Retire the Playboy

POV: Riley

When people look at me, they see a pathetic nerdy student fresh out of the library.

Five foot two, thick-framed glasses way too big for my face, and a giant cardigan that looks like I swiped it from my grandpa’s closet. They’re right. I look like a total loser.

But here’s what they don’t know: There’s nothing more dangerous than a woman with nothing left to lose, who’s about to get kicked out of her apartment because she can’t pay rent and has only twelve bucks left in her bank account.

Especially when that woman’s name is Riley, and the company that owes her money is Evans Real Estate, which happens to own half of New York.

And that was exactly why I’d snuck into Evans Holding’s forty-story headquarters that morning. The place was cold and full of stuck-up people.

People looked at me like I was about to steal their wallets, but I had much bigger plans: Find whoever the hell was running that company and make them cough up my money.

“Listen here, Plastic Barbie!” I said, slamming my hands down hard on the marble counter. “Did your box say 'Brain not included? I’ve been designing your damn posters for months! You still haven’t paid me! It’s been three months! Four thousand five hundred dollars! And I’m not going anywhere until I get that money today!”

The blonde receptionist rolled her eyes as she looked at her painted nails. “Ma’am, I already told you. Mr. Evans and the board of directors don’t bother with such insignificant payments. Please leave the building, or I’ll call security.”

“Call them!” I shouted, crossing my arms and gluing my feet to the marble floor. “Hell, call the SWAT team while you’re at it! Whoever the hell your boss is, he’s coming down here!”

Within seconds, not one but two massive security guards appeared through the doors. Both were the size of refrigerators.

“Little lady,” the bald one said, reaching for my arm. “Don’t make this difficult.”

“Touch me and I’ll break those fingers and make you eat them!” I shrieked, holding up my bag like a shield. “You know what they call hiring someone and not paying them? Theft! Go catch that suit-wearing thief of a boss!”

The security guard was just about to grab me around the waist and throw me over his shoulder like a sack when one of the elevators in the lobby opened with a ding.

“What’s going on here?”

The voice was so commanding that the refrigerator-sized security guard immediately snapped to attention.

The man who stepped out of the elevator was in his early sixties, with gray hair and a perfectly tailored Italian suit. Everything about him screamed, I own this building, this street, and probably your life, too.

Henry Evans. The boss himself.

He looked me up and down. A scrawny girl with crooked glasses, struggling to break free from a giant security guard’s grip.

“And who is this young lady calling me a thief in my own company?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

“I’m Riley!” I said, pulling free from the security guard’s grip and brushing myself off.

I looked him straight in the eye. I barely came up to his chest, but I didn’t care. “I’ve been doing freelance design work for your company for three months. And your accounting department won’t pay my $4,500 invoice! That might be pocket change to you, but I’m getting evicted today!”

A strange glint appeared in Henry Evans’s eyes. He didn’t look sorry for me. Quite the opposite... He smiled like he’d just found the rare diamond he’d been searching for.

“So you’re not afraid of anything, huh?” he muttered to himself. “You’re standing up to guys who are practically seven feet tall.”

“I’ll take on a whole army if that’s what it takes to get my money.”

“Come with me to my office, Riley.”

Ten minutes later, I was sitting in a ridiculously soft leather chair inside a massive glass office overlooking Manhattan. Across from me sat Henry Evans, holding out a check.

I looked at the number on it. Then looked again.

“This... This isn’t $4,500,” I said, stunned. “It says fifty thousand dollars!”

“Your monthly salary,” the man said, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigar.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

My fingers were shaking as I stared at the check in my hand. I was convinced this was some rich-people version of a hidden-camera prank.

“Exactly what it sounds like, Riley,” he said in a calm, deep voice. “You seem like a smart girl. How long do you think you can make a living as a freelance designer?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you kidding me?!”

“Quite the opposite. I’m completely serious. You need money. Badly. Don’t you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is,” he said with a smile. “I can tell that cardigan you’re wearing is at least ten years old, and that you’ll be out on the street if you don’t pay your rent today.”

I swallowed hard, a huge lump forming in my throat.

“You just stood up to my security guards,” he said, leaning back. “I need someone who won’t bow down to me. Someone smart, stubborn, and with nothing left to lose.”

“What for?” I asked, still clutching the check for dear life. “What, are we robbing a bank or something?”

Henry let out a loud laugh that echoed through the luxurious office.

“For my son.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Your son?”

“Knox,” he said, his commanding tone giving way to the weary voice of a father. “Vice Chairman of the Board. And the biggest headache of my life.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“He’s a selfish jerk,” he went on. “He’s supposed to take over the business, but every day he’s at some new party or caught up in another scandal. He’s used to women worshipping him.”

He leaned toward me. “I’m hiring you as his assistant, Riley.”

“I’m not an assistant!” I protested, putting the check down on the desk. My defenses had kicked in. “I’m a designer. I don’t fetch coffee, make copies, or pick up dry cleaning!”

“Who asked you to do any of that?”

He smiled as he slowly tapped the ash off his cigar.

“You won’t be his secretary. You’ll be his worst nightmare.”

I blinked in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Someone who doesn’t worship his money, doesn’t fall for his fake charm, and isn’t afraid of his arrogance... When I heard you yelling at security downstairs, I knew you were exactly what my son needed.”

He pushed that crazy $50,000 check back toward me.

“Straighten him out. Drag him to those meetings by the scruff of his neck if you have to. Scratch his car, kick his doors, embarrass the hell out of him.”

“Are you serious?” I asked, feeling that crazy courage coming back. “You’re giving me... full control?”

“I’m giving you unlimited authority, Riley.”

I nervously pushed my glasses up my nose. My eyes went back to the check on the desk. All those zeros that were about to change my entire life.

That money wouldn’t just keep me off the streets. It would give me my life back.

“Can I make his life a living hell?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Henry Evans broke into a huge grin. “I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars a month to do exactly that.”

I made up my mind right then and there.

I’d have to be an idiot to turn down an offer like that. And considering I didn’t have a penny to my name, I didn’t even need to think about it.

I held out my hand. “Deal, Mr. Evans.”

“Good,” he said, shaking my hand. “Then I have your first assignment. My son will be at a nightclub called Vanta tonight. Find him before he ruins our company’s reputation in one of those stupid VIP rooms. And make sure he’s at the meeting tomorrow morning at eight.”

──── ✦ ────

POV: Knox

Let me tell you a secret.

Forget that bullshit you read in women’s magazines about the sweet, thoughtful guy who makes you pancakes in the morning.

Women love bad boys they think they can change. The truth is, being a selfish, cocky bastard who knows no limits in bed works a hell of a lot better.

Me? I’m that guy.

I was born the sole heir to a billion-dollar empire. My official title at the company is Vice Chairman of the Board.

But in reality? Considering I showed up at yesterday’s very important ten a.m. meeting at two in the afternoon, with a brunette model’s lipstick on my collar and a killer hangover... To my dad, I’m nothing but trouble.

Do I give a damn? For God’s sake, of course not.

I was in the most expensive VIP room at Manhattan’s most exclusive club, and trust me, the view was a hell of a lot more satisfying than my father’s boring board meetings.

I couldn’t remember the name of the woman beneath me. Lexi? Trixie? Maybe Chloe. Hell if I knew. She was screaming my name so loud, I was pretty sure she’d forgotten her own.

The bass shaking the club floor matched the rhythm of every merciless thrust of my hips.

Her nails dug into my sweaty back, her legs wrapped tight around my waist. She was writhing and gasping for breath, looking at me like she needed me more than anything.

“Knox...” she begged between breaths. “Please, don’t stop!”

“Who am I?” I whispered in her ear, deliberately thrusting harder, feeling every ounce of power I had.

“You’re my god...” she cried out.

I gave her a cocky grin. Now this is the life. An unlimited black Amex in my wallet, a woman going wild beneath me.

I’m on top of the world.

BAM.

The door flew open like it was about to come off its hinges.

I’m not one of those pathetic guys who panic and stop. Hell no. I didn’t even break my rhythm. In fact, I picked up the pace as I turned my head toward the door.

I glanced over to see who was lucky enough to catch my show.

But the person standing there... wasn’t who I expected.

A tiny girl practically drowning in an ugly, oversized brown cardigan, with thick-framed glasses. The kind I wouldn’t look twice at if I passed her on the street.

I expected a scream. Maybe she’d cover her face. Maybe she’d apologize and run.

But her? She didn’t even look away.

As the woman beneath me screamed and ran off, I dropped into the leather chair.

Completely naked.

And I couldn’t have cared less.

“Wrong door, Glasses,” I said with a wicked grin. “But if you’re here for the show, I can get you a front-row seat.”

The girl pushed those oversized glasses up her nose with one finger.

The look on her face?

Pure disgust.

At me.

At my perfection.

“Trust me,” she said, her voice ice-cold. “Your sense of rhythm is so bad, I wouldn’t watch even if you paid me.”

My grin froze.

“What did you just say?”

“Your rhythm, I said. Worse than a metronome.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m your new assistant. Now put your boxers on and pick up what’s left of that pathetic ego of yours. You’re going to that eight a.m. meeting, even if I have to haul you there by your precious balls.”

She gave me another one of those pitying looks.

“Oh, and one more thing... Give that girl a bonus. She deserves an Oscar for those fake screams.”

She slammed the door in my face and walked out.

Dead silence.

Wait a minute.

Did that little menace just insult my performance in bed?