Page 5 of One Wicked Night with the Boss

Jonathan

Iwasn’t going to hire Riley O’Sullivan. I knew it the second I saw her standing on the street across from my office.

I had every intention of sending her packing. I even prepared my speech as she dashed toward the mansion, her long legs eating up the pavement and that ridiculous skirt riding up her firm thighs.

I’d lost count of how many women—and even a few men—tried that trick on me. I couldn’t even blame them. Body-hugging clothes and a sultry look could go far under the right circumstances.

None of those circumstances existed in my office.

It wasn’t always like that. Admittedly, I played the field when I was young and dumb and flush with money for the first time in my life. Back then, I thought having a hot secretary was part of the whole “successful architect” package I earned alongside my Harvard degree. I also labored under the delusion that dating my hot secretary was a good way to find a meaningful relationship.

My pops always said I was a slow learner.

But I learned. Mainly, I learned it’s a lucky bastard who can say he has it all. A decade after opening my own firm, I had an immensely satisfying professional life and a nonexistent personal life. When I had to attend a gala or some industry event, I found a striking blond looking for a few photo ops and a spread in the paper’s society pages. A mutually beneficial exchange with no strings attached. Easy and convenient. Utterly vapid.

There were enough of those society page spreads floating around for people to believe I had a type. Tall, tan, and blond. Hell, maybe even I started to believe it.

Then Riley O’Sullivan stood on the corner across from my office, all creamy Irish skin and dark hair. She’d stared at my building like she was irritated with it. Like she was ready to give it a piece of her mind.

And she held my attention like a fireworks display.

A curious thumping started in my chest as she approached the mansion, and it took me a second to realize it was my black, shriveled heart.

Racing.

Because the leggy beauty in the black skirt suit was on her way to meet me. Late afternoon sun touched her hair as she hurried across the street, turning her brown waves to mahogany. Her legs were bare under the skirt (which was two inches north of professional) and her heels had to be at least three inches (the upper limit of professional). Her fitted jacket nipped in at her waist and hugged her chest.

Her full chest. A D-cup and maybe a little more, if my assessment was correct. Which it was. A good architect knows there’s no second-guessing with dimensions.

But even with my heart racing and blood rushing to inconvenient places, I fully intended to send Riley O’Sullivan home. She might have a master’s in architecture from Harvard, and the leather portfolio case under her arm might be full of impressive work, but she played the game like all the others. Her clothes were proof enough of that.

I wasn’t going to hire her, and I knew it the moment I saw her.

I also knew the moment I changed my mind.

I’d kept my gaze on her face, even as it wanted to travel down her body. “I don’t work with stupid people, Miss O’Sullivan. Are you stupid?”

Something only an asshole would say. But I had my reputation to consider.

I’d braced myself for the typical reactions. Tears. Outrage. The occasional middle finger.

And she wanted to. Oh, she wanted to. The wide blue eyes—clear as a summer sky—had narrowed, and a flush had bloomed in her cheeks. But then she lifted her chin and, with dignity a queen would envy, shut me up like no one had managed in years. “No. I’m far from stupid.”

It was the Southie accent that stopped me in my tracks—the way “far” became a soft “fah.” Before that, her voice had taken the flat, uninspiring cadence of a Midwestern newscaster.

Without realizing it, she made herself interesting. She probably hadn’t noticed her slip. But I had, and now I wanted to know what, exactly, Riley O’Sullivan was up to. I could have given her regular secretary work. It would have been easy to send her off to make copies or organize my file cabinets or some other dumb task. But that would have told me nothing about her motivations.

Sure, it was a dick move to have her clean my bathroom, but I had my reasons.

The muffled sound of a toilet flushing drifted through the office’s oak panels. I turned my head toward the bathroom, which was located in an anteroom around the corner. The Victorians loved anterooms, and old Merriman had sprinkled them through the mansion when he built the place. He probably would have frowned on me shoehorning a half-bath into his study. The historical preservationist in me wasn’t thrilled about it, either. On the other hand, I didn’t like leaving my office and walking down two flights of stairs every time I had to take a piss.

The toilet flushed again. Curiosity pulled at me. Was she almost finished? Did she snoop under the sink like most people visiting a stranger’s bathroom for the first time? A vision rose in my mind—her on her knees facing away from me, her rounded ass in the air while she cleaned.

I gave my head a shake and dropped my gaze to the plans on my desk. I had a lot of work to do. There was no time to fantasize about Miss O’Sullivan’s ass.

No time at all.

Goddammit.I shoved back from my desk and went to one of the bookcases. The Victorians loved anterooms, but they loved secret passageways even more. I nudged aside a book on landscape architecture and flipped the latch built into the wood. There was a click, and then the bookcase swung out, exposing a brick tunnel. It was part of a network that ran behind most of the mansion’s rooms. Designed to give the original residents an escape route from fire, it also offered plenty of opportunities for checking up on new employees.

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