Page 5 of Groom Gamble

Yes, the work on infiltrating the Essex Cartel and removing the less desirable parts is important. Those pricks are far too comfortable, and need to be brought in line. The coup I’m arranging on behalf of the London Mafia Syndicate will achieve that, but I’m not personally invested in it. I have no wife or children to give my life meaning, I’m in effortless control of the London territory that has been in my family for four generations. The coup engages me on an intellectual level, not emotional.

None of that was a problem until six months ago when my executive assistant retired—much against my wishes but I suppose she had a right at seventy-five—and hand-selected her replacement. I walked into my office and had my heart ripped out by a sweet and sunny girl who glanced at me from under her lashes and nervously fiddled with her hair.

Too young. Too innocent. Too good.

So breedable.

Twenty-three years old to my almost forty, and practically gifted to me by her predecessor, who I swear smirked before she said “goodbye” and that she was certain we’d “get on well”.

There was always something about Miss Berry, from the first day when my fingers constantly itched to tuck that strand of caramel and chocolate hair behind her ear. She’s competent, and cheerful and sweet, yes. But she’s also gorgeous.

She makes it hard for me to think. Or she just makes me hard.

I consider a furtive wank to take the edge off. That skirt Miss Berry is wearing today? Ooof. Made for sin. But I know from experience that will leave me feeling even more hollow, andmuch as the fantasy that she’d walk in on me and offer to help is hot as fuck, I have spent six months pretending I’m a man with morals, and best not to give up now.

Instead, I sit down and flick through the report on the Essex Cartel’s barbaric virginity auctions. It’s several pages long and…

The last page is not about the mafia. At the top, in Miss Berry’s loopy handwriting, it says “My Perfect Husband: Specification”.

I blink, and scan down the list in disbelief.

When I get to the final two items, my heart stops.

Seriously?

My pretty, innocent-looking assistant wantsthat?

I consider my options, or I tell myself that’s what I’m doing. A gentleman would arrange it so she never knew I’d seen this. It’s obviously private.

But being a mafia boss has its advantages. I am not a good man, I am a billionaire kingpin.

I pick up the phone before I can stop myself.

“Miss Berry. Could you come into my office for a moment?”

“Of course!” she sings out, but there’s a tremor in her voice.

I only have to wait a few seconds and she’s here, flushed, and her perfect hair has tendrils falling over her cheek.

“Close the door.” I direct, and when she unhesitatingly does what I tell her, it should be sufficient to feed my addiction. It should. For six months I’ve told myself it’s enough to have her working in the office next door, safe.

I still haven’t decided what to do about this list, but Miss Berry is as red as her namesake.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing!” she chirps in a way that absolutely means “something, but I’d rather die than tell you about it”.

Inwardly, I sigh. I’d like to be the type of person she could confide in. I’d give anything to get into that little brain of hers.I’d like to know what she thinks, examine all her ideas and understand her desires. I want to insert myself into her every thought, so she feels some of the obsession I have with her.

If she just considered me as a man, not Mr Streatham, as she’s always at pains to call me. If that sharp mind of hers could develop filthy fantasies for us to play out.

And maybe, just maybe, she has given me a way of suggesting that I could be more to her than a boss. Because I may not know anything about marriage and love, but I recognise an opportunity. And this?

I might be an accident, but on paper, I fit.

Picking up her handwritten husband list, I hold it so she can see.

She blinks, her chest heaving underneath that cute, prim little top that has my cock hardening.