Chapter 3

3

June

"He's taking you to the society reception of the decade?" Zoey gapes from the window on my phone screen. "He's taking you to the event billed as the crème de la crème of all social events?"

I should be excited that I'm getting the opportunity to attend a royal reception, which most women would give anything to get an invitation to, but frankly, I'm petrified. Me, with my plus-size figure, and fake-branded stilettos, and charity shop clothing, among those emaciated, skinny, model -looking, titled, snooty women who'll, no doubt, look down at me. Ugh!

"He asked me to come in the role of his assistant. And only because he wants me to take notes on the discussions he has there for follow ups," I remind her.

Not that it dampens her enthusiasm. "Knox Davenport invited you to attend a high-profile extravaganza as his work date; imagine that." She sighs.

There's a gooey, romantic look in her eyes. Oh no, I need to dispel any notion of a relationship between me and my boss before she builds it up in her head. Because that is definitely not happening. N-a-a-h. No matter how much I'm attracted to him.

"I'm going as his work colleague," I say firmly.

And as someone who can fetch and carry for him, considering how he had me on my feet all day. On the positive side, I've lasted five days.

Not that I haven't come close to killing him—when I'm not thinking of throwing myself at his feet and climbing him like a tree—but the thought of the salary I'm getting paid has stopped me from doing either.

I was the last to leave the office today as has become the norm. Except for bringing my boss his lunch, I haven't left my desk. And my head was so full of my to-do-list, I forgot to buy my own lunch. If it weren't for Mary—whose boss, Quentin Davenport, is my boss' uncle—I would've starved.

She took pity on me and bought me a sandwich and coffee, refusing my offer to pay for it. I noticed the growing respect in her eyes as she waved at me on her way out the door at five p.m. on the dot. It's Friday evening and the entire floor emptied out after her, but for my boss. And me. I didn't see him again after he dismissed me, and I was both sad that I hadn't had another chance to gaze upon those features of his, which resemble Lucifer, and relieved that I wasn't at the receiving end of his "charisma."

I'm there to do a job. I'm his assistant. No more, no less.

"How many managers ask their assistants to accompany them to a royal reception?" Zoey drawls.

"It's a quasi-royal reception," I protest.

"Of a real-life duke. And there won't be any of those happening again in the near future." She nods.

"Since when do you keep track of the Royals?" I frown.

"Since one of the authors I work with is of royal blood—" She slaps a hand to her forehead. "Forget I said that."

"You're working with a member of the royal family?" I gasp.

"Someone connected to them, and that's all I'll say." She mimics zipping her lips.

"Aww, come on. Not fair. You listen to all of the news from me, and when it's your turn to dish, you clam up. P-l-e-a-s-e?" I bat my eyelashes at her.

Her lips turn down. "It's confidential. And it wouldn't be fair to my author," she points out .

Zoey's an editor with a leading publishing house. And she works on some very interesting books and personalities.

"I respect that. For what it's worth, the project sounds very intriguing."

"It is." Her eyes grow brilliant with barely suppressed excitement. "It's the most thrilling book I've worked on for a while. But enough about me—" She slashes a hand through the air. "Aren't you glad I mentioned the job to you and that you got it? Although"—she looks uncomfortable— "I admit, I almost didn't, considering I know little about Knox Davenport. I was worried that he might turn out to be obnoxious."

He is obnoxious, but he's also breathtakingly gorgeous and so dominant, he makes me weak in the knees.

"But given he's invited you to accompany him to the royal reception, it can't be too bad, right?" She looks at me with eager eyes.

Guess I won't tell her that he insists on calling me Kelly, even after I told him my name. And when I emailed him to ask if he wanted a note to accompany the Tiffany bracelet, he came back with: "Tell her to sod off." That was it. What's wrong with this man? No way, could I send a note with that message. Which meant, I had to make up a note from him to the woman. And it wasn't easy.

"He's not too bad," I finally murmur.

My reply must not completely satisfy her, for her forehead creases. "You are going to be okay with this role, right? I mentioned the job to you because I know the Davenports pay well, and you needed the work. But they don't have the best reputation, when it comes to employee satisfaction."

That's putting it mildly, considering some of the comments from disgruntled employees I came across during my research.

On the other hand, Knox saw merit in my suggestions related to boosting employee satisfaction. He also agreed to attend the reception. No matter that he asked me to accompany him.

"I'm happy with the role," I say, and my voice has a ring of confidence in it this time.

I must convince her, for her shoulders relax.

It's okay to tell my best friend a half-truth, right? I am happy with the salary this job brings with it. I'm also hugely turned on every time I look at my boss, or smell his dark, male scent, or even think of him, but best not to share that with her either.

"Who wouldn't be thrilled to attend a royal event, hmm? Although, I don't have anything to wear to the event." I add that, hoping she'll take the segue.

She creases her brow. "It's in two weeks, isn't it?"

"Eighteen days," I correct her.

The invitation was sent months ago, but for whatever reason, it wasn't delivered to him. The reply to my RSVP came today, saying they'll be pleased to have Knox Davenport and his guest at the reception. Attached to the email were pages worth of instructions on what the etiquette at the reception was to be, including how to address the bride and groom, and the King and Queen, and the Royal Princes, who'll all be in attendance. And a dress code, and a list of protocols related to their Royal Majesties to follow for the evening, and the schedule of events. My head was swimming by the end.

I committed as much of it to memory as I could and took printouts to study. I have yet to reply with our preferences in diet and any allergies. I emailed Knox to ask about it, but never heard back. Then, I discovered a file telling me he's allergic to mangoes. Good to know. I updated the wedding planning team, then stumbled home without bidding him goodbye.

"What are you going to wear?" Zoey asks.

"I suppose, I'll have to pull out my fake Balenciaga black dress." I shrug.

She winces. "Isn't that the one you picked up at the charity shop?"

"I can wear it with a jacket to work, then take off the jacket and?—"

The intercom buzzes. "Hold on, Z." I place the phone down, head to the intercom and push the button.

"Delivery for Kelly Assistant?"

"Uh, there's no one here by that name." I'm about to hang up, then pause. "Did you say Kelly Assistant?"

"Yes ma'am," the delivery man says. "And this is the right address."

Oh, he didn't do that. A delivery addressed to Kelly Assistant? No way, am I going to accept it. "Take it back," I snap .

There's silence, then the delivery person clears his throat. "You mean, I should take back all the boxes?"

I frown. "How many boxes do you have?"

"Uh, there are three boxes to be delivered to you, ma'am."

I sigh. And now I've been ma'amed. Why did he send these boxes? What could be in them? I could turn them away and never know what's in them, but let's face it, I'm curious. And if I don't accept them, he'll probably be pissed at me, enough for me to lose my job. And if I do accept them, I can find out what's in them. I can always return them later if I don't like them. Right?

"Ma'am?" The man clears his throat. "Are you accepting the delivery?"

"Yes, fine, come on up." Lifting my finger from the button, I open the door to the apartment and hear the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. A man in a delivery uniform, which is not like that of any delivery service I recognize, appears. He's dressed in dark green with a cap, and somehow, I know it's the kind of courier company only the extraordinarily rich use. He's carrying a large flat garment box, bearing the logo of a well-known fashion brand. I step aside and indicate for him to follow me, then gesture to him to set the boxes on the coffee table.

He's followed by a second delivery guy dressed in a similar uniform and carrying two smaller boxes, one of which looks like a hat box. They place the boxes on the breakfast counter. The first guy has me sign his device, then both half-bow, turn and leave.

"Who is it? What's happening? Did you get a delivery?" Zoey's voice squawks from my phone. I head over to pick it up.

"It was a delivery."

"Who's it from?"

"Umm…it's from my boss."

"Are you going to open them?" She's almost bouncing with excitement.

I glance at the boxes with doubt. I shouldn't have accepted them. Damn it. Whatever it is, it's going to complicate this situation further. Not that there is a situation. He's my very rude boss. And I need this job. I blow out a breath. "Hold on." I prop the phone on the little counter that separates my living space from the tiny kitchenette, then reach for the first box. On the largest box is a note which says:

Wear this to the royal reception.

It's in his handwriting. I recognize it, even without a signature. It's as if he heard me talking about what I'd wear to the reception and sent me a dress as an answer. I need to stop with the fanciful thinking. It's a coincidence that it arrived as I was discussing my wardrobe issues, is all.

I tear open the seal—this one's an Alexander McQueen. Whoa! And it's genuine. It's definitely not fake. And it must cost ... I have no idea how much, but I bet it's more than the year's rent I pay on this place.

My fingers tremble as I push aside the soft tissue paper and hold up a dress. Light catches the green sheath with lace detail that runs down the front. And sleeves that are made from material so sheer, I know the skin of my arms will show through it, and it will look both exquisite and tantalizing.

"He sent you a dress?" Zoe asks. "That's gorgeous!"

I nod as I place it carefully back in the box, then open the next box. No, no, no. It's not any box it's a shoe box with a Louboutin label.

"Oh my god!" I gasp.

"What is it?" Zoey cries. "I can't see! Is everything okay?"

No. Yes. I don't know.

Without replying, I slide out a pair of three-inch heels with the characteristic lacquered red soles. I place them on the floor, then step out of my slippers and into the shoes. I fasten the ankle straps. I take a few steps, and it's like I'm walking on air. Again. The feeling is not dissimilar to the sensation I felt when walking on the thick carpet in his office. Somehow, he's right here with me with the ghost-touch of his fingers curling around my ankles.

"June, c'mon. You're killing me here!"

I cross back over to Zoe, who's straining to see what I have, grab the phone, and walk over to sink onto my settee with the faux leather covering. The shoes I'm wearing must easily cost as much as what I pay to cover a term of my sister's university fees.

I'm too shell shocked to speak. Why would he do this? Is he trying to bribe me? Trying to make up for being such a jerkosauraus? Somehow, I don't think so. I can't get a bead on his motivations.

"June?" Zoey asks in an impatient voice. "What did he send you?"

In response, I flip the camera on the phone so she can see my feet. And am rewarded by a gasp of surprise. "Is that?—"

"Yep. "

I position the phone on the couch, then stand up, taking the dress out of its box again. I hold it against my body, then step back so she gets the full effect.

I glance at the camera to find she's looking at me with an admiring look in her eyes. "You look beautiful."

I take in my reflection on the screen. I do, actually. I can already tell that the dress is going to fit me like it was tailor-made for me. And how did he guess my size? I blink slowly. You know what? I don't want to know.

I glance at the third box, which looks like a hat box, and feel overwhelmed. I don't have the courage to open that one.

" It's too much." I swallow. "This dress and shoes must cost a fortune. I can't accept them."

She nods slowly. "I understand. You don't want to be beholden to him, but for what it's worth, the dress would look amazing on you."

I give my reflection a last glance, then fold the dress and place it back in its box. "I can't understand why he sent it."

"Guess he realized you need an outfit for the reception?"

I narrow my gaze on her. "Are you on his side or mine?"

"Of course, yours. In fact, I'll be the first to warn you that these Davenports can be very slick." She nods. "You need to be careful around them."

"Okay?"

She must hear the question in my voice, for she blows out a breath. "You know how my friend Vivian was wooed and fell in love with Quentin Davenport?"

I nod.

Her features take on a wary expression. "They can be very persuasive, these men. And they have the money to get anything they want. And the power to make anything and anyone bow to them."

And while money isn't everything, fact is, I don't have enough of it to take care of my family.

My phone pings with a notification from my bank. Huh? "I just received a deposit in my bank account." I open up the bank's app and see that the deposit is from the Davenport group. The amount is what I expected to be paid for my first month working there. "I don't understand… I thought th ey'd pay me at the end of the month. It's only mid-month but I've already been paid for the month, and I've only been here five days."

"Maybe it's company policy to pay twice a month?" Zoey offers.

"Maybe…" Either way, I'm not turning down this money. I need it. But I can't help but wonder if this is another way for my boss to make me feel like I owe him. And what reason would he have to do that? No, this is money I've earned. Especially after a very rough day today. As for the dress and the shoes, and whatever's in the hatbox? I'll be returning them. Before I can slip off the shoes, my phone pings with an incoming message.

Unknown number: Office. Now.

What the—? My heart rams into my ribcage. Is it him?

Unknown number: My car is waiting outside for you.

My pulse rate shoots up. It has to be him. No one else could message me with such an order, implying he expects to be obeyed.

Unknown number: Don't keep me waiting.

A pulse flares between my legs. My scalp tingles. He wants me back in the office. It's Friday evening, and I should be upset that he expects me to drop everything and obey his commands when he calls, but the fact is, I'd rather be back there, with him, in his presence and of service to him, than alone in my apartment. Besides, he's already paid me—as the cash in my account will testify—so I can hardly say no to him.

I could pretend that I haven't thought about my boss' cold, hard profile since leaving the office today, but I'd be lying. There hasn't been a second when I haven't found myself thinking about the next time I'll see him. And secretly, I'm glad I don't have to wait until Monday for that pleasure. I squeeze my fingers around my phone in disgust at my weakness. "I have to go, Z."