Undisclosed Desire_ The Tycoon's HeartBy: Falon Gold
Friday is finally here. In three hours, I board my plane leaving Utah, fly to Vegas, and check into my hotel where I can sleep for the whole weekend if I want to. My boss, Apollo Ford, grudgingly promised me this weekend off, with no emergency calls or unexpected problems. Being the personal assistant to a workaholic investment banker is becoming hazardous to my health. It’s too bad Mr. Ford’s look—too damn tall, dark, and handsome—doesn’t make it easy to work for him either.
His slaver-driver mode can last for days until I can’t remember the last time I talked to my family back in Colorado. And I damn sure haven’t been able to visit them since I started at Ford Global Enterprises four years ago. This hard work day in and day out is how I lost seventy-five pounds without one visit to a gym. Okay, that aspect isn’t so bad. However, the constant dark circles under my eyes, lack of sleep, and a developing case of narcolepsy definitely isn’t a positive result from working around the clock. I had to threaten to quit for real before he agreed to give me the next two days off.
Don’t get me wrong. He isn’t happy about having to fend for himself for forty-eight measly hours at the business that he chose to start ten years ago. Therefore, I know I’ll have to quit for real, one day. My health and future love life keep begging me to pin a date down.
I’m moving around the office at a fast clip so my weekend away from work and Mr. Ford can start as soon as possible. Readying things for his weekend meetings, like putting reports that he’ll need on the right corner of his black lacquer desk with the glass top and stacking takeout menus on the left corner are next to the last things I have to do today. If I find his cell phone, erasing my number out of it is imperative before I fly one state over, or he’ll call me morning, noon, and night.
All he needs is one excuse to call and he will. Mostly, he calls because he can’t find contracts or payroll timesheets, which I leave in the bin that he designated for paperwork that needs his signature. Occasionally, he can’t find the list of passwords that are in a locked bottom drawer of his desk every day, all day, even though he has one of the only two keys to it in his pocket at all times. Sometimes, I swear he just likes to hear my sleepy voice, and he’s obviously an insomniac. Well, I’m not. I love to get my rest, and I don’t appreciate being forced to work around the clock. His workaholic tendencies are running me down physically and making me run from the person I developed a crush on the minute I stepped in his office to interview as his personal assistant. Almost completely blinding love for him crept upon me slowly afterwards. It’s part of the reason why I need this break.
When I walk into his office, he’s standing at the glass wall, glaring at the view of Lake City. His office is enormous and sparsely decorated with just his and my matching desks. Black file cabinets sit behind each desk, which face each other from opposite ends of the room. His side has the glass wall and a fantastic view of Lake City’s skyline.
I can tell he’s grumpy about my leaving, but that’s just tough. I’m out of here as soon as I open every file on his computer, so he can’t call asking about damn passwords.
“Malisa,” someone whispers in my ear, startling the hell out of me while I’m bending over the bottom drawer of Ford’s desk.
I spring upright, as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t have. My heart beats erratically.
“Jesus, Mr. Ford,” I hiss, wondering when he crossed the room. “Give a girl some warning next time, why don’t you?” I say and I tug my ruffled white blouse down over my plain gray skirt, both two sizes too big and held up by a wide, gray belt.
He takes a seat on the corner of his desk, eyeballing me with dark, bedroom eyes that could convince sugar to jump out of a cake. “You’re in a big hurry to leave me, aren’t you?” he asks, and I hear pure need in his voice. Not simply the need of his personal assistant, but a need for me.
I drop down into his heavily-cushioned office chair then reach down for the drawer with the passwords again, with him looking down on me. Tingles fire off along the back of my bare neck. If he can affect my skin by just looking at me, what would happen if he ever actually touched it?