The Dare Read online

  “Yes, a new challenge. Up the ante, if you will? I dare you to leave the reception desk and become my assistant. You’ll be working directly underneath me.”

  I hear the tiniest gasp pass her lips at the phrasing, and I want to chase that breath into her body, taste it from her lips. It’s the first real hint that she is as affected by me as I am by her. She’d said as much yesterday, but words can be selected for effect. This unconscious reaction is real. I can see the truth of it in her eyes.

  “Why would you do this?” she finally asks. “You have an assistant. Helen, in case you forgot.”

  “And I appreciate her. But I’m already overworking her and need the help,” I admit.

  “You mean you need my last name.” She seems resolved to my plan now, but not in the way I’d prefer.

  “To-may-to, to-mah-to.” I rise, walking toward the window. “Tell me, Elle. What reward did your friend offer you for yesterday’s dare?”

  She seems confused at the turn in the conversation, tilting her head. “She agreed to drinks, a mani-pedi, and because of the drama, my favorite cupcakes. Pampering, sugar, and alcohol to cure all that ails you,” she jokes flatly.

  “I see. So, drama aside, you two have fun with the silly little dares though, yes?” She nods slowly and I play my ace in the hole. “I find that I lack that type of lightheartedness in my life. Since coming to the States, I’ve been singularly focused on work, and that has served me well. But your incident highlighted just how boring I’ve become. It amused me.”

  Her eyes bug out. “Boring? You?” I shrug noncommittally. “You drive a Lotus, work as a top-level executive, and judging by your office, you probably live in a mansion with a pool and a butler. But I’m amusing?”

  Her irreverence is refreshing, and I get the feeling she couldn’t care less about my bank account or any fanciness my position and power afford.

  “You’re correct, but none of those things are . . . fun.”

  My brow furrows. “Or, well, they are, but I feel like there might be other types of fun I’m missing out on.”

  It’s enough of a confession. I don’t tell Elle about the conversations with Lizzie, my sister back home in London, where she good-naturedly nags me that my every update is all about work and she doesn’t care about boring old dudes in suits. I don’t tell Elle that the last three times I went out on the town, it was to the opera with tickets I won at a charity auction . . . and that I hate opera. I don’t tell Elle that I don’t have a single friend in the States to just catch a game or grab a pint with.

  I haven’t considered that I might be lonely, the one who stays late after everyone else goes home to friends and family. But that reality is glaring me in the face as I wait for Elle to agree to this plan.

  Her silence stretches as we maintain eye contact, neither of us giving in this time. I wonder what she sees when she looks at me.

  The late afternoon sun highlights her through the wall of windows. From here, she’s even more beautiful. Long blonde hair that’s pulled slightly up to show off the perfect swan’s curve of a neck, shoulders . . . and I’ll privately admit to my own little fetish, ears that look like an artist sculpted them.

  The idea of taking one of those perfect shells of soft skin and tugging on it with my teeth as I sink my cock balls deep inside her has me hard as a rock again.

  I pace back and forth along the windows in hopes of giving my stones some relief.

  I want her to be drawn to me, curious to peek behind the veil of the intensely private British executive that I know the company sees me as. And she’s a smart girl, knows this is a way out of the tediousness of a job she’s overqualified for.

  “I’ll take your silence as you are caught between a rock and a hard place. And that maybe I’m taking the biscuit a bit with you. But regardless, this is an opportunity for you.” I intentionally focus on what it could mean to her personally, not what it’ll mean to me or her father, as a way of influencing her.

  “And I have officially dared you to do it. So until you tell me to get on my bike, I’m going to assume you accept my . . . offer. When you come into work tomorrow, report to my office. Your first job will be to assist Helen with arranging a proper desk for you in this suite. All right?”

  Elle blinks, still saying nothing, then tilts her head. “Mr. Wolfe . . . I have to admit I only understood about three-quarters of what you said. What’s taking the biscuit? And why are you riding a bike?”

  I laugh, smiling hugely because she didn’t say no. “Just one of the skills you’ll learn working for me. If I see you in the outer office tomorrow by nine o’clock, I guess we’ll both know your answer. Choose wisely.”

  Chapter 8

  Elle

  "Chug a lug, bitch. I need that tongue a’ wagging pronto.” Tiffany swallows her mouthful of wine before sticking her own tongue out, wiggling it rather obscenely in my direction.

  “We’re not that kind of friends, Tiff,” I tease. But really, I’m trying to keep from discussing the topic at hand. The wine, my second glass, is working its magic, though, and it’s getting hard to play coy.

  I’ll blame my so-slight buzz for what happens next. “He wants me underneath him.”

  Tiffany’s glass nearly shatters as she slams it to the coffee table. Her feet find the floor as she stands up for the first time since we rolled into my apartment an hour ago. “What?”

  I smirk, knowing I got her good. “Well, sorta. He offered me a job as his assistant.”

  Tiffany is dancing around the room, in grave danger of tripping over her own two feet and my dirty laundry as she sings seriously off-key. “He wants you, he wa-a-a-ants you. Elle’s gonna get her some BBC!”

  My eyes bug out. “What? What does BBC have to do with anything, and how much porn are you watching these days? Hitting on me and using Pornhub lingo?”

  “Big British Cock,” she says with a nod like that’s obviously what that means. It so doesn’t. “And I’m not coming on to you, though I might consider it if you give me another glass of wine.” She drinks the last of it from her glass, raising it to ceiling in salute before pouring another. It’s a good thing she’s not driving home.

  As she pours, she says under her breath, “He wants you to take his dick-tation. Bet he tea-bags and eats crumpets at the same time.” She throws her head back, almost spilling her near-full wine as she closes her eyes and says louder in a fake English accent, “Oh, my, I’m arriving! Arriving now!”

  It takes me two blinks to realize she’s joking about coming and then I burst into laughter with her. We fall back on the couch, giggles erupting like a Coke and Mentos experiment is going off in our bellies.

  “Quite splendid, indeed,” I say through the snorts, my fake accent only slightly better than Tiffany’s.

  Eventually, we laugh ourselves out and the reality of the situation comes back to me heavily.

  “What am I going to do?” I whine.

  Tiffany’s look of ‘duh’ makes me feel like I’m missing something. “Work for him.”

  I copy the look back because she’s the one not seeing the big picture here. Before I can argue, she holds up a hand and lifts one perfectly sculpted brow, daring me to interrupt her. I wisely shut my mouth and give her the floor to speak.

  “You’re smart, he’s hot, so give it a shot.” She smiles messily. “I’m such a poet.” More clear-eyed, she says, “I’ll miss you and probably die of absolute boredom without you to make things interesting all day, but you need to grab this bull with both hands and hang on with all you’ve got.”

  “You think?” I say, knowing I’ve already decided. I’d decided before I even walked out of his office today, if I’m being truthful.

  Tiffany takes a sip, feigning casualness. “Does Daddy know yet?”

  I’m too deep in my own shit to give her any about the nickname this time. “No, and he’s going to kill me, or Colton, or both of us.” It’s a real fear, but more importantly, I confess, “I don’t want to hurt him.”


  She pats my hand consolingly. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll be Daddy’s baby girl once you’re busy with the Big Bad Wolfe. I’m sure Daddy will need all sorts of comforting and I’m pretty good at that.”

  She teasing, mostly. But then she goes one step too far. “After the wedding, do you want to call me Mother or Mom, you think?”

  I kick out a foot, catching her in her middle, and she oofs. “Shut your filthy mouth about my dad, woman. Never gonna happen.” She tilts her head, not meeting my eyes as if that makes her able to ignore my decree. “It had better not. Girl. Code.”

  She sighs, finally looking my way. “Fine. But how about if we trade tit-for-tat? You can break code and screw my brother, and in return, I get Daddy?”

  I shake my head, grossed out. “No, I’m not fucking Ace. That ship sailed a long time ago. And you’re not fucking my dad. New subject . . . what am I going to wear?”

  Fashion might be the only thing to get Tiffany’s attention off my dad, so I play that card intentionally.

  She gasps, setting her drink down to stand. Grabbing at my hand, she half-drags me to my bedroom before shoving me onto my bed. Thankfully, my glass isn’t quite as full as hers and I manage to not spill a drop.

  Sophie jumps up, mewling and hissing her displeasure at being disturbed upon her throne, also known as my bed. I hiss back, knowing I’ll pay for the disobedience later. There’s definitely a hairball in my future.

  I consider for a moment whether Tiffany’s making a play for me as she eyes me thoughtfully. But she throws open my closet and digs in, pulling out skirts and tops.

  If it’d been me, my room would’ve been a tornado of clothes in moments. Tiffany is methodical, though, lining up three tops that she eyes critically.

  “Sexy, but not overtly so. You don’t want to look like you got the promotion on your knees.”

  “On my ass, actually. I fell off the copy machine to the floor. It was a full Hello Kitty situation. Thank God I’d waxed recently.” I cringe, knowing that waxing is uncomfortable as hell, but flashing full bush at Colton Wolfe would’ve been a million times more painful.

  Tiffany smiles but remains focused. “Not chaste and matronly. You don’t want to look like a virgin unless that’s his kink.” She looks at me like I’d have any idea. Actually, I shake my head, pretty sure that’s not the way to his cock. Tiffany nods her agreement with my assessment. “But professional, of course.”

  “This one,” she decides, holding up a grey button-up shirt. It’s the softest cotton, which is why I bought it, but rather plain.

  “Really?” I question. She’s more of a fashionista than me, but that shirt screams bland and blah.

  She throws it at me. “Just you wait and see. Trust me, put it on.”

  I pull off my comfy T-shirt and put on the grey one Tiff’s selected, buttoning it up. In the mirror, I look a little Risky Business in just the shirt and socks. Well, maybe like a college girl’s Halloween slut version of the outfit because my braless nipples are quite apparent through the thin cotton.

  Hello, Headlights!

  Tiffany pulls a deep plum skirt from my closet next. “And this.” She instructs me to slip it on with a wave of her hand. I do as ordered while she digs around in my dresser. “Hose.” She hands me a pair of thigh-highs, my favorite ones, actually, that are the same dark purple as the skirt, but silky sheer with small polka dots for some flair. “And last but not least, jewelry. Get it?”

  She holds out a multi-strand necklace of faux pearls. “I am not wearing a pearl necklace to my first day on the job with Colton Wolfe.” The argument is useless in the face of Tiffany’s intelligence.

  “I dare you to.” Her brow quirks, knowing she’s got me. “He might not even get the reference. It’s probably called something else in London.” I eye the necklace warily. “The queen’s choker?” she postulates.

  I still don’t agree, but I carefully pull the hose up my legs. Tiffany hands me a pair of black heels, and I slip them on as I look in the mirror.

  “Hair up, but leave a few ringlets loose. Professional makeup with a burgundy lip, something that goes with but doesn’t match the skirt.” Tiffany gathers my hair in her hand, holding it on top of my head mimicking a bun. “You’ll have the sexy librarian look down pat, and something tells me that’s the way into Colton Wolfe’s . . . trousers.”

  “I’m not getting into his pants, Tiff.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Well, not till he gets in yours, of course. Ladies first. Always. It’s a sign of a true gentleman.”

  “He’s just using me to fuck with Dad. He told me as much, so don’t go getting your hopes up that this is some Cinderella story.” I sound sad about that, even to my own ears.

  Tiffany’s pity is loud and clear. “That’s what he said. And it’s probably even true. But it’s not the only reason. Look at yourself, girl.” She uses her grip on my hair to wiggle my head around, forcing me to look my reflection in the eye.

  “I feel like a traitor,” I say softly, not looking at Tiffany because I don’t want to see her reaction.

  She lets go of my hair, her mouth rounding. “Oh, honey, don’t. No one is going to think that, least of all your dad.” That she calls him that and not ‘Daddy’ shows me how seriously she’s taking this right now. It must be requiring all of her brain power, considering how many glasses of wine she’s put down.

  She blinks, and the seriousness is gone in favor of something she knows will persuade me more than sweet platitudes.

  “You’re a daredevil on an adventure. Elle Stryker, Secret Agent, working side by side with the dashing, debonair Colton Wolfe while secretly helping her father. You’re like one set of handcuffs and a nunchaku fight away from your own superhero action show, and I bet you could get Colton to help with the handcuff issue.” She winks knowingly.

  She’s right. There’s something about Colton that makes me want to know more—the way he dances between frosty formality and risqué entendre, the honest surprise at my confession that I’d been trying to get his attention, the bold declaration that he was going to use me. But what intrigues me the most was his quiet admission that he thinks he’s boring and in need of fun. I don’t share that with Tiffany, selfishly wanting to keep that tidbit to myself.

  Mine! My precious! my inner Gollum screeches.

  But this is a dangerous game I’m playing, one I’m woefully unprepared for. Everyone knows who my dad is, and as soon as word gets out about my new position, I’ll be the topic of every water cooler conversation.

  Fuck it, I think as I take the pearl necklace from Tiffany’s hand. Might as well give them something easy to nitpick.

  And she’s right. I do look fucking fabulous. Sexy librarian, indeed.

  Shush . . .

  The next morning, my guts have taken a flying leap off the top of the building, leaving me a nervous mess.

  Everything’s going great until my phone rings.

  “Tiff? What’s up?” She never calls me in the morning, both of us too in a hurry to have time to gab.

  A strange noise comes through the phone, and for a moment, I think she’s being murdered and somehow managed to butt dial me for help.

  “Are you okay? Do you need me to call 9-1-1 or come kick ass?” A horrible thought peeks out from the recesses in my mind and I grip the phone, whispering, “Did you kill Ace? Should I bring a shovel?”

  Considering we live in the city and any deserted land is well outside the city limits, I hope it’s not that. And mental note, I need to lay off the I Almost Got Away With It binge watching.

  That same strange noise happens again.

  “Early. I need you to come and get me early. It’s an emergency, Elle. As soon as possible, please.” I realize that sound is her growling angrily and sobbing uncontrollably at the same time.

  “Are you okay? Is Ace okay?” I venture. “Wait, don’t answer that. They might be listening.” I don’t know who they are, but if today is the first day of m
y Secret Agent spy show, I don’t want to start it by causing my bestie to incriminate herself. “I’m on my way.”

  “Thanks.” She must pull the phone from her ear because I hear her yell from a distance, “I am going to murder you in your sleep, Ace Young.” And then the line goes dead.

  At least I know he’s still alive right now. When the police interrogate me later, I can tell them that’s all I know.

  I quickly get dressed, thankful I don’t have time to second guess the outfit Tiffany pulled together for me. Not even the pearl necklace causes me to pause.

  I’m not surprised when Tiff isn’t outside as I pull up. She’s probably wrapping Ace’s body in rug or something. But like the loyal friend I am, I head to her door, which is noticeably absent of shitty loud rap music this time. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, though.

  The door swings open before I can knock. Tiffany is perfectly pulled together as usual . . . from the neck up. Hair? Curled into loose waves. Makeup? Instagram ready.

  It’s from the shoulders down that is an utter clusterfuck of morning-after-frat-party-refugee chic.

  “Is that a Rainbow Brite shirt? And where’s the rest of your skirt?” Dumb questions, I guess, because she glares behind her, where Ace sits sullenly on the couch.

  But seriously, her shirt is probably a girl’s large at best, her belly button and several inches of abdomen exposed beneath the hem, and her skirt would be better described as a thick belt. I can’t see her ass from this angle, but I bet if Ace looked up from the floor, he’d be getting more than an eyeful of his sister’s assets.

  Tiffany growls like an animal and Ace says, “I said I’m sorry.” I get the feeling he’s said it several times already. “I was trying to help.”

  “Your laundry,” Tiffany replies crisply. “Clean the piss off the toilet, wash the dishes, and take out the trash. All of it. Capiche?”

  “Yeah,” is his sad answer.

  “Before I get home.” With that, Tiffany shoves me out the door. “Let’s go, I have to go by the cleaners on the way to work, and then, I’ll have to get dressed in your car. I’ll probably flash truckers from here to the office when I take this joke of a skirt off. What was I thinking?” She gestures to the tiny scrap of fabric. “Why did you let me wear this thing in public? I thought we were friends. Friends don’t let friends go out looking like hoes, Elle.”