Wildfire

by Annabel Allan

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

Stephanie Fournier is an assistant at a law firm in Toronto, Ontario. Her boring 9 to 5 starts to heat up when Robert Quinlan, the gorgeous CEO of the company, takes a special interest in her. At first she responds to his obvious interest with glee... and then he finds out she's a virgin. His sudden disinterest is not only embarrassing, but awkward around the workplace, especially with an undeniable heat still present between them. Stephanie sets out to prove she's unshaken, only to entice him back into her thrall. But can an amateur really win over an expert in the art of seduction? Or has Stephanie ignited a wildfire that will quickly spread out of her control?

Release date: February 4, 2016

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 231

Sample

Prologue

He was probably the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Maybe beautiful is the wrong word – he was hot. Sexy. Absolutely gorgeous. I couldn’t help blushing and squirming, looking away from his absolute gorgeousness whenever my eyes fell upon him. I literally couldn’t look at him, he was seriously that good-looking. Forget eye contact, it was almost impossible.

He was the type that made you think of filthy, naughty sex, outright fucking. Never mind making love, you wanted to fuck this guy. He just had that aura, the bad boy, make me wanna scream and grab the headboard and crush it under my grip thing. And these were not the type of thoughts you would expect from me of all people.

Of course he had to be my boss. Well, not really my boss; Cassandra was my boss, as I was her assistant, but he was the president of the company, owned the building, even. His office was on the top floor of the forty story skyscraper, the offices of Stucky, Curtis, and Slater Law in the Trask building, a shimmering structure of glass with a violent spike at the top.

Did I want to be a lowly assistant? No, but it was a job. I wanted to be an author.

I even had a few manuscripts under my belt, like, a dozen of them. Impressive, right? I even sent out to literary agencies. I always got the same thing every time – you are a very talented writer, but this just isn’t right for my caseload right now. Right. Sure. Just say it; you aren’t interested in what I have to say. Or maybe what I have to say isn’t bankable. But how do you know unless you give me a chance? Ugh.

So, I was stuck as Cassandra Sloane’s assistant. I guess it was OK – it was a nine to five job, good money, weekends were usually off unless Cassandra had some sort of event to go to, then I was her little dog, following her around.

And Cassandra herself? I wouldn’t say she was a complete bitch, but she wasn’t my friend, either. I guess it was kind of her job to order me around, but I loathed having to get her her coffee every morning, taking the abuse of barked orders, of her dark, mascara-coated lashes barely looking up to me as she spoke in a tone of indifference to my presence.

I loathed answering phones. One could say I have a little phobia about it. It always takes me a little courage, a little pep talk to get me going so I can answer the stupid phone. ‘Casandra Sloane’s office, how may I direct your call?’ Sounds easy, huh? Yeah, no.

So, if this man – who was absolutely gorgeous and the object of my filthy desires – was the President of the company, owned the building, and pretty much resided on the fortieth floor, how was I was able to see him so often?

Cassandra wasn’t a partner, but hoped to be. She was a pretty well-known lawyer in town, fixing herself on divorce cases. I think she wanted to get into criminal law, but there was more money in divorce.

He was often in her office and having lunch with her. I seriously thought they were an item, but then I heard Cassandra wasn’t exactly into men … no wonder she seemed to dislike them so much. She also dressed a little manly, too, when I think about it. Always a pant suit. I was more partial to skirts and dresses, personally. Not that there was anything wrong with pant suits, I owned a few, especially for winter. I don’t know, it just seemed to suit her personality … no pun intended.

We were a professional institution; I was expected to be polished and ready to receive anyone that happened across Cassandra’s office on the thirtieth floor. Usually I wore a blazer, blouse, and a skirt. Pantyhose were a must. Pumps a necessity. My blonde hair was always twisted up somehow, usually in a French twist. It was blah. I looked the same every day, even the same minimal make-up and pink lipstick.

It was professional, though. You couldn’t really tell what my body looked like, but I was 5’6 and 130 pounds. I had absolutely no hips, and my chest was a modest C cup. Well, I say modest, but for my tiny body the girls were probably a little big. But guys like C cups, right? It’s supposed to be the perfect size.

Of course, I wouldn’t know. I was twenty-five and a virgin. I’d only ever had one boyfriend and that was a mess. You know the way it goes; best friends first then he tells you he’s in love with you, and of course it’s inconvenient because he’s going away somewhere soon.

I was only twenty, so I was confused, but ended up falling for him. Falling hard.

We only had one day, really, one amazing day together, and not much was really done except some kissing. And even though it was a little hectic – not hearing from him, him breaking up with me, getting back together, all long distance – when he came back a few months later, things were pretty peachy.

Then he got more and more distant, seeming uninterested. Then he broke up with me again, this time on New Year’s Day. I know, jerk, right?

I was a total mess. I went through six months of hell with this guy, falling in love with him, putting up with his shit, and then he dumps me, tells me he ‘made a mistake’ and it was just friendship love. Yeah, right.

That was pretty much it. I had trouble finding someone after that. I just wasn’t interested in anyone, and of course my ex was in and out of my life, always leading me on and then letting me go for someone better.

So, my experience with relationships put me pretty much in a state of oblivion, especially the sexual aspect of my life. Sure, I thought about just finding some random guy and getting my rocks off, but seriously, I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t waiting for love, but someone I could trust. The problem was, I only really had two guy friends, and one was gay. So, yeah, that wasn’t going to work.

Enter tall, dark, and dangerously sexy.

I bet you’re wondering how I became Cassandra’s assistant, putting me in said tall, dark, and dangerously sexy’s path. I had been working as a receptionist or secretary since high school, starting as a dispatcher at a local taxi company. It gave me the experience I needed to work my way up until my best friend, Michelle, who already worked at Stucky, Curtis, and Slater, told me there was an opening and I should apply for it.

Michelle and I had gone to the same night school for business studies and law, though she was able to get a job before I did due to her age, being older than me by nearly thirteen years.

I was surprised when I got the call for the job, since I thought I had totally fucked up the interview. I was kind of a mess because I had just told my ex to get lost again. But I guess Cassandra saw something, or was impressed with my résumé. Either way, I had a job and had been working there for almost a year, nearly to the end of my contract, which would hopefully be renewed. Even better, I saw my best friend just about every day. And I loved Michelle. So it was pretty rad.

We had lunch every day as she was an assistant as well. It wasn’t exactly her dream job either, but again, it was money. She had her own condo, enough cash to save up for her annual trips abroad as well as live pretty decently. She even had her own car. I didn’t drive, but I had my own place as well as my cat, Ulalume, a fluffy white ragdoll.

But back to my dream guy. I can admit he was definitely my dream guy. Older – thirty-eight, the same age as Michelle – but still absolutely delicious. If I wanted to fantasize, and being a writer, I did it often, he was always the star. Robert Quinlan. Those eyes, chiseled features, that voice. It was shiver inducing.

I heard Cassandra call him ‘Quinn’, so I guessed he wasn’t too keen on the name Robert, and I later found out that that was the case. Oh, I think it is obvious that because this is all about him I got a little close to him. Extremely close to him.

And it all started in January, on a Monday.

Chapter One

My eyes opened sleepily, then closed again. I hadn’t heard my alarm, so I looked to my window, and saw that the sun hadn’t even thought about coming up. But it was always that way in winter, especially in Canada. The sun wasn’t rising until almost 8 a.m. I always woke up at six, Michelle being at my place close to seven thirty.

My apartment was technically out of the way of hers, but she didn’t mind the extra miles, stating that her car needed to get a little ‘exercise’. It really wasn’t much though, fifteen minutes out of her way, winding through the busy rush hour of Toronto. I gave her gas money, but I still felt bad.

I turned over, looking to my digital alarm clock, the number large and reading, 5:55. Figures. I still had five minutes and I was awake. As much as I disliked being woken up by the horrendous beeps of the alarm, I also hated waking up before it.

I sighed, tiredly reaching over and turning it off before the sound could attack my ears. I then sat up, my soft, freshly washed, burgundy sheets still warm from my body, which was particularly nice in the winter time. It made me not want to get up at all, especially from my comfy pillow, but I knew I had to get to work. Cassandra hated it when I called in sick. God forbid she had to answer her own phone.

It wasn’t entirely dark in my room, but I needed to turn on the obnoxious light anyway. I pulled my sheets and gold and burgundy comforter off me, pushing myself to the edge of the bed, my feet hitting the floor. I suddenly felt something grabbing at my ankles, something furry and soft.

I quickly pulled my feet up, looking down to see a white tail sticking out from under the bed. Ulalume, of course.

I smiled, sighing. ‘You little psycho. Scared me half to death.’

I stood up, dodging the fuzzy paw’s attack as I ran to turn on the light-switch. Again, obnoxious. Obnoxiously bright.

I had to admit, the mornings kind of annoyed me. I wished I could stay home and write – sleep in, nap during the day, read, write, watch films. The good life. How all the New York Times’ bestsellers do it. Sadly, I didn’t have that option.

I stretched, putting my hands above my head, looking about the room, which had burgundy walls I had painted myself, and gold trimmed, black drapes behind the bed with a sheer, wine-colored valance.

I had matching drapes on my window, left open nearly all the time, my black drawers on one side and black vanity on the other. My room was a dark, gothic cave, and I adored it – spacious yet a tomb, somewhere one of Anne Rice’s vampires would lounge while they supped the blood from their mortal lover.

I didn’t bother with a robe, just wearing a white cotton nightgown with capped sleeves that came above my knees, hanging off of my chest and flaring out prettily. I liked it, it made me think of Victorian nightgowns, but of course, they usually went straight to the floor. Much too short, but I had it specifically made that way – my mother a pretty wicked seamstress.

I made my way down the hallway and to the bathroom, doing my personal business before heading to the kitchen. I walked past my office, the front door catching my eye to my right, which was locked with a chain as well as your usual lock. It may have been downtown, but it was still the city and I lived alone. The building was secure, but you never know.

I walked through my modestly-sized den-cum-living room and into my kitchen, Ulalume following behind me, the little bell on her collar jingling. She meowed at me, rubbing up into my leg even as I walked around.

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ I said, reaching up on top of the fridge and bringing down her bag of very expensive cat food, pouring a little into her bowl on the floor in the corner of the room. ‘Jeez, you act like I never feed you.’

She happily ate as if I wasn’t even there and I shook my head in disbelief as I put the bag back. I then went on my way, getting my own breakfast before heading back to the bathroom.

I stood in front of the mirror, looking myself over. My blue eyes looked tired, which I could easily fix with make-up, but I had to deal with my hair too. It was long, right down my back, nearly to my waist, naturally blonder than the sun so I went through a lot of jokes from my family when I was growing up, usually being the butt of all those annoying ‘stupid blonde’ jokes. I wasn’t that stupid. I mean, everyone has moments, right? I just happened to be a natural blonde and had those moments.

I stared at it, thinking over what I could do with it. I wanted to look different that day. I didn’t want to do my usual French twist.

I scrunched my mouth to the side, thinking intently. I scanned around, trying to find some sort of inspiration, then looked down to the bathtub beside the toilet and saw a magazine.

‘Eureka,’ I said, grabbing it and flicking through the pages, finding one particular model, also blonde, though dyed that way, with her hair in a side braid that started behind her ear and slanted down and hung over her shoulder. It was pretty. I decided that was what I was going to do. It looked simple enough, though it turned into a fishtail braid and I always had difficulty with those. Good thing I had those extra five minutes.

I decided to curl the front of my hair, add some body to my stick straight locks, and tease them a bit before I went to work. By the time I was done, getting to the end of my hair and tying it off, I was reasonably happy with it. It looked pretty … no, it looked beautiful.

With the braid hanging over my shoulder I looked back into the mirror thinking, now make-up. Again, I wanted to do something different, so I did Marilyn Monroe-style eyeliner, with just the tiniest flick of a cat eye.

Good thing I was bored enough to watch that make-up tutorial on YouTube.

I then put on some reddish burgundy lipstick, smiling a little once I was done. ‘There.’

My eyes looked big and doll-like, big, blue orbs that stared back at me, the matte white eye shadow I had put on getting picked up by the light. I looked pretty, even beautiful. I liked it.

I was satisfied, still smiling as I turned out of the bathroom and headed back to my bedroom, where I picked out my suit, which was going to be burgundy … obviously you can tell there’s a theme going on here and I like the color burgundy.

I chose a white bra and panties, though they didn’t match. They were both lacy, but not a set. I figured that no one was going to see them, so why bother wearing something matching? Besides, a lot of lingerie stores sold dozens of panties that had no matching bra. They were cute and we buy them anyway. I wasn’t a supermodel. I could get away with it.

Black pantyhose went on next, before I slipped on my burgundy pencil skirt and tucked in my blouse. I grabbed my pumps, which were a soft velvet, wine colored, not quite matching my blazer and skirt but it was close enough. No one was going to really look at my feet.

I walked over to my vanity table, looking myself over in the tall mirror before I picked up my lone diamond-studded earrings, a gift from my mother as she knew I had always wanted a pair.

I looked to the time. Seeing it was seven twenty-five, I quickly grabbed my black bag, placing it on the couch as I searched for my purse, a little thing that was – you guessed it – burgundy. I finally spotted it on the living room table, dashing over and grabbing it as I heard a loud buzz.

‘Steph, it’s Michelle,’ called out from the speaker on the wall.

I ran over and pushed the button labeled TALK. ‘Come on up.’

I pressed the button for the downstairs front door, no doubt with Michelle hearing the loud buzz and click to let her into the building.

I quickly grabbed my leather jacket, a knock sounding at the door. I smiled as I opened it, and there was Michelle, standing in the doorway and holding two travel mugs.

Michelle is shorter than me, though she has a big bust and small waist, her hair black and thick, her eyes brown with caramel highlights. Her cheeks were full, especially when she smiled, which was often, and she always wore lipstick, usually some shade of shimmery mauvish violet. I once saw her without lipstick and was totally weirded out – her lips blended into her beige skin tone seamlessly. It looked as if they weren’t even there. Rule of thumb; Michelle always wore lipstick.

‘Hi,’ she said with a smile, walking in the door.

I shut it behind her, smiling back. ‘Hey. You have my cuppa?’

She nodded, handing me one of the mugs. ‘Of course.’

Feeling its warmth, I enjoyed the smell of the fresh tea steaming from the little hole on the lid. Michelle always made me a cup of tea in the morning, being that she was a complete Anglomaniac and honestly made the best cup of tea I had ever had besides my grandmother’s (who was Irish, so she knew how to make tea).

Michelle always said that she was jealous of my Irish blonde hair and blue eyes, as she was of Armenian descent on her father’s side. She had a slight aquiline nose à la Glenn Close, so it was beautiful, not really harsh and definitely not ugly.

And even though my mother was Irish, my father was French; the origin of my last name. I tried to see my parents as often as I could, but it was nearly an hour’s drive to see them and I hated taking the bus. I usually waited for them to come to me.

‘Ooh, burgundy,’ she said, looking to my lipstick. ‘I like it. Your hair, too!’

I turned for her, showing it off. ‘I felt like something different today. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet the man of my dreams,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Don’t they always say that you should dress for destiny?’

‘Definitely,’ she said, looking down to her black suit. ‘I think I am just dressed for work, though.’

I laughed as I grabbed my purse and bag, pointing to the door. ‘Ready to go?’

She nodded, opening it and leading me out. ‘The car is still warm, so it shouldn’t be too bad once we get inside.’

I always hated going out in the cold in pantyhose. I hated the cold, period. Then again, I wasn’t one for hot days either. I liked the spring and fall, which were mild, even a little cool. Not cold but cool.

I closed the door, locking it. I then followed her as we made our way to the elevator, though we could have walked the six floors. I didn’t much like doing it in heels, but it could be done.

‘Did you get much writing done this weekend?’ she asked.

I nodded. ‘A little. I think about twenty pages on Saturday.’

‘What’s this one about again?’ she asked.

‘Another historical romance. You’ll love this one, another Dangerous Liaisons type, even with a Valmont type character,’ I said with a smile.

‘Ah, perfect!’ she said excitedly. ‘I can’t wait to read it.’

Michelle was always number one on my list of people to read my manuscripts. Well, she was tied with my mum – she was also number one because she read so much and I could trust her opinion. So far, I could do no wrong when I wrote; she loved every story I had to tell.

Another thing I loved about Michelle was her enthusiasm for my writing. She was always cheering me on, knowing that one of these days I was going to make it. She was like my own little cheerleader.

I sipped my tea, which was deliciously warm, as usual. ‘Are we going to cheap night at the movies tomorrow?’

She nodded. ‘Of course.’

Michelle lived for film. She was an avid film watcher; everything in theatres she had to see, even if it sucked. She was always number one on the Toronto International Film Festival’s list when it rolled around. She even booked time off so she could fit as many films as possible into her day.

She actually wanted to get into the film business. In fact, we met in film school. I was only eighteen, she almost thirty, but we hit it off right away. We’ve been best friends ever since.

She still wanted to get into film, specifically producing, but ended up taking night classes for business, convincing me to join her, then took a job as an assistant to get by. Our film school had promised jobs as soon as we graduated, but of course, that didn’t happen. So it kind of stayed a dream. I had to hand it to her, she was good at pretty much everything, save for writing. She always said she would leave that to me. Though she did come up with some pretty solid ideas.

We made it downstairs, rushing through the checkerboard foyer, through the glass doors, and out into the cold. We found her car quickly, diving inside into the warmth, which was quickly dissipating.

She started up the engine, the heat instantly blowing from the vents. ‘Are you going to end up going to that party on Friday night?’

‘Cassandra is going, so yep,’ I said with a sigh. ‘What fun that’s going to be.’

‘Yeah, following her around isn’t too appealing,’ she said, her eyes on the road. ‘Depeche?’

I nodded. ‘Of course!’

She flicked on the CD player, ‘Strangelove’ by Depeche Mode instantly coming on. They’re one of my favorite ba. . .