At His Command

AT HIS COMMAND - Chapter Three

The Algonquin Hotel in Midtown is symbolic, at least when it comes to literary history.

It's where a famous group of writers met for lunch in the early 1900s. Today, the boutique hotel still has the oak-paneled walls in the lounge, and it costs hundreds a night to stay in a room upstairs.

Even though I'm a native New Yorker, I've only been there once, for cocktails, with my old editor. I'd just turned twenty-one and was awe-struck to sit in the plush velvet chairs in the bar.

And at twenty-four, I'm just as awed when I walk in and hesitantly make my way into the bar. There's a hushed atmosphere, one of grace and old-world charm, and yes, sex. In hues of mahogany and gold and scarlet, the lobby lounge looks like the place for a tryst.

An extremely naughty tryst.

My eyes scan the room. Where is he? All around me, gorgeous women in little dresses perch on overstuffed loveseats next to handsome men in perfectly tailored suits.

My mouth becoming increasingly dry by the second, I take a few steps toward the back.

And that's when I see him.

Tristan Black is sitting in a high-backed, ivory chair. He's also in business attire, and makes the other men in the room look like grubby boys on a playground. He sure knows how to match his midnight blue suit to the color of his eyes. Everything about him seems crisp, biting, edgy.

Dangerous.

I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. He hasn't noticed me yet, which is amazing because I'm the only person here wearing red, and I stand out like a stop sign in a field of sharp, stainless steel knives.

Something tells me tonight won't go any better than our first meeting.

I stifle a sigh. Let's get this over.

As if instinctually tuned into my movement, the second I take a step, he turns his head and fixes his eyes on me.

His gaze is so unsettling that I have to remind myself how to put one foot in front of the other because I'm sure I'll trip on this carpet. Somehow, I manage not to, and stand before him twisting my fingers on the handle of my purse.

"Mr. Black, it's a pleasure to see you again," I say primly. Good God. What's gotten into me? Why am I greeting him like we're extras in an episode of Downton Abbey? Maybe it's the formal setting. Or how he's staring at me, his eyes molten, beautiful and haughty.

"Miss Amato. I appreciate that you're," he makes a show of checking his watch, "only five minutes late."

My nostrils twitch. God, he's such a bastard. There's no way I can work for him, and I seriously doubt he'll want me to, anyway. I won't be able to keep my damned mouth shut.

"Anyone who lives in New York knows that public transportation, whether it's a taxi or the subway, is often unreliable."

He gestures to the empty, tall-backed white chair next to him. "I suppose."

His response is so arrogant that I have to laugh. I can't help it. I know already I've blown this interview and the entire job.

"What do you mean? Because you have a hired car, or a helicopter? You're always on time, I imagine. Or early."

He smirks. "Correct."

My earlier nervousness has dissolved into an indignant annoyance. I shoot him a tight-lipped smile.

A waiter magically appears.

"Two gin and tonics, please."

I gape at him. It's not like I have a lot of experience with men, but I didn't think they actually ordered for women without asking. At least, not outside the books I read.