Page 2 of Fierce

Controlling, Arrogant, & Obsessive

For the past twelve years, my life had gone according to plan. My plan. Ever since I’d left New Zealand with my brand-new Uni degree, headed for the States and the internship that awaited me there, I’d known my course, and I’d followed it.

Until I met Hope.

But then, I did a lot of things differently before that day. Or rather, I did them the same way. I did them my way. I kept my personal life in shadow, for one thing, partly because mystique was good, but mostly because my personal life didn’t bear scrutinizing.

My physical presence was a different story. I’d seen the articles saying that I was a walking advertisement for my products, but that wasn’t the reason. Vanity is a weakness and a delusion, like love. I knew that my appearance, like my intelligence, was nothing more than a gift bequeathed by my ancestors, a gift it was my responsibility to hone. I’d built up a naturally strong body the same way I’d built up my company, and for the same reasons. If we were both powerhouses, that was because winning was the only option. Close didn’t count, and second place was for losers. You could call it my philosophy.

I didn’t get photographed for my ads, of course. I left that to the models, which was why I was there that day for the kickoff shoot for my new underwear line. I always came to the first day to make sure they did it right. I knew some people called me controlling. Arrogant. Obsessive. As if any of that were a bad thing.

Now, I stood in one corner of the spacious studio and kept an eye on the slow progress before me. They’d be shooting outdoors tomorrow, with Central Park in the background, but I wouldn’t be around for that. No need. Anyway, I could see Central Park anytime from the windows of my Manhattan penthouse.

My fingers flew, checking and responding to the messages on my phone as I waited for the crew to finish their endless fiddling. I indulged one brief flash of annoyance at Galway not being ready for the ten o’clock shooting schedule I’d specified, then let it go and concentrated instead on the task at hand. Annoyance wouldn’t help right now, and I never indulged in unnecessary or unhelpful emotion. My assistant would be reaming him out after I left. That was what he was there for. Instead, I typed out a quick answer to my VP of Finance about the upcoming bond issue, then moved on to a question from Martine in Publicity about the Paris show. She thought she was short-staffed, but everybody always thought that, when the reality was that they didn’t want to do what it took to get the work done. So I texted back,

Make it happen anyway.

and moved on.

My attention kept straying, though, and that was completely unlike me. It was the girl setting up the camera who was doing it. She seemed too small for the task of hauling those tripods and umbrellas around, and I had to restrain myself from going over to help her. She was as fragile as a flower, her pale-blonde hair falling in a soft cloud to just below her narrow shoulders, her little face a perfect heart dominated by enormous blue-green eyes.

And then there was that mouth. Surely, that mouth had been created for a man to use. I remembered the way her lips had parted when I’d touched her. The way I’d been able to feel her heart fluttering, even when I wasn’t touching her at all, and the kick of pure lust it had given me, a shot straight to the groin. When I’d licked my fingers, and she’d watched me do it—the connection had been as strong and sharp as a lightning bolt.

And when she was on her hands and knees, crawling to plug in the cords…I lost my train of thought entirely, my fingers and mind both stilling as they never did, taken over by one thought.

I want that.

“Hope!” Vincent Galway, the prima donna behind the camera, was barking again now. When I’d first met him, I’d appreciated his brusqueness, his cold insistence on perfection. I’d been accused of possessing exactly those same qualities often enough. Now, it was making the hot rage rise, and I couldn’t afford that.

“Hurry up with those lights,” Galway ordered. “Mr. Te Mana is waiting.”

She bit her lower lip, and it trembled a little as the delicate color rose in her porcelain cheeks. “Sorry,” she said. “One moment.” Her fingers were fumbling, and I somehow knew that she needed this job. That she couldn’t afford to fail.

Nobody should be treating her like that. Nobody should be doing anything to her. Nobody but me.

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