watching TV.

  She had a glass of wine in her hand when I came inside and she looked over at me, her features curiously blank.

  She didn’t immediately say anything as I walked behind the couch and put my keys down, my wallet, my cell phone. I hadn’t seen her since that morning and it had only been for a few minutes.

  I hadn’t touched her in several days and my body was screaming for hers. Not for sex, not for release, but for her.

  But just sex wouldn’t be enough.

  I needed more this time and I wasn’t sure she could give me that.

  “How was your dinner?” she asked softly, her eyes still on the screen. She’d muted the volume, but still stared at the images flickering across the TV as though they held the answer to life and death.

  Crossing to the floor, I sat down in front of her on the coffee table.

  Her eyes finally met mine.

  “Not good.” I thought it through a moment and then said it again. “Not good at all.”

  I thought about mentioning that my mom had invited Penelope, but decided not to. What was the point?

  Her fingers brushed against mine and that light touch was almost too much. I almost grabbed her, almost h
auled her off the couch and into my lap. But I didn’t.

  “I think…” I said slowly. “I think I should go.”

  “Go?” Aleena said. “But you just got here.”

  “Yeah.” I slid my eyes over her, let my gaze linger on her breasts, then the juncture of her thighs. “And I’m already thinking about how I want to tie you up, how I want to make you beg. I want to feed you my cock and I want to make you plead. I want things you’re not ready for, Aleena, but if I don’t do something soon, I’m going to explode.”

  Her mouth fell open and I watched as her breasts rose and fell raggedly. Her skin was flushed. Her bra must've been unlined because her nipples were stabbing into her shirt.

  I wanted to pinch them until she was panting and squirming.

  “Then do it.”

  I jerked my head up at her soft, unsteady suggestion.

  “You’re not ready,” I told her. My hands curled into fists, chest tightening as I remembered what had happened when we'd had 'make-up' sex. I'd gone too far, hadn't understood the difference between what I usually did and what I should have done.

  “Maybe that’s my decision.” She swallowed and then, after taking a moment to empty her glass of wine, she eased forward and reached out, laying her hands on my thighs.

  Fuck.

  My cock almost burst through my trousers when she went to her knees in front of me.

  “Maybe I’m not ready for everything. But you can teach me. I can learn. That’s what I want.”

  I shoved my hand into her hair, tangled it and twisted until her mouth fell open with a pained sigh. “I’m in the mood to make you beg me. I’m in the mood to put bruises and marks on you, Aleena.”

  “You want to…” She bit her bottom lip, her eyes on my face. I don't know what she saw there, but something shifted. “You don't want to actually hurt me.”

  “No.” I brushed my thumb across the place she'd bitten. I couldn’t hurt her. Not for real. That was one thing I found intolerable—sickening even. But I couldn’t think about that, either. Not now. Not with her. “I could never hurt you.”

  “Then do what you want. Mark me. Bruise me. Make me beg.” She pushed up onto her knees and sank her teeth into my lip, sending a sharp pain through me.