At His Command

AT HIS COMMAND - Chapter One

He better not be a dick.

I'm waiting for my interview with the CEO of an upstart media company. From what I read about him in the Times on the subway here, he's a former tech guy, rich as hell, and an arrogant jerk.

"I see Blackmoir Publishing being the ultimate leader in genre fiction within three years," Tristan Black had told the paper. "Our competitors are failing. We're adopting new ways of bringing stories to readers. Fresh, exciting stories. Not the same old, same old. Every other company is just a house of cards."

See? A dick.

And I need that dick to give me a job. I twist my fingers together so hard that my knuckle pops.

The receptionist, one of those older, effortlessly well-put together women you see all over Manhattan with their cat fur-free sweater twinsets and perfectly ironed wool-blend skirts, looks up with an arched eyebrow.

"Sorry," I whisper.

Her frosted mauve lips form a tight smile. "No need to be nervous. Mr. Black will be free soon, and I'm sure your interview will go just fine."

It's not the interview I'm worried about. It's the fact I'm here at all.

The phone on the receptionist's desk buzzes.

"Yes, sir?" She pauses. "I'll send her in."

The receptionist stands up. "Please come with me, Ms. Amato."

Every tap of my scuffed black flats on the polished concrete floor is like a drumbeat of doom.

You. Have. No. Place. Here.

Get. Out.

She turns the sleek silver handle on a closed door and gestures. "Good luck, dear," she whispers.

I mumble thanks. Summoning all the confidence I can muster, I enter the room.

And lay eyes on a gorgeous man.

To say he's model-handsome would be a cliché, and I loathe clichés. But it's true. He's tall and broad shouldered, slim-hipped with long legs. Jet-black hair, a sprinkling of stubble that looks more fashionable than sloppy, and a prominent nose.

And those blue eyes — they're inquisitive. Sharp. Like they're looking through my heart, mind and soul. They're the color of rare sapphires, and glow against the expanse of dull, gray Manhattan sky outside his windows.

I remind myself not to trip, which I've been known to do when nervous.

"Miss Amato." I expect him to smile, at least a little, because that's what affable bosses do.

Mr. Tristan Black, the CEO of Blackmoir Publishing, clearly isn't an affable boss. Because he scowls. It would be sexy if I didn't need to win the guy over for a job.

I stop in front of his desk and extend my hand. Inside I wince. Am I supposed to shake hands first? Is there some gender-employee-boss handshake rule I don't know about?

Who knows? I've spent my professional life — which isn't long — at home, writing. I've never held an office job, a sad fact I hope Mr. Black overlooks.

"Please. Call me Sienna."

He nods once, then sits. I stand there, stupidly, staring.

"You may sit." He gestures to the leather chair. His fingers are long and tapered.

No please? No smile? No small talk? Despite his physical beauty, his attitude leaves me suddenly weary. Everything makes me tired these days, as if I'm far beyond my twenty-four years. I fight the urge to roll my eyes, but I desperately need this job.