La Queue-de-Cheval Read online

  A man waited in the office, his presence concealed by the bulky Mrs. Smythe until the last instant. When she saw his face, Angie froze, her heart pounding in her mouth, her stomach falling endlessly downward even as blood rushed through her temples.

  The guard from the party. In a sensible blue sweater and a crisp white shirt.

  She wanted to bolt, to run screaming out the door. Her secret fantasies had been somehow ripped from her mind and projected into the real world for everyone to mock and jeer. She wanted to be ravaged by the muscular body hidden under the camouflage of ordinary office clothing. Paralyzed by unreality, fear, and desire, she managed only to breathe once, ragged and uneven, before Mrs. Smythe spoke.

  “This is Mr. Greyson. He’ll be joining us as a junior underwriter, so I’m asking you to show him around. This is his first job in the industry, so you’ll have to teach him everything.” Mrs. Smythe’s pronouncement was delivered with a thoroughly self-satisfied smirk.

  Mr. Greyson, erotic soldier by night and accountancy assistant by day, looked up at Angie and smiled apologetically. His midnight-blue eyes spoke volumes in a good-humored shrug that traveled no further than his eyebrows.

  Translated into words, they said, A bit awkward, I know, but I’m glad to see you again all the same.

  Angie sat down. The absence of terror left her trembling and weak. He wasn’t here to violate her. The accountancy had not been replaced by an erotic fiend’s torture chamber. She wasn’t even going to be upbraided for her wardrobe. Mrs. Smythe’s vengeance was aimed at the man. The old battle-ax had deliberately put him under the prettiest girl in the office to humiliate him. And wreck his chances of seducing her. Why would Angie want a man she was in charge of?

  But she did want him. Her heart was still pounding from the initial shock, her blood still throbbed in her throat. And even the stentorian voice of Mrs. Smythe could not diminish his masculinity. He wore his office-appropriate outfit like a bear in a clown suit. Only the naïve or blind could be fooled by that tacked-on disguise. At this instant, if he reached over and tore off her clothes, Angie would submit without a whimper. She sat perfectly still, terrified of provoking him even while she desperately waited for him to pounce.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Miss…” He held out his hand for an introduction.

  Angie realized that he and Mrs. Smythe weren’t part of her private fantasy world.

  “Call me Angie,” she said, before Mrs. Smythe could inject her smothering formality. “I’d be happy to help you get started, but I’m sure you’ll catch on easily enough.” She reached and shook, her tiny hand disappearing into his huge paw. His skin was rough and calloused.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he agreed. His upper lip twitched, and Angie knew that he knew she was as wet as a dishrag.

  She struggled furiously not to blush.

  “Very well,” Mrs. Smythe grumbled. “Now be off with you.” She chased them out with a glare. Obviously the young man wasn’t suffering as much as Mrs. Smythe had hoped. But Angie was burning up inside.

  She had to get herself under control. She wasn’t going to give in to this man on his first day on the job. She wasn’t going to give in to him at all; it was his boss she was interested in. He was just a placeholder, a token of the life she wanted.

  Even if he was terribly handsome.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” she said.

  “I believe Mrs. Smythe mentioned it.” His mouth stayed in a severe line, but his eyes twinkled. He was enjoying this far too much.

  “Fine. Do you have a desk yet, Mr. Greyson?” She put as much ice into it as she could.

  “Yes, I do like the sound of that.” He was grinning at her now. “But let’s not stand on ceremony. You can call me Jack. And no, no one mentioned a desk. I just wandered in and presented myself to the formidable Mrs. Smythe, and now she’s handed me off to you.”

  He was altogether too familiar for Angie’s comfort. Perhaps a touch of formality was in order, after all.

  “Then perhaps you should call me Miss Forester, since I’m to be responsible for you.”

  “Certainly, Miss Forester.” He made it sound like a summons from a stern headmaster to a naughty schoolgirl. “Yes, I like the sound of that also.”

  He was shameless. She had feared the repercussions of a short skirt on the hide-bound office culture, even after two years of loyal service, and he was crackling with innuendo in his first fifteen minutes.

  “Please find yourself a chair, Mr. Greyson. We will have to share my desk for now.”

  Her frostiness was wasted. His grin said he’d like to share more than a desk with her even as he casually lifted a straight-backed chair with one hand and brought it over.

  Sitting on the chair the wrong-way around, with its back between his legs, he tipped it forward and whispered. “So, Miss Forester, what exactly do you all do around here?”

  “We underwrite insurance claims and adjustments, Mr. Greyson.” She tried to keep the upper hand, but every time she called him that, it made her feel like his subordinate.

  “Sounds like a smashing good time, Miss Forester.” Every time he called her that, she expected him to put her over his knee and swat her.

  The vision seized her—on his lap, her skirt up, his huge hand swinging down as the entire office watched and tittered. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and let the sounds of the office bring her back to Earth.

  When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, amused. She wanted to be infuriated, but those dark blue eyes swallowed her outrage without a splash.

  “Which entry system did you use in your last job?” she asked, grasping at the boring details of work like a sailor snatching for a life-ring. “K7 or Bjorns?”

  His eyebrows danced, laughing at her.

  “I mostly used a Denver,” he said. “If I wanted to get inside in a hurry.”

  She frowned, confused. He took pity on her and offered an explanation, hefting an imaginary axe with his hands. “It’s a tool for breaking down doors.”

  “You weren’t an underwriter?” she asked. A stupid question, but he was nice and only smiled.

  “Not as such, no. This is a bit of a career change for me. I used to be a fireman.”

  Of course. That explained everything, from his bulk to the way he stood out in the room, a lion in a den of foxes.

  “You’ll find this to be a very different environment, Mr. Greyson.” She tried to make it sound threatening.

  “Oh, I already have. The station never had such beautiful decorations as you…” Then, deliberately late, he added, “have here.”

  She glared at him, but his insouciance was unsinkable. For a brief instant she considered slapping him. The contemplation of what terrible retribution he might wreak on her made her tremble. Her buttocks clenched, out of dread or anticipation. Or both.

  “Then let’s start at the beginning.” Cruelly, she flew through the procedures as fast as she could talk, flipping pages and forms without pausing to breathe. Unable to compete with either his physical or personal presence, she sought to defeat him intellectually. The procedures the company used were arcane to the point of absurdity. No piece of beefcake would be able to wade through them in a week, let alone an hour.

  “So perhaps you could show me how to enter this particular claim, Mr. Greyson,” she said suddenly, turning away from the computer and handing him a disability request scribbled on a coffee-stained form.

  He was gazing at her appreciatively, as if he had nothing better to do than admire a fine piece of art.

  “Well, I wouldn’t. I’d tell the bugger to stop malingering and get a job.”

  “Mr. Greyson!” She managed to sound shocked, even though in this particular case he was almost certainly right.

  “Miss Forester!” he said under raised eyebrows. “Such an unladylike tone does not become you.” His eyes ruined the act, twinkling with laughter even while his voice rumbled with stentorian authority.

  Desperately sh
e tried to regain control. “You weren’t paying attention, were you?”

  “Au contraire, my lovely Miss Forester. I could never fail to be enraptured by your charming presentation.”

  Leaning forward, invading her personal space dangerously, he pawed her keyboard until the computer yielded the correct screen. Then he pecked away at the keys, entering the data.

  “What do you suppose this word is?” he asked her, holding the scrawled form in front of him. She had to lean in to see, putting her head next to his.

  The intimacy made her dizzy again. Inhaling deeply, she could smell him. Clean, but musky; no cologne, but simple manliness.

  “I concur, Miss Forester,” he whispered, even though she hadn’t said anything. When she opened her eyes, the computer was blinking its acceptance.

  “Very good,” she gasped. “If you would be so kind as to excuse me for a moment.” She stood up, preparing to flee his overwhelming presence, to find some fresh air where she could stop her racing heart and think.

  And found herself waiting for his permission.

  He paused, just long enough to show he knew, but not long enough for her to change her mind and assert herself. “Of course, Miss Forester.” And then that winning, innocent smile.

  It was difficult to walk away, instead of running. Out of the room, in the relative privacy of the main hall, she scampered to the one place she could be alone for a few minutes.

  In the ladies’, she locked herself into a stall and sat down to collect herself. That lasted about ten seconds. Then she slid her hand up her skirt, tugged aside her panties, and touched herself.

  Just like she had at the party.

  It was the curse of the pony-girl. Somehow the guard had become linked in Angie’s mind to that night in the shadows, and now her body reacted to him as if he were a lover.

  No, it was worse than that. Her body reacted to him as if he were an owner. For the first time in her life, she felt disassociated from her vagina. It reacted to his presence like a slave, wet and willing to submit to his every demand. If he walked in here right now and caught her with her hand up her skirt, feeding her burning hunger without his permission, he would bend her over his knee and set her backside on fire. And her body would surrender to him. Everything below her waist would offer itself up for spankings, swattings, and sex.

  Her mind rebelled. If he came in here now, she would scream, and they would put him in jail. She would not give in to simple lust. He was handsome, yes, but he was an accountant. A junior underwriter. The reason she was touching herself was because he reminded her of his boss, of a world of glamour and sensuality. Not because of him.

  Suddenly aware of the force with which she was abusing herself, she snatched her hand away. It wasn’t working anyway. Her traitorous vagina would not settle for her soft fingers as long as she could remember the roughness of his hands on her skin.

  She had to put a stop to this. Drying herself off as best she could, she left the stall. Smoothing her skirt in front of the mirror, she reminded herself that she was in charge. She would go back to her desk and laugh at his feeble attempts to deal with the Byzantine forms she had mastered so long ago.

  With a measured stride, she re-entered the office. He was still pecking away at the computer, as she had expected. Standing over him made her feel stronger, so she decided not to sit down. Tapping at a field on the computer screen with one finger, she pointed out his first error.

  “That’s the wrong code. For this type of claim, you have to use B-7.”

  “No,” he said absently, still typing in an address. “If you do that, they’ll just send it back. Because it’s a hazardous duty claim, you have to use this J-9 thing.”

  Incredible. He thought his authority over her was so complete he could get away with any bullshit that came into his head.

  “Let me.” Sitting down, she pulled the keyboard toward her and quickly entered the rest of the data. Then she changed the code back to B-7, and hit the Enter key.

  The screen displayed a message box.

  “Would you like to submit now?”

  Gods yes, her body answered. It was a struggle not to blush. Her hand darted out for the enter key, hoping to press it before he could read the suddenly salacious message.

  She’d seen it a thousand times a day and never thought twice about it. But now everything was different.

  He caught her, his hand as fast as a snake. Gently he held her wrist, stopping her with implacable strength. She froze, paralyzed by the physical contact.

  “Mr. Greyson,” said a dry voice from behind them. “Why are you down here?” It was Anthony Worthington, one of the senior partners.

  Jack turned in his chair. Angie sat immobilized, hoping Anthony would not notice her. It really was a bad day to have worn such a short skirt.

  “I just sort of wandered in, and this was the first place I found.” Jack answered the senior partner politely enough, but somehow it lacked any real deference.

  “Your office is upstairs, Mr. Greyson. I’m sorry about the confusion. Mrs. Smythe should read her memos more carefully. In any case, she should know that junior underwriting executive assistants work out of the upstairs office.”

  Angie wanted to laugh. Apparently it would be Mrs. Smythe who rued the day, and not short-skirted Angie. She wanted to laugh, but she didn’t. Jack’s hand still held her in perfect stasis.

  “That’s probably my fault,” Jack said. “I might have gotten my title wrong. It’s kind of a mouthful.”

  How dare he try to let Mrs. Smythe off the hook! The old biddy deserved everything she got.

  Anthony peered at the computer screen. “Hmmm… Young miss, you seem to have entered the wrong code. You must use J-9 for hazardous duty claims, or they’ll reject the submission.”

  She sat perfectly still, embarrassed to be corrected in front of Jack, on the very thing she had been so certain she had caught him on. While she was trying think of something to say, Jack spoke up.

  “My bad, again,” he said. “Miss Forester was just explaining that to me.”

  He winked at her.

  Then he stood up and followed Anthony out.

  Angie was unable to move until the door closed behind them.

  She wasn’t grateful to him for rescuing her. She wasn’t embarrassed at having been wrong. She was shamed by the fact that she had failed him. Made him look bad, in front his peers, as if she were a show horse that had misstepped and forced her owner to apologize for bad breeding.

  The rest of the day was cold and uneventful. Angie barely noticed it passing. Not until she was in her lonely bed did she come alive again, giving in to her fantasies, imagining herself groveling at his feet. Begging his forgiveness. Lying naked on the floor while he spanked her. And then used her.

  It’s just a fantasy, she told herself. It doesn’t mean anything, except that I’m bored and lonely, and he’s nice looking and has strong hands. She wasn’t turning into some simpering twit who put up with a man who beat her because she couldn’t get anything better. She was merely indulging in a few strange fantasies, brought on by that ludicrous pony-girl at the party.

  Her body called her a liar, arching in orgasmic spasms as she climaxed. Exhausted and confused, she buried her head under the pillows and waited for sleep.

  Chapter Three

  She didn’t see him for the rest of the week. On Friday, when everyone else rushed for the doors and their freedom, she puttered around her desk, waiting.

  After ten minutes, she accepted that he wouldn’t come looking for her. Piqued, she decided to go looking for him.

  But not in the office. He had power over her here, because she could not escape him. She needed to invade his privacy like he had invaded hers.

  The card was still in her black purse, where it had lain untouched since that exotic party. Holding it in her hand made her nervous, until she looked around the empty room and remembered why she was angry.

  There wasn’t an address on the card, only a nu
mber. She tapped it into her phone.

  Three rings, and then a woman’s voice, “’ello?”

  Angie stammered, thrown off her balance. She had been expecting a male voice, rough and sleazy, like the men’s voices at the party.

  “Hello… My name is Angie.”

  “Yes?” The woman on the other end wasn’t giving anything away. Not even a name.

  Angie had to plow ahead on her own. “I was given a card.”

  A brief pause, just long enough for Angie to think she might have called the wrong number.

  “I will give you an address. If you are serious, you will present yourself tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp.” The voice was elegant, with a light French accent. “Plan to be away for the day. Do not pack anything. Your needs will be provided for.”

  Angie’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding?” Like she would go away with someone without even knowing her name.

  “Are you wasting my time?” Underneath the cultured poise was imperiousness.

  “I mean, I don’t know you. I’m not—”

  She was interrupted. “You are. You know perfectly well what kind of place you have called. You are either interested or you are not. If you come, do not be late.”

  Angie wrote down the address, numb with confusion. Before she could say anything else, she was disconnected.

  She remembered the pony-girl at the party. Especially the earrings and shoes. Yes, she knew what kind of place she had called. A place where rich people lived.

  —

  In the morning, she took a train out into the country. Disembarking at a small village station, she discovered company. Two other women, young and very attractive. Angie felt a little stab of competition.

  One was blonde and very quiet. Her body and hair were both a little too thin for Angie’s taste, and she looked nervous. The other one, with full, bouncy black tresses and an equally impressive bust, smiled and tried to make friends.

  “Hi. I’m Trina. I guess we’re all here for the same reason.”

  “I suppose,” Angie said coolly. The blonde bit her lip and said nothing.