Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

K ira

Nobody in this city knows I grew up in a trailer.

Nobody in this city knows I've only got four bucks in my checking account, because I gave the rest of it to my aunt to get my cousin out on bail.

Nobody in this city knows me at all, and that's exactly how I like it.

I've risen above my humble beginnings, and right now I don't look any different than any of the other businesswomen stepping into the Lupin Industries building.

It is my first day of work, and I know I was lucky to get the job. Right place, right time, right hiring manager at the end of her tether.

I think back to that interview. It was only yesterday, so it's fresh in my mind. Also, I've been playing it over and over in my head, unable to believe it. This has to be what fate feels like, or good luck, or just something simply good. I haven't had a lot of that in my life.

I responded to an online advertisement for a personal assistant at Lupin Enterprises. I have a degree in business administration and a few weeks' experience interning. I couldn't afford to do full internships. I had to go back to Wisconsin to help out my family. I'm hoping that making a good impression will make up for a lack of extensive experience.

On the way in, I check myself in the bathroom mirror. I've learned there's not much I can control in my life, but I can at least look neat and tidy.

At twenty-three, I am a small statured woman, about 5'3" without heels. My hair is naturally dark, and I have brown eyes. I've spent a lifetime looking at tall blondes and wishing for what nature decided not to give me. Lately though, I've been working on trying to accept myself for all I am, rather than fixating on everything I'm not.

I'm wearing a white blouse and a neat pencil skirt with low kitten heels. It's a minimalist, classic outfit, and I managed to thrift all of it. Most of my clothing is thrifted, which is getting more difficult all the time, but I've worked hard to build a little wardrobe I can be proud of.

I look good, wearing just enough makeup to indicate that I've made what corporate America considers an effort, but not so much that I seem as though I am trying to be seen as an overtly sexual creature.

The interview is with a very nice, very poised middle-aged woman, who has the air of someone who probably actually runs the entire company. She has dark brown hair with an auburn hue when it catches the light, and smile lines at the sides of her eyes which make me think she's probably very nice when she's not being ultra-professional. Her outfit isn't all that different from mine, which makes me feel as though I have chosen well.

"You're here for the personal assistant position," she says, telling me as if I didn't already know.

"Yes, I am. May I ask who I would be assisting? The advertisement didn't specify."

"It didn't? No. I suppose it wouldn't have," she says. "The position is to assist Cain Lupin."

I try not to look shocked, overwhelmed, or slightly horrified. I know I am in no way ready to assist Cain Lupin, the CEO and founder of Lupin Industries. He has a reputation in the media for being incredibly demanding and somewhat antisocial, but it's widely agreed that he's a genius of a certain sort.

"Let me look at your resume," she says, clicking around on her computer for a moment. She glances over the one-page document, then her eyes come back to me.

"One thing you need to know about Mr. Lupin," she says. "He fires assistants faster than I can hire them. So don't expect this to be a long-term arrangement. The good news is, you get severance, and it's generous. So do your best, ignore all his growling and snarling, and try to stay employed as long as you can."

"I've got the job?"

"Getting the job isn't the hard part," she says, smiling at me with a you poor, sweet, summer child expression on her face. "It's keeping it that will prove difficult."

"I'm very used to working with difficult personalities," I smile, absolutely thrilled. "I look forward to the challenge of working for Mr. Lupin."

"Don't wear anything silver," she says. "He thinks it looks tacky. Gold only."

"Gold only, got it." I make a note.

"And stay away from strong smelling foods. Nothing with garlic in it."

"No garlic," I make another note, then look up, half-laughing. "Is Mr. Lupin a vampire?"

Her face darkens as outside, a heavy cloud moves over the sun in a rather dramatic but obviously entirely coincidental fashion.

"There's never been a vampire as monstrous as Mr. Lupin," she says. The cloud skids away under the effects of a strong wind, and the sun comes out again, just in time for her smile to return. "That's what his rivals say, anyway, and a good number of people who have ever had to work for him. He's a genius. And he's got killer instincts that can't be taught. Pay attention for as long as he tolerates you. You'll learn a lot."

The memory flashes out of my mind as I step through the doors. I have to keep my head in the game. I take the warning I got from the lady who interviewed me seriously. This is my first day working at Lupin industries, but it could genuinely just as easily be my last. I can't afford to take anything for granted.

There's a big sweeping table in the lobby with a small bank of receptionists. I go up to the friendliest looking one.

"I think there's a badge waiting for me? My name is Kira Smith."

"Of course," she smiles, sliding over a card on a lanyard. "Go on up to the thirteenth floor and speak to Branson."

The lanyard has my name on it and a picture they took yesterday. I'm not smiling in the picture, just in case it doesn't look professional.

I put the lanyard around my neck, then take it off because it feels a little awkward, then hold it in my bag, and then finally try clipping it to my purse as I get into the elevator.

Other workers cluster around me, chatting amongst themselves. If they notice that I'm new here, they don't show it. They seem busy and driven. I feel like a very small fish in a very big pond. Actually, I feel like I'm barely a fish. I'm more like a single celled organism, wriggling my way around some microscopic algae… except I am about to be serving the biggest fish there is.

The crowd in the elevator thins on the way up. I notice that as fewer and fewer people are inside the space, they start to notice me. I get a few curious glances, which I return with a polite smile. Nobody actually says hello though. I am guessing that they're used to seeing assistants come and go. Probably not worth making an introduction, as far as they are concerned.

I am the last one on the elevator when it arrives at the thirteenth floor.

As it opens, I am almost immediately confronted by a very handsome and flamboyant young man around my age who greets me with a cool stare and a flick of his floppy golden hair.

"Hi, I'm…"

"You're the new assistant to Mr. Lupin, right?"

"Yes, I…"

Clearly there is no getting a word in with this guy. He thrusts a sheaf of papers at me.

"Your first job is to deliver these contracts. They're late, and the Walkers have added thirteen different clauses that I know are going to piss him off. I'm sorry I didn't catch your name. If he doesn't fire you on the spot once he sees these, come back and tell me what it is."

I am about to ask where Mr. Lupin's office is, but the young man points a finger at a large door which looms at the end of the hallway, dominating the space. This is not a typical office environment. It is more like a big corporate lounge space. Cain's office has to take up a good amount of square footage of the entire floor.

Cain Lupin is a hulking brute. Six-foot-God-only-knows-what, almost as broad as the doorway, and obviously muscular because his business shirt fits him the way my friend Stacy's favorite clubbing skirt fits her—skin-tight and figure-hugging. There's no way that's just cotton. There's got to be something in that fabric to give it a little stretch. Do billionaires wear polyblends?

He's handsome, too. He has a beard, or something like a five o'clock shadow that got out of hand. I get the feeling he's the sort of guy who is never truly clean-shaven for more than an hour or two. He has a full head of thick, dark hair, likewise rebelling against a cut that I know was probably more expensive than my rent. His features are hard and sharp, the way you'd expect them to be. But it's his eyes that really grab my attention. They're somewhere between gray and blue, rimmed with dark lashes and accented by thick dark brows that nature has decided will grow with rough definition, rather than bushy wildness.

I draw in a breath, then forget to do anything with it as I find myself in the presence of this man who comes striding into the room like he owns every atom in it, including me. I might as well be a potted plant for all the attention he pays me.

He goes to his desk, picks up a tablet, swipes around for a moment or two, then curses softly under his breath. He has a reputation for being grumpy, and I can certainly see how he earned it.

"Close your mouth, you'll catch flies," he says as he catches sight of me. "Are those the Walker contracts?"

He extends his hand for them, reaching over the desk.

"Yes," I say, handing them over.

"Are they completed?"

"No, sir. I understand new clauses have been added…"

He flips through them, looking at the little pink-stickered places with an increasingly thunderous expression.

This man is incredibly hot. I've seen pictures of him before, of course. Everybody has. But pictures really don't do him justice. In person, there is an energy that emanates from him, a natural dominance mixed with something I can't quite put my finger on. He makes me tingle , that's what it is. I can feel myself responding to him in a way I've never responded to any man.

I guess that's what a billionaire will do to a girl who grew up dreaming of a room of her own, a place that had an actual door, not a towel that sufficed as a modesty curtain.

"Are you going to stare at me all day, or are you going to go and do something useful?" He snaps the words at me without even looking at me.

"I'm just waiting for your next order, sir."

His ice-flint eyes flick up at me. He nods, briefly, as if that was the right thing to say. "Good. Then you can take these back to Branson, and tell him to contact Marius Walker, and tell him that if he thinks we're going to go to one point five percent on the OTTS when his over-under is inside out, then he needs to go to rehab, because he's clearly back on the hard stuff."

I nod, as if I understand what any of those industry jargon terms mean. Nobody has briefed me on the day-to-day running of this place because nobody expects me to be employed past lunchtime. I assume Branson is the guy I met initially. It makes sense, and if I'm wrong, maybe I can learn his name and then discover who Branson is.

I take the contracts and go back down to the sassy man guarding the general territory. He is filing his nails and looking at his reflection in a desk mirror with an unsatisfied expression that only attractive people can have. Normal people, like me, tend to accept our fate. But hot guys and girls? They're constantly trying to beat their personal best.

"Are you Branson?"

"Who's asking?" he says.

"Mr. Lupin says to please contact Mr. Walker and ask him to reconsider the one point five percent on the OTTS," I say, putting the contracts down.

"I bet that's not what he actually said."

"It's close enough," I reply. "I'm Kira."

"Long name for a short girl," Branson says. "Welcome aboard."

"Shall I report back to Mr. Lupin?"

Branson shrugs. "Do what you like."

That does not seem to be advice given in good faith, so I decide to return to Mr. Lupin.

"I've returned the contracts, sir, and passed your message on."

"Good," he grunts. The sound should be petulant or dismissive, but for reasons I cannot understand, it hits a spot low in my belly. I think it's the damn near animal tone of it. When Cain Lupin speaks, it's not just small mouth noises the way it is with most people. There's a deeper communication happening. I can feel his words doing things to my body in ways that they probably shouldn't.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

He glances over at me. Those eyes of his make brief contact with mine. The sensation I was trying so hard not to feel the first time I was in his presence returns. I pulse with need. It starts right between my legs, a filthy, primal thing, and it works its way up through my body swiftly, warming every part of me. When it hits my brain, I feel my head spin. My thoughts become fuzzy. All I am aware of is desire. Need. Hunger.

This is why everybody before me got fired. Being in his presence is making me wish he would do unspeakable things to me.

"I will call for you if I need you. You're dismissed."

"Yes, sir," I choke out the words in the effort not to purr them, and I practically flee the room.

The second the door of his office closes, I feel better. Saner.

"Get a grip, Kira," I lecture myself. "You cannot get fired for that stupid of a reason."

"Already talking to yourself?" Branson comes past with a laugh.

"Mr. Lupin says he doesn't have anything else for me to do," I say.

"Stay close, because when he needs you, he'll want you instantly."

I feel a flash of excitement at the idea of being wanted instantly by a beast like Cain Lupin, but I push the thought aside. It's easier to do that out here, away from his intoxicating presence.

I sit down at the empty desk outside his door. It's supposed to be a sort of guardian post, I suppose, but there's something about it that reminds me more of the desk they sometimes put in the hall of school for unruly children. It's a place that is away from him. It's a separation.

God, my thoughts are all over the place today. I really need to get myself sorted. I want this job. I need this job. And even though Cain fires everybody who works for him, I don't intend to be fired. I intend to be the best assistant he's ever had.

I sit at the desk for hours.

From time to time, I hear Cain rumble inside the room. He really does sound like an animal sometimes. He likes to move, too. Some people would call it pacing. I would call it prowling. His shadow falls across frosted panes of glass from time to time. Every time it does, I feel a tightening low in my belly.

I should be doing something. I should be making myself useful. But that's not what he asked for. He dismissed me.

So, I wait.

The door comes flying open suddenly.

Cain looks around, annoyed. Then he sees me and the annoyance fades.

"You're here," he says.

"I am," I say.

"What's your name?"

"Kira."

"That's an interesting name for a woman," he says.

I'm surprised he thinks about it long enough to make that observation. I'm surprised he's observing me at all. His eyes rake over me, and for a moment I think he's going to say something else. But he doesn't say anything. He tosses an envelope down on the desk in front of me.

"Give this to Branson and get yourself a computer. You will need one."

"Do I ask Branson for…"

The door is already shutting.

If he wasn't so incredibly magnetic and, well, rich, I'd say he was an asshole. Everybody at this company seems to suffer from a deficiency of basic common courtesy and politeness. Am I supposed to requisite a computer from Branson? Or hijack one from a commuter vehicle? The instructions are very unclear, and I feel my old self rising in response. I'm not going to make the mistake of being that girl again, though. I promised myself when I moved to the city, I was going to be different. I was going to be a good person.

I am a good person.

And a good assistant.

So, I go back to Branson.

"How do I get a computer?"

"You don't," he laughs. "Technically, you get it from Floyd, but he's been on a go slow for a while now."

"Where is Floyd?"

"He's in the basement. You're not allowed to go down there without clearance, though, which is why it is so hard to get a computer."

"I'll tell Mr. Lupin."

"Yes. Tell Mr. Lupin," Branson laughs. "Then you won't have to worry about getting a computer, because you will have already been fired. Mr. Lupin doesn't like having to do his underlings' jobs for them. If he tells you he wants you to get a computer, he wants you to get a computer."

So this is a test.

Alright.

I am equal to the task.

The basement is not what I expected. The building above is slick and sophisticated. Every envelope edge is perfectly crisp, not a speck of dust, that sort of thing. Stepping into the basement is like stepping into another world. It is dark, lit by one of those old incandescent light bulbs that throws an orangey glow over the little space it illuminates.

The elevator has opened up into a tight corridor that leads directly ahead. There are doors lining either side of it. Everything down here is shag carpet and veneer walls. Something straight out of the seventies. Not just vintage. Historic, maybe.

From where I'm standing, I can see that some of them are closed and a few are open. In the distance, I hear an odd mechanical sound. Sort of like a cross between a printer and a typewriter.

"Hello? Mr. Floyd?"

I call out relatively softly. I don't want to interrupt whatever is happening down here, though it feels very still and very empty. Like something used to happen here a long time ago but no longer does.

I follow the sound, entering and exiting those coronas of light shed by bulbs that look as though the only thing stopping them from burning out is nostalgia. I tap lightly on doors as I pass, then attempt to open them when there is no response. Most of them are locked. The ones that do open swing ajar into an inky darkness that I feel no compulsion to explore. If Mr. Floyd is sitting in a dark room with the door closed, I am sure I do not want to disturb him.

I am starting to get nervous, and not the kind of nervous I get around Cain. This is an actually scared kind of nervous. There's something very unsettling about this place. It doesn't feel properly connected to the outside world. It feels as though I have entered another, well, ‘realm' doesn't feel like the right phrase, but ‘den' does. There's a scent in the air. Not musky or moldy, but masculine. Like this is a place men used to come, wearing aftershave of a kind that isn't produced anymore.

Finally, three bulbs down, I come to the end of the hall. There is an open door and an interior of a room that is lit. The carpet is orangey-brown. The furniture is browny-red. And sitting on top of it are a set of machines that truly do not belong to this decade. Maybe not this century.

A very old typewriter is spitting out what seems to be a never-ending set of numbers on a stream of paper which has perforated seams rather than separate sheets. It has holes along each side, on more perforated seams that also look as though they could be removed. There's a stack of printed material on the floor, and the new data, whatever it is, gently lays itself over the old in a slow concertina dance. I find myself mesmerized by it.

"What are you doing here?"

The question comes from behind me in a soft growl.

I let out a squeak of surprise and turn around to find myself faced with an absolute hulking brute of a man standing at well over six feet. He practically fills the doorway with his bulk, which means I have no hope of escape. He is wearing thick rimmed black glasses, and his hair is jet black, swept to the side over his forehead. He has a thick beard and a very displeased expression on a face of such ferocity that I feel a stab of fear. He is wearing business attire—a white shirt that pulls tight over pecs and biceps, and pants that also seem a little too tight. His clothes fit him like he spends his life in a gym, though I am guessing this guy has never set foot in a gym. He looks like he could be Cain's brother, if not twin.

"I'm… I'm…" I've forgotten my name, and I don't think that matters, because my name is not what is going to save me now. "I'm Cain Lupin's assistant. He told me to get a computer, and then Branson said the only way to do that is to come down here, so I did…"

The ferocious beast relaxes. A hint of a smile appears. "Branson's still messing with new hires," he observes.

"I guess," I say, letting out a breath I hadn't known I was holding. "I was told to look for Mr. Floyd."

"I'm Abel Lupin," he says. "Mr. Floyd is a nickname that Branson should not be using."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be inappropriate."

This guy is hot, but he's not having the same effect on me as Cain, thank God. I can't imagine how it would be to work in a place surrounded by big, buff men who make me ovulate on sight.

"I need a computer."

Abel gives a brief eyeroll and shakes his head. "Branson could have requisitioned one from the stock upstairs."

"So Branson is messing with me. Why would he do that?"

"Branson is a little shit, but he's family, of sorts. So he thinks he can take liberties he has no right to take. Try not to take too much of his advice."

I take Abel's advice and go back upstairs.

"Where is my assistant!?"

I hear Cain thunder the question as I step out of the elevator. Branson sent me on a wild goose chase to ensure that I wouldn't get a computer, thus failing to follow Cain's orders on that front, and making certain I'd also be impossible to find.

"I don't know, sir," I hear Branson say. "They're just all so flaky these days. Can I help you?"

"Yes. Find the girl."

I bristle at overhearing myself referred to as the girl.

"I'm here," I say, as pleasantly as I can.

"In my office," Cain growls, pointing a long finger toward his door. "Now."

Back in the room with him, I feel my body respond in that strange way. I'm suddenly so incredibly aroused. I always wondered what the hell other women were talking about when they said a guy could make them wet. I never met anybody who had that effect on me before. It's exciting and terrifying. I do not want him to know.

"I expect you to be available to work for me, not wandering off and looking at shiny things," he growls.

I am torn between telling him what actually happened and feeling like a snitch if I do. I decide not to say anything. Branson set me up well enough that I'm sure if I blamed this on him, there would be some way for him to make it even worse for me.

"I'm very sorry, sir. I was trying to find a computer."

He grunts.

Looks me up and down.

Really looks at me.

"Is… is there something wrong?"

"What's your name? Your full name."

"Kira Smith," I say.

"Smith?"

I nod.

He frowns slightly, as if that's an unacceptable answer. "Where are you from?"

I don't want to answer that question.

"The city," I say. It's vague, but also he has no right to ask me questions like that, especially not in that kind of tone. I feel as though I've done something wrong, not just today, but in general.

"You disappeared on your first day of work, didn't manage to follow simple instructions, and I'm not convinced that you are a fit for this job. I'm sorry, Kira Smith, but I am going to have to let you go."

Heat flashes through me. I am shocked, and horrified, and wet. Why the fuck am I so damn wet? I certainly don't have a thing for being fired by big mean men who haven't given me a chance.

"What? No."

"No?" He cocks his head to the side and gives me a slightly sardonic look.

"No," I repeat.

"I know you don't have an extensive employment history, but just so you know, when your boss fires you, it's not customary to refuse to be fired, Kira."

I like the way he says my name. It feels like molten heat rushing through the very core of me. It's hot. I'm hot. Every part of me. It's like I have some kind of sexual fever. I can suddenly feel my nipples against my bra. I can feel my underwear clinging lightly to my sex. I am aroused as hell, and I am not going anywhere.

"Well, I am refusing, because I have tried to follow your orders, but frankly, nobody here has been very helpful. It is as though the entire company is set up simply to get me fired, which feels like a waste of all our time."

It's hard to form a coherent sentence in this state, and I know I shouldn't be arguing. I promised myself before I started this job that I wouldn't argue. People don't like it. It's one of my very worst habits that I'm trying to change. But I guess I got fired anyway, and now my clit is just… mnngghh . I can feel it like it's… what the hell is happening?

I look at him with a mixture of annoyance, longing, and confusion bordering on fear. This isn't normal. Feeling this level of attraction for a complete asshole who hasn't even been nice to me is not okay. Have I been drugged?