Tell Me - Ashe Barker Page 0,9

like her to buy the company and had assured her she’d have no trouble at all raising the cash. Anthea knew that wouldn’t be an issue, she could dazzle the company bank manager with her talk of cash flows and revenue projections, and could back all that up with rock solid evidence. They’d be offering her loans until the cash came out of her ears.

Anthea dreaded all of that. She harboured no desire at all to have the top job, to be the one in the public eye, the one who had to deal with their employees face to face, the media, prospective clients. It wasn’t that she was without ambition or shunned recognition. She craved all that, had worked hard to build her career and was proud of what she’d achieved. But she was at home with her spreadsheets, her laptop, her policies and procedures. The company ran like a well-oiled machine under her expert control, she loved the quiet, predictable order of it all and knew it was her doing. But the cut and thrust, the chaos of leadership, of scanning the horizon for new opportunities, recognising a chance when she saw it and grabbing it with both hands—that was not for her.

“We’re just through here, please.” Ms Barnard opened a door and gestured Anthea to go in. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee?”

“Thank you. Just a glass of water please.” Anthea stepped into the outer office which seemed to be Ms Barnard’s domain. Another door at the far end of the room stood ajar.

“Just go straight in. He’s expecting you.”

Anthea nodded, crossed the office and pushed the second door wide. She entered, a manufactured smile plastered to her face.

The blood drained from her features as the man behind the desk rose to greet her.

“Tony!”

“Mrs Richmond.” His slow smile of recognition transformed to one of incredulity, then amusement. He came around the desk toward her, hand outstretched. “How nice to meet you at last. Do please have a seat.”

Anthea was rooted to the spot. She stared at him, this man she knew so well, who knew her intimately, this man who was familiar with every contour and hollow of her body, every nerve and muscle. This man who could bring her shuddering to orgasm with just a few precise strokes of his fingers, or drive her to scream her safe word with a twist of his hand.

This man who was her fantasy. Her other world. This man who unleashed her secret self and brought her the relief that kept her sane. He was here, where he had absolutely no business being at all, in her safe, ordered real world.

He would expose her. She’d be humiliated, her carefully constructed fledgling career in ruins.

How had this happened? She’d been so careful, taken no risks, but still…

“Anthea? Thea? Sit, please.” His voice was soft but strong, commanding. So him.

Wordless, she sank into a chair at a small meeting table, her mind whirling, desperate to make sense of this turn of events. Tony sat down opposite her.

Moments later Ms Barnard hustled in with a tray bearing a jug of iced water and two glasses. She set that down on the table. If she was conscious of the tension in the room she offered no comment. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

“Thank you, Isabel.” Tony reached for the jug and filled a glass. He pushed it towards Anthea. “Here. You’ve had a shock. Take a few sips.”

Anthea obeyed, on autopilot now. Something in his voice just brought out that response in her, regardless of the circumstances. In moments she drained the glass, which was refilled straight away. She drank again, then set the remaining water down.

“How did you find me?” Her voice was small, barely a whisper. She experienced a peculiar, detached sense of surprise at how at odds her tone was with her attire. When she dressed for work she was strong, sure, in control and utterly confident. But what came out of her mouth now was her submissive voice, her Wicked Club tone, the one reserved for a different set of circumstances entirely.

“I didn’t. At least, not intentionally. I had no idea that Stephen’s efficient Mrs Richmond and my gorgeous and sexy Thea were one and the same.”

“They’re not.”

“No?”

“No! I don’t, I mean, that’s different, at the club. That’s not the real me.”

“You look pretty real from where I’m sitting.”

“Please, can't we just forget about this? I’ll go and, and… you don’t have to see me again.