Page 62 of Dirty Little Secrets
“Yes,” he says, wiping a drop of apple cider off my chin as I take a sip. “She was at the club the first time I brought you there.”
I blink, unable to recall meeting anyone other than Quin. “I don’t—” My eyes spring open. “Oh my God…” She was the woman in The Pit. That was Miranda? Dots-her-i’s-with-hearts, Miranda? “That is…”
“Don’t be so surprised, Miss Jones,” Damon says, placing his hand on my thigh. “You’ll soon learn that people are more twisted than they appear.”
I shake my head. “But she’s so…peppy.”
Damon releases a small laugh. “One does not need to have a dark demeanor to enjoy being whipped.” My mouth dries, thinking about Miranda in that cage, how small and helpless she looked, how she begged, how the light and spark in her eyes contradicted the pain of her surroundings. “What are you thinking about, Miss Jones?”
“Nothing that’s appropriate for a work function,” I say, willing my cheeks to cool down. “Let’s change the subject. My team is about halfway through collating accounts for the audit.”
“I don’t want to talk about work, Miss Jones,” Damon rasps, sidling closer to me. He dips down, feathering soft kisses down the slope of my neck. “Tell me what you’re thinking…”
Closing my eyes, I squirm in my seat, heat instantlyigniting in my core. “Damon.” I swallow, stifling a moan as he nibbles on my ear. “We can’t. We’re almost?—”
“Shhh…” he breathes, bunching up the tulle and silk of my dress, my legs spreading for him. “Just enjoy this, Emery.” His thumb glides against my panties, flicking my clit. “And don’t worry…” He dips a finger inside me. “This time I’ll let you come.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, knowing it’s what he needs to hear to make me taste heaven. “Sir.”
THE FLASHING LIGHTS
DAMON
The flashing lightsof the paparazzi blind me momentarily as I step out of the limo, offering my hand to Emery. “Ready?”
She hesitates for a second, swallowing. She should be relaxed right now. Sedated. I gave her what she wanted, what she needed, and yet the anxiety has returned to her eyes, clouding them in fear.
“Let’s go,” she finally says, releasing a steady breath and steeling herself. Her fingers briefly glide against mine as she gets out of the limo, but then that’s it. No more contact. She looks back at me. “Well?”
I can’t stop myself. I can’t help it. Placing my hand on the small of her back and guiding her down the red carpet, I whisper, “Remember to smile.”
With her hands elegantly clasped together, sheworks the cameras like a professional as we make our way up the carpeted stairs toward the ballroom.
Unease tugs at me. She’s a good actress, talented in her ability to play the part. All the anxiety she exuded in the limo dissipates, almost as if it was fake. But it wasn’t. This is. This version she’s presenting to the media, to the reporters, to fellow guests. All eyes are on her. And I fucking hate it. I’m serving her up on a silver platter, giving her beauty and grace a stage on which to shine.
“Mr. Cavanaugh! Mr. Cavanaugh! Darren Keller from The Times! Where have you been the last two years?” A reporter shouts, waving his hand. “How are you handling the recent plummet of CVH stocks?”
I try to ignore him. I want to ignore him, but Javier’s voice floods my thoughts. The more they speculate, the more they write their own version of the truth, the more my company suffers. I veer closer to the swarm of media, Emery shooting me a skeptical glance.
“Come with me.” My tone is desperate. I can’t do it alone. I need her beside me. She hesitates. “Please.” She blinks at me, taken aback by the rarity of my request, but gives me a nod. “Thank you.”
The reporter holds out his microphone as Emery and I approach the media pit.
“I know there have been many rumors circulating regarding my whereabouts the past two years,” I say, keeping my tone even, verging on charismatic, just like I was taught. “And I hate to disappoint the people, but no, I didn’t join a cult, I was notkidnapped and held captive for ransom by terrorists, and I definitely wasn’t in jail.” I offer the reporter a disarming smile. “I’m afraid the truth isn’t as juicy as you’d hope. I—”God, I hate this.“I needed time. I’m sure anyone who has ever lost a family member knows what I’m talking about.” Guilt flashes across the reporter's face. “I lost my entire family. I was grieving. That’s what I’ve been doing the past two years.”
“We’re sorry for your loss,” the reporter mutters. “And, uh, and the company?—”
“Cavanaugh Industries is thriving,” I state, glancing at Emery, the heat from her body serving as a security blanket against the hyenas. “We’ve recently made some strategic personnel changes that I believe will further enhance our growth and success in the coming months.”
“Miss Jones, you previously worked for CJ Piers, is that correct?” the reporter asks. Emery stiffens beside me but nods. It’s public information but unsettling that they already know who she is nonetheless. “What incentives did Mr. Cavanaugh offer you to leave a successful firm like CJ Piers and join Cavanaugh Industries?”
My blood boils at the not-so-subtle jab at my company’s health. Bastard.
Emery’s gaze flits to me, glowing with the dirty truth of her transfer. I lift a curious brow, interested to see how she’ll reply. Saying she was coerced and bribed with endless pleasure hardly seems like an appropriate response.
She gives the reporter a sly and flirty smile.What is she doing?
“Success is subjective, Mr. Keller,” she coos. “I didn’t need much incentive to leave Piers.” She shoots me a bold look. “Given how well Mr. Cavanaugh takes care of his employees, it was an easy decision.”
