Bought by the Boss Read online

  Bought by the Boss

  Layla Valentine

  Contents

  Bought by the Boss

  1. Maria

  2. Hunter

  3. Maria

  4. Maria

  5. Hunter

  6. Maria

  7. Hunter

  8. Maria

  9. Hunter

  10. Maria

  11. Hunter

  12. Maria

  13. Maria

  14. Hunter

  15. Maria

  16. Hunter

  17. Maria

  18. Hunter

  19. Maria

  20. Hunter

  21. Hunter

  22. Maria

  23. Hunter

  24. Maria

  Epilogue

  Take My V-Card

  Introduction

  Prologue

  More Books in this Series

  Bought by the Boss

  Copyright 2018 by Layla Valentine

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Maria

  Disbelief grips my heart. My jaw drops open. “You have to be kidding me.”

  The woman stares at her computer, studiously avoiding my gaze. She taps away at the keyboard, speaking as her manicured nails sparkle under fluorescent lights. “It looks like your temp agency received notice of the change two days ago—the seventeenth. Maybe you should give them a call?”

  Disbelief turns to panic. No. This can’t be happening. I have bills to pay! I was counting on this work.

  I dig my phone from my purse. “I’ll be calling them, all right.”

  Before turning away from her, I launch one last attempt. “You’re absolutely sure you don’t have anything else available? I have lots of customer service experience. I’m good with computers.”

  She arches an eyebrow and finally looks at me. “Honey, this is San Bravado. Everyone’s good with computers. And no, we don’t have anything else available for your skill level at this moment.”

  She emphasizes the words “skill level” as if my two years of community college are worth nothing.

  My shoulders begin to slump, but I catch myself and straighten my spine, raise my chin. I refuse to let her make me feel small.

  “Thank you for your time,” I say, not meaning a word of it.

  She nods curtly.

  I spin on my heel and high-tail it from the HR office.

  Once out in the bright California sunshine, out from under the woman’s demeaning gaze, I let my shoulders fall again. I’m too tired to hold them up.

  BioTech’s shiny front facade is ringed with palm trees and luxurious planters, bursting with colorful gladiolas and dahlias. Interspersed with the landscaping are polished black granite backless benches. I lower myself down onto a free one and burrow my face into my hands.

  It’s only one in the afternoon, but it’s been a long, humiliating day. Not only did I show up to a temp position that was already filled, but I also wasted an entire morning trying to clear up the mess.

  I sigh and then finally dial my temp agency. As usual, I’m directed via a voice-recorded menu to leave a message for my coordinator. It’s a struggle not to unleash some of my pent-up frustration onto the coordinator, but I manage to hold back. Complaining over the phone will get me nowhere. Besides, no matter how desperate I feel about my upcoming bills and lack of employment, things could be worse.

  I think of my older sister, Camila, and the news she delivered to me the week before. A chill passes over my body, and I shudder despite the sunny weather. Things could be a whole lot worse.

  My phone is still in my hands. I dial my best friend, Jemma. She answers on the second ring. “Maria! What’s up, girl?” She’s breathing hard, and I hear the whir of machinery in the background.

  “Are you busy?” I ask.

  “On the Stairmaster at ReFuel. Jackson has me doing a killer glutes workout. My ass is on fire.”

  “And that’s…good?” I ask, guessing that having a burning butt is a good thing though I’ve never had enough spare time to get as into workouts as my friend. I get enough of a workout just earning my keep in the ever-more-expensive San Bravado urban jungle.

  “You know it. What’s wrong? You sound upset.”

  I sigh and listen for a moment to the sound of machinery. I can picture Jemma at her favorite fitness studio, glowing as she sails up the moving Stairmaster in the perfect workout outfit. Her sleek blond ponytail is probably swishing back and forth with every step.

  Jemma and I are opposites in many ways. She’s sunny, outgoing, adventurous. As the daughter of a hotel mogul, she’s never had to worry about money in her life. I’m dark-haired, serious, and reserved. I’ve also been working minimum wage jobs since I was old enough to push a mop.

  I worked at one of her father’s hotels. At eighteen I was promoted from the cleaning staff to a receptionist. Jemma was also working the front desk. After learning that she loved to create art, I convinced her to take a class at the community college with me. Jemma insisted that I changed her life, and we’ve been friends ever since.

  “It’s the temp job,” I say. “Remember the one I told you about, at BioTech? I showed up at seven this morning, and there was already someone at my desk.”

  “No way!” Jemma cries out. Then, “How many more? Eight?” It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to her personal trainer, Jackson, not me. “Jackson, you are killing me today!” I hear her giggle flirtatiously. She’s been wanting to get with Jackson for months now. Given Jemma’s track record with guys, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet

  “It was embarrassing,” I say, trying to recapture her attention. “I am so over this temping shit. I need to find something more reliable. This drains me, you know?”

  “I know. If I was talking to my dad, you know I would find you something at a hotel.”

  “You two are still not talking? Jem, how long is this fight going to last?” I can’t hide the disappointment from my voice. Jemma doesn’t know how lucky she is to have a father—even if he isn’t perfect. I think of all the times my mom struggled just to put food on the table for me and my sister. But I can’t lecture my friend about this. I’ve tried before, and she simply won’t listen.

  “No,” she says. “Oh my God, Maria, he sent me the worst email. Well—it had his signature, but I’m sure his personal secretary wrote it. I’ll tell you all about it. Want to grab coffee tomorrow morning?”

  “Yeah.” It strikes me that I have nothing else on my schedule for the morning. Fear over my unemployment once again rips through me.

  Jemma is saying something to Jackson again. “Almost done? Great! Yes, towel please.”

  I imagine Jackson helping Jemma towel off. Those two are definitely going to hook up soon, it’s just a matter of when. I wonder briefly if I’ll be hearing about it in the morning, over lattes at our favorite cafe. Thinking of catching up over coffee, I recall the last time we sipped espresso-flavored drinks. Jemma had been all excited about setting me up on a blind date.

  “Hey, remember the date you set me up on with the guy from ReFuel?” I ask.

  “Right! Mike. He is…such a…good guy. Super hunky. Oh yeah! That’s…tonight isn’t it.” Her breathing is mo
re labored now.

  “I think I have to cancel. I just don’t—”

  “You can’t cancel,” she says, predictably.

  “Jemma, I’m totally drained. Today sucked. I’m running on empty.”

  She’s breathing so hard now that her words come out in short bursts. “All the more…reason to…meet him and have some fun!”

  I’m about to say that the most fun I’m up for is curling up on the couch with a pint of ice cream and a tear-jerker on the tube when she interrupts me.

  “You are going on that date, Maria. It’s been months since you went out with a guy. You’re in a rut… Oh, that’s eight minutes? Hallelujah!” The mechanic whirring stops, and I hear her gulp down some water.

  I take the opportunity to defend myself. “I’ve been stressed. Ever since I got fired from my last office gig things haven’t been easy. It’s hard to just pay rent and buy my groceries. I don’t have time to—”

  “Listen to me. Sitting around in your apartment feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to get you out of your situation. Think of dating as networking. Maybe Mike will know someone who’s hiring. He’s pretty high up on the food chain at a bank downtown, I hear.”

  My friend’s words make twisted sense. Maybe an evening out will be better for me than staying in.

  I think of Camila again.

  This isn’t just about me and my need to pay bills. This is about my sister. Her family. I want to help her.

  She’s always been there for me. Since our mom passed a few years back, Camila has been my rock. Now, she needs my help. I can’t let her down.

  “Okay,” I say resolutely. “I’ll go.”

  “Wear something cute,” Jemma advises, before informing me that she has to go do deadlifts while her heart rate is still up.

  Six hours later, I smooth my short dress down over my thighs as I step off the bus. The hydraulic brakes hiss as they release, and the bus barrel’s down the hilly, paved street, leaving me alone.

  I’ve followed Jemma’s advice. Despite my reservations about the date, I pulled out all the stops with my outfit. I’m wearing a cute, funky black and white strapless dress. The pattern is wild—a mix of stripes, checkers, swirling floral forms and a few palm trees thrown in for good measure. My black hair has been conditioned into a lustrous, wavy shine that falls to my mid-back. I know that the bold red lipstick I’m wearing complements the dress’s wild print and makes me look more confident than I feel.

  Which, given my day so far, is not very confident.

  My bruised and battered ego is well camouflaged by my flashy, glamorous outfit.

  I glance up at restaurant signs as I begin walking down the block. I knew that this Mike character was cut from fine cloth, so to speak, but I didn’t realize how fine. These restaurants are nice. Way too nice.

  I’m starting to feel out of my element as I pass yet another maître d’, waiting to seat his VIP guests. I stop and do a double take.

  “Um, is this Oiseau?” I ask. The French syllables make my mouth feel like it’s full of marbles, and the word comes out Oss-you.

  The maître d’ peers down his nose at me. “Oiseau?” he says fluidly, confirming my suspicions that I’ve butchered the word. “Yes, ma’am. Unfortunately, we’re full this evening. Reservations only.”

  I feel myself blush. Apparently, this man doesn’t think that I belong in his restaurant. “I—um—have a reservation, I believe. Well, my friend, ah, date… Mike… he made a…”

  My words die out as I reach for my phone and look through my texts until I find the one from Mike. I haven’t actually talked to him. All of our arrangements have been made over the phone. But there, at the bottom of one of his messages, is his last name. “Wilson,” I say. “That’s the name. I think it’s for seven.”

  The man seems to scowl as he looks down at a binder spread open on his podium. He runs a narrow finger over the page, and then pauses and looks up at me with surprise.

  “Yes,” he says. “Of course. Mike Wilson, table for two. Seven o’clock. Mr. Wilson hasn’t arrived yet.” He glances at his watch.

  I have already noted that it’s quarter to seven. It’s taken me less time than I bargained for to get here and find the place.

  “May I suggest that you enjoy our cocktail lounge while you wait for your…friend?” the maître d’ asks snootily.

  I’m afraid to find out how much a drink costs at this absurdly fancy establishment, but I’m so nervous about the date that even a ten-dollar drink will be worth it.

  I follow the maître d’s directions and make my way toward a bar. Confirming my worst fears, the bartender hands me a short gin and tonic and asks for twelve fifty in exchange.

  Twelve dollars and fifty cents! For what looks like five sips of liquid.

  I try not to think about how much every drop is worth as I let the cool, lime-spiked drink slide over my tongue. Within ten minutes, my drink is gone, and I’m feeling the effects of the alcohol. Liquor on an empty stomach tends to go right to my head. I feel myself begin to unclench and unwind. Even my tight-fisted control over my wallet begins to loosen, and at five after seven, with no sign of Mike, I order a second drink.

  Now I’m twenty-five dollars in the hole.

  That’s half of what I spent on groceries this week. Mike better be worth it.

  Another ten minutes slip by, and then twenty. By the time seven thirty hits, I’m buzzed up and getting hungry. This place is so stuffy. I feel totally out of my element. And where is Mike? He’s now twenty minutes late. How rude. How disrespectful. How utterly—

  “Hi,” a voice behind me says.

  I spin around, my eyes already narrowed in a glare. This guy, this Mike, better be about to apologize.

  I feel my annoyance evaporate as an outrageously gorgeous man comes into view. He’s a full head and a half taller than me, and his muscular body is barely contained in a dark suit jacket. The material looks soft; it’s a knit blazer of some kind, and there are abstract white swirling designs painted onto it. One that jumps out at me is the shape of an eagle. I notice quickly that beneath the unique blazer he’s wearing a white T-shirt, instead of a button-down, and jeans and sneakers instead of slacks and dress shoes.

  Not only are his clothes unconventional—so is his build. This man is not your average office worker. He has an animalistic, strong, athletic body. His chest and shoulders are broad, like a football player, and as my eyes sweep over him from head to toe again, I see a perfectly balanced body. Not one inch of him looks out of proportion. He’s a specimen to behold. My eyes travel to his face, and I take in his curving lips, classic nose, bright green eyes, and tousled dark hair.

  “Hi,” I manage, though the delay in my response has been painfully obvious.

  He seems used to this. His grin is playful, and his green eyes dance. “You’re beautiful,” he says.

  I feel myself blush. I’ve been complimented on my looks before, but never by a man so heart-stoppingly gorgeous himself.

  And never right off the bat like this—just as our blind date is beginning. That takes courage. This guy is something else. Unconventional. Bold. Attractive as hell. Maybe tonight will be better than I expected.

  I look up at him and smile. Was I really just annoyed that he was late? That concern is now far from my mind. I fight off the blush, hoping that he can’t see how deeply his compliment has affected me.

  When I meet his gaze, I bat my eyelashes. “You must be Mike,” I say.

  He hesitates a moment. Maybe I’ve affected him as much as he’s affected me. I watch as he looks me over, head to toe. But unlike me, he doesn’t try to hide his surveillance. He’s blatantly taking in my body, then my face, and lastly, my eyes. He looks deeply into them as he answers. There’s still a grin on his lips, and his emerald green eyes dance playfully as he answers. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s me.”

  We stare at each other for another moment. My heart is hammering in my chest. I feel my whole body come alive. All of the day’
s worries are shedding off of me; all of my nervousness about this date falls from my shoulders.

  There’s this sense of mutual attraction flowing between us that makes it all worth it—the long bus ride, feeling out of my element, the expensive drinks—nothing seems to matter except the man right in front of me.

  After a few moments of silence, he clears his throat. “Hey—what do you think about getting out of here? It’s a little bit stuffy, isn’t it?”

  I exhale. “I would love that,” I say, smiling for the first time that day. “I feel like there’s no air in here.”

  “Exactly,” he says, winking. “Let’s go somewhere where we can breathe.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  I place my empty glass down on a nearby table and follow my handsome date from the room.

  Heads literally turn as he passes, and it’s not only single women who gawk. I see men, elderly women, couples…everyone seems captivated by him.

  He doesn’t speak to me again. When he hails a cab, I climb in behind him without hesitation. It’s as though he’s the Pied Piper, and I’m under his spell. I would follow him anywhere.

  Every time his back is turned to me, I’m admiring his form from behind as if he’s a sculpture carved with Michelangelo’s chisels. And my awe turns to fluttering attraction each time he turns to face me and graces me with one of his grins, and a look from those sparkly eyes. I’m barely able to keep up with small talk as the cab carries us out of the restaurant-laden block, and toward the ocean.

  Just as we pull up to one of my favorite sections of San Bravado, a row of wooden piers that jut out into the ocean, I feel my phone buzz in my purse. As my handsome date pays the cabbie, I open a text from Jemma.

  Mike just called to say you stood him up. If you really wanted to cancel the date, you should have done it ahead of time—instead of leaving him at the restaurant waiting for you.

  I read the message twice because the first time I’m sure I’ve read it wrong.