Under His Obsession: A Steamy Workplace Romance

By Cathryn Fox

Is reclusive millionaire Will Carson’s new assistant hiding something that could break his trust? Find out in New York Times bestselling author Cathryn Fox’s new scorching-hot Harlequin DARE!

The public loves seeing powerful millionaires taken down a notch—or ten. And after losing the woman I loved thanks to a tabloid exposé, I’m obsessed with privacy. My assistants are carefully vetted. So I can’t help being suspicious when domestically challenged bombshell Khloe Davis is hired to accompany me to tropical St. Thomas.

Khloe breaks everything she touches and can’t make so much as a sandwich. And the maddeningly tiny French maid uniform she wears every day is definitely not the required dress code…not that I’m complaining. Sleeping with the help is against every rule in my book, but just the sight of Khloe is keeping me up at night.

Then I discover she wants me as much as I want her. Before I know it, we’re checking off every position on her sexual to-do list. What skills Khloe lacks in the kitchen she more than makes up for in the bedroom. The voluptuous goddess is fast becoming my new obsession. But is she hiding something that could break my trust…and my heart?

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harlequin
• Release date: May 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781488062148

Cathryn Fox

A New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Cathryn Fox has two teenagers who keep her busy and a husband who is convinced he can turn her into a mixed martial arts fan. Cathryn can never find balance in her life and is always trying to keep up with emails, Facebook, Pinterest and Twitter. She spends her days writing page-turning books filled with heat and heart, and loves to hear from her readers.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Khloe

THERE’S THE DOOR. Feel free to use it.

Stomach in knots, I stare wide-eyed at my boss, hardly able to believe what I’m hearing. Then again, is it really so inconceivable that he’s canning my ass? Disobedience comes with a price, and like all other men in power, Benjamin R. Murray, owner of Starlight Magazine, can do what he wants and say what he likes. Privileged men like him think the world is theirs for the taking and will walk on, or over, anyone who gets in their way.

You’re really firing me? I ask, as Manhattan’s midday sun shines in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the blood zinging through my veins and stirring the nausea in my stomach. My skin begins to moisten, but no way will I let this man see me sweat. I don’t want him to think he holds all the cards. Even though he does. But I’m not a girl to go down without a fight.

That depends. Benjamin drops the chicken leg he’s been gnawing on and wipes greasy, sausage-thick fingers on the stack of paper napkins before him. His chair groans under his impressive weight as he pushes away from his desk and stands to square off against me. The situation is clearly dire if he’s abandoning his beloved bucket of chicken. Are you going to do the exposé on Will Carson or not? he asks. His deep voice is hard and unwavering, letting me know my future at the magazine depends on what I say next.

Though I can’t afford to lose this job, I refuse to dig up dirt on Will Carson, a brilliant software developer—aka, the Millionaire Rocket Scientist of Wall Street. Partly because the exposé done on him a few years back by one of Starlight’s reporters ruined his life and partly because my father used to work for Will’s grandfather, James Carson.

James isn’t like other powerful men—he treats those who work for him fairly, respectfully. He was always generous and kind to my late father, going above and beyond to make sure a single father and his daughter were looked after. I have no doubt those care boxes containing food and clothes came from him—he knew my love for M&M’s and somehow my size—even though he vehemently denied his involvement.

The man owns half of Manhattan, and after I graduated with a journalism degree, he offered me a job at the Grub, a magazine that reviews restaurants. I politely declined, since I live off frozen food and know nothing about fine dining. Although it might have been a better jumping-off point than Starlight.

I want to write meaningful articles, to earn my place in the cutthroat news business and to get there on my own merit. From watching my father, I learned to work hard and to never take handouts—he didn’t like it when those care boxes materialized on our doorstep. And I won’t abandon my principles by twisting information for a headline like I’m some damn bottom-feeder.

Then why are you working at Starlight?

Because I can’t get hired at a reputable magazine without experience, and I can’t get experience without getting hired. So, Starlight it is. Or was...

Well, are you? he asks again, pulling my focus back to the matter at hand.

I cross my arms and plant my feet. No, I say through gritted teeth. It’s not a smart answer, considering rent is due next week, and my groceries consist of a single sleeve of stale crackers and a half-eaten box of pizza pockets.

It’s my way or the highway, Khloe, he says, his beady blue eyes arctic cold.

Why me, Benjamin? He doesn’t tolerate anyone saying no to him, but what do I care? He can’t fire me twice. Why take me off sensationalized crime stories and put me on celebrity gossip, especially when you know I have a connection to the Carson family?

His grin is sardonic. That’s your answer right there. You have an in, and any good journalist would use that connection to get information.

You already ruined Will’s life. Why twist the knife? I ask, even though I already know the answer. Money. That’s the answer to everything in a rich man’s world.

The public is interested in the famous Carson family. It’s time we told them what Will has been up to since his fiancée left him.

Starlight’s front-page spread on Will had never sat well with me. I’ve never met him, but from the stories James told, Will didn’t seem like someone who’d get drunk and jump into bed with another woman at his bachelor party.

The pictures splashed across the front cover, however, painted a different story. Money and power. They mess with people. In the end, Will proved to be no different from any man with millions and authority—and because of the spread, he lost his supermodel fiancée. But I still refused to do the exposé. My father would turn over in his grave if I suddenly sank to slimeball level.

I guess this is goodbye, then. I turn and see a flurry of activity in the hall. Great, my colleagues were eavesdropping. At least they’ll have something to talk about at the watercooler. I’ll clear my desk.

If you change your mind...

I won’t, I say. Heads duck and eyes are averted as I walk down the hall. Despite the storm going on in my stomach, I straighten my back and calmly walk to my four-by-four pod.

I reach my desk and stare at the papers strewn across it. Nothing truly belongs to me, but I spitefully shove the stapler into my purse. I’m about to walk away but can’t. Dammit, I’m not a thief. I put the stapler back and go still when a pair of heels tap rapidly on the floor, growing louder as they approach.

Breathless, Steph skids to a stop. I just heard. My only real friend at the magazine—all the others would slice and dice anyone who got in their way—Steph takes my hand. Thick painted lashes blink rapidly over caramel eyes. What happened?

I lower my voice and explain, even though I’m sure everyone knows—around here, rumors spread faster than a Sean Mendes You Tube video.

He’s such a worm, she says.

Hey, don’t insult worms. They have their purpose.

Wait, I got it. Hope fills her eyes. Just say you couldn’t find anything on Will. I mean, he might be a grade A asshole—

Will’s an asshole?

Yeah, that’s what every reporter who tried to get a story on him says.

They do?

Oh, yeah. She holds her hand out and starts tapping one finger after another as she says, Opinionated, arrogant, bossy, patronizing.

What you’re saying is he’s no different from any other Wall Street millionaire.

She nods. I also heard he doesn’t keep any of his assistants around for long. They’re fired for the smallest of mistakes.

I guess I haven’t been paying close enough attention to the Carson family drama.

Well, anyway, he’s become a bit of a recluse, taking privacy to the extreme. You could just say you didn’t find anything.

I give her a look that suggests she’s insane. Steph, come on. If I don’t bring the story Benjamin wants or twist it to his liking, I’ll be fired anyway.

But I don’t want you to go. She pouts. You can’t leave me here with all the two-faced piranhas.

"You have that interview with the Cut next week, right?" While it’s Steph’s dream to write about trends and designs, I’m more interested in politics and current events. My ultimate dream is to write for the New Yorker magazine, and in my spare time, pen a novel.

Yes, but—

No buts. You got this. And something will come my way, I say. I hike my purse up higher and lift my chin, showcasing confidence I don’t currently feel.

Steph steps to the side to let me pass. If he offers it to me, I’ll tell him to shove it up his—

Thanks, Steph, but I don’t want you to lose your job, too.

"The Cut, remember. She jabs her thumb into her chest. It’s mine."

Good girl, I say, and give her a hug. I’ll text you later.

Wait, Khloe. Her gaze moves over my face. Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little pale.

I’m fine.

Her eyes narrow. You need some sun.

I run my tongue over one of my molars. A piece of filling chipped off this morning. There had been something strangely hard in the sausage on the leftover pizza I had for breakfast. Maybe if I put it under my pillow, the tooth fairy will leave enough money for us both to go on a vacation.

Steph laughs. Your sense of humor is still intact. I guess that means you’re all right.

I’ll be okay, I assure her with false bravado.

I make my way to the elevator and realize that while I refused to do the exposé, the next person likely won’t. Dammit. I hurry downstairs, step outside and hail a cab. But instead of going to my small apartment in Brooklyn, I give the driver directions to James’s mansion on Sixty-Fourth. I have no idea if he’s home, but he’s well into his nineties, so I doubt he’ll be out for long.

When we arrive, I pay the fare and step out, lifting my eyes to take in the looming building before me. I haven’t been here since I was a teen. The first time I ever saw James’s mansion was when I was five. I’d had the chicken pox, and the after-school day care teacher had sent me home. Dad had put me in the back seat, and I’d sat quietly as he’d driven James to wherever he needed to go. We’d picked up one of his grandsons from swimming lessons—apparently, he’d already had the pox, so it was safe to sit him in back with me. For all I know, it could have been Will beside me that day. I was quiet and shy, and other than answer a few questions James directed my way, I stayed silent.

Until I vomited all over the back seat.

I take a deep breath and step up to the front door of the mansion. Unease presses down on my shoulders as I jab the bell. I haven’t seen James in years, and part of me worries he might think I was behind the last exposé. I wasn’t, of course. I’d had no idea Avery Roberts was working on an article that would ruin a man’s life.

Behind me, people rush by, always in a hurry. One of these days I’d like to go somewhere with a slower pace. Maybe write that book. But with the meager funds in my pocket, the farthest I could trek is to Starbucks, two streets over. When I got there, I’d have to order a water, no straw. I snort at that thought and pray that the tooth fairy comes through. But I’m quick to pull myself together when the door creaks open.

I expect to be greeted by a servant. Instead, James Carson himself is standing in the foyer, his hazy blue eyes moving over my face. I wait for recognition to hit, and I can tell the second awareness creeps in by the way his eyes widen.

Mr. Carson, I begin, and place my hand over my uneasy stomach. I don’t mean to bother you—

Bother me. Of course you’re not bothering me, child. Come in, Khloe. Come in, and please call me James.

It’s been a while. I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.

You haven’t changed a bit.

I can’t say the same for him. Over the last decade, his winter-white hair has thinned, and the lines bracketing his milky eyes and pale lips have deepened. He’s a little shorter, his body much frailer than it was when I last saw him.

Come along, he says. Gnarled fingers tighten around a cane, and his gait is slow as he guides me down the hall.

Maybe I changed a little, I say for lack of anything better. It’s been quite a few years.

Ten, to be exact, he answers. While his body is deteriorating, it doesn’t appear that his mind is following suit. I shadow him into his den and admire his extensive library as the vanilla smell of old books fills my senses. James turns and offers me a warm, grandfatherly smile, and my heart squeezes. He was like the grandfather I never had and always wanted. It was only Dad and me growing up. We lost Mom to cancer when I was just a child. I only have a few fleeting memories of her.

He winks at me. "Have you decided to take the job at the Grub?"

The only thing I know about food is how to eat it, and even then, I make a mess of it. Believe me, I’m not cut out to cover restaurants and do reviews. I’d be a detriment, not an asset, to your company. But thank you for the offer.

I always loved your honesty. He taps his cane on the wooden floor. Max did a great job raising you.

Warmth fills me at the mention of my father. You were always so good to us. My dad talked fondly about you.

"He used to tell me your dream was to write for the New Yorker."

Still is, I say.

A beat of silence takes up space between us as we both get lost in our thoughts. A moment later, James breaks the quiet. Then to what do I owe the pleasure of your company? he asks, his voice gravelly as he smooths his hands over an imaginary tie and nods at the ebony leather chair.

I lower myself and sink into the soft cushion. It’s heavenly, and if I weren’t so anxious, my stomach roiling, I’d love to curl up and have a nap. Although I’m not sure why I’m so tired. I get enough sleep most nights, and it’s not like I could be pregnant—unless it was immaculate conception.

There is something I think you should know.

He walks up to his bar and picks up a brandy decanter. Drink?

After the morning I’ve had, I sure could use one, or two, but I politely decline. I’m not sure I’d be able to keep it down. He pours a generous amount into a crystal snifter, swallows it in one smooth motion, and refills his glass.

I wait as he slowly makes his way to the sofa across from my chair. I take stock of the room, my gaze going from the colossal desk in front of the window to the Polaroid camera on the side table. I note the stack of what looks like wedding photos beside it. I cringe, knowing they’re not happy photos of Will’s wedding, considering he never had one. While a part of me is mortified about the terrible invasion of privacy, I can’t help but think his fiancée had a right to know what was going on. I sure as hell would have wanted to know. But I’d have to have a fiancé before he could cheat on me. Aren’t I a real catch now? Jobless, penniless and soon to be homeless. I can’t understand why men aren’t lining up.

"You still work for Starlight?" James asks, like he’s reading my mind.

I fold my hands in my lap. As of today, no.

He straightens. You quit?

Fired, actually. That’s why I’m here.

The lines around his eyes deepen as he squints at me. What is it you want me to know, Khloe?

First, I’d like you to know I had nothing to do with the exposé on Will. I had only just started at the magazine and had no idea they were doing a story on him.

Never thought you were involved, child, he says quickly, and my shoulders relax slightly.

I lean forward and put my hands on my knees. I was asked to do a follow-up today because I had connections.

He nods slowly and takes another swig. And you were fired because you refused?

That’s right. Yeah, the man is still sharp. But I wanted to warn you and Will. I might have said no, but the next reporter won’t.

I appreciate you coming to tell me this. He sets his glass down, and his curled fingers adjust the