Page 10

Coralie

When Mr. Wincott returns from his lunch, she’s in an awkward position on her hands and knees in front of an open filing cabinet. At least the coffee is ready, and the files he’d asked her to clean up are in order.

Mostly.

He aims an appreciative gaze at her backside as she scrambles to her feet. “Don’t stand up on my account,” he says darkly. “I liked that view just fine.”

“How was your meeting, sir?”

“Dreadful.” He shucks off his suit jacket on his way to his office. “But then I had a nice lunch with a generous donor and his fat checkbook. Things are looking up.”

When he smiles to himself, she relaxes. “Coffee?”

He shakes his head. “Is the payroll waiting for me?”

“Of course.” The file is right on his desk alongside the foundation’s checkbook. And his luxurious fountain pen with the Wincott trident etched into its gold surface.

She’s not going to screw anything up today. He’ll have to find someone else to complain about.

Coralie follows him dutifully into the office and waits while he tests his Montblanc on the blotter. Then he signs all seven of the checks the accountant dropped off earlier.

It’s a small organization, as Mr. Wincott likes to say. But we make great change in people’s lives.

She’d been hoping hers could be added to the list of lives changed. That’s why she’d taken this job.

And it looks like she was right, but not in the way she ever intended.

After signing the last check, he hands back the folder so she can send off the checks. “It’s month end,” he says expectantly.

Well, shit . Seems she forgot something after all. “Yes, sir,” she says quickly. “One moment.” She trots to a cupboard on his office wall and locates three more white envelopes and three stamps. She delivers them promptly.

He unlocks his bottom desk drawer and pulls out another checkbook—a special one. She’s only seen glimpses of it, but it’s drawn on an island bank she’s never heard of.

The last girl who had this job told her about these, too. Three more checks to three more people. You won’t be asked to address the envelopes or mail them. And don’t watch while he signs them. It makes him cranky.

She carries the payroll folder back to her own desk to give him some privacy.

Her hands are shaking a little bit, and her eyes feel achy in their sockets. That’s never a good sign. Whenever she feels like this, she knows a migraine is coming on. Sometimes they last for days.

“Coralie?” he calls two minutes later.

She smooths her skirt and walks back into the office. The envelopes and the special checkbook are already gone. “Yes, sir?” He loves it when she calls him sir .

“What did you get up to while I was gone? Anything fun?” He’s in a playful mood.

She rearranges her face into a smile. “Depends what you mean by fun. If you’re excited by alphabetizing folders, then I had a blast.”

His laugh is indulgent and meant to be seductive. “Bring us two glasses,” he says. “And ice if you wish.”

“Of course, Mr. Wincott.” She goes back to the outer office and opens another cabinet over the coffee bar.

He keeps the scotch glasses up here, the last girl had said. “They’re fragile, so be careful. I chipped one once and I thought he was going to fire me,” she told Coralie. “Listen—if he’s in a certain mood, he’ll tell you to bring two of them. But please understand—you don’t have to. You can just bring a single glass. It sends a message. Because if you take that drink? His hand is up your skirt two minutes later.”

It’s not even a difficult choice. She’s already played with fire, and she’s already been burned. That’s why she retrieves two of the hand-cut crystal glasses before closing the cabinet.

She might as well. There’s nothing to lose now.

By the time she sets the glasses on his desk, two ice cubes in hers, he’s already pulling the top off the bottle that he keeps in another desk drawer.

She knows how much the scotch costs. You could get a pair of designer shoes for the price of that bottle. And when the scent of it reaches her nose, she tastes revulsion on the back of her tongue.

He pours her two fingers. That’s two more than she’d like, but you can’t always have exactly what you want.

She lifts her glass to touch his. “Cin cin, as my grandmother used to say.”

“Was she Italian?”

She tosses her hair in a way that shows off her throat. He loves her throat. “I don’t really know.” Not everyone is like the Wincotts, who can trace their history back for ten generations.

“Bottoms up,” he says, winking.

The first sip of whiskey burns going down. But she already knows, from a couple of months’ experience with Mr. Wincott, that this unpleasantness will mellow on the tongue. A few more sips and she’ll forget to be shocked.

She needs this paycheck. And that’s not even all she needs from him.

“Get the door, will you?” he says.

“Yes, sir.” She locks the door and returns to hover near his desk.

He grasps her hip and guides her into his lap, his hand on her knee, his touch a little rough.

“That’s a good girl,” he says. “I like this skirt. Very pretty.” He strokes her leg.

“Thank you.”

“Now drink your whiskey.”

She takes another sip, but just a small one. She knows she shouldn’t drink at all right now.

He takes the glass out of her hand anyway. “I have a little present for you,” he says silkily. “For a job well done this week.”

“ Oh ,” she says softly. The truth is that his presents are incredible. Last month he gave her a silver necklace from Tiffany’s. In the robin’s-egg blue box and everything.

It’s so nice that she hasn’t worn it yet. Before bed each night, she takes it out just to look at it.

“There was a Coach store in the New York airport.” His fingers trail up her thigh. “Made me think of you.”

“So nice,” she says breathily.

“I’ll show you in a little while. After you fix the invitation list I asked you to type. Some of the addresses are missing zip codes.”

Oh God. Again? “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wincott. I’ll fix it.”

“That’s sloppy work, Coralie. But I forgive you. On your knees now,” he says.

“Yes, Mr. Wincott.” She begins to slide off his lap.

He makes an eager noise, but she knows to take her time. To build the anticipation. With stubborn slowness, she slides down to the floor, past the bulge in his wool gabardine, until her knees hit the rug.

Looking up at him, she licks her lips suggestively. She’s better at this than typing. Much better. Sometimes a girl needs to play to her strengths.

He reaches for his belt.

Coralie allows her gaze to soften. She retreats inside herself. It’s a useful trick she learned in childhood. Had to. Whenever her stepfather took a belt to her, she would send herself to a private room in her mind. She knows how to be here on her knees, yet not really present.

She puts her forearms on his knees, her mind already drifting. His groan sounds far off. She can barely feel his hand in her hair, and when he puts his other hand possessively on her throat, it doesn’t really register.

“Straight from the devil, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “Choke on it, girlie. That’s it. The best little sinner in town.”

At peace, somewhere else, she can hardly hear him.