Page 1 of Captivated By You

Chapter1

Kiana

Women, guard your ovaries.

Smokedglass doors eased apart as I dashed toward the exit of Kingcaid Hotels’ flagship establishment on the banks of the Seattle waterfront. My heels clipped over the polished marble floor, the sound echoing around the luxurious, vast lobby.

I barged through the doors and ran down the stone steps to the street below. Tears of rage pricked the backs of my eyes, and a fiery burn took root in my throat. I zipped up my jacket and whipped to the left. A woman in a hurry narrowly avoided mowing me down. I dodged out of her way, and my ankle twisted. Crying out, I hobbled over to a nearby bench. I slumped into it and examined my ankle, giving the bone a rub.

How dare he?

How dare that bastard put his hand on my ass and then give it a squeeze as if he owned me?

As if his behavior werenormal.

Accepted.

Then again, it probably was. Men like him, men in positions of power, abused women every day. You only had to look at #metoo, or countless other movements that were on the news every other week. And yet, however much society talked about it, agreed that it wasn’t right, nothing changed.

How come I invited this kind of unwanted, and unwarranted, attention? Why did some men think they could come on to me without invitation? Was I broken, or did I unconsciously give off the vibe that I was up for it?

Last time I’d been on the receiving end of something similar, it’d taken every ounce of my courage to stand up for what was right, and look where that had gotten me. A one-way ticket to the unemployment office and the loss of someone I’d thought would always be on my side. Someone I’d truly believed loved me.

Lesson learned—the hard way.

Anger powered through me, the knuckles of my clenched fists whitening as my pounding heart threatened to burst out of my chest.

But that wasn’t all. I felt sick, too. Sick that, for the briefest of moments, I’d thought about keeping quiet. Of letting him put his filthy hands on me, all in the pursuit of a role I wanted so very much.

A tremor of revulsion crawled into my throat, and I shuddered at the idea of coveting this job so much that I’d considered putting up with that guy’s shit. Even for a second. No job was worth that.

God, I felt like crying, but sitting here bawling my eyes out wouldn’t help. I’d worked my ass off to get through the initial screening rounds, put together a presentation that, even if I said so myself, was pretty darn good. I deserved to catch a break, and yet I hadn’t even gotten as far as opening my laptop.

I limped along the waterfront toward my hotel, a far less deluxe version than the five-star luxury I’d just left. It was all I could afford, and coming on top of the costs of the flight from my hometown of Chicago to Seattle, it’d be the best I could afford for a good while longer. Especially after striking out on the exact reason for my visit.

Argh! This was so unfair. A chance at an internship with Kingcaid Hotels wasn’t the kind of opportunity that came along every day.

The Kingcaid brand was huge. The owners dipped their fingers in a multitude of juicy pies, and not just hotels. They had businesses all over the globe in enterprises from cruise ships to casinos, restaurants to nightclubs, and even owned film and TV studios.

And if I remembered correctly, they had a music label, too. Not one to rival the big boys like Sony or Warner, but, from memory, they had some solid signings. Up-and-coming bands that were going places.

To join an organization with that big a reach could catapult my career and provide me with an abundance of avenues to follow.

And now, because of a jerk who couldn’t keep his hands to himself, it was back to flipping burgers and waiting tables while I scoured the internet for internships that, in my chosen field of hotel management, were about as rare as James Bond turning down the chance to screw a pretty girl.

I scrambled around in my purse for my cell to call Mom. She’d probably sat by the phone all day, despite me repeating over and over that my interview wasn’t until five thirty in the evening.

The clock on the screen said five thirty-five.

The paperwork the hotel HR department had sent told me to expect the interview to last somewhere between an hour to an hour and a half.

Still, walking out without giving the hotel manager a chance to ask a single question after he squeezed your right buttock was likely to hasten the end of the encounter.

I was furious at him, but also at myself. I should have slapped him, screamed bloody murder, done something,anything. Instead, I’d stood there, mouth agape, and then simply walked out. I hadn’t even slammed the goddamn door.

This sucked.Sucked. Although that was probably the wrong choice of word. Bet Handy Andy would’ve given me bonus points if I’d gotten on my knees and fulfilled his disgusting fantasy.

I dialed Mom’s number, then hung up before the call connected. I couldn’t summon the courage to talk to her. So I did what every coward excelled at: I scheduled a text to send in an hour and a half’s time. I kept it brief, telling her I wouldn’t hear for a while yet and that the interview had exhausted me, and promised to call her before my flight tomorrow. Once I returned home, I’d give her the full rundown. But having a conversation like that one in the middle of Seattle was almost at the bottom of my “must-do” list.

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