Trickiest Job: Executive Toy, #4

By Cleo Peitsche

Lindsay has never been so alone in her life.

After a private investigator exposes her, she’s on the run once more. Her bottomless bag of tricks is empty, and she’s filling it to the brim with regrets and mistakes.

As danger builds, Lindsay can’t stop thinking about her dominant bosses. Maybe Romeo, Hawthorne, and Slade could save her.

Maybe… if they could find her.

This is an office romantic suspense menage series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pouch Productions
• Release date: Mar 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781502263490

Cleo Peitsche

If Cleo isn't writing (or reading!) erotica, she's probably sitting on her balcony, watching the wind blow through the trees. She loves snowstorms, piña coladas, horses, and pasta primavera. If she won the lottery, she would hire an assistant to take care of the technical side of e-publishing so that she could write all day.Some random facts about Cleo:1. Thinks life's too short to forgo HEAs and HFNs.2. Sprained an ankle joining the mile-high club. (Never again!)3. Favorite writers include Cormac Mccarthy, Junot Diaz and Rachel Caine.4. Gets weak-kneed for bookish guys who know how to fix things with their hands. *swoons*

Book preview

Chapter 1

I’m running out of things to wear because I’m afraid to leave the hotel room. I lay out my dirty clothing on the bed and try to convince myself that some of it can be re-worn.

I count.

Sixteen outfits, yet only a week has crawled by since I ran from Romeo, Slade and Hawthorne.

We were so busy at work, I didn’t have time to drop laundry off at the dry cleaner. Or to pick clothes up; several of my outfits are missing, including my two favorite dresses.

They were expensive ones, too. It figures.

Thanks to Hawthorne, I’ve got money, but the hotel room is burning through it faster than I’d like—every dollar spent is a dollar I’ll have to pay back, after all. I anxiously twirl a lock of long, platinum blonde hair between my fingers.

The family mansion is only a twenty minute drive away, and I’ve convinced myself that my grandfather, or one of his employees, is lurking just outside the hotel exit, waiting to grab me.

That’s ridiculous, of course. No one knows where I am. But fear is like an inexhaustible weight that slows my thoughts, my movements.

I decisively push my hair behind my shoulders—hair-twirling is an irritating habit I seem to have recently developed—and try to focus.

That blue blouse… I only wore it once. I pick it up, press my nose into the silk.

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I catch traces of Slade’s woodsy aftershave embedded in the fabric.

Pinning it down is like trying to grab a wisp of fog; it keeps slipping away.

But… oh… there it is. Cedar and musk. I feel Slade behind me, his dark, baby-fine hair brushing against my cheek as he lays a trail of biting kisses down my neck. His large hands cup my shoulders as he bends me forward, and his muscular legs press against the backs of my thighs.

Impossible to think of Slade without Romeo and Hawthorne. My brow furrows, but I can’t summon them.

Idiot, I murmur.

I’m so desperately lonely that it makes me sick. I was sixteen when I left home. I know how to be on my own, taking care of myself.

Other people are supposed to be sources of information. They’re supposed to be puzzles to quickly solve for my own survival.

I’ve never missed companionship. Until now.

The blouse still in my hand, I go to the window and pull back the faded curtain. It’s a blindingly sunny day.

In the parking lot below, the sun reflects painfully off the windshields. Every day, different cars. It’s reassuringly anonymous.

Squeezing the handle tightly, I crank it in a tight circle, and the bottom of the window creaks open several inches.

I lean down, putting my nose to the stream of warm outside air, and I inhale. I hope for clean air, like sherbet to cleanse the palate between dinner courses. What I get is the sharp metallic odor of the window frame.

On the other side, on the narrow ledge, I see cigarette butts and a desiccated spider, its folded legs like crimped black thread.

Still, I inhale deeply and hold my lungs full as I straighten.

I exhale until I’m completely empty.

I bring the blouse to my nose, close my eyes, and inhale slowly.

Romeo’s sitting in a chair. He lifts a hand and motions for me to come closer. Despite the expensive suit he wears, even these small movements ripple his massive chest and arms. Slade presses on my back until I’m bent over Romeo’s lap. Hawthorne stands to the side, his belt dangling loosely from his fingers, his icy blue eyes intense. My bosses’ hands move me, reposition me. They know what they want, and they know what I need. Through my blouse and my tight skirt, I feel the heat of their bodies—

The smell disappears, and I open my eyes.

It’s embarrassing to admit, but the fact that they haven’t called hurts.

It’s not that I want them to come after me; I don’t. It’s not that I think I’m not disposable; I know I am.

I haven’t had friends in years. Perhaps the rejection by my bosses is a small matter, a slight of no consequence, and I just don’t have the perspective to see it.

Enough is enough. I’ll never see them again. It doesn’t matter if they were using me. It was a mutual arrangement.

The blouse gets tossed onto the bed, and I contemplate the pile of clothes. Another two days shouldn’t be a problem—I’ve got a few things in my new suitcase—but I’m cutting it close.

I begin scooping up the clothes and dumping them into a canvas laundry bag. My heart pounds as I grab my purse and head for the door.

Bandit, my cat and furry co-pilot, looks at me quizzically with shiny yellow eyes. He’s probably wondering if I’m actually going to make it to the car this time.

It’s a fair question, and I step over him before I lose my nerve.

Chapter 2

I find a dry cleaner in a quiet little strip mall that didn’t exist when I was a kid. There’s a nail salon that promises a free hand massage with the purchase of any manicure (gel excluded), a tax place that looks deserted, the dry cleaner, and an uninspired, second-rate grocery store.

It’s the sort of shopping center my grandfather would never frequent, and that makes it safe.

After reluctantly handing over my prized possessions to the woman running the dry cleaner, I duck into the grocery store to purchase fresh fruit and pre-washed salad, and also some kitty toys for Bandit, who went from semi-feral, to Hawthorne’s sister’s house, to my apartment, and now to a hotel room. His living arrangements couldn’t get much more cramped, and he seems to be getting tired of the whole adventure.

He deserves better. So do I, come to think of it.

Right there, in the pet food aisle, I decide that as soon as my dry cleaning is done, we’ll leave. I add a packet of kitty treats to my basket.

It’s nice being away from the hotel, and I spend far too long wandering the aisles before heading to the checkout line.

Good afternoon, the cashier says. It’s a rote expression, no reply needed, but I mumble back the greeting while I pull my money out of my purse.

Lindsay? the cashier says, her voice choked with surprise.

My head whips up and the blood drains from my face.

The cashier is the oldest sister of my high school best friend. She’s much heavier now, and even though she can’t be older than thirty, her formerly jet-black hair is shot with gray.

Maria! I say, hoping I sound pleasantly surprised rather than unpleasantly alarmed.

I can’t believe you’re back! She leans across the conveyor belt and squeezes me in a hug. She smells like apple shampoo and hair spray. Look at you, she

Reviews for Trickiest Job

[Kel · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I couldn't put it down. This author is quickly becoming one of my favorites.