“Right, Miss Grant.” Rexton winks at me. “You look beautiful tonight.”

Is he deliberately taunting John? I glance between the two men. My boss’ face is dark and frighteningly hard. Rexton’s expression is cheerful, the young man completely clueless. “Thank you, Mr. Bass.”

“I asked you to call me Rexton.” The developer bumps against me.

“Miss Grant isn’t one of your fraternity house buddies,” John growls. “She’s my assistant and worthy of your respect. You call her Miss Grant. She calls you Mr. Bass.” He hands me a flute of champagne, using this action to not so subtly push Rexton away from me. “Did you find the information I needed?”

Rexton answers, using fifty words when one word would do. His constant talking increases my stress levels. I’ve grown too accustomed to working for the quiet man by my side. John listens patiently to his young protégée. One of my boss’ hands rests possessively on my hip. His chest presses against my back. I make mental notes on the information exchanged as I sip champagne, the bubbles tickling my nose, the crystal cool against my fingers.

A tech CEO and his laughing wife approach us. I stiffen, preparing for insinuations and verbal attacks.

“They’re friends, not foes,” John murmurs into my ear.

They’re friends. I relax. They might not approve of John’s actions but they won’t hurt him. I smile at the wife. She smiles back, no judgment in her eyes.

There’s no opportunity to talk with her. As John greets the newcomers, Rexton continues to ramble on, telling me about the issues he’s having with a contractor. I listen half-heartedly, hovering between the two conversations, not actively participating in either.

The CEO teases John about fate making fools out of everyone. The wife says she thinks it is romantic. John offers no reply, his silence effectively shutting down the topic.  There’s a long painful pause and the CEO asks a business question. The two men talk, the CEO’s pretty young wife paying close attention to the discussion.

She cares about her husband and her husband clearly cares about her, his arm hooked around her waist, his gaze softening when he looks at her. They’re partners, officially in life, unofficially in business. They need each other. They love each other.

John waves away a waiter carrying a plate of bacon-wrapped scallops. Rexton grabs two of the hors d’oeuvres, holding them under my nose. I grimace, the smell making my stomach roll, and my boss tucks me into his body, his cologne partially masking the offensive scent.

We don’t move from our chosen spot. John doesn’t work a room. The room rotates around him. He holds court in the corner as more and more guests join us. I say as little as possible, content to have him field questions, exchange thinly veiled insults, steer conversations to business, always business.

Very few guests are interested in me. They assume I’m an empty-headed decorative piece, an employee hired merely because she’s good in bed. Some of them say as much, comparing me to the mayor’s so-called assistant, the redhead he was caught fucking. It’s hurtful and ego damaging and I bury deeper and deeper into John’s hard physique, concentrating on his voice, his touch, his scent, seeking to ignore the others.

* * *

Two hours later, John stands protectively in front of me, having backed me into the corner. The alcohol has flowed freely and the tone of the party has shifted, the men becoming more aggressive and the women more promiscuous. The mayor’s wife has disappeared, conceding defeat after the mayor’s redheaded, well-endowed assistant crashed the event.

Peeking around John’s big body, I watch, appalled, as this supposed assistant wiggles on the mayor’s lap. The married politician paws at her big breasts and she giggles, rubbing against him. She’s not wearing panties or a bra and she’s very, very drunk, champagne sloshing over the rim of her raised crystal flute.

This is the out-of-control woman-child other guests equate me with. My shoulders slump. Toronto society thinks I’m a slut. They think John is a hypocrite and a liar. Once John and I are alone, he’ll tell me he doesn’t love me and I’ll have to end our relationship, my pride not allowing me to consider any other option.

“I want to leave,” I murmur.

John pivots on his heels, stopping his conversation in mid sentence, and he looks down at me. “We’re leaving.” He wraps one of his arms around me and guides me toward the exit.

I lean against him. If I had known it’d be this easy, I would have asked to leave an hour ago. Guests call out to John. He doesn’t stop, ignoring them.

“Trella,” Rexton calls.

“Her name is Miss Grant.” John tightens his hold on my waist.

The younger developer’s face is flushed, his eyes glassy. He’s had too much champagne, a dangerous situation for a man who has no discretion when sober. “Have you considered my offer?” he asks me.

I glance up at John. Although he gives no indication, I know he’s heard Rexton. I sigh. This day becomes more and more complicated. “Thank you, Mr. Bass, but no, I’m not interested.”

I might not have a job or a man by the end of tonight. But saying yes to Rexton would destroy the partnership both men want. I’d rather be alone than hurt John.

Rexton isn’t fazed by my rejection. “We’ll discuss this.” His gaze slides to John. “Later.”

“Bass,” my boss barks. “She said she wasn’t interested. Ask Miss Grant to leave me one more time and I’ll be very unhappy, understand?”

Rexton gulps, stopping short. “Yes, sir.”

We continue walking. “You knew he wanted to hire me?” I stare at John.

“Of course, I knew he wanted to hire you.” His lips twist. “That fool is as subtle as a wrecking ball.”

John knew Rexton wanted to hire me and he said nothing. He didn’t try to influence my decision. “You don’t care if I leave you.” I shrug John’s hand away from me and I walk faster, my heels tapping on the marble floors. The man in the poorly fitting suit opens the door for me. “You don’t need me.” The night air cools my heated cheeks. “You’d replace me, hire a new assistant, train her, hold her, sleep with her.”

John’s limousine waits for us. I stop on the curb. If I enter the vehicle, I’ll touch him and all of my resolve will melt away. I look for a taxi.

“Get in the limo, Grant,” John growls, pushing me forward. “You’re not thinking rationally.”

I obey him because I have no other choice. There are no taxis in sight. “I don’t think rationally around you. That’s my problem.” I plunk my ass down on the leather seat and wince, my skin sore from my spanking.

“Come here.” John pulls me onto his lap. The door closes. The vehicle moves. I sit primly on my boss’ thighs and stare out the window, into the darkness, my chin lifted. Ignoring him is an impossible task. Heat rolls off his big body. His rough fingers brush up and down my legs. All of me is aching aware of him.

“I want to go home.” My voice is embarrassingly petulant.

“That’s where we’re going,” John rumbles.

He’s taking me back to my tiny apartment where I’ll be alone, always alone. He’s done with me, with my declarations of love, my messy emotions, my needs. My shoulders droop, my defiance dissipating. He’ll allow me to walk away from him as my parents allowed me to walk away from them, not caring if I ever came back.

“Good.” I brush my hands over my surprisingly damp cheeks.

John sighs and catches my wrists, bringing my hands to his lips. He licks the moisture off my fingers, flicking his tongue over my skin, his touch rough and wet and arousing. I tremble and press my knees together, determined not to respond to him.

He chuckles, laughing at my pain, and my heart breaks a little bit more. “You’re as stubborn as I am, Trella.” John says this as though it is an attribute to be proud of. “You would have run that young fool out of his own company within months, weeks. He’s not strong enough for you. Why would you even consider working for him?”