Beautiful Bastard (Beautiful Bastard, #1)(10)

Feeling the need for a boost of confidence, I wore the new dress Julia had given me. It hugged my curves without looking too provocative. But my secret confidence weapon was my underwear. I’d always had a thing for expensive lingerie, and early on had learned where to hunt for the best sales. Wearing something sexy under my clothes was empowering, and the pair I had on would most certainly do the trick. They were black silk in front, embellished with embroidery, and the back consisted of a series of delicate tulle ribbons, crisscrossing to meet in the center near my tailbone with a dainty black bow. With each step, the fabric of my dress caressed my bare skin. I could take whatever Mr. Ryan had to say today, and I could dish it right back to him.

I’d arrived early to have time to prepare for the presentation. It wasn’t strictly my job, but Mr. Ryan refused to have a dedicated assistant, and when left to his own devices, he was a disaster at making meetings pleasant: no coffee, no pastries, just a room full of people, pristine slides and handouts, and, as always, endless work.

The lobby was empty; the wide space opened three stories up and gleamed with polished granite flooring and travertine walls. As the elevator doors closed behind me, I gave myself a mental pep talk, recounting all the arguments we’d had and the jackass comments he’d made.

“Type, don’t write anything longhand. Your handwriting looks like a third grader’s, Miss Mills.”

“If I wanted to enjoy your entire conversation with your graduate advisor, I’d leave my office door open and get some popcorn. Please, keep your voice down.”

I could do this. That bastard had picked the wrong woman to mess with, and I’d be damned if I would let him intimidate me. I lowered my hand to my ass and smiled wickedly . . . power panties.

As I expected, the office was still empty when I arrived. I gathered everything he would need for his presentation and headed to the conference room to set up. I tried to ignore the Pavlovian response I had to seeing the wall of windows, the gleaming conference table.

Stop it, body. Engage now, brain.

Glancing around the sun-filled room, I set the files and laptop on the large conference table and helped the catering staff set up the breakfast spread along the back wall.

Twenty minutes later the proposals were set out, the projector was prepared, and refreshments were ready. With time to spare I found myself wandering over to the window. I reached out and touched the smooth glass, overwhelmed by the sensations it brought; the heat of his body against my back, the feel of the cool glass against my breasts, and the raw animalistic sound of his voice in my ear.

“Ask me to make you come.”

I closed my eyes and leaned in, pressing my palms and forehead against the window, and let the power of the memories overtake me.

I was startled from my fantasy by a throat clearing behind me. “Daydreaming on the clock?”

“Mr. Ryan,” I gasped, spinning around. Our eyes locked and I was once again struck by how beautiful he was. He broke eye contact to survey the room.

“Miss Mills,” he said, each word sharp and clipped. “I’ll be giving the presentation on the fourth floor.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, irritation flooding me. “Why? We always use this room. And why did you wait until the last minute to tell me?”

“Because,” he growled, leaning on his fists on the table, “I am the boss. I make the rules, and I decide when and where things happen. Maybe if you weren’t intent on staring out windows, you would have taken the time this morning to come confirm the details with me.”

My mind flooded with white-hot images of my fist connecting with his throat. It took every bit of control I had not to jump across the table and strangle him. A smug smile crept over his face.

“Fine by me,” I said, swallowing my annoyance. “No good decisions are ever made in this room anyway.”



When I turned the corner into the new conference room, my eyes immediately met Mr. Ryan’s. Sitting in his chair, his hands predictably tented in front of him, he was the portrait of barely contained patience. Typical.

Then I noticed the person beside me: Elliott Ryan.

“Here, let me help you with that, Chloe,” he said, taking a stack of folders from my arms so I could more easily maneuver the cart full of food into the room.

“Thank you, Mr. Ryan.” I shot a pointed look at my boss.

“Chloe,” the elder Mr. Ryan said, laughing. He took some handouts and sent the stack around the table for the attendees to take. “How many times do I need to tell you to call me Elliott?” He was every bit as handsome as both of his sons. Tall and muscular, all three Ryan men shared the same chiseled features. Elliott’s salt-and-pepper hair had turned silver over the years since I’d first met him, but he was still one of the most handsome men I’d ever met.

I smiled gratefully at him as I sat down. “How is Susan doing?”

“She’s doing fine. She keeps bugging me about having you over,” he added with a wink. It didn’t escape my attention that the youngest Mr. Ryan snorted in annoyance beside me.

“Please tell her hi from me.”

Footsteps sounded behind me and a hand reached out to gently tug my ear. “Hey, kiddo,” Henry Ryan said, giving me a wide grin. He turned to address the rest of the room. “Sorry I’m late, guys. I guess I thought we were meeting up on your floor.”