Page 4 of Groom Gamble

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying to sound innocent.

Mr Streatham gives an impatient growl and shakes his head. “That Essex Cartel auction nonsense. Did you finish it, or not?”

A report. On the virginity auctions that the Essex Cartel runs.

Yes. Obviously. He had me compile a report, with a focus on whether the young women consented to taking part.

“Yes!” It comes out a bit over-enthusiastic, because the relief is palpable. My boss remains ignorant that his assistant is a sad virgin girl with a crush on him. Phew.

The whole report may have made me inconveniently horny, and been part of why I am now intending to get married. Because as scandalous and awful and morally bankrupt as the auctions and public sex are, they’re also… Kind of hot?

“Could I have the report, please?” he asks, with a twist of sarcasm when I just stand there, unmoving. “Or is it too naughty for a London Mafia Boss?”

“Yes,” I say hurriedly, trying to remember where it is. I dive forwards and scrabble around in my files.

“Itistoo naughty,” he drawls. “So you’ve hidden it.”

“No!” Paper flies everywhere as I try to find the report. Printed out, of course. “I could swear it was…” Somewhere? Admittedly, I was rather focused on my list this morning, so my flustered little brain has forgotten where I filed it. There are dozens of letters and reports all stacked, it must be there.

“I’ll bring it through!” I say brightly, popping my head up.

Mr Streatham’s gaze flicks to my face, as though he was looking elsewhere. He folds his arms and narrows his eyes, confused. And no wonder. I don’t usually keep him waiting for anything. I never lose things.

“I can wait.” His voice and stance announce he will resent every moment I delay him.

My cheeks pinken and I try to regulate my breathing as I flick through more documents under his cool silver regard. “I’m sure it’s… Ah!”

The right report!

At the bottom of the out tray. Who knows why it was there? I drag out the little stack of sheets secured with a paperclip, and thrust them at my boss.

Mr Streatham’s steel eyes have a question in them as he accepts the report, but with only a slight hesitation and lowering of his brows, he turns away.

When the catch snicks closed on my boss’ office door, I sag with relief.

Now, I just need to put that humiliating list in my purse and continue with a normal day.

2

DEX

Sometimes, I wish I was not a morally grey London mafia boss.

I stare at the door that separates me from my little assistant.

For Sophia—Miss Berry, even her name is cute—I wish I was a man worthy of her. I wish I were whatever she wanted.

But no. I continue to be a grumpy kingpin too old and too much her employer for the depraved ideas that go through my head when I see the smallest peek of her breasts as she leans forward.

I am an arsehole. I should put Miss Berry well out of harm’s way, so I’m not tempted to pluck her and suck on her sweet juices.

I toss the report onto my desk and go to the window, which overlooks the large green space of Streatham Common, the formal garden close to the office leading to fields and woods beyond. It’s a little oasis in the hubbub of London, and I’ve loved it since I was a kid in this building helping my dad. I’m not sure when it became so painful to look. The sight of families used to soothe me, an indication of the peace and prosperity Streatham represents, even if it’s underpinned by violence to keep order.

Now, it just reminds me how alone I am, up in this towering old mansion.

Fucking hell. What’s the matter with me?

I grind my teeth, because I know what’s wrong. It’s the distance between my adorable assistant next door, and me in this creaky office.