Divine Assistant, Page 2

  He had to get rid of her as fast as he could—because Patrick did not screw around with his employees. With renewed determination, he pounced toward the nightstand, grabbed the phone and punched some numbers in.

  “Phelps, send Carlos to my apartment asap. I need him to drive Miss Divine home now. And start looking for a new assistant. Oh, and Phelps? I want black hair and experienced. Preferably fat.” He hung up, already feeling much better.

  He jerked his eyes toward the door when he heard a light knock.

  “Yes?”

  He heard Mr. Pimwick’s voice on the other side and ordered him to come in. Holden crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on his heels.

  “Well? Is she gone yet?”

  “No, sir. She is still in bed with an icepack over her temple, sir. I also applied ice over her ribs and ankle, as they are quite swollen,” Pimwick replied in his very proper British accent.

  “Will she live?” he asked with no apparent concern whatsoever.

  “Yes sir, fortunately, sir.” Mr. Pimwick cleared his throat. “She’s a bit ruffled from the incident, I dare say. She mentioned the vague possibility of a lawsuit.”

  “The woman wants to sue me? What in the world for?”

  “Apparently she believes she is being dismissed for being blonde, sir.”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck what she believes. She’s blonde and I don’t like her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have lawyers to handle deranged opportunists like her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Besides, she’s clumsy. You saw how she fell. How’s the vase, by the way?”

  “Quite dead, sir.”

  “Damn it. It was Mother’s.” Holden narrowed his eyes at Pimwick. “I will dismiss her. Phelps is already finding me another assistant, one that will suit me much better.”

  “As you say, sir.”

  “Just tell her…” Holden frowned, not thinking coherently, and shook his head. “Tell her…” When the words didn’t come out for the second time, he shook his head again. “I’ll tell her myself, Pimwick.”

  “Excellent, sir.”

  “Let me know when Carlos gets here. He will be escorting Miss Divine home.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  At Pimwick’s departure, Holden resumed his circular pacing around the bedroom. If the blonde decided to sue him, the press would probably have a picnic.

  He hated picnics—especially if he got to be lunch.

  It seemed like the press lived for any piece of information regarding him and his business dealings. They hunted shreds of it like bloodhounds, and the more Holden tried to keep from them, the more they wanted to know.

  The first time he’d read his name in a newspaper, it had been after his first successful acquisition and he’d been quite surprised, for he had never realized he was that important until he witnessed the racket the papers made. Subsequently, his name appeared with more frequency, in the same way his bankroll increased, and now it was to the point where Holden despised seeing his name on anything printed—which unfortunately, happened very often. But he hated the thought of knowingly granting the press the opportunity it so anxiously awaited to fling his dirty laundry out for everyone to see. Up until now, his life was portrayed as fairy tale-esque. A poor little boy from New Jersey, Mom baked cakes to help him with schooling, Dad served the country and died while doing so. Making it big-time in New York. It was the all-American dream, the rise from nothing to everything, and he was a symbol of it.

  But Holden knew better. If he got this high, this fast, it could only mean one thing—he’d risked too much. Every single day Holden risked it, risked it all, and if one gut feeling turned out to be wrong, he could lose everything. But of course, that’s what he lived for, the thrill of making a kill—not of making the news.

  He sighed and suddenly decided the best way to get rid of his new assistant was to simply make her quit. Lord knows every other assistant he’d had could never keep up with him and his active, tiring lifestyle. Holden was certain that with a little more effort on his part, by making the load sufficiently too heavy for the woman to possibly manage, she would have no choice but to resign.

  Holden smiled to himself over this clever plan as he yanked his bedroom door open and strode outside. He found her in the hallway, hobbling like a penguin toward the foyer. No doubt about it, she looked like she’d seen better days.

  “Miss Divine, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  Her answer, when she stiffly turned to face him, was a deadly silence and a face that said “shove it”.

  As if he had no idea what that face meant, he smiled benignly. “Before you leave, I want to review my activities for tomorrow.”

  It seemed to take her a moment for his words to register in her obviously still-not-quite-recuperated brain. In fact, her left temple was beet red, and just by looking at it, Holden could tell one thing—it hurt like hell. “Now?” she asked in disbelief. Her eyes were amazing—honey colored with sparks of cinnamon, and tilted invitingly at the ends like a she-cat.

  “Yes, now, Miss Divine.”

  He walked past her and made a fuss about which sofa to sit on in the living room, finally deciding on a winged-back chair a few feet from the window. With more drama than necessary, he plopped down onto it. Then sighing, he propped one ankle on the opposite knee, crossed his arms over his chest and gave her The Look—a combination of mild annoyance and unquestionable authority.

  She eyed him cautiously, as if she were puzzled by his new inclination to review his activities. He was still furiously aware that she wore no jacket like he preferred, and he inwardly cursed her for it because frankly, she was making his mouth water.

  She wore a simple black skirt that fit her womanly curves like a second skin. Of course, he knew the red undies were still beneath that skirt, and his cock responded to this knowledge with an uncomfortable stiffness. Her silky cream button-up shirt was damp on one side of her waist from the icepack she’d held to her ribs—it made Holden wonder if she had pressed the ice to her ribs, or if it had been Pimwick. Suddenly, Holden clearly remembered Pimwick saying it had been him who’d tended to her bruises with an icepack, and Holden inwardly reminded himself to fire that deranged, psychotic pervert.

  Dismissing that thought ’til later, he continued his study of her person, which was much more interesting than his old butler.

  Now that she’d fallen on her butt, Holden noted how her shirt was tucked into the waistband of her skirt, though not as neatly as before the fall. Still, the crinkled fabric managed to emphasize the small of her waist and the mounds of her very generous breasts. Her hair was no longer held in a bun at her nape and was now in disarray mode, with hundreds of strands of blonde hair loose and haphazardly framing her oval-shaped face. Her face was not exactly pretty. It was too strong for that. But it was sexy, very damned sexy, with lips full and thick, a sleek, elegant nose with a slight tilt at the end and high, exotic cheekbones. She was also slender and tall, and the pointy black high heels she wore made her calves look so curvy and delectable. They made him feel like a starved carnivore wanting to take a bite or two.

  Holden cocked a dramatic eyebrow and made sure his gaze was dead serious as he returned his eyes to hers. He settled on using the same stare he used on every one of his employees to indicate his position of superiority and to remind them that he did not appreciate them wasting any of his valuable time. “Maybe if we can get to the top of the list by the next millennium, Miss Divine?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, moving briskly toward her briefcase and wincing when she unclasped the lock. Holden ignored the wince. In the same way, he ignored the flood of blood that rushed to his cock the second his eyes landed on an uncomfortable amount of cleavage, visible through the V of her shirt when she bent down to grab her notes. Playing the role of Frigidaire while he had such a generous display of female breasts before him and after a long, trying trip to London was about the hardest
thing he’d done today.

  Lucy slowly sat down on the nearest sofa, pencil and notepad in hand, and began to talk incessantly, to which Holden absently nodded most of the time. He was awfully distracted, noticing her skirt had risen upward when she’d sat and he now had a very advantageous view of the appetizing curves of her legs. He couldn’t help but appreciate the form and texture of them, for she wore no stockings, and her skin looked porcelain and soft, her legs sleek and long—too damned long. Long enough to wrap around a man’s hips. Hell, long enough to fold over a man’s shoulders, or maybe even long enough to—

  “Mr. Holden?”

  “Yes?” He lifted both brows.

  “Decline or accept the invitation to the Metropolitan Museum’s inaugural exhibit of Sean Scully?”

  “Decline.”

  She continued speaking nonsense to which he didn’t pay any attention. Was she even wearing a bra? He could swear he saw the tight, perky crest of a nipple through her shirt.

  “Mr. Holden?”

  “Yes?” He lifted his gaze to hers.

  “The lecture at Columbia University?”

  “Decline.”

  Yes, he was ninety-nine percent positive she was not wearing a bra. He could almost trace the contour of an areola. She was sitting with a very erect posture that he imagined she thought was proper, but the straightness of her spine only served to thrust her breasts out to his attention.

  Yes, definitely no bra. He was now one-hundred percent certain, which was all the more reason to fire her. On what grounds? Blonde hair, red panties and wearing no bra to work.

  “Mr. Holden?” she sounded exasperated.

  “Hmm?”

  “Rockefeller Center’s—”

  “Decline.”

  Holden shifted in his seat, aware of the aching, rock-hard erection pressing against his pants like a tattletale. His reaction to his new assistant was not in the least bit normal, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it hadn’t been too long since he’d had sex. Maybe he should call an escort. Or maybe he should call what’s-her-name, the brunette who flirted with him at that dinner last month…

  “Mr. Holden?” She was near hysterics now.

  “Yes?” he asked dryly.

  “Next week’s LUV benefit for human rights masquerade party?”

  He considered it for several seconds. “Accept.”

  She looked mildly surprised at this, her sleek eyebrows lifting only slightly. Damn, the side of her temple was really starting to swell. He’d been preoccupied with other, more important matters—like confirming whether she was wearing a bra or not—to really notice that.

  “Call a Miss MacFadden and ask her to accompany me. Also, get her a gift, something nice from Harry’s or Fred’s, maybe some earrings or a bracelet.”

  Lucy briskly took notes, trying not to show her confusion and puzzlement. “All right,” she said, closing her notepad with a loud thump before rising to her feet. “Will that be all?”

  “No. I want a dozen donuts, at least half of them glazed, in my office at 8 a.m. tomorrow. Be sure to be fully recovered by then, Miss Divine.”

  “I will try, Mr. Holden,” she muttered, sticking her notes back into her briefcase and slamming it shut. “It’s not that I wanted to fall, I assure you.”

  “Also, please be sure to keep your cell phone on at all times. You never know when there might be an emergency.”

  Lucy eyed him levelly. “Does this mean I still have a job?”

  Holden had to admit that he appreciate her frankness. God knows it pissed him off when his employees beat around the bush and made him lose any more minutes of his time than was necessary. Employees didn’t seem to get the fact that a minute of Holden’s time was a lot of freaking money. “Yes, Miss Divine, you still have a job,” he said flatly.

  Not for long, Miss Divine. Not for long, he thought to himself.

  Ten minutes after her departure, he smiled wickedly and dialed her number, lifting the receiver up to his ear with flair. When she answered, he spoke casually into the speaker, just to let her know she could expect this sort of event every single day of her job as his assistant. “Miss Divine, I need you to come back here.”

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Holden?” If the strain in her voice was any indication, she was trying her damnedest to sound unaffected but failing miserably.

  “Yes. Didn’t Phelps explain to you? I need you to select my tie for tomorrow. And make it quick, Miss Divine, I don’t have all night.”

  Two

  Lucy had sore ribs, a swollen ankle, a purple temple and a wounded pride.

  She had been playing nursemaid to Patrick Holden for just over a week and she was feeling tired and a little desperate. This was not going the way she had hoped. The man was impossible. First, she’d had a headache of a time finding a present for his date. “Something from Harry’s or Fred’s,” he’d said, leaving her to figure it out for herself, until one of Holden’s three secretaries, Bitch Number One, had finally said, “Fred Leighton and Harry Winston, Lucy, puleeeze. They’re only two of the finest jewelers in the world.”

  Oh! Silly, stupid Lucy for not having learned that at Stanford!

  And that had not been her only dilemma. It seemed that all three of Holden’s personal secretaries hated Lucy more than their own mothers-in-law. At their best they were intelligent, hardworking women, and at their worst, they were real bitches intent on doing only two things—filing their nails and making Lucy’s life miserable. As if she didn’t have enough misery already with the ridiculous demands of her boss.

  Unlike Lucy, who limited her contact with her boss to as little as possible, his secretaries seemed to vie for his attention in such a way that was almost laughable. While Lucy waited promptly at 8 a.m. with his donuts sitting in a box atop her lap every morning, his three secretaries, especially Bitch Number Three, got extremely pissed when he stormed into the office and barked, “Miss Divine. You. Follow me.”

  As Lucy had expected, his office was like a palace and every piece of furniture in it screamed of new money trying to look like old money. There was a mixture of eras, decades and tastes in his furniture. It wasn’t exactly displeasing. Instead, she found it rather interesting. Polished mahogany wood covered the vast expanse of the floor, while the grand wall parallel to the double doors was glass from floor to ceiling, boasting an impressive view of Wall Street. The rest of the office walls were covered in a plush, deep emerald green fabric, all boasting an assortment of framed artworks.

  Holden’s leather-topped rosewood desk occupied the right side of the grand palazzo, where it stood facing three carved wooden chairs upholstered in wine suede strategically positioned across from it. Behind his desk was a tall leather swivel chair that served as his throne, and hanging proudly on the wall behind was a large painting of oil on canvas—an impressive abstract work with violent brush strokes in a green and brown palette. At the opposite side of the room stood a floral-patterned English-style sofa facing a plasma TV, which he kept on at all times to watch the Bloomberg channel for stock news and reports. The TV hung like a trophy in the center of the fabric-paneled wall, and to the left of it was a modern mirror-backed, fully stocked wet bar.

  Every morning he expected Lucy to place a dozen Evian water bottles on top of his desk and set down the box of donuts with a pile of napkins before quietly taking her leave to do other errands. And she had no idea how he could come up with so many—all of them inane. The man wanted very specific engraved stationary, had her send his suit from the day before to the dry cleaner’s daily, ordered her to hunt down special caviar he had a toothache for and called incessantly during the day to pile more errands on her, or complicate the current ones. Like the recent phone call she remembered all too well.

  “I just changed my mind, Miss Divine. I want beige stationary, not white,” he’d said.

  “But I’ve already ordered the white,” she countered, doing her utmost best to remain cool. Really! Was there such a grave difference between b
eige and white stationary?

  “That’s not my problem now, is it?”

  And then he’d hung up.

  The man also wanted her to schedule his dates, among other strange requests that only a lunatic could think of.

  Last week, while they’d been riding in the back of a black Lincoln Town Car through the crowded Manhattan streets, Holden had pointed a thick, long finger at the huge bronze sculpture “Charging Bull”—the symbol of Wall Street and that of a growing and prosperous stock market.

  “I want that, Miss Divine. Get it.”

  “Mr. Holden, that’s impossible,” she immediately said.

  And then he’d looked at her as if she were the one gone crazy. “Nothing’s impossible, Miss Divine. I’m surprised with that attitude you’ve gotten the slightest bit ahead in New York.”

  Yes, getting ahead in New York was much more difficult than Lucy had imagined. It was a world away from her childhood in Oakland, and her student days in Palo Alto. In New York, with the amount of money Patrick Holden had, maybe nothing was impossible. But a solid MBA, a thirst to work and a desire to make someone of herself was actually not that much to get ahead on, especially in a city like this, where there were hundreds of thousands of other people just as thirsty and as willing to do what was needed to get the job done and rise ahead of the pack.