Eve Langlais
My Secretary, My Mistress
My Secretary series 1, 2010
Chapter One
Grant sneaked out of her bed like a thief-tip toeing and barely breathing, desperate to evade capture. She watched him with one eye partly open, wondering if he could truly be so callous after the night of frantic lovemaking in which they’d indulged. Surely he felt some remnants of the passion they’d shared. Her body ached pleasantly.
Once he was dressed, he approached the bed and gave her a soft kiss. She pretended to be sleeping, but couldn’t stop the half smile that curved her lips.
Monday morning at the office, Grant acted like nothing had happened.
“Isabelle, get me a cup of coffee and then dig out the files for the Peterman case,” he demanded without even looking up.
Isabelle, who’d worn a brand new pantsuit that showed off her curvy figure, bit her tongue.
That didn’t happen. Instead, her boss left the office on supposed business and didn’t return for the rest of the day, even though she lingered until well after five in case he came rushing back.
Annoyed, she went home and made herself a nice martini with an extra olive.
Just thinking about that evening made her squirm in her seat. She’d had such grand plans for the two of them. But today, Grant had acted as if she barely existed. Surely he hadn’t been that drunk. And even if he’d over imbibed before they started, he sure as hell had been sober by the time they were done.
Maybe he didn’t want to be caught socializing with romantic intent at work. That had to be it. The big boss, the one everybody in the company had to obey, frowned upon office affairs.
The next day, Isabelle dressed to the nines and arrived at the office with an expectant smile, only to again be disappointed. Tuesday was a repeat of Monday. Grant barely acknowledged her existence and never once met her eyes. He couldn’t run away two days in a row, so instead he closeted himself in his office, feigning phone calls whenever she popped in to bring him files.
The more aloof he acted, the more Isabelle's ire grew.
Her attempts at engaging him in conversation were met with polite evasions, and somehow she couldn’t manage to speak to him alone after work.
She tried to corner him again on Wednesday. “Grant,' she said, 'about Saturday night-”
'Sorry, I’m needed down in accounting,' he said, cutting her off abruptly. “Can this wait until later?”
Of course, later never came.
By the end of the day on Thursday, Isabelle had reached her boiling point. Like a trained military operative, Grant evaded her using skills and techniques that defied belief. She even attempted the oops-I-dropped-my-pencil routine while wearing a stupidly short skirt. For a moment, when she’d straightened, she thought she saw a flicker of interest in his eyes, but just as quickly the polite mask she’d come to hate came over his face again.
On Friday, she brought what she needed to accomplish her first objective in a large carry all. When he told her at five o’clock he would be working late, she was ready. He also ordered her to run across the street to fetch him some dinner before she left-with no mention of dinner for her, of course. No matter. It gave her the perfect excuse to implement her plan and bring him to heel.
Awareness returned to Grant slowly, discomfort immediately, and overall, confusion reigned supreme.
He opened his heavy eyelids to see that he still sat in his office.
Grant tried to shift his stiff body into a more comfortable position, but discovered he couldn’t. His forearms were bound to the armrests of his chair, and his torso was lashed to the back.
“What the fuck?” He pulled at the ties holding him, straining and cursing. After a few minutes, he realized he couldn’t break free. His many hours on the squash court were no match for the superman strength required to liberate him from the silver duct tape wound around his forearms.
Still unsure how he’d gotten into this position, he debated calling for help.
At the thought of his secretary, burning shame crept through him. He’d noticed the way she’d expectantly watched him all week. Confusion had filled her eyes each time he’d met her gaze and pretended not to see her silent plea. Yes, he’d taken the cowardly route and ignored her, even if he couldn’t forget what had happened on Saturday night. The most glorious, passion filled night of his life.
But one night of bliss was not enough to make him throw away years of dedication.
Being a victim went against every grain of Grant's being. He liked to be in charge and make people dance to his tune. The fact that he’d been so easily subdued stuck in his craw.
Grant eyed the touchtone phone on his desk. His hands might not work, but perhaps if he maneuvered himself, he could use his face to make a call like he’d seen in the movies. Dragging his chair, using his feet-and thanking himself for ordering one with wheels-he rolled to the left side of his desk where his phone sat. After several panting moments, he finally drew close enough to push the handset aside with his jaw. Then he was faced with a daunting dilemma.
Glad nobody was there to see him use his nose-a facial trait that had been described as aristocratic by more than one lady-he attempted to push the numbers for the guard in the lobby. He’d debated against nine-one-one, as the humiliation and emasculation at having been trussed like a turkey would have been more than he could bear.
