The Interview

No, hell no, and fuck no.

“I told her no.” Leaning back in my chair, I watch my younger brothers exchange a dubious glance. “What? What’s that look supposed to mean?”

El shrugs, and Brin decides now is an opportune time to examine his fingernails.

“I mean, is she the CEO, or am I?”

“Your name might be above the door, but you’re not technically the head of the family. You know how this goes.” Brin, my younger brother, shrugs.

“Dad might’ve enjoyed having his strings pulled”—both brothers’ faces twist in distaste—“but I don’t.”

“Yeah, but this is Polly we’re talking about,” El, the problem middle child, adds, referring to our mother by her name. “I’m not sure she knows the meaning of the word.”

El isn’t really the middle child, just the middle one out of the three of us. That’s not to say he isn’t a problem.

“We all know that the word no means something else to Polly,” Brin says.

“Yeah, like try another way,” El agrees.

That’s our mother to a T. I’m sure most people don’t recognize her machinations because she operates like a steel fist in a velvet glove. But this conversation isn’t even about her. It’s about what happened in my apartment last week. About how good Mimi Valente’s nails felt pressing into the skin of my forearm. How fucking amazing it was to watch her come all over my fingertips. Not that my brothers are aware of what happened because I’m not in the habit of discussing my sex life with them.

Don’t stop.

I’ve never—

I give my head a quick shake to rouse myself from the temptation that seems to play in my mind on a loop. Never what? I wonder for the thousandth time before pushing the question away.

I hadn’t seen her since she was a kid, so of course I didn’t recognize her. And I was horrified when she pulled her bloody résumé from her purse. She was dressed for an interview, not to meet some vague fetish of mine. What happened should be enough to make my balls crawl up my arsehole and never want to come out. Unfortunately, my brain had taken another path, one that seems to insist on reminding me how perfectly she followed instructions and how beautiful she looked as she unraveled, gripping my arm and pulsing against my fingertips.

It was a busy night. I’d had cum on my fingers twice. Once in the lounge, a gorgeous woman clinging onto me, and once in the shower as I’d replayed the moment in my head.

That she’d turned up unannounced was Polly’s doing. That she didn’t quite get the position she sought is on me. I was expecting someone else. A playmate, if you like. But that’s not to say Mimi left feeling discontented. She seemed a little dazed, to be honest. And embarrassed. But unsatisfied? Definitely not. Not the way she wobbled her way back out of my apartment.

I rub a hand down my face. This is all so fucked up. And the idea of her working here? No. Fuck no, and hell no. I’m sure she feels exactly the same. She’d probably hitchhike back to Florida rather than face me.

“Poll is tenacious. Like a terrier.”

El’s voice pulls me back to the moment. “It doesn’t matter how dogged she is because I said no,” I repeat with finality. “Amelia Valente might be in London, but she’s not working here.”

My brothers make a joint high-pitched, “Oooooh!” which I choose to ignore as I drop my head to one hand and begin to massage my temples. Of course she’s not working here. No way she wants to be anywhere near me. She probably thinks I’m a deviant.

“I don’t know what you’ve got against the idea. It’s not like you’d have to see her every day.” El flicks out his hand, indicating the size of my office or maybe the space of the floors beyond. “You could just shove her in the basement with the tech team.”

“I’m not going to shove her anywhere,” I mutter as I imagine her expression as I shove her on—full of?—something very hard and very specific.

“You’re sure?” The thorn between two sibling roses smirks.

My attention reels back. “Are your ears just ornamental?” Something in his expression pisses me off more than usual this morning. “And please, enlighten us, what’s with the smug face?”

“He can’t help it.” Brin stretches out in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. “Not everyone can be beautiful like us.” Brin and I share the same coloring, thanks to the Italian heritage on our dad’s side. El is fair, like Polly, and the rest of our seven siblings are a mismatch of colorings in between. Yes, seven. Frankly, it’s a wonder Polly can string a sentence together after raising all of us, let alone find the energy to meddle.

“I’m pretty sure smug and superior are mentioned on your LinkedIn bio,” El retorts. “But if you don’t want her, I can think of a couple of places I’d quite like to shove her.”

“Why would either of you need to shove her anywhere?” Brin persists. “Unless she’s got a face like a can of squashed dicks?”

“Valente?” El turns in his chair, flashing our younger brother a meaningful look. One that’s lost on him as Brin gives a shrug and a shake of his head. “You are such a twat sometimes. Amelia Valente as in Connor Valente?”

I can almost see the light bulb of realization switch on above Brin’s head. “Your college roommate, right? From when you abandoned us for sunnier climes.”

“Fuck abandoning us,” El says. “I got a bedroom to myself when he left.”

Back when we’d been a typical family before I’d started this company and hit the big bucks, I’d been desperate to get out of the overcrowded madhouse that was our family home. When I was offered a scholarship to a college in the US, I couldn’t pack quickly enough. It meant I’d have to spend most of the school breaks on my own, but it was a small trade-off for that level of freedom and experience. As it was, I’d missed my family more than I could’ve anticipated. As luck would have it, I’d been roomed with Connor and he’d pretty much become my pseudo brother overnight. We partied together, studied together, and he’d insist on taking me back home when college breaks rolled around. I spent plenty of summers at their house in the years following college, too. We were just really good mates. But in a cruel twist of fate, he died while he was on holiday in Thailand. I was supposed to be there with him, rock climbing, but I begged off at the last minute. Work was crazy, and I couldn’t get away. The weird thing is, for all the danger in the sport, he hadn’t died doing it. He’d passed in his sleep. Cardiac arrest, they’d said.

I should’ve been there with him.

And I shouldn’t have crossed the line with his little sister.

“I still don’t get it,” Brin says. “Where does Amelia Valente come into this?”

“She doesn’t,” I grate out.

“It’s some commute from Florida.” He grins. “Hope she’s not planning on taking the bus.”

“She’s moving here, obviously.” No need to mention I know she’s already here. “For six months, I think.” I turn my gaze to the wall of glass behind me and the million-quid view over the River Thames and the city beyond, wondering if I’d frightened her onto the next flight back to Tampa. It would probably be the best outcome for both of us because the image of her in front of me, trying so hard to stay on her feet, unbalanced and unraveling but taking it all like a good girl, makes me want to fuel the jet and follow her there myself.

Obviously, I won’t. For all kinds of reasons.

“She’s staying with some dotty old aunt, according to Polly.” At his airy declaration, I swing my chair and attention back to El.

“How do you know that?”

“Apparently, she doesn’t know a soul here.” He doesn’t bother to temper his shit-eating grin. “It behooves us to show her the same hospitality the Valentes showed you all those years ago. Polly’s words, not mine, by the way. She’s going to need friends. Really good ones.” Then the bastard winks.

“Sorrel!” His full name explodes from my mouth, my movement from my desk chair not dissimilar. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, do fuck off,” he drawls. Unfurling his long frame in the chair, he kicks one ankle over the other. El hates his name, but to be fair, none of us came off great in the naming stakes. Given that we were all named after some plant or other piece of ridiculousness by pseudo-hippie parents, things might’ve been worse.

Hemp, get your feet off the coffee table! Can you imagine?

Steepling my fingers to my desk, I loom over it. “When,” I demand. “When did you have this conversation with Polly?” I’m not sure how El comes into this. I’ve already told her this is a business I’m running, not a charity.

“Your knickers are awfully bunched this morning.” El gives a sly smile.

“I’ll fucking choke you with them if you don’t answer me.”

“That’s more his thing,” he says, hooking a thumb in Brin’s direction.

“Piss off,” he huffs. “I’m not going anywhere near his grundies. For the record, they were her knickers,” he somehow feels the need to qualify. “My date’s, and it wasn’t my mouth they were in.”

“When,” I grate out. “When did you discuss this with Mother dearest.” Why the hell did she speak to him? El has nothing to do with the Valentes unless… The fist around my heart eases a little. This is a strength in numbers thing. Get my brothers on my case to see if they can wear me down.

“You’re asking when did I learn about the lovely Amelia?”

“I thought she was ugly,” Brin mutters, but neither of us pays him any attention.

“When I saw her downstairs in reception this morning.”

“Mum was here?” And she didn’t appear in my office to continue her campaign?

Mischief flickers across El’s face. Somehow, I know what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth.

“Not Mum. Amelia. She was there getting the welcome to VirTu. If I’d known, I would’ve volunteered for the job because…” He does this weird teeth-kissing thing as he shakes his head slowly.

“So she doesn’t look like a can of squashed dicks?”

“I’d like to squash her full of—”

“Shut the hell up, both of you!” I yell.

My skin goes cold, which is odd because my blood feels like it’s fast approaching its boiling point. Somewhere in the distance, I hear El begin to laugh. A great big belly laugh, like a department store Santa Claus. Fake, annoying, and deserving of a punch. But he gets a reprieve—they both do—at the sharp yet familiar wrap of knuckles against my office door. I lift my head at the intrusion, my personal assistant’s voice precedes her waddling bulk. The woman is the size of a boat these days. She’s got to be a health and safety hazard.

“…and this is the monster’s lair.”

“Jody, we’re in the middle of something.”

“Too bad you didn’t put it on your calendar,” she answers casually, not giving a flying fuck. A manila folder held between her fingertips, she casually flicks her wrist in my direction. “And here would be the monster. And it looks like he’s in a charming mood today.”

The door slides a little farther open to reveal the five-foot-eight-inches of golden gorgeousness I hoped never to see again. And now I’m lying to myself, as some kind of primeval recognition zips down my spine. Out of all the people in this room, I’m the one who knows how beautiful this woman looks when she comes. The thought curls warmly in my gut, snug and satisfied as my eyes eat up every inch of her.

I watch as her pink-glossed lips quiver uncertainly before a tentative smile breaks free. Jesus Christ, Mimi Valente grew up. Grew up and out in all the right places. Not that it matters because I made a promise. A promise I haven’t broken yet.

Technically.

“Hello, Whit.” Her voice is almost as husky as the last time she’d uttered my name. Whit! Oh God, Whit! “How are you?”

Me? Oh, I’m just going to hell…