Page 4 of Forbidden Boss (Manhattan Billionaires)

“I’m finding that I do care,” the billionaire on the other side of the steel barrier responded. “After all, you know my name. Shouldn’t I know yours?”

“Sir, it’s Nikki Jordan. A new hire. Don’t worry about her. She’ll be gone before the end of the day.”

I heard the man hum. “And how did Nikki Jordan get herself locked in the room with the single most important asset for this campaign?”

Somehow, I knew that despite the way he’d phrased the question, it was directed at me. So I responded accordingly. “Nikki Jordan did what she was told and buffed the giant perfume-filled dildo to a high shine”—the gasps on the other side of the door should have been a warning that I’d gone too far by mentioning the unmentionable, i.e., the fact that we were advertising male genitalia instead of fragrance, but outrage had buoyed me, and the man was just a faceless entity on the other side of a locked door. At that moment, he couldn’t hurt me. Nothing could hurt me. So I continued—“only to discover that Rome Blakely failed to maintain the operation of the locks in the building that bears his name, and she found herself locked in a small, windowless room for”—I checked the time on my phone—“two hours and seventeen minutes.”

The only sound I heard was the rushing heartbeat in my ears and my heavy breaths filling the small space.

But hey—I’d already lost my job. What did I care if I made an enemy along the way?

“Got it!” the locksmith exclaimed, and something metallic clattered on the other side of the door. “But—” He grunted, and there was a muffled thump on the other side of the door.

“What seems to be the problem?” Mr. Blakely asked in a slow drawl.

“It’s jammed somehow. Hey, lady, is the hinge on the door okay in there?”

I took a step to the side and inspected the hardware. “One of them seems wonky. When I first opened the door to get in here, it was a bit sticky.”

“I think the hinge failed,” the locksmith explained, “and it put pressure on the locking mechanism, snapping this piece here. You really should go for higher-quality locks, especially somewhere that’s getting this much traffic. I would never recommend a hook lock like this for this type of door.”

“Fascinating,” the jerk who owned the building replied. “Now get it open.”

“That might require a pry bar of some sort.”

“I’ll get maintenance up here,” Ophelia said, then called out, “Ben! Get maintenance up here.”

I pursed my lips and moved away from the door to lean against the table on the back wall again. In a strange way, I didn’t want the door to open. Once it opened, my job would be over. And I’d have to face the man I’d just sassed. The man who would fire me on sight. The man who would make me start all over again, because once again, they hadn’t hired me for me. They’d hired me to be a placeholder until they found someone better.

As my temper cooled, I began to dread the prospect.

The paycheck wasn’t much, but it was keeping the loan sharks at bay.

The sound of voices on the other side of the door faded and then increased again. I heard the sound of metal on metal, and the locksmith called out, “Stand back, lady!”

“I’m clear,” I replied, straightening.

There was a bit of grunting, the sound of a tool scraping against the door, then a horrible squeaking sound. After a moment, all was quiet except for the locksmith’s panting.

“Give me that thing,” Mr. Blakely ordered.

“Sir, we’ll get one of the grips?—”

“Give me the pry bar,” he snapped.

My mouth went dry. I gripped the edge of the table with both hands, waiting for the noise of the tool being propped between the door and its frame. There was a scrape, then a beat of silence before the door was flung open with far more force than I expected.

I jumped, letting out a yelp, as the door swung open and flew toward the metal shelving.

And here’s where I might have messed up. The giant perfume bottle was on a wheeled dolly since it weighed a few hundred pounds. But as I’d vigorously buffed it, I’d found it hard to get some of the scuff marks out while the caster wheels let it move around. I’d tried hugging it with one arm while my free hand buffed, as unpleasant as that had been, but I kept leaving marks on it with my supportive arm. They didn’t have any locks on the dolly’s wheels, so I’d jammed it into the bottom of the metal shelves.

So the door flew open, and I caught a glimpse of Rome Blakely’s silhouette. He was in his shirtsleeves and tie, with a big metal bar grasped in strong hands. A dark lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, and his eyes were filled with a violent sort of victory.

Then the door hit the dick. The giant phallus, with its base jammed into the bottom of the shelving, was forced to bear the brunt of all of Rome Blakely’s considerable strength. The door slammed into the perfume bottle with enough force to make it rebound toward its frame.

Then a few things happened at once.

Mr. Blakely put his foot in the opening and stopped the door from closing again. I didn’t have time to be grateful, though, because the giant perfume bottle, being tall and slender, began to wobble.

---