“Don’t look now, but your best friend has just entered the party.” Blake nudged my arm.
I turned and saw Henry Sinclair walk into the ballroom, his usual expensive suit and patronizing scowl firmly in place. “Ugh,” I grunted, but I forced a smile and an enthusiastic wave when his eyes met mine. I laughed when his glacial stare turned from mine and he beelined for Colin and the other execs, who had gathered around another table.
“You’re playing with fire,” Jayne said and handed me a large Moscow Mule.
“He’s a spoilt little rich boy who hasn’t had a damn bit of hardship in his entire life.” I clanked my copper mug against Blake’s. “And he can suck my massive dick!” I took his hand. “Now, my boy, we dance!”
Hours later, feet throbbing and highly intoxicated off one too many Moscow Mules, I had to make my third trip to the bathroom. Stumbling off the dance floor and slurring along to the lyrics of “It’s Raining Men,” I collided into a hard wall. No…my hands patted down the wall. It was covered in silky material and seemed to sport some seriously rock-hard abs.
Like I was living life in slow motion, I lifted my head, only to see Henry Sinclair glaring down at me in thinly veiled distain. I tried to gather my composure and step away, but the room kept tilting to the side, taking me with it. Henry sighed loudly and guided me to a seat. His large hands wrapped around my biceps and placed me in the chair. Even in my vodka-riddled state, I could appreciate that the man would be able to seriously throw around a partner in the bedroom.
I started to laugh at that titillating visual, only for Henry to curl his luscious lip in censure and say, “Really, Miss Parisi, at your age one should know how to conduct oneself in public. This is HCS Media, not a trashy gossip rag. Pull yourself together before you re-enter the ballroom and take our good name down with you.” With that, the pompous douchebag walked off, leaving me raging like a thunderstorm. Why did he always have to be such a twat? I’d hoped he’d get better as the summer went on. He hadn’t.
Blake and Jayne found me on the chair I’d been dumped in.
“What happened?” Jayne asked, giggling drunkenly. I regaled them with what the asshole had said. Then, smirking and letting my dangerous mouth fly, I said, “Henry Sinclair the Third is nothing but an overprivileged cockface. An overprivileged cockface who needs nothing but a good spanking and a thorough fucking!” I held up my hand for a couple of well-earned high fives. It took me a minute to realize my friends had become frozen statues around me, no fives of any kind being given.
As I lifted my eyes, I saw Henry standing before me. His blue eyes were positively livid as he looked down his regal nose at me in disgust. Crouching, he picked up his handkerchief, which had been perfectly placed in his suit pocket, off the floor and walked away.
“Shit!” I shouted, but the sound was lost to the music from the ballroom. So I said it just for me.
That was then. And now he was back. And this time he was in charge.
I lifted my head from my desk, stood up, and poured myself the strongest coffee I could from the break room. When back at my desk, I opened my computer and began answering the write-ins. Hopefully, I wouldn’t have too much direct contact with Harry. In all the time King Sinclair had been in charge here, I’d never once spoken to him. Sally was my editor. I was sure that things would remain the same.
Two hours later, I realized I didn’t know shit.
Chapter Three
“Miss Parisi?” A man was suddenly at my desk. “I’m Theo, Mr. Sinclair’s assistant. I’ve been sent down to get you for your meeting.”
“Meeting?”
Theo nodded. “You received an email earlier. Did you not get it? You were expected on the tenth floor fifteen minutes ago for your one-on-one.”
Of course I was. I turned to Novah. She pressed on computer keys and brought up her intranet emails. She grimaced. “He’s right. I have one later. I’ve just seen it too.”
“Awesome.” I groaned and got to my feet. I straightened out my black dress and ran my hands through my hair. “Okay, ready,” I said to Theo and followed him out of the office and to the elevators. Theo was about forty years old, if I had to guess. Cute. Like Penfold from Danger Mouse.
“I like your lipstick,” he said, smiling at me over his shoulder.
“Thank you, sweets.” I’d forgotten I was even wearing it. “Novah tells me it’s my perfect shade, apparently.”
“Spanish?” Theo asked, eyes narrowing on my features.
“Italian. At least my papa is. My mom is American, but from Scottish parents. She’s a pale, blond beauty. I get my coloring and attitude from my papa. He’s from Parma in Italy. I get my potty mouth from my mom. Scots sure know how to throw the f-bombs.”