“I’m not sorry.” His voice is soft.
A waiter offers us a selection of skewers. John chooses one beef and one chicken, forgoing the shrimp. He hands the beef to me and bites into the chicken.
I nibble on the tender meat, my mind spinning. I told my boss I loved him. There’s no taking back this declaration, no pretending I don’t feel the way I do. This is scary and also a relief. I no longer have to disguise my emotions.
John switches hors d’oeuvres, finishing the beef, leaving a piece of savory chicken for me. “We’ve found our quiet corner.”
“Are we working?” I ask, hopeful. Business is familiar and safe. If we escaped for a moment, I might be able to deal with the rest of the night.
“We don’t have time.” John takes the wooden skewer from me and places it on a passing waiter’s tray. “We have an incoming fool at twelve o’clock.”
Rexton Bass rushes toward us. He’s dressed in the same inappropriately casual gray suit and black T-shirt he wore to his meeting with John.
“Mr. Powers.” He smiles, displaying perfectly straight teeth and a pair of dimples. “Trella.” His blue eyes widen. “I didn’t know you were attending this shindig.”
“Her name is Miss Grant.” John splays his fingers over my back.
“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.