The DILF (18+ Only) [COMPLETED]

PROLOGUE: In Which She Puts the A in PA

PROLOGUE: In Which She Puts the A in PA

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"Are you in a relationship?"

"No."

"Do you have any family?"

"No."

"But you like children?"

"I've already told you – I adore them."

"Do you find Mr. Shaw attractive?"

What the hell? "No."

Josie Bates stared across the table at me, her blue, bespectacled eyes unblinking as she sussed me out. With her iron-grey hair pinned up in a tight, smart bun, pursed, peach-coloured lips and low gravelly voice, she reminded me of my bitch of a boarding school headmistress, Ms. Farley. The only difference was that Ms. Farley had never asked me such personal questions – like whether I wanted to sleep with Devin Shaw, former movie star, current recluse and possible boss.

"No?" Bates repeated after me.

"I don't make it a habit to think of my bosses in that way," I told her seriously, praying that she wouldn't ask about Richard Pritchett, Jnr. "Besides, no one's seen a recent photo of him. For all I know, he could've transformed into the Hobbit." The tabloids called him a cross between Mel Gibson and Naomi Campbell. You didn't get crazier than that.

"What about your former boss? Mr. Pritchett, Jnr.?"

Well, nice to know that You listen to me, God.

I cleared my throat and placed my hands flat on the varnished mahogany table. "He fabricated everything."

"And why would the CEO of a multimillionaire company make up stories about his lowly PA?"

Ouch, I thought, deciding there and then that Josie Bates could kiss my tail end and go to hell. Still, it was a case of the pot calling the kettle black. She was a lowly, ancient PA, and I'd be damned if I allowed her to insult me.

"Because he wanted to fuck me," I said with a straight face, "and I preferred death."

"Pardon me?"

"Like I said, I don't make it a habit to think of my bosses in that way." I knew that there was no way I was going to get the job at this rate – absolutely no way – and I made up my mind there and then that I didn't care. If honesty was what Bates wanted, honesty was what she'd get.

"I see," she said quietly, shutting her official-looking leather-bound notebook and placing it on the table. "Ms. Harding, you do realise that Ophelia is six-years-old and such language is inappropriate in her presence?"

"I would never use profanity in front of a child," I said with indignation.

"Good. Well, I'll return in a few minutes." Bates rose to her feet and, before I could say a word, left the drawing room.

For the hundredth time that morning, I felt like getting up and leaving. Nothing was worse than being treated like rubbish by an eighty-something-year-old snob. I'd already counted more than four-thousand tiny ink-blot patterns on the drawn curtains in that dining room before Josie Bates had graced me with her presence. Since I'd counted roughly forty blots a minute, it meant that I'd been sitting in that dim room twiddling my thumbs for approximately...a hell of a long time.

Scratch that, I thought morosely, tapping my fingertips on the table. Being unemployed is the absolute worst.

I'd put on considerable weight eating out of pity for myself during the two months of my unemployment. I'd bought countless newspapers just for the Classifieds, and ended up with a massive phone bill ringing up every 'Receptionist/PA/Secretary Wanted' number – all for curt and borderline rude 'You're not what we're looking for' responses, if any. I'd forwarded my CV to every e-mail address in the newspapers and got no response whatsoever. But I wasn't stupid; I knew how amazingly good I was.