Mr. Bossy Devil - Lindsey Hart Page 0,12

a shit about what I do at the company. He probably doesn’t even care about the company except for what it can do for him and how much money it will make him. He didn’t ask me here because he cares or wants to know about my past.

He’s called Ruthless Raiden for a reason.

The guy dates models, artists, and actresses, and he cycles through them faster than you can microwave a damn hot dog, which was something we used to do all the time when we were kids. Especially when our parents were too busy fighting to worry their kids hadn’t had anything to eat all day.

Damn it. I will not think about that. I will not.

What I will think about is getting the heck out of here. I will quit, and it will not endanger anyone else’s jobs. I will not let Raiden get away with it or make me feel guilty. I will leave, and I will get as far away from him as I can, and I will do everything in my power to help whatever competition out there in whatever way I can. He brought me here because he thought he could toy with me, and it pisses me off.

It pisses me off so bad—and I’m already steaming from the fact that my body betrays me in every way possible as soon as I even get a glimpse of Raiden in person—I’m even willing to entertain devious thoughts that the nice, honest, and easygoing me would never, ever consider.

Such as thoughts about spilling all of Raiden’s past secrets. I know a few good magazines or newspapers that would probably give me quite a nice chunk of cash to get them. Maybe I can convince him to forget about me the way he has for the past eighteen years.

Before I can ruminate and plot any further, Raiden stalks back into the room, two glasses in one hand and a bottle of premium, expensive whisky in the other. He grins at me, and as his blue eyes sparkle back at me, a terrible, sinking realization settles in my gut.

Raiden might be able to forget me after I quit, but I’ll never be able to. Never. Ever.

CHAPTER 5

Raiden

The atmosphere in the room is tense, even negative to say the least. I think there are real words for all the hate and pissed off vibes radiating from Zoe, but I’m not really into new age terminology, so I’m not sure what they are.

Zoe jumps up when I enter. I walk lazily toward her and thrust a whisky glass in her direction with a suggestive lift of my brow. There’s nothing a good whisky can’t fix. It delighted me to no end to learn that Zoe is a whisky girl. Well, of course she is. She always loved a challenge, and she also had good taste. I remember that her dad enjoyed a whisky now and then. He probably taught her how to drink, savor and enjoy it.

It just so happens it’s one thing we have in common.

The rest of the ground might be shaky, the waters shark-infested, but hey. It’s a start. And sometimes, swimming with sharks can be fun.

I didn’t get where I am by not taking risks.

Even if those risks were not the kind that involved my dick. It’s times like this that make me realize I should give the bastard a name so I can give it commands. How about Sparky? Down, Sparky. Stop that, Sparky. No, Sparky, that’s not appropriate. Sparky, she’s your ex-stepsister. Goddamn it, I said down! Sparky, you’re an asshole.

Not that I’d name my dick Sparky because that’s just weird. Weirder than wanting to name it just so I can order it to stop getting hard at the mere thought of Zoe.

And I’ve been thinking about her a lot.

Constantly.

Ever since I set eyes on her yesterday.

Zoe reaches out and takes the glass so gently that it’s almost like passing it off to a gentle breeze. If a gentle breeze had hands, that is. I already opened the bottle in the kitchen, so I tilt it towards her glass. “Two fingers or three?” It’s something her dad used to say, and she can’t help her sentimental expression that I remembered.

“Two.”

She waits until I pour, then jerks the glass tumbler away so fast that the whisky just about sloshes over the side. I have quick reflexes, so I manage not to spill a single drop of the fifteen-hundred-dollar bottle of whisky on the floor. I