His for Christmas

  HIS FOR CHRISTMAS

  © 2014 Skye Warren

  I stand very still, holding a pen I shouldn’t be touching, in the office of a man I’ve never met. The man who’s standing behind me now. The man who has his hand on my hip.

  He’s my new boss.

  I could fight him, but then he might ask questions. He might find out about my criminal record, the one I didn’t mention on the job application. So I let him make me come, but he wants more. He needs more, and for some reason I want to give it.

  But if he finds out about my lie, I’ll be out on the streets—or back in jail.

  “Skye Warren is such a talented storyteller. I love the way she infuses emotion and eroticism together.” – Romantic Book Affairs

  “Fall on your knees

  Oh hear the angel voices

  Oh night divine

  Oh night when Christ was born

  Oh night divine

  Oh night divine”

  – from “O Holy Night”

  Chapter One

  The guard behind the glass grunted as he pulled a manila folder from the stack. “Angel Cole,” he said, sounding bored as the contents of my life slid onto the counter.

  A half-empty stick of gum. A dull pencil only a few inches long.

  Twenty dollars and change.

  I was surprised the twenty bucks hadn’t been taken by a guard, honestly. The sad collection of items didn’t make me feel anything. I didn’t even remember using that pencil. I didn’t remember what the gum tasted like. A two year sentence had been lenient, according to the public defender, due to my age. Only two years, but it felt like my whole life—and whatever came before a distant dream.

  The guard slid a clipboard to me. “Check that everything’s there, and sign at the bottom.”

  I scanned the list and found something new had been added: a diploma. Two years had counted for something, after all. It was only an associate’s degree, but it was something. With any luck, I could make a new life for myself. One that didn’t involve drugs or scummy boyfriends or jail time.

  I signed.

  “You got a place to go?” he asked, though his gaze remained on the fuzzy TV in the waiting room behind me. The empty waiting room.

  No. “I’m not sure.”

  He dropped an orange sheet of paper onto the small pile. Resources for the Homeless Community.

  My chest felt tight.

  I shoved everything back into the envelope but left the flyer on the counter. That seemed to catch his attention. He looked me over. His gaze traveled down and up, crawling slow, leaving chills on my skin.

  “I may know someone with a place,” he said slowly. “They’re hiring.”

  My bullshit meter had been finely honed the past two years. “What kind of work?”

  A humorless smile, almost a smirk. “The kind that pays.”

  Shame ran through me, in that deep groove where it had been so many times before. I was too broke, too stupid, too desperate to get a real job. That had been true at sixteen, and my worst fear was that it wouldn’t be all that different. And now I was getting propositioned by the freaking guard. Whether he wanted me to sleep with guys or run drugs, it didn’t matter. I was going to get a regular job or die trying.

  Having lived on the streets before, I knew dying was a real possibility.

  “No thanks,” I said breezily like the dirty offer didn’t hurt. “I’m heading to New York City anyway.”

  He snorted. “In this weather? You’ll freeze.”

  “I have enough for a bus ticket.” Totally bluffing. I had no idea how much a bus ticket cost, and I had no money for food or housing once I got there. But the odds had to be in my favor sometime, didn’t it? I figured I was overdue.

  “Good luck,” he said, in a voice that meant the exact opposite His attention returned to the football game on TV.

  Clutching the envelope in my gloveless hands, I pushed the door open. Cold blasted my face—and my body, through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. Just my luck, getting arrested in July. My clothes were no match for the December weather.

  The parking lot was mostly empty, the cars parked and covered with a thin layer of snow. No one idled at the street. My daddy hadn’t come. It had been a long shot, but I’d been desperate enough to write him. He hadn’t answered.

  Probably for the best anyway.

  I really was due for that good luck, even if the guard hadn’t meant it. The winter-bright sky made me squint. Chilly air skated over my skin like the guard’s cold assessment of me, raising goose bumps. I shoved my hands under my armpits and started walking toward a bus stop.

  Chapter Two

  Maybe my luck had turned after all, because I found a house with a room to let in New York City. The owner of the house was an older woman with knowledge in her eyes, like she knew where I’d been and what I’d done—and didn’t judge me for it. And she agreed to let me pay rent only after Christmas.

  As if that weren’t enough, I landed a job.

  It was only a temp position, but to a girl like me it felt like a freaking miracle. We don’t usually hire people without experience, the HR woman had said over the phone. But one of our assistants had a family emergency and with the holidays…your application showed up at the right time.

  I smoothed my beige skirt and turned my face up to the white, wintry sky. The pale sun wrapped around the spire at the top of the building, blinding me, and I wobbled on my high heels. A cab honked at me from behind, and I jerked forward, realizing almost too late that I was standing too close to the edge.

  I shivered.

  “You lost?” said a thready voice.

  An older man was watching me with a concerned expression on his lined face, his dark skin a contrast to the white fluff that lined his red suit. This particular Santa manned the donation bucket right in front of the door I needed.

  “Not lost,” I admitted. “A little nervous.”

  “Ahh.” He turned back to look up at the building. “You going to work for the Big Bad?”

  I wasn’t exactly current with the rich and famous. There were TVs in prison and the occasional magazine, but I preferred to keep my head down. But even I knew what the Big Bad meant. Gage Thompson was the owner of Thompson Industries. The press had dubbed him the Big Bad Billionaire after a particularly dirty takeover of a competitor.

  Then there had been that unfortunate quote that had aired again and again. He’d been on an interview with some finance show as part of a “Billionaires Under Forty” feature, looking cool and crisp in a custom-tailored suit.

  I don’t make the rules, he’d said. I just win the game.

  Apprehension twisted my stomach. But it was just a silly nickname, right? The newscasters said it with an ironic twist of their lips—and a wary light in their eyes.

  I tried to laugh. “He’s not really that bad, is he? I figured that was just, you know, for show.”

  The man lifted one shoulder clad in red felt. “I hear a lot of conversations coming in and out of the building. Sounds like the man lives up to his reputation.”

  A knot formed in my throat. “Oh.”

  I shouldn’t be afraid of anyone after where I’d been. No matter how big or bad he was, he was unlikely to shank me while I took a shower. The worst he could do was fire me. Although if he found out I’d lied on my application, he might report me to my parole officer. The slightest offense could get me thrown back inside. I’d heard enough stories from people who’d made it out for a few months only to get arrested for some small offense. The courts weren’t kind to repeat offenders.

  Lying had been stupid and desperate—and necessary.

  The man smiled. “Well, you won’t have to see him up close, right? Young thing like you probably start at some d
esk far away from him.”

  Or not that far. From what the lady on the phone had said, I would be temping for Mr. Thompson’s personal secretary. The pay would cover all the money I owed for rent, plus extra for food.

  So much freaking luck I felt sick with it.

  I forced a smile. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

  The man smiled. “That’s the spirit.”

  I dug a dollar out of my pocket. There weren’t many more where that came from, but if there was one thing I’d learned on the inside, it was that someone always had it worse than I did. Maybe by acknowledging that person and helping them, however little, I’d feel less alone.

  Less lonely.

  “Merry Christmas,” I told the man, dropping my dollar into the slot.

  “Merry Christmas to you. By the way—” he called to me, and I turned to face him. His eyes crinkled. “Mr. Thompson puts money in the bucket every day. Always nods hello to me too. You can tell a lot about a person by how they treat people in passing.”

  Some of my worry cleared. Mr. Thompson couldn’t be all bad. I smiled a little. “Thanks, mister.”

  He tipped his Santa hat. “Take care now.”

  * * *

  Have you ever been convicted of an offense or violation of the law anywhere?

  I stared at the black letters on white paper as my heart beat a million times a minute. I’d known there’d be paperwork to fill out my first day, and with my luck, I’d known they would ask about a criminal record. Just my mumbled answer on the phone with the HR person wouldn’t be enough. I’d have to put my lie down on paper, for the record.

  I’d just hoped the question would be vague, maybe only asking about felony acts committed in the New York state limits while over the age of eighteen. Because then I could have truthfully answered no. My crimes had been misdemeanors in the backwoods of upstate New York, where paperwork seemed optional and rule-following even more so. And I had been a minor. Which maybe explained how they’d found no record of it when they’d run the preliminary background check the HR person had mentioned.

  My hand trembled as I checked the box that said No.

  The security guy had a sour look on his face. He spent a long time looking over my form. He even left me in the front office while he made some calls, and I squirmed in the plastic bucket seat. God, what if they found out? I’d only been released four weeks ago. Not even long enough to get used to regular food and regular clothes and regular outside. It seemed like he wanted to refuse me, but in the end, he handed me a freshly printed name badge and sent me to an elevator around the corner.

  “Oh, thank God,” a dark-haired woman said when she saw me. “I thought you weren’t going to show up.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, too quickly. At least that much I was used to, being slow and late and wrong.

  You’ve always been a few cards short of a deck, my daddy had said, shaking his head. But at least you’re pretty.

  The woman blew out a breath. “It’s okay. Security can be a little overzealous, but that’s what they’re there for, right?”

  “Um. Right.”

  Not overzealous enough, though. Because I’d passed their checks. But I wasn’t going to do anything bad here. Wasn’t going to steal or whatever they thought ex-convicts would do. And I definitely wasn’t going to store a few boxes for my boyfriend without knowing there were drugs inside. Even if I had a boyfriend, which I didn’t. Billy and I had officially broken up when his lawyer tried to argue I’d been the dealer. The judge hadn’t believed that, thank God, but he’d still given me eighteen months.

  The woman smiled, looking frazzled. “I’m all over the place today. I was just so worried, because today’s my last day before I leave. We’ve only got a couple hours to get you up to speed. I’m not sure when you’ll have time unless… Can you stay late?”

  “Oh.” I looked around, feeling a little disoriented. Everything was so shiny and reflective. It felt more like a swanky fun-house mirror ride than a place of business. I’d been so worried about getting found out that I hadn’t thought much about actually working here.

  “Maybe you won’t have to. If you just explain to Mr. Thompson what happened, with security taking up all that time and—”

  “I can stay late,” I assured her. I didn’t want to bother Mr. Thompson. And I definitely didn’t want him asking security about me. Besides, the temp job was hourly. Staying late meant more money, and I was grateful for the chance.

  “You’re a doll,” the secretary said, clearly relieved. “What’s your name again?”

  “Angel. Angel Cole.”

  “Angel, the thing you have to know about working here is that Mr. Thompson is harsh but fair. Some people say he’s cold but…he’s also generous. You know what I’m saying?”

  Not really. “Sure.” I tried for a smile. “Fair is good.”

  Especially when people had done the right thing. But if they’d lied…then the fair thing to do was to turn me in to the authorities.

  My stomach turned over.

  Christy gave me an apologetic look. “Just do what he says and you’ll be fine. Now let me show you how the phones work.”

  Chapter Three

  After hours at the desk, my neck ached and my shoulders were tense. I stretched, the cracking sound of my joints loud in the wide-open space.

  Mr. Thompson had the only office on the floor, which had startled me when I first realized that. His office was spacious, as was the waiting area where I worked, and the hallway from the elevator. But still not as large as the entire building. Apparently the rest of the floor was blocked off for some other department, but you had to take the regular elevators to get there.

  This elevator was reserved for the CEO. And for the two weeks that I worked here, for me too.

  The Big Bad Billionaire. I hadn’t met him yet, and I wasn’t really looking forward to it. What if he could see right through me? With his reputation for razor-sharp intuition, he could take one look at me and know what I was hiding.

  Maybe he was traveling so much he wouldn’t be in the office—for two entire weeks.

  Yeah, not likely. And it was also unlikely he’d be able to tell I’d been in prison just by looking at me. But sometimes I felt like my time behind bars was written on my skin, grit and grime and shame embedded into me like glass. It was always a surprise when people treated me normal, even pleasant, like the Santa outside. I stood to leave, wincing at the soreness in my legs. It hadn’t even been that long, only… I glanced at the clock and frowned. Wow, it had gotten late.

  And it was pitch-black through the tall windows.

  I still wasn’t used to keeping my own schedule. A loud bell would tell me it was time for lunch, or a guard would come round us up for shower time. But here on this floor I was alone, and so I’d kept working. As if I were some kind of windup doll that ran into a wall, unable to think for herself. A few eggs short of a dozen, my daddy said.

  I gathered the stack of files I’d completed and carried them into Mr. Thompson’s office like the secretary had told me to. But I didn’t leave right away after setting them down.

  Curiosity held me at the edge of his desk, let me take in every detail, every clue to the man who normally sat in that empty wide-backed chair. A plump glass paperweight shaped like a teardrop, with bubbles inside like snowflakes. A legal pad was half torn out with scribbled writing—unreadable. And a sleek black pen, its thick cylinder shell shining as if it wasn’t used much, even though I was sure it had been.

  Without realizing it, I leaned across the desk and picked up the pen. It was cool to the touch, but I imagined it warm—warm from the hand that held it, stroked it. I ran my finger pad over the smooth casing. What was this made of anyway? Not plastic. Not wood. Some kind of metal?

  Rich people even had different pens, and this struck me as wildly important, a sign of just how little I belonged with them, in a building like this.

  My stomach clenched, and I tense, pen in hand, when I felt some
thing brush across the back of my legs. Air. Then came the subtle scent of cologne.

  I wasn’t alone.

  A chill raced over my skin. I would have turned, but a hand on my hip stopped me. A hand. On my hip. The shock of it was enough to render me frozen, and I stared down at the pen in my hand, almost accusatory, as if the beauty of it had led to this. As if this was my punishment for being where I didn’t belong, for touching what wasn’t mine. For lying so I could get this job.

  “Thank fuck,” a low male voice murmured behind me.

  My mouth opened, but only a faint squeak came out. I tried again. “Excuse me?”

  “They told me they weren’t sending anyone.” He began to stroke me, from the dip of my waist, over my hip, and trailing down my thigh. “I’m glad they lied.”

  The HR department? My cheeks were flaming hot…because his hand was still on my hip. His hand. My hip. My mind couldn’t quite wrap itself around that. He was touching me, caressing me, and I hadn’t even seen his face.

  “I was getting desperate,” he said, “with the holidays coming up.”

  I tried to imagine what desperate looked like, tried to fill in the space of his body, his face, using only his dark-whiskey voice as a guide. The picture in my mind looked nothing like the cold face that graced business magazines. That glossy image was calculated and posed. This was a warm hand on my body and breath against my hair. This was goose bumps all over my skin.

  I cleared my throat. “Mr. Thompson, I—”

  “No, there’s no time for that. It’s been too long, and Jesus, look at you. Where did they find you?”

  I definitely didn’t want to talk about that, about the ad I’d answered or the lies I’d told. “I needed the work,” I whispered.

  There was a pause where his hand froze midstroke. I held my breath, unsure whether I wanted him to stop or continue. If he stopped, he might make me leave. And the hot touch of this stranger had to be better than working the icy streets.