Maliciously Obedient Part 1

Maliciously Obedient.

by Julia Kent.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

Sometimes the best way to break the rules is to follow them...

Lydia Charles is determined to show her boss that getting caught reading Fifty Shades of Grey in the parking lot can help the company bottom line. Preparing for the biggest work project of her life, a romance book marketing campaign, she never expected that an actual romance would interfere with the business of romance. Tough and cynical, her last office relations.h.i.+p exploded in her face. No man was worth it.

Until Matt Jones, a boss she didn't know she had a a boss who took the Director of Social Media job she was gunning for a swept her out of a promotion and into her heart. Lydia didn't want to respect him, much less like him a but her body had a mind of its own, turning traitor in chance encounters. After a steamy elevator encounter that left her missing her panties a and most of her resolve a she decided that maybe it was time to let him get inside her a in more ways than one.

When he closed off to her unexpectedly, hurt feelings unleash a torrent of tension, with his order to follow his command triggering malicious obedience a following the exact letter of the law a in her. Interest from Matt's eccentric millionaire friend Jeremy left her hot and bothered, with threesome dreams that made her want to obey a but in the bedroom. Not the boardroom.

What Lydia didn't know was that "Matt" was really Michael Bournham, the CEO of the company, part of an undercover reality television stunt. Keeping his hands off Lydia's luscious curves was becoming an exercise in restraint, but what was harder? Keeping his heart from her. For Michael, Lydia's malicious obedience ignited a night of unbridled pa.s.sion in the office that made him forget everything a including the rolling cameras a until it was too late.

Chapter One.

Getting caught reading Fifty Shades of Grey in the parking lot at work wasn't the best way to meet her boss. A boss she didn't know she had. A boss who now had the job she had been waiting to apply for (and win) for the past year.

So Lydia Charles was having a very bad day. And it was only 7:32 a.m.

Tap tap tap. She looked up, startled, to find a pair of bright green eyes, shaded by his hand, peering in her the window of her little red Honda Fit. He caught the book cover and smirked. Oh, screw off, she thought, shoving her car key in the ignition and turning it on so she could roll down the window. As if it weren't bad enough being caught reading Mommy p.o.r.n (and she wasn't even a mom), her last fifteen minutes of freedom before enslavement as a corporate drone were being bothered by some anonymous guy.

Light brown hair with a nice wave to it and those crazy-green eyes. A perfect nose. Broad shoulders set off by one hand on his forehead, one on his hip, making his forearms pop a bit, the muscles from neck to shoulder joint stretching like an athlete's. It was like looking at one of those guys on television, an actor in a show you watch not for the plot, but for the eye candy with a spark of smarts and wit. If he told her he was a firefighter or a detective, she'd believe him. He had the look of a man who takes care of himself because he has to in order to function well at his hands-on job.

He works out, she surmised as the window scrolled down. Boring business casual uniform of Dockers and a b.u.t.ton down s.h.i.+rt. Couldn't see his shoes but she guessed something from Lands' End.

Middle management.

Which was one step above her. Gritting her teeth, she wondered what this was about.

"Hi. Could you please move your car?" A deep baritone voice with way too much authority gripped her gut, an internal reaction out of proportion to his request. That voice. He sounded like a s.h.i.+p's captain, or a commander in combat. Or the s.h.i.+ft leader at Denny's from college, the a.s.shole who thought that he was competing in the restaurant Olympics for every s.h.i.+ft and expected the moon for $2.63 plus tips.

And yet she couldn't help but begin to react, the breathless "Yes" nearly popping out involuntarily. Holding back, she wasn't even breathing for fear she would comply like some sort of skittish puppy, acting in deference to the incredibly unfounded request. Command, Demand? Who orders someone out of their parking spot? He smiled, the tight look of a man evaluating what to say next as seconds ticked by and she did nothing but stare at him.

Say something, Lydia. Say something. Anything. Don't let him undermine your confidence. Why does he need your parking spot?

"Why?" she asked, carefully cultivating a neutral tone, one of reasonableness without too much inquiry, as if she didn't give a f.u.c.k what he wanted but would be polite about it. She invoked her midwestern tone, casually acquired from being a Maine girl with parents who were from the midwest, the voice of newscasters and doc.u.mentary voice overs for s.e.xual hara.s.sment and government contract reporting requirements videos. Perfect.

"Because it's mine." He threw a thumb toward the top of the skysc.r.a.per. "Head office a.s.signed it to me."

Not the reaction she expected. She could guess his next move, predictable among these middle-management types, like a real-life version of Gary Cole's character in Office s.p.a.ce. Next, he would lean on the car and do that douchey "Yeah, well, I really need you to..." spiel.

Lydia was having none of it. She might be just an administrative a.s.sistant, the corporate equivalent of a dishwasher or a toll taker, but two years of this was enough. A master's degree in Gender Studies might be useless in the workplace, but here in the parking lot it meant everything. Backing down wasn't happening. He had no right to order her around and, by G.o.d, she wasn't going to let some stranger waltz into the parking lot before she'd seen had her morning coffee and kick her out of her d.a.m.n place.

"Why would the head office give you my parking spot? They're numbered." She pointed to the sign defiantly. His face remained neutral.

Instead of leaning on the car, he reached one golden arm in and aimed for her right hand. Of course he was perfectly, evenly tanned. Of course. "I'm Matt Jones. The new Director of Social Media. And this is my numbered spot."

Director of Social Media? "But, but, what? There is no Director of Social Media job here. Not yet, at least. They're announcing it soon, and a " A wave of cold horror hit Lydia. Director of Social Media. Director of Social Media? That was the job she was supposed to apply for! Except no one had told her that the job had been created yet, and now here stood the new hire?

He cut her off with that same commanding tone. "It's been filled. By me. And parking," he shook his head and looked around with an expression of exasperation, "is a ridiculous problem here, so while I respect your need to stay and, uh, read, I need this spot." Leaning forward, his eyes twinkled as he smiled, trying to charm her, his voice s.h.i.+fting from commanding to smooth.

It was working. The scent of his aftershave filled the car's interior. Musk and man and something with spice, an expensive scent that was far too sophisticated for a guy who was one parking spot ahead of her in the food chain at Bournham Industries. He held her gaze for too long, letting silence hang between them.

He was what her friend Krysta called a "playah."

And oh, how Lydia wanted to be played. She hated herself for it, but right now Mr. Director of Social Media, a guy who had, apparently, just gotten the job she had spent the better part of two years trying to prepare for, was stealing her parking spot, too.

All he needed to do next was p.i.s.s on her skirt and he could achieve the trifecta of humiliation.

And a part of her liked it.

"You are telling me that HR gave you the Director's job and handed off my parking spot?" she squeaked. The voice that came out of her sounded foreign. Tame. Rattled. She brushed a stray lock of her dark-brown hair and wished she'd spent more time on her appearance this morning. After a quick yoga session she just showered, threw her hair in a quick up-do, and tossed on her version of administrative business casual: a loose, flowing J. Jill outfit she got off the clearance rack and her ancient Danskins. She looked like a preschool teacher at a posh tot place instead of an ambitious, up-and-coming corporate do-bee vying for the Director of a Ah, h.e.l.l.

He pulled back and smiled, a look of triumph and mischief on his face. "Now you get it. And I didn't even have to buy you a coffee."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because you seemed to be a bit slow there, and I figured it might be caffeine deprivation. It is 7:30 a.m., after all." Half his mouth turned up in a grin as his brow furrowed. "Then again, maybe I interrupted you at the wrong time during your reading." Biting his upper lip, Mr. a.s.shole Matt Jones had the b.a.l.l.s to hide a laugh. As if she were supposed to be embarra.s.sed reading Fifty Shades. As if she cared what he thought. As if she were Anastasia Steele. As if a "Let me clear a few things up for you, Matt," she announced. Finally. There she was. The real Lydia, the one who didn't take s.h.i.+t like this. Attagirl. "First of all, I don't care what HR did with the parking situation. I won't take your word for it, because for all I know you're some creepy guy pulling a scam on me and if I get out of my car you'll take me to your dug out hole and lower lotion to me in a bucket, and three months from now you'll mail dehydrated parts of my body to my mother."

She took a deep breath and continued. "Second, if you really are the Director of Social Media, kicking your direct report out of her parking spot when you haven't even started your first day of work shows such extraordinarily terrible business instinct that I suspect you won't be around long enough to qualify for the matching 401k funding through your precious head office."

Eyebrows arched, now he did lean away. And cross his arms. Staring her down? She stared right back, working too hard to control her breath, trying not to let him see how rattled she was. He looked like a young Anderson Cooper. But straight.

Oh please let him be straight, she thought, then mentally slapped herself. Where did that come from?

He leaned in the window and reached for a strand of her hair. "Sorry, babe. Chianti and fava beans aren't on the menu. And if I were going to turn you into something edible, I wouldn't choose a dehydrator as my electronic item of choice." His eyes surveyed her body, not with wanton l.u.s.t or the gaudy need of a complete jerk, but with a practiced eye, taking his time as if he were the king of the world. As if he owned her.

As if he owned his time. And boy did he take it, seeming to doc.u.ment her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her nipped waist, the tight skirt that stretched across her knees in her seat, shoes kicked off and hose covering her pedicured toes. She could feel him note the seam of her panties, like a collector of fine wines, or of horses, as if she were a specimen. The V between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pinkened, her lungs filled with the scent of his skin, as if eager to inhale his dust, the lines between his eyes, the light freckles on his cheeks, the intelligence in his irises.

He was cataloging her. Taking inventory.

Until her own, defiant gaze caught his and she realized he wasn't objectifying her. She was letting herself think that, but what this guy, this Matt Jones, this interloper and usurper of jobs, was really doing was appreciating her.

And that was way, way more threatening than being demeaned.

"See you at the office a and don't forget to wash your hands when you're done with that." He let go of her lock and pointed at the book. Turning on one heel, he sauntered off, his tight a.s.s evoking a swoon in her that nearly made her growl with impotent rage and l.u.s.t.

The day was not going well at all as she stewed in her Red Car of Pain. And then she scrambled out as soon as the doors closed on Mr. Job Stealer, because she needed to get upstairs and see what his next move was.

No one ever came into work as early as Lydia. Her daily 7 a.m.arrival was something that helped preserve her sanity. Just having that extra hour, hour and a half, before people trickled in meant that she could get her work done, could browse the web, take care of her personal issues like bills or ordering things online and generally carve out a tiny little piece of time that was just for her. And that included reading.

Playing it cool, she stood in front of the fleet of elevators, pressing the b.u.t.ton for the one that covered her floor, and wondered where he was. By the time she got to her cubicle she realized he wasn't there yet, probably in Human Resources torturing one of those women with his arrogance. He carried it like a stick, poking people with it.

Stockinged feet propped up on her desk, leaning back on her ergonomically-correct chair and using it improperly, with the first volume of Fifty Shades of Grey opened wide in her hands, she let herself sink into the plot. Uh, yeah a the plot. It's not that the book was particularly compelling, or that it was particularly well-written, it was the hottest trigger in publis.h.i.+ng in ages, and she needed to practically memorize it for a huge project she was working on a one that might get her promoted out of admin h.e.l.l and into, well, this guy's job.

d.a.m.n it.

A m.u.f.fled tap tap tap announced his presence as he pseudo-knocked on the cloth-covered wall of her cubicle. He was the most charming a.s.shole she'd seen in the past two years. And the only reason she knew it had been two years was because two years ago, right after she'd been hired, she had actually met the CEO of the company, Michael Bournham.

This guy looked just enough like him to make her recall the encounter she'd had, though the new guy looked much younger. Where Bournham was known as the "silver fox" for having gone completely silver sometime in his early thirties, this guy had dark brown hair, green eyes (unlike Bournham's famous sparkling sapphires) and a look of arrogance that was slightly watered-down compared to the CEO.

Same gorgeous bod, with that cobra-like back that can only come from hard manual labor or intensive personal training workouts. This guy was probably a laborer. He walked in like he owned the place, and yet the clothing was off the rack. More than off the rack, probably cheap T.J. Maxx or Marshalls cast-offs. Dark-blue dockers fit nicely in all the right places, a cheap white polo s.h.i.+rt. Shoes from Lands' End. The essence of business casual for the middle managers who worked like interchangeable drones in the corporation where she currently sat, in her own hive, and now was being stared at a no, make that stared down a by someone she'd never met before, but who acted like he was in charge.

"Excuse me?" he said, as if she had violated some sort of norm that she was unaware of. She was none-too-happy to be called out as if she had somehow broken a rule. Lydia put the book down, careful to make sure that the cover was facing away from him, and yet also noting the smirk on his face as he followed her movements and stared at the book's back.

"Excuse me," she replied, hands on hips, standing as tall as she could considering her stockinged feet and her obvious surprise at being interrupted by him again. She squashed the impulse to say "Can I help you?" because right now she was not exactly feeling helpful and this guy was glaring her down as if she were the transgressor a and not he.

"It's my first day here, so I thought I'd come in early and get the lay of the land. Do you have a key to my office?" he asked, as if she had any idea what he was talking about. Parking spot stealer, job stealer, and now he expected her to help him through the first day on the job? Oh, h.e.l.l no. HR wiped b.u.t.ts. Not her.

She stiffened, stared him down, working very hard to control the impulse to be friendly, and said, "How do I know you're the new Director of Social Media and not some guy who randomly tries to steal parking spots?"

He studied her, eyes roving across her face, down to her chest, taking in her curves with a look of possessiveness and a lazy, leisurely approach that made her body flush hot, heart race, and skin tingle in the most unprofessional of ways. Some nerve! Lydia stared at his eyes, willing him to give up and look at her anywhere but, oh, there. And there. And to stop making her think about her own a He finally smiled, a grin of exasperation more than of openness or of acknowledgment that he was being evasive or confusing. "I told you. I'm Matt Jones. I'm the new Director of Social Media. Obviously my arrival hasn't been announced to all the employees. And who are you?"

"Anastasia Steele. Nice to meet you." Her tone said it was anything but.

Oh, how he wished he were Christian Grey right now. Inside that woman's head, in her hands, the object of her rapt attention and her breathless s.e.xual fantasies. Inside her head and inside her panties. Of all the times not to be a billionaire. He remembered her, alright. Lydia. Lydia something. He met her a when was it? Almost two years ago.

It was at some new employee orientation program, and Human Resources had told him it would be good for employee morale if he attended. Nothing more than some boring, corporate moment that endless workers and countless organizations over the years had partic.i.p.ated in, at the orientation he had been bored to tears a with one exception. Her. A fresh faced, slightly-exotic-looking, cheerleader type, and Mike had been happy to attend if it meant he got to stare at her from across the room.

The woman he had been dating at the time made Snooki look like a genius, and he could tell from Lydia's bored expression that the mindless, numbing procedures carefully outlined by the Human Resources professional who genuinely thought that if she spoke to everyone like Miss Molly from Romper Room they'd understand better, had driven the poor young woman to a point of complete and utter underwhelm.

Her lidded eyes, her obvious contempt for the presentation and more so for the treatment that she received at the hands of his own employees made him follow up, very briefly, after the session and chat with her. She looked like something out of a cliche, no a a stereotype a of a high school cheerleader combined with a plus-size, dark-haired Barbie. And yet this one was smart, so when he had asked her what her new position was at Bournham Industries, she paled and stammered, "I'm an administrative a.s.sistant here."

"That's it?" he had replied, shocked that someone so intelligent would be in such a low position in his company.

Wrong question. Her face changed instantly, and now he was the target of her contempt.

"Well, we can't all be the CEO, now can we?" she'd answered, a tentative smirk on her face fighting with a look of horror at her own smart mouth.

He was taken aback but not offended. More amused than anything. Lately, he had found himself depressed by being surrounded by 'yes men' who seemed eager to please but also equally desperate to avoid conflict. This one a she had some bite. Why on earth had human resources hired her as some administrative a.s.sistant?

"No, you're right, we can't all be the CEO of Bournham Industries. Sorry, that job's already taken." Big grin. "But what I'm asking is why someone obviously so intelligent, like you, is in an entry-level position."

Her eyes flashed with an emotion he couldn't discern. "Why don't you ask your own HR department that question, Mr. Bournham?" And with that she turned on her heel and walked away, her brown locks bouncing behind her against the middle of her back, her pencil skirt flapping at the backs of her knees, her long, thick calves tight in her perfectly professional high heels.

That a.s.s. Shapely and lush, all curves and softness, he'd been mesmerized as she strode away, temporarily oblivious to the fact that she'd bested him.

Lydia. Lydia...Carson? Cranston? Chapman? What? What had been her last name? Now he sat here, in his new middle management office after getting a sour look and a set of keys tossed at his head, a job that HR had been trying to create for the corporation for years and that he had stonewalled, because social media didn't need a dedicated full-time employee.

Besides, his company was bloated enough. He had already cut half of his executive staff, much to the shock of the financial pages, and to the joy of investors who very much appreciated having profits rise six percent after that measure. Creating new jobs was an important function of Bournham Industries, but right now the director of social media was not an integral position.

Yet here he was "Matt Jones," the new director of a job he never intended to create and certainly never intended to fill with his own shoes.

His new office smelt like Pledge and mildew. How was that possible on the thirty-whatever floor? His fingers splayed out on the desk in front of him, he felt the cheap laminate and was transported back twelve years ago, when he took over Bournham Industries from his dad, then located in a tiny little strip mall back in his home town. Who knew that information management and websites would turn into a media conglomerate so big that he rivaled the size of corporation in the Fortune 500 three years ago?

Ever since then everything had skyrocketed, from his company's potential IPO, to his love life, to this social media viral push that seemed to dominate everything in his personal life, from tracking what he ate to tweeting who he f.u.c.ked.

Even this venture, pretending to be "Matt Jones," was all part of a media strategy. When the producers of "Meet the Hidden Boss" came to visit him two months ago he waved them away, telling his own administrative a.s.sistant, Joanie, to tell them he was busy. Persistent, the producers called, emailed, somehow got a hold of his personal cell phone number and began calling and texting, tweeting, Facebooking, and pretty much did everything they could to get their hands on him. So he gave them five minutes.

In those five minutes, he reluctantly had to admit to himself, they convinced him. With one phrase: twenty percent increase in sales.

"It really is that simple, Mike," Jonah Moore had told him. Jonah was one of those scrabbling young Hollywood filmmaker types, the kind of guy you might apply the word "hipster" to if he were fifteen years older, but now he was just someone who had Steven Spielberg ambitions a with infomercial reality. Mike imagined that being a producer for "Meet the Hidden Boss" was a step up for Jonah, and the guy spoke with such a rapid fire cadence that Mike found himself thinking the producer was part hummingbird.

"The premise is simple, Mike," Jonah had explained. "We hide cameras in your company for six weeks, we doc.u.ment every single move you make as the 'hidden boss' in the episode. You're the real CEO of Bournham Industries and now you're going to create some middle management job, and disguise yourself, for those six weeks. We film everything, and then we put together solid footage for the forty-three minutes of the television episode that your company is featured in."

Mike shook his head and already started ignoring them until Jonah said the magic words. "And our a.n.a.lysis shows that companies who partic.i.p.ate in 'Meet the Hidden Boss' see sales increase by twenty percent or more within the month after the episode first airs."

Ding! That did it. The magic words. Mike had reached forward to press a b.u.t.ton on his telephone. "Joanie, please call ahead and tell the pilot to hold the jet for me. This meeting's going to take longer than I expected." The look on Jonah's face had been priceless.

"We're glad to have you on board, Mike," Jonah had answered, small, dark eyes narrow as his face expanded with a grin that didn't make its way to those eyes, the calculation cold and obvious. The younger man didn't care, and Mike knew he didn't care that it was laid out for him to see. Jonah's coup was in getting a "yes," and nothing else mattered. Mike knew exactly how that felt, because he had been like Jonah more than a decade ago, and now he was sitting exactly where Jonah wanted to be.

Atop a fortune. Soon to be $1.1 billion in personal a.s.sets, to be specific.

Specificity was key. He knew Jonah knew everything about his a.s.sets, his business moves, his plans. h.e.l.l, the man probably knew how much he could dead lift and the exact weight of his morning s.h.i.+t, down to the ounce. Admirable, really a luring him in with that comment about the twenty percent increase in sales. Right now, Bournham Industries needed the revenue, of course, but more than anything Mike wanted to take control of the relentless social media buzz that swirled around him. People tweeted and tumblred and Facebooked and videos about him went viral, the whole world gone mad inside the little boxes, from mobile phones to laptops, that seemed to dominate everything.

While he couldn't control whether people talked about him, he could ma.s.sage the message. Give them something big, like an episode of "Meet the Hidden Boss," and at least he was the one spoon-feeding what he wanted them to have.

Being a victim wasn't part of his repertoire.

Becoming "Matt Jones," an alter ego he couldn't have invented any better than Jonah had, was remarkably easy. A group of hair and makeup people had transformed him into a man who resembled a younger nephew, if he'd had one. His silver hair, a hallmark since he was in his late twenties, was gone, replaced by a dye job that returned him to a hair color he hadn't seen since early college. The bright baby blues he was known for had to go, replaced by green contact lenses that made Ireland's famous hills look dim. His eyes glowed like something radioactive, like The Green Lantern as a contestant on The Bachelor.

All of his bespoke suits and carefully-chosen fine clothes were gone. Scratchy polos, coa.r.s.e b.u.t.ton down s.h.i.+rts and Dockers replaced his wardrobe. To fit the part, he had to look like a guy who shopped at the mall. All he needed was a beat-up old Toyota Corolla and he fit the part of a guy ten years out of college, still struggling with student loans, and who had just landed his first decent management job.

"Perfect!" Jonah had announced as they convened late last night. "We have cameras in your office, in the outer office where the administrative a.s.sistant sits, in all the hallways leading to your office in social media, and in your rental car. If you're here at work, you'll be tracked."

"But once we're off set, it's done, right?" A confirmation. An affirmation. A bit of a power play, too, as Mike made it clear he wouldn't be recorded without his permission.

Jonah had shot him a funny look. "If you're in the office, cameras are rolling."

"If I'm on my way home or elsewhere, they're not." That wasn't a question. Mike's blood pressure shot up, his chest tightening with anger. This wasn't the original deal.

Jonah had bristled. "No! Of course not. So here's the first script." He had handed Mike a thick stack of bound pages.

"Script?" Why would a 'reality television show' need a script? He wasn't an actor, and had a.s.sumed nothing was staged. No time in any day for learning lines, either.

"You need to manufacture conflict sometimes. So we'll start by having you steal the administrative a.s.sistant's parking spot."