A Millionaire at Midnight (Bachelor Auction) Read online

  That voice—like a roll of soft thunder—had haunted her dreams, issuing demands and murmuring things that had flames licking at her skin, setting her on the most delicious, erotic fire. A damn inconvenience, that. Why couldn’t she have dreamed of that Outlander guy? Or Shemar Moore whispering “baby girl” in her ear as he had his wicked way with her?

  Oh no. Instead, her traitorous mind insisted on conjuring…him.

  Slowly turning around, she met the glacial stare of Alexander Bishop.

  Her judge and jury.

  Her nemesis.

  Her boss.

  The impact of him stunned her; she should’ve been prepared after experiencing it Friday night at the auction. But no. He still bitch-slapped her senses, stealing her breath, sending her nerve endings clamoring. Today, he’d traded the tuxedo for an elegant suit that appeared tailor-made to his sleek swimmer’s build; the dark grey jacket and light blue shirt hugged his wide shoulders and chest, accentuating his tapered waist. Matching slacks fit his muscular, long legs to perfection.

  Beautiful. Like an ice sculpture.

  Still… Her libido didn’t seem to give a damn that his demeanor could inflict a nasty case of frostbite.

  Aaaand she was staring.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bishop,” she greeted, forcing a pleasantness into her voice that she was far from feeling. When she didn’t know he was her new employer, she could afford to be flippant. But she needed this job. Phoenix House needed her to keep this job. Which meant not antagonizing the boss.

  “Ms. Lett.” He nodded, his gaze remaining on her a moment longer before shifting to Randall. “Mr. Moore, did we have an appointment scheduled for this morning?”

  “Uh, no,” Randall stammered, glancing at Morgan with a distinct plea of help shining in them. Sorry. You’re on your own, buddy. “I thought I’d stop by and welcome you to the company, Mr. Bishop. Maybe steal a few minutes of your time, if possible.” Randall’s smile, a pale imitation of the one he’d flashed her, wavered.

  Alexander glanced down at his watch. “This morning is impossible, but I’ve already planned a meeting of the vice presidents for tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have Ms. Lett send out a group email in the next hour.”

  “Fine. Great. Thank you.” One dismissive look from Alexander and the normally gregarious head of marketing had been reduced to stammering. “Welcome to Lier, Mr. Bishop,” he said, backtracking toward the office door. With a small salute, he practically scampered toward the elevators like the hounds of hell nipped at his heels.

  Yeah, she understood his need to escape the Abominable Frosty.

  “Ms. Lett. A word in my office.” He didn’t wait for her to agree but pivoted and disappeared in his inner sanctum. Swallowing a sigh, she set her cup on her desk, picked up her iPad, and followed him.

  Either Alexander hadn’t had time to change the office to reflect his tastes, or he didn’t plan on sticking around long enough to renovate. The desk, chairs, the furniture in the sitting area, even the paintings remained the same from when Edward had manned Lier Industries. The only different equipment was the newer and more expensive laptop that dominated the desk.

  In the limited amount of digging she’d done on Alexander Bishop, she’d discovered that swooping in and playing Superman for struggling, failing companies was his super power. And once he saved them—sometimes with minimal loss to employees, sometimes a hemorrhaging—he sold the acquired, newly healthy business off for a profit. He didn’t stick around. So maybe he didn’t bother decorating, since he wouldn’t be there long enough to enjoy it.

  One could only hope.

  “Close the door behind you, please.” He might’ve worded it like a request, but the tone was all order. Gritting her teeth, she obeyed and crossed the floor to one of the visitor chairs in front of his desk.

  I need this job. I need this job, she silently chanted. Preventing Phoenix House from being sold depended on her keeping this job.

  He didn’t speak as he rounded the piece of furniture and lowered his large frame into the black office chair. Correction. The chair was new. Of course Alexander fitting into Edward’s old seat would’ve been like Goldilocks squeezing into that baby bear’s little chair. She didn’t quite smother her snort at the image.

  A dark eyebrow jacked high. “Something amusing you’d like to share?”

  “Not especially, Mr. Bishop,” she said.

  He stared at her, and though it seemed as if he could peer past every sarcastic comeback or comment that comprised her usual shields, she met his gaze.

  “Can we be frank with one another, Ms. Lett?” he asked, propping his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepling his fingertips beneath his chin.

  “By all means.” Oh boy. This didn’t bode well.

  “You’re fired.”

  She stiffened, gripping the iPad in her lap so hard, her fingers started to numb. A dull roar echoed in her ears, or it could’ve been her heart pounding out a fierce denial.

  Fired? She couldn’t have heard correctly. “Excuse me?” she whispered.

  “Considering our illustrious meeting, this can’t be a shock to you,” he drawled.

  “You can’t just fire me,” she objected, the embers of anger stirring inside her.

  “Actually, I can.” He paused. “And I did. Take a pick of reasons. The most recent being telling a vice president to shut the fuck up.”

  She cringed. Well…damn. “In my defense, I didn’t realize I’d said that aloud. But,” she added, popping a finger up in indignation, barely stopping herself from jabbing it at him. “For the record, that vice president sexually harassed me. Implying my biggest asset to you would be that I’m window dressing, giving you something to drool over all day. He’s lucky all he got was a ‘shut the fuck up’ instead of the blunt end of my letter opener.”

  Alex’s dark eyebrows lowered into a frown, but before he could respond, she continued with a scoff. “You know, I didn’t take you as someone who would make a decision based on emotion.” Especially considering he didn’t seem to possess any. “Let’s not pretend this has anything to do with a financial bottom line or personnel preferences and everything to do with me calling you a prick before I knew you would be my boss.”

  He leaned forward in his chair, his arms dropping to the desk top. “I’m not pretending anything, Ms. Lett,” he said, that rumble-of-thunder voice lower and darker. “We need to get one thing straight. I don’t condone any kind of sexual harassment or mistreatment. It’s demeaning, ignorant, and cowardly. That will be the last time Randall Moore says anything inappropriate on my watch. And I’m sorry for not asking for all the facts before reprimanding you.” The unexpected, grim but sincere apology stunned her into momentary silence. Wow. Just…wow. “Still, my point isn’t any less valid. I don’t make it a habit of working closely with people who believe I’m synonymous with my Johnson, and I damn sure don’t employ those who think they can tell me I’m a dick to my face.”

  “Well, everyone should have a little tough love,” she said with a knowing nod. “Otherwise, we all end up pricks.”

  “You’re fired. Now.”

  “Not going to happen.” Panic clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it down. Letting him know she needed this job would be like lobbing chum in shark-infested waters. “You have to at least give me two weeks’ notice. Or else I go straight to Human Resources and regale them with my sordid sexual harassment story and the fact that my new boss fired me for standing up for myself. And then I go to the papers, the National Organization of Women, and the all-female Ghostbusters, plus get Leslie Jones to humiliate you and Bishop Enterprises on Twitter. I mean, is it right that I should be penalized and left unemployed in this unfriendly economic period because a man decides he can make my work environment uncomfortable?” She heaved a gusty sigh. “I’m sure the press would find it heartbreaking and cruel that a businessman so new to the Boston financial community would treat Edward Carrington’s loyal executive assistant—and daughter of his o
ldest, dead friend—so poorly.”

  “Putting it on a little thick, aren’t we?” Alexander pointed out between gritted teeth.

  “Two weeks,” she reiterated. Inside, her heart banged against her rib cage like a loose storm door. Outside, she studied her French tips. “Or I send the gossip mills churning about my unjust, smells-like-sexual-harassment firing.”

  Silence permeated the office, and though she could’ve gone the rest of the day analyzing her manicure, the weight of his stare stroked her face like a firm caress. Like a hand cupping her cheek, holding her steady for a kiss that would be hard…demanding. Unbidden, her gaze dropped to the mouth of sensual curves that seemed at odds with the clean, slanting angles and planes of his face. Alexander wouldn’t be a gentle kisser, intuition blathered in her ear like a teen in a girls’ locker room. Those carnal lips, which carried a hint of cruelty, would open a woman’s mouth wide without a soft brush of greeting, and his tongue would thrust and conquer, claim her and her pleasure as his due.

  A shiver fluttered deep in her belly, resonating between her legs in an ache that warned of damp panties ahead.

  “I believe I must’ve missed blackmail under your list of skills on your resume, Ms. Lett,” he finally said, his eyes the shade of a darkened sky right before lightning strikes the earth.

  “It was right under ‘proficient in Excel spreadsheets,’” she replied, forcing a lightness into her voice that his piercing inspection damn near obliterated.

  Several more moments of unnerving quiet stretched between them, and for the first time since the morning she looked her mother in the eye after she lost her virginity, she fought not to fidget.

  Cocking his head, he studied her through narrowed silver eyes. “I’ve done my research on you, Ms. Lett. True, your stepfather didn’t leave you anything, but you already possess a healthy inheritance that you came into after turning twenty-five this year. So why are you so eager to continue working here?”

  He had it wrong…as most people did.

  Friday night, the Terrible Twosome had implied the same thing—that Gerald had cut her out of his will. But that assumption wasn’t entirely accurate. After his death four months ago, Gerald’s will had left her and Merri, her natural sister and his second stepdaughter, very little. The bulk of his multi-million-dollar estate had gone to Cynthia, his biological daughter, though he had provided nicely for Morgan and Merri’s mother.

  But…there had been a stipulation.

  Morgan and her stepfather had never been close; she and Merri had been the baggage that had come along with the woman Gerald had loved and married. Still, Gerald had considered it his duty to make sure Morgan and Merri “did something with their lives other than end up some man’s trophy wife.” Quote, unquote. And his way of ensuring this was instituting a codicil in his will: the two of them had to find and hold down one steady job for a year, or Merri would lose the modest stipend he’d provided for her until she married. And Morgan would lose the one thing she cared about…

  Phoenix House.

  Initially, when she’d become involved with the nonprofit organization, it’d been another of her mother’s charity events that she’d roped Morgan into sitting on the committee with her. But after working closely with the women’s center director, Morgan had become an impassioned convert to the charity. From organizing fund-raisers and clothing drives, to helping to bring in more instructors who taught life skills classes, to locating and negotiating the building that currently housed Phoenix House, Morgan had become hands-on. She admired and had come to love the women who depended on the services, humbled by their strength and courage. She’d also become close to the staff who ran the organization. And before Gerald’s death, at least four days of the week would find her at Phoenix House.

  Since she’d been active with the charity for the last year, she’d unwittingly offered Gerald the perfect bargaining chip. Her stepfather hadn’t taken her devotion to Phoenix House seriously; he hadn’t been aware that she’d started assuming more responsibilities, had become their Major Gifts Officer. She’d turned down taking a salary from the organization, because, one, she didn’t need the money thanks to her inheritance from her biological father, and two, they couldn’t really afford her. The lack of income had prevented Gerald from seeing the charity as any more than a pet project of a spoiled socialite, regardless of Morgan’s degrees. He hadn’t seen past the comparisons to his daughter, Cynthia, who worked side-by-side with him in their family business.

  So the stipulation to his will had been his solution to “instilling a work ethic and a sense of independence in her”—to transforming her into Cynthia. And if Morgan didn’t honor it, the building Phoenix House leased—the building owned by Gerald’s company—would be sold to anyone other than Morgan, and the nonprofit evicted.

  So, Merri, to earn her inheritance, had found a data entry job that bored her to tears, because her modeling gigs didn’t qualify as steady employment. And Morgan was stuck working for Alexander the Grouch. If she quit or was fired, then Phoenix House would be out on the street…literally.

  At least she’d bought herself some time with the two weeks’ salvo. He didn’t have to know she had no intention of going anywhere.

  But no way in hell did she intend to admit any of that to Alexander Bishop. Obviously his research hadn’t revealed the will, and she was sick and tired of handing over ammunition—her trust, her heart, the people she loved—to hurt and control her.

  “The health insurance and 401K plan are excellent,” she said in response to his question about why she wanted to work at Lier.

  He subjected her to another long silence. For a moment, an image of the Egyptian god Anubis came to mind. Alexander could’ve been that god with his intense gaze, weighing her heart against a feather. Finding her lacking.

  Not that she cared. At all.

  Much.

  “Your stepfather was the CEO and majority shareholder of Carr-Inc. Why aren’t you employed with them? But I suppose, the situation with Troy Worthington and Cynthia Carrington would’ve made for an…awkward working environment. Tell me, Ms. Lett, is your broken engagement the reason why you insist on staying here instead going to your family’s company?”

  Direct hit.

  If she glanced down, there would probably be a quivering arrow sticking out of her heart where his comment had struck.

  She just barely managed not to flinch. Of course his investigating would reveal her most recent humiliation: that the man she’d been about to pledge her life to had found a better option—who happened to be her perfect, beautiful, lovable, kind stepsister.

  The fucking story of her life since Cynthia had entered it ten years ago.

  “No,” Morgan murmured. She had no smart-ass comeback or comment. Not at the moment. Not with a vision of Troy and Cynthia choking the hell out of her.

  “I love you. I can’t go on like this anymore, Cynthia. I want you, not Morgan. Not anyone else. You.”

  “I love you, too, Troy. So much.”

  The impassioned words they’d whispered to each other while Morgan had stood, unnoticed and unexpected, in the doorway of Troy’s living room jabbed her with a thousand pointy pin tips. She’d gone to his condo, intending to surprise him with an impromptu dinner. But she’d been the one surprised. And shattered. Right along with the dishes in the picnic basket she’d carried when it crashed to the floor from her limp hands.

  “Morgan…”

  She stood, practically launched to her feet, grasping the iPad so it didn’t tumble to her feet like that basket. “Are we finished here?” She forced herself to meet his eyes, drawing on every lesson she’d learned from the brutal, blood-letting circles of the Boston social elite. Never show weakness. Schooling her features into a cool mask, she smiled. And if it felt brittle on her lips, well, contrary to popular opinion, she was human.

  “Two weeks,” he said, standing as well.

  Relief poured through her in a deluge that almost wobbled her knees. Bu
t fast on the heels of the relief, nipped anger rimmed in mortification. Had he conceded because he’d somehow noticed the pain his comment about Troy and Cynthia had inflicted? Part of her wanted to yell, scream, inform him he could take this job and shove it up his frostbitten, perfectly muscled ass, that she didn’t need his pity.

  But yeah, she needed this job. So her shame had to take a back seat to obligation.

  She nodded. “You have an appointment with the board at ten o’clock, and I need to finalize the agenda for your approval. Chin up,” she called over her shoulder, heading toward the closed office door. “You might discover I’m an invaluable asset to you, and you can’t do without me.”

  He didn’t reply, but she was pretty sure she caught a muttered, “Like hell.” And damn if that didn’t restore just a bit of her humor. With her back toward him, she allowed a small smile that bloomed into a full-fledged grin when she pulled open the door and spotted the gorgeous woman on the other side.

  Kim Matlock lowered the fist she’d probably been about to knock on her brother’s door. Surprise flashed across her lovely face, but in an instant, an answering smile curved her mouth.

  The resemblance between the other woman and Alexander struck Morgan again, as it’d done the night of the auction. The obvious differences between them—her warm, caramel skin tone, her breasts—probably distracted most people from the equally obvious similarities. At least to Morgan. The same shape of their mouths, the elegant, patrician bone structure in their faces…those distinctive grey eyes. She really was a beauty.

  Just like her brother…

  Shaddup, you, Morgan snapped at the unruly, horny whisper in her head.

  “Good morning, Ms. Matlock,” Morgan greeted, shifting aside so the other woman could enter the office.

  “Please, it’s Kim,” she said. “It’s nice seeing you again.” She stepped into the room, glanced at her brother. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”