His Secretary: Undone

Adrian’s face twists with irritation. "Do I need to remind you that you’re here working for me? This isn’t for fun."

"So are you forbidding me to go? Are you gonna hold back my paycheck?" I fold my arms across my chest. "I could just lock myself in my room for the rest of the conference, or better – I could tell everyone…"

"Are you threatening me?" His eyes darken.

"No," I tell him, lightly. "Just reminding you of the possibilities."

With that, I walk out. He can spend the night with Kara if he wants to. Me, I’m going to have some fun.

Chapter Eight

I’m doing a damn good job of pacing myself, if I do say so.

There are three hot cowboys, a hot firefighter, a hot soldier, and a hot rockstar. Basically everyone in the room is drooling to get pictures with them, but I can’t imagine what I’d do with something like that. Still, I want to keep my wits about me. Much as I hate to admit it, Adrian was right about that. I can’t get too drunk while I’m here, or I might forget who I’m supposed to be.

"So you’re Natalie McBride, huh?" One of the cowboys sidles up to me. I feel like I’m dying a little more inside every time I answer in the affirmative to that question, but I’ve got no choice.

"Yep!" I say, cheerfully. "Having a good time?"

He nods. "My wife loves your books. So, you know." He grins meaningfully. "Thanks."

Oh, boy. "Hey, that’s great. You want me to sign a book for her? I’ve got a couple copies in my bag."

"That would be great!" He enthuses. "Man, she’s gonna love this. Thanks. You can make it out to Linda."

Hot cowboy’s definitely getting lucky when he goes home. I can’t imagine someone who looks like him has a lot of issues with that, but he’s holding that book like it’s the holy grail.

Word’s started to spread, apparently, and suddenly the hot soldier sidles over and asks for a picture with me. Izzy shows up out of nowhere, her eyes getting like saucers when she realizes what’s going on.

"Holy crap," she mutters, as a few of the other guys wander over. "I was just gonna ask how you’re doing. Obviously, just fine."

The music is getting louder, and the rockstar asks me if I want to dance. At first I laugh, thinking he’s fucking around, but then I realize that he’s not.

I’m barely tipsy, and my panties and I have struck an uneasy truce. This is probably a bad idea. But I let him grab my hand and pull me to an empty part of the floor, because getting the kind of attention I want from Adrian from a stranger instead isn’t ideal, but it’s something.

People are snapping pictures and video, and giggling, and there’s no way even Adrian’s PR machine can keep a lid on this. I don’t think he wants my face attached to Natalie McBride in any public, permanent way, but it’s way too late for that now.

I’m spinning around the room, and I can feel some lightness in my chest, finally. So what if Adrian’s probably with Kara right now, doing God knows what? I’ve got a damn male model putting his hands all over me, and that’s not a phrase I ever thought I’d say.

Shaking and shimmying, I can’t believe the panties have stayed in place. It’s almost like they know. Finally, we’ve come to an understanding.

As that thought flies through my head, I feel something slip.

And fall.

All the way.

I stumble backwards, staring down at my panties around my ankles, kicking them free as if that helps any. Like it’s better if they’re not attached to me. Like nobody’s gonna remember where those damn panties in the middle of the floor came from.

"WARDROBE MALFUNCTION!" someone shrieks, spilling her drink as she makes a dramatic gesture. My face is burning, and I’m just staring at the offending garment, trying to figure out what the fuck to do.

"Don’t worry." Izzy’s voice is in my ear. "Nobody’s even gonna remember this tomorrow."

A nice sentiment, but she’s not quite right.

Out of nowhere, a sleek, be-suited figure leans forward and snatches my panties off the ground. My mouth freezes halfway open, a noise of protest dying in my throat when I realize it’s Adrian.

And he’s glaring at me.

"Natalie," he says, with forced calmness. "You’ve got an early panel tomorrow. Time to get some shut-eye, don’t you think?"

Now, all eyes have turned from me to him. I should be grateful, but instead, I’m just super fucking pissed that he thinks it’s okay to talk to me like I’m a child.

"We have to go over your talking points," he says, laying his hand on my shoulder and steering me towards the door. "Come on."

"Sorry, everyone," I mutter over my shoulder. From the sounds of it, the party’s moving on without me. And not even Izzy has the courage to drag me out of Adrian’s grip to say a proper goodbye.

He’s totally silent on the way back to our adjoining rooms. Once we get to his door, he has to stab the key in several times before the light goes green, and he curses softly before it finally gives.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he demands, as the door clicks behind us. I whirl to face him.

"Having a good time!" I snap. "Last time I checked, that wasn’t forbidden on our contract."

"Really?" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out my panties, holding them up at my eye level. "This is your idea of having a good time?"

They’ve come partially unfurled in his hand, and I want to rip them away. I want to beg and plead with him to please stop touching my underwear, because it’s making my heart beat so fast I’m pretty sure I’m going to cardiac arrest.

"It was an accident," I half-whisper, my face burning. "They’ve been slipping down all day. I just wanted…"

His lip twitches, like he wants to sneer at me.

"What do you think you’re doing, exactly?" he advances on me, stopping just a few inches away. Still holding a fistful of my panties. "You know those men are just trying to drum up business. They don’t care about you."

"So what?" I challenge him, feeling bold now, the alcohol still coursing through my veins. "You think all those high-class whores who ride your dick are really fascinated by you as a person?"

It’s a low blow, and judging by the look on his face, not even close to accurate.

"Were you going to fuck one of them?" he demands.

Of course I wasn’t. But for his benefit, I just shrug.

His nostrils flare. With his eyes still burning into mine, I try to figure it out. Try to understand why he’s so angry.

What unspoken rule of author conduct I’ve broken.

But no. That’s not the problem, is it?

He’s bristling all over, and I can practically smell the testosterone. He saw me giggling with those hot, ripped guys and he was jealous.