Society Playboys: Playboy Assistant Part 1

PLAYBOY a.s.sISTANT.

Society Playboys.

Roe Valentine.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.

Thank you Grace Coronado and Whitney Watson for reading early versions of Playboy a.s.sistant. Your time and thoughts mean so much to me. Many thanks to my amazing friend Teri Wilson who supports me and gives me the encouragement I need to keep going. And to my editor Stephanie for helping me refine Playboy a.s.sistant. You women are gold! I am so grateful to you all.

Chapter One.

What the h.e.l.l am I doing here? In his aggravation, Fabian vowed to kill his dad if he didn't get this d.a.m.ned job. He gazed down at his freshly manicured fingers to reel in his rising anger. He'd rather be on his yacht, not waiting for an interview set up by his father. Talk about emasculating. His father had the brilliant idea Fabian should work elsewhere before joining the family's bioengineering firm. Apparently, he didn't care for Fabian b.u.mming around anymore.

Two weeks prior, his dad kicked him out of the family house, which honestly was fine with him. He was tired of being served breakfast by a different stripper every morning anyhow. His dad loved his strippers. Fabian peered down at his fingers again, the hot spread of dread waving through him.

Glancing up to the metal clock on the wall, he noted the infamous Mrs. Helene Robuchon was late. Fabian took in a deep breath, cleansing the stress that continued to build inside him. The girl next to him smiled, lips stretched to a wide crescent. Cute. He lifted up the edge of his mouth, and silently chuckled at her blus.h.i.+ng face. Bare crossed legs caught his attention. Very cute. He could be too obvious with his objectifications. He might even be an a.s.shole, but girls liked players. At least that was the impression he got by the mult.i.tude of women vying for his attention. Not that he meant to be an a.s.shole player, it just happened. And he'd guess the only reason he got away with anything was because women generally thought he was good-looking. Apparently, Swedish and Greek genes created something women couldn't resist. And of course being born into a wealthy family didn't hurt.

"Hey," he said, putting on that Pallis charm, which meant lower tone of voice, curled lip, side-eye stare. His friends would rag on him hard for pulling that s.h.i.+t. The girl blushed as she squeaked a "hi". He decided she was right out of college. "You here to interview for the a.s.sistant position?"

"No. I'm an intern in the marketing department. I'm supposed to start today."

Very nice. He leaned back in the metal and leather chair, surveying her for potential. She might be too innocent for him, he surmised, studying her makeup-free face. He liked women who knew the drill. Knew how to get over it when things went south because with him they always did. His gaze dropped to her fingers clasped tight in her lap. Nude fingernails. He decided she wasn't his type after all.

"What position are you interviewing for?" she asked, once he'd turned his attention away.

Without looking at her, he said, "Executive a.s.sistant to the CEO."

"Mrs. Robuchon's a.s.sistant?" She'd lowered her voice to a whisper.

Glancing up to meet her stare, he nodded. "That's the one. And she's almost fifteen minutes late." Another glance at the clock reignited his irritation.

"I interviewed with her last month. She's a real..." She bit her bottom lip and continued, "A real tough one. I heard she's already gone through three a.s.sistants this year."

I'm going to kill my dad. "Really?" His father and Helene had been friends for over thirty years. "That's just awesome." Another five minutes pa.s.sed without conversation. Just as he thought to say screw it and walk out of Robuchon Investments, a voice sounded from an open door by the reception desk.

"Mr. Pallis, please come with me."

He laughed. What timing. Only twenty-five minutes late. He left the lobby, the tap of his expensive shoes echoed off the high-gloss tiles and ma.s.sive gla.s.s doors leading to the office suite. Behind the gla.s.s walls was different from the reception area. Fabian adjusted the lapels of his designer suit as he walked side-by-side with the forty-something woman, making eye contact with each employee living the cube life. The same poor excuse for an existence would surely become his reality too if he actually got this job. Not the life he thought he'd have when he was a Harvard MBA student. On a good note, most of the women he pa.s.sed were decent-looking. Some were above average. More to look forward to.

At the end of the labyrinth of hallways emerged a frosted gla.s.s door taller and wider than all the other doors. Next to it was a metal plate spelling "T. Robuchon".

The woman turned to him, a smile on her face. He gazed at her lips. "Miss Robuchon will see you now." She pushed open the door.

Miss Robuchon?

He nodded, the question hanging in his head as he walked across the threshold. The office was sterile, to say the least. Gla.s.s and metal. And cold. Even in the Houston summer, he felt a chill in that office. His gaze s.h.i.+fted to the left, and there he took in the entirety of Miss Robuchon who clearly was not Helene, his father's friend of more than thirty years.

"You're not Helene Robuchon." He nearly choked on his surprise to see her very grown-up daughter, Antonia. Could this woman be the same girl he went to school with so long ago? He barely remembered her.

She stood before him, straight as a pin. The small, demure woman wore a conservative white pencil skirt and matching b.u.t.ton down blouse, probably silk by the way it rippled and s.h.i.+mmered under the lighting. Fabian was so taken aback, he couldn't decide if she was the kind that knew the drill or not. She looked like someone who created the drill. It made him enthusiastic about the interview. She turned her face for a moment, her chocolate brown hair kissed with caramel streaks whipped over her shoulder. When she turned back to him, her full red lips were pressed into a line. And he probably looked like a d.a.m.ned idiot staring at her. Get it together, Pallis.

Sparkling dark eyes captured him. They were powerful. Standing there, tiny as she was, authority spilled from her pores. He needed a minute to contain himself, and that never happened.

Her smooth, cultured voice fell from her lips like music. "You may call me Miss Robuchon."

She moved gracefully to her desk, which was far too big for her. As she sat, her blouse parted a bit to show a tan collarbone. Dear G.o.d. A ripple of l.u.s.t shot through his body. s.h.i.+t. She'd barely said a couple of words to him and he was ready to pop off.

"I apologize, I was expecting ... something else," he stuttered, trying to look smooth as he lunged to the chair across from her desk. Only a rookie would risk pitching a tent in that moment. A rookie he was not. His most pressing task was to stop looking at her chest.

She watched him intensely for a response when he caught her gaze again.

In a second flat, her gaze dropped to his lap. Her cheeks flushed immediately.

"What were you expecting?"

s.h.i.+t, she saw. "I meant I was expecting someone else."

"Ah," she said, leaning back in the colossal leather chair. "My mother."

Since when did Helene have a daughter who looked like that? "Yes, your mother."

He needed to get it together. Attractive women surrounded him all the time. What the h.e.l.l was his problem? Fabian had to remind himself how good he was with women. Very good. In fact, he was an expert. He knew how to talk to women. He knew how to make them swoon. But, holy s.h.i.+t, he was on the verge of swooning himself. Which was disconcerting.

And infuriating.

"Our parents are good friends. I should ream out my father for not setting up a playdate for us, I'd remember you a lot better if he had." Enter that Pallis charm. By the look on her face, she wasn't impressed.

A delicate hand danced over the desktop, pulling a piece of paper closer to her. She read from it, not acknowledging him, which probably was for the best. "Harvard grad, I see. The MBA program." She didn't look up for a reaction. "Also a Harvard undergrad with a bachelor's in bioengineering. That's impressive. We invest in bio-tech and medical device companies."

"Yes." It's all he could articulate. More and more, he wanted the job. It was probably a good idea to say as little as possible.

Finally, she lifted her gaze to his. "Yes, your father and my mother are very good friends. And if you remember, I went to boarding school in Atlanta after elementary."

"Oh, right. I remember that now. The out-of-state boarding school thing, not that our parents are friends." He groaned.

"I know my mom was looking forward to interviewing you, the 'Pallis kid'. Her words." She smirked.

Fabian didn't care for that comment. "I a.s.sure you I'm no kid." He was gaining more control.

"Clearly." She turned her attention to the paper in front of her once again. "And don't worry, you don't have to remember me, but I am very aware of who you are."

His ears tingled. "Oh, really? Do tell me who I am."

"What you do in your personal life doesn't concern me." She pinned him with her stare. Judgmental and all. She'd held a pen tight in her fist.

He didn't like where the conversation was going. Houston society wanted the bad boy story. Being a trust fund playboy was more exciting to talk about. Time to make the sale. "I guarantee I can do this job better than any other candidate you have lined up. As you can see, I did intern for a semester in London during my business program and I was also an engineering intern for two summers during my undergrad. You might as well tell me where my cube is."

Her eyebrow quirked up, a smirk on her face. "You're that confident?"

"I am that confident." His control was restored, as was the flaccid state of his erection that nearly ruined the interview.

Surprisingly, she remained calm, just unreadable enough to drive him crazy. Her eyes never left his. She was toying with him and that didn't suit. "The person I hire will take my orders without question or comment."

"I'm sure that won't be a problem as long as I don't have questions or comments in regards to your orders."

She steepled her fingers under her chin, elbows against the desk. "Luckily I am unlike my mother."

"How so?" Their stare intensified.

Dropping her hands to the desk, she said, "If I were my mother, that would have been the end of the interview."

He straightened, managing the conflicting emotions making his body hot. She was d.a.m.n c.o.c.ky and d.a.m.n gorgeous. He wanted to hate her, but instead found himself growing more attracted to her as their apparent standoff continued. He watched her mouth, still parted from speaking. "It's good thing you're not your mother then."

She looked away. Pallis-1, Robuchon-0.

Several seconds later, she continued. "I will be acting CEO for the time being and, like my mother, I am very serious about the health of Robuchon Investments. I won't tolerate an a.s.sistant who doesn't believe in our mission or adheres to our policies."

"That seems fair." He sensed there was much more to the "acting CEO" situation than she was letting on.

"As my a.s.sistant, I will need you to be at my every beck and call. I will need you to keep tasks straight. Keep everything straight, in fact." She stood, and his eyes moved with her tiny curved hips as she walked over to the gla.s.s wall overlooking downtown Houston. She continued, still peering out the window. "It sounds very broad, but flexibility is key." Just then she turned to face him, their gazes met again. "I need you to be flexible."

Flexible. That was all she needed to say and he was s.h.i.+fting in his seat again, conjuring up all the ways he wanted her to be flexible. Doggie and reverse cowgirl were the top positions that came to mind. "I guarantee I can be flexible. But I'll need you to be flexible too, as my employer."

Lightly, she cleared her throat. "Thank you, Mr. Pallis, for coming in."

I just f.u.c.ked that up. He stood tall with the acceptance he'd bombed the interview. "No, thank you, Miss Robuchon."

Deep breaths. Toni didn't bother to get up and walk the arrogant Fabian Pallis to the door. If she had, he might notice her weak knees, which she wasn't inclined to show the likes of him. He was much better looking in person than she thought he'd be-or hoped. Plus, he carried this larger-than-life masculine energy that both attracted and annoyed her. Perhaps that was his best behavior. If so, she was in for some turbulence. She could easily see how he'd make a woman crazy. He'd made plenty of women insane, from what she'd heard. A friend of a friend had been dumped by him the summer before and still hadn't gotten over him. What kind of magical moves did he have to inspire such longing?

Toni looked at her new business cards on a tiny tripod next to her computer. Antonia Robuchon, Acting CEO. The t.i.tle was laughable. At least it was to the eight executives who tolerated her presence. She was only twenty-five years old and not at all prepared for what had landed on her lap. To think of why she suddenly found herself acting CEO made her sad. Sad enough to let a tear fall down her cheek.

Toni picked at the small solitaire diamond necklace she wore as a thought came to her. The very thought that haunted her since she'd become acting CEO almost a month ago. Her mother would certainly die. Most died of pancreatic cancer. Toni wondered how much more her life would change when that happened. Already she'd forged a wall around herself, making her tough. Sometimes she didn't recognize herself with the hard exterior. Many times she wondered when someone would call her out.

The intercom buzzed, startling her from the deep thoughts. Disoriented, Toni blinked to get her bearings. "Yes?"

"Miss Robuchon, Mr. Pallis has been input into the system."

Toni nodded to herself. That was the plan. She had no choice in the matter. Fabian Pallis would get the job whether he deserved it or not. And the kicker was she couldn't fire him easily. He'd have to fornicate on the reception desk with an employee during business hours for him to get fired. Bottom line-she was stuck with him. For a while at least. A month? A year? She wasn't sure.

"Please inform him in the morning him he's been hired."

In yoga cla.s.s that night Toni was less stable than usual. She couldn't find balance to save her life, but sweated profusely if that was any kind of a triumph. Her mantra went something like this: I am a Robuchon. I am tough as nails, and I will overcome all obstacles. Letting her family down wasn't an option. When yoga cla.s.s ended, she stood outside the studio waiting for Miles, her driver. The Mercedes limo wasn't where it normally was. Marvelous.

Her cell phone buzzed in her bag. A message from Miles popped up.

Miles: Getting fuel. Will be there shortly. Please accept my apologies.

She pursed her lips.

Me: That should be done on your time, Miles. Please hurry.

Sounded like something her mom would say. Fitting, though. After all, she had essentially stepped in her place.

"T. Robuchon."

The familiar voice sounded from behind her. She turned, hoping the voice did not belong to Fabian Pallis. Unfortunately, it did. Double marvelous. He stood, towering over her, dressed in cycling gear.

She groaned, both embarra.s.sed and annoyed with seeing him. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" Taking him in, she couldn't deny he looked utterly gorgeous standing there like that. Her a.s.sistant was hot. He had no idea she was his boss, and she wasn't going to tell him then either. She frowned. Just because it was afterhours didn't mean she would soften toward him-or any of the employees. They must always be professional.

He laughed, adjusting his stance. Toni glanced down to his crotch, lifting her gaze just as quick. But he'd caught her checking him out. For G.o.d's sake. Her face grew hot while his stupid smile grew wider. The jerk. Sparkling green eyes accompanied that smile, which unfortunately made her insides swish about, activating feelings that had been dormant for the better part of a year. Why couldn't she stop looking at his crotch?

He laughed again, filling the awkward silence that stretched between her question and his answer. "I live on the sixth floor." He pointed above the yoga studio. The complex was the newest retail/residential s.p.a.ce in Midtown backed by the real estate leg of Pallis Enterprises. He openly checked her out in her own spandex outfit, eyes lingering on her bosom. "Yoga girl, I see."

She straightened her spine, tightening her throat column. He needed to know he couldn't be so familiar with her. "Mr. Pallis, I'm a woman, not a girl. And yes, I do enjoy yoga."

He chuckled, the smile meeting his eyes. "Clearly. Very much a woman." He winked. The memory of their earlier conversation came to her mind.

Toni's cheeks heated further with the inflection in his tone and the way his eyes narrowed with the insinuation.

"So what's the 'T' stand for?" She watched the curve of his lips as he spoke, and mirrored his tilted head.

"Toni."

"Toni..." he said, elongating the last syllable. He smiled at her, and she liked it.

d.a.m.n, he's good. She straightened. Nope, he wouldn't gain any power over her. "I'm known as Miss Robuchon at RI."

"We don't have to be so formal. I mean, I don't work for you, do I?" He winked.

Toni put a fist to her hip. "How dare you sweet talk me into divulging if you got the job or not."

He raised an eyebrow in that c.o.c.ky way she didn't like-all sure of himself. "I don't have to sweet talk a girl to do anything, Toni."

"Don't call me that." She was annoyed. Beyond annoyed, and knew full well her reaction was disproportionate to what happened, which was nothing really.

"I tell you what..." He smiled down at her, and she could have sworn he stepped close enough for her to smell the sweat off his skin. "If you become my boss, I'll call you Miss Robuchon. Deal?" Yes, he definitely was closer. He lowered his face to hers, and then she could smell his breath, which wasn't bad. It was sweet. And warm. Much like her body, ready to combust being so close to him.